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!

Cook 'Em Before They Leap

There is quiet teeming life close to the ground which almost remained a lost secret. I had been otherwise engaged, bounding towards the sky eating bales of arugula and kale, filling a sudden burgeoning appetite for tender spicy greens. Summer is here in a hustle and every day, all of life pops, springs and bounds. My vision, my experience is located about two feet and up, and is expansive and soft- the result of hot slow sun penetrating fractals of leaves.

So I can be excused for momentarily forgetting fiddleheads, those odd froggy curls of emerald. I neglected those majestic Paleozoic ammonites, living breathing fossils crowning their unearthly heads through dense stream side moss mat. My eyes were busy surveying the trees and bushes aflame with swaying movement. I have been lost in the damp pink furl of azalea blossoms, drunk on lilacs, out of my mind.

Just as simple, the arrival of plucked and bagged fern fronds brought me down and in. In my hand these handsome unicursal whorls are alphabet from another world. To decode these glyphs, I start with a sniff that brings scent and sense from earth under. Crawling on all fours, shimmying over root and rot brings small understanding to this ancient plant. Muck, decaying leaves, the sweet acrid smell of dampness, and the cush of moss draw intimate tucked-in environment for the emerging tender scrolls of the venerable stately Ostrich fern.

For short moment in time, just a sigh in Matteuccia struthiopteris’s life cycle and somewhere ‘tween April and May, tight coils of green poke through the fecund soil as gift from another realm. These one inch spirals are potent symbolic and nutritive DNA. They are coveted jewels to foragers, cooks and curious eaters alike. Similar to the charged moment when an archer draws back his arrow with increasing measured purpose, fiddleheads contain pure potentiality- the entire spectrum of spiral’s curl, unfurl and release. And you can imagine it. Early in the season these croziers are wound up tight, shiny and verdant green. As the days move on the captured curls loosen and laze out, even get a bit flabby upon an elongated woody stem. However, free in their natural habitat, the ferns become leggy adolescents before striking a dramatic pose in full formed glory.

The consumption of these beautiful gems is a greatly anticipated late spring time ritual and treat in New England. Beyond being visually stunning, the fiddlehead’s labyrinthine form is deeply embedded in nature’s playground and reminder of secrets which may always remain so. Potent, playful and wild they encourage me to wrangle around in the mud and express exuberant behavior. Delicate and asparagus-like, crisp and “of wood and stream”, unique yet archetypal; there is no good excuse not to fiddle around with Fiddleheads.

Weekend Fiddle Part I approx. 3 servings: I was looking for a simple way to showcase these sprouts. Asparagus made an obvious partner. I happen to keep slices of bacon on hand in my freezer which makes it easy to saw off chunks as needed. The fat from the bacon seemed like perfect seasoning to compliment fiddle’s wildness. Butter, salt and pepper? Of course.

Ingredients:
1 ½ C fiddleheads, ends trimmed and papery chaff removed
1 bunch of asparagus, ends trimmed and cut into 1 ½” pieces
1 clove of garlic, minced
A few chunks of bacon
A pat of butter
Egg
Coarse Sea Salt and Black Pepper
Chopped chives with or without blossoms

Directions: Get a heavy pan, medium hot and ready. Throw the bacon in and when it gets browned and crisp, introduce the garlic. Add the fiddleheads and asparagus and sauté until medium crisp. I covered mine with a lid, and gave things a good stir every now and then. Add a bit of water to steam sauté if things are getting too dry. When the vegetables are done to your liking, stir in some butter and add a few grinds of salt and pepper. Cook an egg over easy separately. Place veggies in a shallow bowl and slide egg on top, garnish with chives.

Leftovers were thrown into a simple frittata to make Weekend Fiddle Part II. This frittata/omelet looked like a fossil with the fiddlehead spirals captured in egg, but it tasted simply delightful and fresh, as well as being pleasing to look at.

No Poblano...Mole please!

Sources of inspiration come in many shapes and sizes and from all directions. I try and stay awake to the fleeting moment when they pass through- and run, skip and tumble with each new trajectory I am steered in. This week’s creative prompting came in the form of pickled raisins and an invitation to take part in an al fresco summer celebration. Ivonne over at Cream Puffs in Venice and Lis at La Mia Cucina are hosting an event open to all food bloggers. The only rule of engagement is to post about a summer dish that showcases at least one fresh ingredient by September 5th. Now this is a kind of party that I can happily attend. After all, I am the sort of person that is most content when standing next to the buffet table deciding upon the best strategy for consuming the maximum amount of food with the most sustained enjoyment over time. It is a fine tuned equation which takes into account the ratio of the most appetizing dishes to that-which-is-available and the rather nebulous amount of filler that needs to be consumed before moving onto the most delicious (or anticipation turned to satisfaction ratio). If memory serves me correctly, the height of my party attending career was at sixteen when many friends were passing out invitations to their catered confirmation parties. Possessing minimal culinary standards and presented with a long table lined with chafing plates full of mediocre food was my adolescent idea of nirvana. Having finally graduated to a more worldly palate and now in the presence of a fine team of skilled food lovers, I’d say I am long overdo for a spread of summer delights. Although not typically a party attendee, I heartily count myself in.

Back to pickled raisins and a lingering theme of incongruity deluxe. This recipe jumped out at me some time ago whilst dreaming nostalgically about the California produce abundantly splashed upon the pages of Sunday Suppers at Lucques by Suzanne Goin. The short introduction to the unusual condiment described an obsessed man at the restaurant who would mill about the kitchen sticking this-n-that into vats of vinegar; even to my horror and delight, raisins. While once suspicious of raisins, I have grown to respect this past-due fruit. And do much better when thinking of this dried grape as some kind of essence of jam. My issues with this dehydrated fruit stem primarily from childhood unwanted boxes of wizened chewy bits in the bottom of my Halloween sack. Many times my heart would rise upon biting into a “chocolate chip” cookie only to plummet over unfortunate mistaken chip identity. In my little world, raisins equaled disappointment. Over the years, I have cross-trained these potent tidbits over to the savory department with great success. Now it has become one of my trademark tricks to add a bit of sweet complexity to dishes that need an extra boost of something. I don’t mind admitting that I am busy enfolding raisins, minced or whole into a plethora of things bubbling in my kitchen. Pickled raisins are to my way of thinking, distilled chutney free from distraction: sweet, fiery, bracing and brined. The dish that I am thinking about will be built around this assertive jumping point.

Enter in stage left, cool damp weather forecasting early fall. Without a hitch, I am passing over the bright sunny produce of summer, the bursting berries, the succulent melons, and the joyous rapture of romaine. Instead I’m eyeing the chile peppers, verdant ancient vegetable at the local grocery store. It seems obvious that earthy roasted chiles might be just the pairing alongside the sweet-sour condiment and just like that I have the cursory sketch for my dish. I have a taste for a little Scoville heat tossed in with the mosaic Southwest colors of flavor: chiles, pumpkin seeds, cilantro, corn, tomatoes and coriander. Considering what I would make if I had access to all things summer, I would draw to me a bouquet of Tang orange zucchini blossoms to fill with creamy goat cheese and ricotta. Without a petal in sight however, delicate flowers of the squash are swapped out for the emerald silk purses of Poblano and the fun begins.

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked;
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?

Peter Piper’s Stuffed Poblano Peppers with Pickled Raisin-Corn Salsa and Chile Mole Drizzle
This is essentially a kit of parts, each bit simple to execute. Much of the components can be done ahead in little pockets of time. I must confess that these amounts are approximations; I was eyeballing the amounts to taste. Also at the point the photo was taken, the salsa wasn’t made yet and the cocoa was never added to the drizzle. It sounds completely high falutin’ and pretentious I admit, but I couldn’t resist. It is not a crucial player for this dish, mainly eye candy. Speaking of which, if yours are especially keen you may notice that the coating on the chiles is intensely yellow and thick. I made a good guess to use cornmeal as a dry coat, but it was far too coarse and heavy. Good flavor but rather detracting from the overall composition.

Ingredients:
Stuffed Chiles
6 Poblano chiles, roasted, skinned and seeded
1 ½ C Ricotta cheese
8 oz Mild goat cheese
Good handful of roasted Pumpkin seeds, ground
Garlic Clove, chopped finely
3 Tblsp chopped Cilantro
Egg
Panko crumbs

Pickled Raisin-Corn Salsa
2 tsp Yellow mustard seeds
1 tsp Coriander seeds
½ C Sugar
3 Tblsp Apple cider vinegar
1 Chile de árbol, crumbled
1 Bay leaf
1/3 lb Golden raisins
1 tsp Thyme leaves
1 tsp Salt
2 C Corn kernels, cut from the cooked cob
¾ C Cherry tomatoes, halved
1 Shallot chopped finely
3 Tblsp chopped Cilantro

Chile Mole Drizzle
1 bag of Dried New Mexico Chiles (approx. 6)
1/2 tsp of Oregano
½ C Chicken stock
½ tsp Dagoba Xocolatl Unsweetened Cocoa
Salt
Lard

Directions: Roast your chiles over a low flame until blackened all over. Throw them into a paper bag and shut to allow the steam to facilitate peeling. When cool, remove slippery black skin, pull off stems and deseed trying hard not to split them. Put aside. For the pickled raisins, dry roast coriander seeds until fragrant. Lightly crush or grind your method of choice. Place into a non reactive pot with a cup of water. Dry roast the mustard seeds until they just begin to pop. Put them into the water along with the sugar, vinegar, chile, bay leaf, raisins, thyme and salt and bring to a boil. Once the mixture comes up to a boil, lower heat and simmer for about 7 minutes. Liquid will reduce to about half. Cool and put aside. To finish the salsa, in a medium bowl, mix corn, tomatoes, shallots, cilantro and about 2 heaping spoonfuls of the pickled raisins. Toss with about 1 tablespoon of the reserved pickled raisin juice, a splash of cider vinegar and a healthy drizzle of grape seed oil. Salt and pepper to taste and put salsa aside. Meanwhile place the dried chiles in a bowl. Cover with boiling water and allow them to soften, at least half an hour. Stem and deseed them and throw into a blender with some of the remaining water, oregano and salt. Keep blending adding the chicken stock and/or more water until you get a thin sauce. Blend in the cocoa, add more or less to taste. At this point, you can strain the entire mixture to catch all the slivers of chile skin and make a more refined sauce. Heat up a little lard into a large shallow pan on medium high flame, and pour the drizzle in to reduce and bring the flavors together. Pour the sauce into a bowl, cool and put aside. At this point, you are ready to make the stuffing. It is as simple as mixing the ricotta, goat cheese, ground pumpkin seeds, garlic, cilantro and salt to taste. I did add a bit of grated lemon zest as well, but was not so overwhelmingly impressed with it. Spoon a few spoonfuls of the cheese mixture into each Poblano, then lightly dredge each in flour, then dip into a lightly beaten egg, then roll onto a plate of Panko crumbs. Take a well seasoned shallow pan and heat up to medium high. Pour in some oil or lard if you happen to have it and then carefully place each chile inside. Fry until golden and then turn over to brown the other side. To present, splash the plate with the mole drizzle, place one stuffed chile on its best side and accompany with the salsa.

Ecru Brute?

Too many cooks spoil the soup is good no nonsense wisdom even if said to be uttered from a pair of fictitious old wife’s lips. The admonishment also happens to be handy justification and sometimes unrelenting mantra for those of us who like to keep a tight reign in the kitchen and uncouth hands out of our Dutch ovens. But what is a woman to do when those very hands become necessary accoutrements in the task of daily living?

Some time back, I was a person incapable of allowing another into the inner sanctum, the cauldron where all the magic happened. Sure, friends were allowed into the kitchen to hang out but there was the unspoken line in the sand where few dared to cross for fear of a quick menacing scowl or a fork jab to the hand. As much as I loved to wine and dine my loved ones, the cooking of a meal was a private act of one. In my mind, concocting a recipe was something sacred. After all it is the summoning forward of something from whence there was naught. It might have been my proclivity towards drama or my rigorous training in the creative process, but meal after meal was a chance to conjure and dream, mold ingredients, bake or steam. I wanted exclusive rights to add and delete at whim unhampered by rules and regulations. Lucky for me, I have had many years to indulge my wish unchallenged. I could not know then that my days flying solo were coming to an end.

It started slowly but insidiously. My limbs became heavy, foreign objects-- clumsy. Trips to the market became increasingly challenging. I began scanning the linoleum for barely there drips from produce, fearful that the spill might deliver me face down to the ground. There was the time that I bent down to reach a 28oz can and got stuck head low, unable to straighten back up. I had to abort the mission, ditch the tomatoes and climb my way up to vertical as if the shelves were a ladder and hope that no one witnessed my dance of folly. And like well-proofed dough, the mishaps bubbled over into my kitchen too. I sent a perfectly golden buttery galette sliding to its early demise onto the floor in an attempt to pull, lift and land a baking sheet from oven rack to counter. My hands grew dull unable to deftly handle an onion, a knife, my beloved Microplane- the ingredients and tools I once knew so intimately. With barely enough strength to wave the white flag of defeat, my spirit surrendered for a time and many a dinner was made of rotisserie chicken and take out salad.

We zoom to present time where I now cook with an attendant in my kitchen stadium. The velvet curtains are drawn back and any notion of cooking solo extinguished for the moment. This arrangement of two has imposed more limitation than my ideal and necessitates a still-in-the-works strategy to keep the meals rolling and humor intact. The addition of an attendant is mandatory to my life and has been a steep learning curve in culinary grace. The idea is that this person serves as my hands, fingers, legs and arms. Theory and reality are two different things. At first glance this might not sound that complicated, but in fact communicating a multi layered task in its fullness is downright complex. What immediately becomes clear is that words mean so many things to different people. The initial many months with a caregiver will include a series of dialogues back and forth with the intent of building a mutual framework of understanding. It is a slow process of inhabiting each others’ taste and style, sharing our unique perspective on life and in this case, cooking.

There was F_ the Tongan woman who liked to eat mounds of boiled meat and eggs for breakfast and Kathy the theology student who never prepared much more than bottled sauce with her spaghetti, W_ had never seen an avocado and J’s universal solution to any food disaster was to apply a mist of soy sauce to moisten and flavor the item in question. These women and others have had their own unique response to a seemingly straight forward instruction such as “sauté a diced onion in olive oil.” I have been surprised time and again to the wide range of possibilities presented before me in my skillet. I have learned that too many assumptions can make for a bad meal and the ability to elaborate without becoming too picky or pedantic, a fine art and one worth developing. I would be the first to say that my kitchen adventures have been bumpy. I have been irritated and terse, silently sulky and mournful. Giving up control has been hard, but specifically, having someone in my kitchen- at times, downright torturous. But as any artist knows, there can be an edgy adjustment period to a new tool or medium. In my case, I am still learning about cooking through the hands and senses of another- all the while keeping my own flavor in the mix. The other day this conversation could be heard from my kitchen:

Me: “So what color is the chana masala (Indian chickpeas in a spiced tomato based sauce) now?”
J: “I’d say it is red and ecru.”

I stopped dead in my tracks upon hearing what seemed to be such an odd description. And then the oddity magnified and transmogrified into something magnificent and brilliant. I laughed. I laughed in celebration of J’s individuality and at the joy and sweetness of cooking together. I dedicate this following soup to all of my caregivers past and present.

Green Soup serves 5-6: This is a wonderful emerald green soup with a kick (mine was cooked way too long). It has been adapted from Madhur Jaffrey Indian Cooking.

Ingredients:
4 oz potatoes, peeled and roughly diced
3 oz onions, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 pints chicken stock
¾ cube fresh ginger, peeled
½ tsp ground coriander
2 tsp ground cumin
½ a bunch of chopped cilantro
2 cups chopped spinach
½ deseeded chopped jalapeno
10 oz frozen peas
¾ tsp salt
1 tblsp lemon juice
½ tsp ground roasted cumin
5 fl oz double cream

Instructions: Combine potatoes, onions, ginger, jalapeno, ground coriander and cumin in a pot to boil. Cover, turn heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes. Fish out ginger and throw away. Add the cilantro, spinach, peas, salt, lemon juice and roasted cumin. Bring to a boil and simmer for 3 minutes (this is where time got away from me and my soup turned a drab green). Empty the soup into a blender in 2-3 batches and blend until smooth. Be careful. Pour the soup back into the pot, stir in the cream and bring to a simmer to heat through.