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  • James Oseland’s Javanese Chicken Curry (Opor Ayam)

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    Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in recipes. I've got snippets of newspaper all over my desk, binders filled to bursting, and a computer littered with documents of copied-and-pasted recipes. I started this blog, in part (unromantically), as a way of cleaning up this mess, but every time I crumple up one more newspaper clipping after finishing a meal, there's another one to take its place. Maddening, I tell you.

    Usually, I don't really mind – the more, the merrier! – but I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed this week. Too overwhelmed for resourceful cooking. Maybe it's the weather? The February doldrums? I don't know. But we have been eating pretty well anyway, so I'm not too fussed. Things will right themselves again. In the meantime: family recipes I know by heart and that Ben loves now, too, a delicious Mexican meal (in New York! I'm in heaven) with these lovely ladies, and an overdue birthday dinner that has me licking my chops in anticipation.

    (And then there was Valentine's Day, where we celebrated that most awful of occasions – I refuse to call it a holiday – by eating popcorn at the movie theater where we watched what might possibly be the best German movie I've ever seen. Dessert was leftover pasta back at home. It was the perfect kind of night.)

    But because I like to stay focused here and on message, I am here today to tell you about a meal I made over a week ago. Who knows why I've been dragging my feet. It's not like it was terrible – it was actually pretty good. But there were a few things wrong with the recipe and with each passing day I came to dread doing my write-up. Which is silly, really, because those things are so easily correctable. Besides, you'll get to cook with lovely things like kaffir lime leaves and lemongrass tied in a knot, which, if you're anything like me, will be part of the pleasure.

    So, without further ado, last week I made Javanese Chicken Curry.

    Remember when I made that shrimp in caramel that I really didn't like? Well, this recipe for Javanese Chicken Curry was from the same article – a review of three Asian cookbooks by Julia Moskin. The chicken curry came from the pages of James Oseland's new book, Cradle of Flavor, and sounded so completely alluring to me, what with those kaffir lime leaves and that ginger-shallot-chili paste and those chicken thighs (which are the best part of the chicken, I think).

    It also seemed pretty easy. After all, you whirl together most of the ingredients in a food processor until a fragrant paste emerges, before you cook that for a bit and then add the chicken to brown and the coconut milk and aromatics to simmer. What could be less complicated than that?

    There are just a few things to note. First of all, when you cook the spice paste in the pot, it absorbs all the oil. Then, when you go to lay down the chicken thighs for browning (which you should do in batches, lest you end up like me, with crowded thighs), the pot is almost dry. So, add more oil, otherwise you'll end up with blackened chicken skin and raw chicken meat.

    Second of all, as far as I could tell, coconut and water mixed together and then simmered, even for close to an hour, doesn't really thicken. It reduces a bit and takes on the muddy color of the spice paste and the incredible fragrance of lime leaves and lemongrass and cinnamon, but it remains a thin liquid.

    And third of all, since that lovely sauce doesn't really thicken, I didn't see the point in adding almost another cup of coconut milk to a dish that was already drowning in sauce (that sauce is good, for sure! Soak it up with rice, spoon it in for all I care. But you'll still have some leftover.). So I added just a spoonful or two to lighten the flavor and color a bit, and left it at that.

    There, that was easy, wasn't it? Sometimes I think I'm a bit too excitable.

    We ate our curry over plain white rice and it was lovely – warm and sweet with spices, the comforting coconut gravy lapping at the edges of the plate. If you're into that kind of thing, you could chop some cilantro to sprinkle on top and make your dinner look a little more attractive. But chances are that by the time you've made it to the dinner table, your home will be so entirely filled with the smells of good food, you won't even need to.

    Javanese Chicken Curry
    Serves 4 to 6

    1 tablespoon coriander seeds
    1 fresh red Holland or Fresno chili, stemmed and cut into chunks
    6 shallots, peeled and cut into chunks
    2 cloves garlic, peeled
    1 piece galangal, about 1½ inches long, peeled and roughly sliced (optional)
    1 piece ginger, 2 inches long, peeled and roughly sliced
    3 tablespoons peanut oil
    1 thick stalk lemon grass, stem end and brittle top cut off
    2 pieces cinnamon stick
    5 kaffir lime leaves
    2½ to 3 pounds skin-on chicken legs, thighs or both (if possible, have thighs cut in half and knuckle cut off legs), patted dry
    2 cups unsweetened coconut milk
    ¾ teaspoon kosher salt, more to taste

    1. In a small food processor, whirl coriander seeds until finely ground. Add chili, shallots, garlic, galangal and ginger and process to a smooth paste, adding a tablespoon or so of water if needed. (Ingredients can also be chopped finely, then pounded together in mortar and pestle.)

    2. Heat oil in a large heavy pot over medium heat. When oil is hot enough to gently sizzle a pinch of paste, add all the paste and cook, stirring often, until golden, 5 to 7 minutes. Reduce heat as needed to prevent browning.

    3. Using a heavy object like a glass measuring cup, smash lemon grass stalk, crushing lightly just until bendable. Tie in a knot, pulling gently on both ends. Add to pot with cinnamon and lime leaves. Cook 1 minute more, until cinnamon is fragrant.

    4. Scrape paste to one side and add chicken to pot. Raise heat and brown chicken lightly on both sides, about 10 minutes total. Add 1 cup coconut milk, 1¼ cups water and salt, stirring well and scraping up browned bits from bottom of pot. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook uncovered 40 to 50 minutes, until chicken is cooked through and sauce is thickened. Do not boil.

    5. Add remaining coconut milk and heat through. Taste for salt. Let cool slightly and serve.

  • Nigella Lawson’s Chocolate Orange Drizzle Cake

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    Goodness, it's been a while, hasn't it? I'm sorry I abandoned my posting duties, but it's been a momentous week. Oh yes, indeed, in more ways than one.

    First of all? A baby was born!
    Second of all? A wedding dress was bought!
    Third of all? I finally got my friend Amy to teach me how to make dumplings and my life may never be the same again.

    I should clarify: A. I did not give birth. But my dear friends and honorary family members welcomed their lyrically named daughter, Emma Tarsoly (you Hungarian speakers out there will know what that sounds like), into the world. And there was much rejoicing!

    And B. People, I am not getting married. But Ben's sister is, and I have to tell you that there is nothing better in terms of wedding dress shopping than getting to wander through the shops of New York with the world's most relaxed bride who cares not a whit for traditional bridal salons and allowed me to squire her around to all my favorite shops so that I could fondle pretty frocks in a covetous stupor while she managed to find a dreamy dress and keep her wits about her (it was the very first one she tried!).

    Okay, now that that's settled, we can focus on the (pressing) matter at hand. Dumplings, dumplings and, oh, the glorious dumplings.

    I met my friend Amy in Paris years ago. One evening she had me over to her chambre de bonne (where the shower was in the kitchen, natch, right next to the stove, and the toilet was down the hall – um, the outside hall, where other people lived and shared that very same toilet, can you just imagine having to get up to go in the middle of the night only to find your next-door neighbor already occupying the loo, leaving you to wait, foot tapping, eyes obstinately glued shut in an attempt to block out the forces of light and cold that could very well wake you up entirely out of your hard-won slumber, until you could finally dash in, out, and back to bed in record time? I could not and still cannot) and, in the blink of an eye, whipped up the most delicious Chinese meal of sauteed spinach and shiitake mushrooms – with a dash of cornstarch here, a glug of something thick and dark and aromatic there, and an alchemy of ingredients that had me transfixed.

    What I was thinking was, "You mean to tell me, universe, that this chic little woman, with a closet full of little black dresses, a penchant for Pineau de Charentes and late nights, and impeccable taste in tartes au citron, could also be the best Taiwanese cook since, well, anything?" (I grew up on Golden Temple, friends.)

    The universe nodded.

    Ever since then, after Amy and I both left Paris and came to New York, I have wheedled and begged and whined and bugged her to teach me her secrets.

    "Where do you go shopping, Amy?" Flushing. "Flushing! Take me to Flushing! Do a Flushing field trip, Amy, please! I can't do it without you."

    Or.

    "Amy, what's that?" Plum wine. "And that?" Dried Chinese sausage. "And, oooo, that?!" Dumpling skins.  ("…!")

    And then.

    "How do you make dumplings, Amy?" Oh, I don't know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. "But how much of this, and how much of that? And what are this and that, anyway? Tell me, Amy, tell me, please!"

    It was enough to drive anyone batty.

    But Amy is not only chic and beautiful and a glorious cook, she's also a kind and generous friend. Last week, she finally took pity on me and initiated me into the world of super-humans who can make Chinese dumplings at home (steamed and fried!). And we were triumphant, I would say.

    Wouldn't you agree?

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    We prepped and filled and crimped and steamed and fried until dumplings – some translucent and delicate, others golden-brown and lusty – covered every available surface in the apartment. And then we ate. We ate ourselves completely silly. And yes, the dumplings were fantastically delicious. Worth all the incessant wheedling I'd subjected Amy to. Worth all the prep work she'd generously done for us. Worth all the crimping at the living room coffee table. But you know what the real tragedy is?

    I forgot to write down the recipe. (My weak line of defense is that Amy is one of those cooks who does everything a l'occhio, but still, I know, it's no excuse to leave you so high and dry.)

    After you're finished hating me, let me tell you that it's actually a blessing. Because making these without Amy there next to you just wouldn't be the same. Scout's honor.

    Instead I offer you a paltry, paltry recipe, one that you should crush in your dumpling-less fists and throw back at the screen at me. In return for Amy's dumpling tutorial, I'd promised to make dessert, choosing Nigella Lawson's orange-chocolate cake from a New York Times column ages ago when she was obsessed with Seville oranges.

    The cake, with two (whopping) tablespoons of cocoa barely tasted of chocolate. (And I snuck in a third, just for good measure. It didn't make a difference.) Sure, it was light and fluffy, and the orange syrup was lovely, but Nigella's recipe had it baking in a loaf pan and this batter barely even filled the 6×6 pan we have in our kitchen. I'm not entirely sure how her cake could have been anything else than something the height of a petit four. But whatever, let's not even waste another sentence on a silly little cake when there are dumplings to ogle and drool over and dreamily plan to recreate some time very, very, very soon.

    With a recipe then, I promise.

    Chocolate Orange Drizzle Cake
    Yields 8 servings

    1 stick unsalted butter, softened
    3/4 cup light brown sugar
    Finely grated zest and juice of two Seville oranges (about 1/2 cup); or 6 tablespoons orange juice and 3 tablespoons lime juice
    1 cup all-purpose flour
    1/4 teaspoon salt
    1/2 teaspoon baking soda
    1 teaspoon baking powder
    2 tablespoons cocoa powder, sifted
    2 large eggs
    1/4 cup whole milk
    3/4 cup confectioner's sugar

    1. Heat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a small, square baking pan, and line it with parchment paper.

    2. In a mixer, beat butter until soft. Add brown sugar, and beat again until soft and creamy. Mix in zest of 1 orange. In another bowl, stir together flour, salt, baking soda, baking powder and cocoa.

    3. Whisk eggs into butter-sugar mixture one at a time, alternating with a little flour mixture. Fold in remaining flour mixture. Add milk. Stir until smooth. Pour into pan.

    4. Bake until cake tester inserted in center comes out clean, 30 minutes. In a saucepan combine juice, remaining zest and confectioner's sugar. Place over low heat until sugar dissolves. Strain into a pitcher.

    5. When the cake comes out of the oven, pierce it all over with the cake tester. Slowly drizzle warm syrup over the cake so that it sinks in. Allow cake to sit in the pan until it has cooled, then transfer to a serving plate.

  • Deborah Madison’s Pan-Glazed Tofu with Thai Red Curry Sauce

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    There's nothing like going to see an Almodovar movie by yourself on a Sunday night. Resplendant actresses with perpetually tear-filled eyes and glorious bosoms, foul-mouthed declarations of love, music that makes your throat swell, gallows humor – it's all so beautiful that one can get downright melancholy.

    I walked out of the movie theater late last night, my eyes still sort of wet, holding my little plastic shopping bag that contained one packet of tofu, one can of coconut milk, a sackful of green beans, and a lime. I'd done my grocery shopping before the movie, not remembering that after an Almodovar movie, the only thing you really feel like eating is a spicy bowl of gazpacho and a ham sandwich (Serrano, of course). Or, if someone else is cooking, a huge paella crammed with briny clams and tender octopus and savory chorizo and green flashes of peas, I suppose.

    But a new-fangled, single-girl meal of Asian-inflected tofu? Dios mio. I can't see Raimunda eating that stuff for dinner.

    Still, I couldn't very well go shopping all over again, and where was I going to find Serrano ham on a Sunday night, anyway? Tofu it'd have to be. But, oh, it felt awfully unromantic to be blotting tofu slices with paper towels when all I wanted to do was chop vegetables and weep into my cutting board (of course, it would have helped things if I'd been wearing a pencil skirt and Wonderbra, instead of my Sunday uniform of jeans and a lumpy sweater).

    I'd had this recipe from the New York Times clipped for years, but since Ben refuses to knowingly eat anything with fish sauce in it, I'd had to save it for a night when I'd be eating alone. Brandishing my knife as sexily (and safely!) as possible, I sliced my block of extra-firm tofu into equal pieces and blotted them dry, before whisking together coconut milk, the fish sauce, lime juice, some sugar, a spoonful of Thai red curry paste and hot chicken broth.

    I browned the tofu gently in the pan, then added the pale orange sauce (which bubbled up alarmingly) and reduced it to a syrupy glaze (this actually took more than 2 minutes, as Madison directs you, but no more than 4 minutes, because then you're left with very little sauce and as anyone who eats tofu knows, not enough sauce can be a Very Bad Thing Indeed).

    With a small pile of patna rice and some steamed green beans drizzled with toasted sesame oil, it was a fine dinner and one I'll certainly make again. The tofu was appealingly creamy and tender on the inside, while the outside crust had a nice chew to it. The sauce was spicy and exotic, and nicely balanced with the whole sweet, sour, salty, hot thing. It wasn't the most authentic meal I'll ever cook, but for a Sunday night by myself (and as leftovers today), it was quite good.

    Would I rather have been eating morcilla? Perhaps. But then again, I'd also like to look like Penelope Cruz. With the morcilla thing, I'll just have to be patient (we're going to Spain for a few days this summer). With the Penelope thing, I'll just have to be happy that Ben doesn't like Almodovar. Because who could compete with a woman like that?

    Pan-Glazed Tofu with Thai Red Curry Sauce
    Serves 2 to 4

    1 one-pound package firm or extra-firm tofu
    1/4 cup coconut milk
    1/4 cup chicken stock
    1 tablespoon fish sauce
    1 tablespoon lime juice
    1 teaspoon Thai red curry paste
    1 teaspoon sugar
    1 tablespoon peanut oil
    Minced cilantro for garnish

    1. Cut tofu widthwise into eight 1/2-inch-thick slices. Blot tofu dry between layers of paper towels.

    2. Combine coconut milk, stock, fish sauce, lime juice, curry paste and sugar in small bowl, and set aside.

    3. Heat oil in large nonstick skillet until shimmering. Add tofu, and cook over medium heat until golden brown, 6 to 7 minutes. Turn and cook about 5 minutes more.

    4. Add coconut milk mixture to pan and simmer, turning tofu once, until liquid reduces to thick syrup and tofu is glazed, about 2 minutes. Transfer tofu to serving platter, and scrape the glaze left in pan over tofu. Garnish with minced cilantro and serve immediately.

  • Tim Kelley’s Gremolata Potatoes

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    It should have been clear to me that off-handedly mentioning spicy potatoes in a previous post wasn't exactly fair. Who cares about celery root when there are potatoes – spicy potatoes – to be discussed? How could I possibly leave you all hanging? I've had my head in the clouds for the past few days, but those plaintive, pleading emails snapped me out of my reverie.

    So, without further ado – the potatoes. Call off the dogs!

    After making someone else's fussy version of roasted potatoes last week, I thought of nothing else but my favorite roasted potatoes – diced Yukon Gold potatoes tossed with olive oil (liberally, please – don't complain, it's good for you) and salt and rosemary, then roasted in a hot oven until crisped and browned, with impossibly creamy insides and an incomparable fragrance. It's kind of difficult to improve upon potatoes like those. And I don't really plan to. Those potatoes taste like Italy to me, like my youth and my family. They're a taste capsule to another time and place.

    But because I'm a slave to my clipped recipe notebook, earlier this week I dug up an old New York Times recipe for potatoes roasted with gremolata – that Milanese mixture of parsley and garlic and olive oil and lemon peel that usually gets dolloped on top of osso buco. The recipe came from the chef at Zoe, that workhorse of a Soho restaurant. It has you make the gremolata (with lemon and orange peel!) and let it sit for a while. Then you toss sliced potatoes in a pan before roasting them in the oven. The gremolata is used only as a dressing.

    Well, I don't know about you, but that whole process seemed wrong. And because it was that kind of evening, the kind in which my patience for trying other people's (crazy) cooking methods was wearing thin, I disregarded Tim Kelley's instructions and I urge you (strongly!) to follow mine instead.

    I made the gremolata as directed (except, I used dried thyme and rosemary – it's fine, you'll survive) and let it marinate for a bit. Then I sliced up my potatoes and tossed them with the gremolata on a sheet pan (a nice, heavy sturdy one. I've got exactly one good sheet pan and the rest are a bunch of flimsy floozies that I mean to throw out at least four times a week. They're useless.). I slid the pan into the 450 degree oven. After 20 minutes, I took out the pan and flipped the potatoes a bit with my spatula. And after another 25 minutes, they were burnished and golden and crisped and so fragrant you could smell them all the way to the front door of our building (well, full disclosure: we're on the first floor).

    Other than suffering a bit from having been sprinkled with a few too many hot chili flakes, the potatoes were glorious. Exploding with flavor and a sight to behold. Through the miracle of chemistry, the potatoes were both crispy and creamy. The dried-out chicken breasts that were meant to be the bulk of the meal got entirely ignored as we focused our forks on the bowl in front of us, piled high with potato spears.

    Perfumed with citrus zests and browned garlic and all those herbs, these are special potatoes, dinner-party potatoes, potatoes that will have the people at your dinner table asking you how you made them and what is in them and are there any more no seriously are there any more and can they please please please have the recipe.

    And you? Just have to smile serenely. Why yes, they can.

    Gremolata Potatoes
    Serves 4

    1/3 cup olive oil
    2 tablespoons coarsely chopped flat-leaf parsley
    1/2 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme
    1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary
    2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
    1/2 teaspoon finely grated orange zest
    1/2 teaspoon minced garlic
    1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
    5 medium Yukon gold potatoes (about 1 1/4 pounds), rinsed and dried
    Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.

    1. Whisk together 1/3 cup olive oil and the parsley, thyme, rosemary, zests, garlic and red pepper. Set aside for at least a half-hour.

    2. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Cut each potato into 6 to 8 wedges. Toss the potatoes with the gremolata, and add salt to taste. Spread the wedges out on a rimmed baking sheet, and bake for 20 minutes. Pull out the sheet, flip the potatoes with a spatula, and then continue roasting them for another 20 to 25 minutes. Serve hot.

  • Kurt Gutenbrunner’s Celery Root and Apple Salad

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    I had never been one for fruits in my salad. Maybe it was a throwback to the times when I refused to let the foods on my plate touch each other (some kind of deep-seated attempt to control things out of my control, I'm sure), or perhaps it was just a particularly rigid set of taste buds rearing their fussy heads, but in my world fruit always came at the end of a meal, alone.

    When my mother start tossing segmented blood oranges into our fennel-endive salad in winter, it only took me one meal to adjust to this new world order. More blood oranges for everyone! I couldn't get enough. But, to this day, the thought of Waldorf salad, or canned Mandarin segments in "Chinese" chicken salad, or dried blueberries in simple mesclun (as I was subjected to at a wedding last summer, and that got lodged, grittily, in my teeth) still induces a bit of a shudder in me.

    How, then, did I actually get to the recipe in question? Well, you might remember that glorious potato salad I wrote about last year from Kurt Gutenbrunner (incidentally, readers, ChefDB? Has this site been around for a while? I'm tickled by it. It's like IMDb for food dorks, or something.). In that article, he'd also included a recipe for celery root and apple salad. And despite my aversion for fruits in my salad, I could never bring myself to throw this particular recipe away. Perhaps because of the cider vinegar and the flat-leafed parsley, and the lack of mayonnaise or chewy dried fruits or anything else of the squicky variety?

    Or maybe I just finally grew up. Who knows. In any case, I decided last night that this simple salad would be the best end to a meal of spicy potatoes and chicken. And it was – cooling and refreshing to our tingling tastebuds (I got a little slap-happy with the dried chiles). The celery root, cooked briefly and then cooled in its hot bath, was earthy and almost creamy against the tart apple batons. The vinegar brightened and clarified the flavors, and the bold, green parsley leaves tucked here and there among the matchsticks added an herbal grace note to the salad.

    A dish so sprightly can be hard to come by in winter, which made it even more of a treat. And though Ben was skeptical at first (a raw celery root can be a shock to behold, it's true), he ate up his portion and declared it delicious. I still think leafy greens with fruits are an abomination, but I can get behind this kind of fruited salad for sure.

    One thing to note: this salad tastes delicious quite cold, so if you can plan ahead and cook the celery in advance, you'd be well-served…

    Celery Root and Apple Salad
    Serves 4

    1 pound celery root, peeled and cut in matchsticks
    1 Granny Smith apple
    Juice of 1/2 lemon
    1/2 teaspoon sugar
    Salt
    1/4 cup cider vinegar
    3 tablespoons grapeseed or olive oil
    10 flat-leaf parsley leaves

    1. Place celery root matchsticks in saucepan with water to cover. Add lemon juice, sugar and generous pinch of salt. Bring to simmer and cook 3 minutes, until celery is crisp-tender. Let celery root cool to room temperature in cooking liquid, about 20 minutes. Drain.

    2. Place celery root in bowl, Peel and core apple, cut in matchsticks, and add to celery root. Toss with vinegar and oil. Add additional salt if needed. Sprinkle with parsley leaves.

  • Marie Louise’s Rice Pudding

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    I realize that a post about rice pudding might seem a bit pedestrian, but it was that kind of Sunday – gray, lazy, and quiet. I sat and read on the couch and heard barely a rumble from the outside world for hours. It was a day of simple foods – green tea and toast for breakfast, cold green beans and pasta for lunch. There could be, then, no better afternoon snack than a bowlful of barely warm, just-cooked rice pudding.

    The last time I tried to make rice pudding, I ended up with rice soup (that's what happens when you try to make pudding with anything but whole milk). This time, I was determined that wouldn't happen to me. Armed with a gallon of whole milk, a sack of Carolina rice, half a vanilla bean (times are tough, people, and I'm cutting corners where I can), some sugar, and the dark horse of the day, a bay leaf, I busied myself at the stove.

    I'd had the recipe, clipped from an article about Mexican vanilla by Florence Fabricant, for almost three years. The recipe came from Christian Delouvrier's book, Mastering Simplicity, and, with the mention of that bay leaf, had lodged itself in my head as something that simply had to be tried. Bay leaves, at least in my corner of the universe, only ever show up in soups and sauces. Sure, some people have you stick them on gleaming fillets of fish, or tuck them into a braise of meat. But in dessert? Never.

    And doesn't it sound intriguing, now that you've thought about it for more than a split second?

    I brought rice, water, and the bay leaf to a boil, then drained the rice immediately. This step still perplexes me, but I'm sure it served some purpose. The rice, the bay leaf, most of the milk, half the sugar and a good pinch of salt went into a second saucepan, along with the split vanilla bean. (Remember, I only used half a bean because I'm feeling pinched. But after tasting the results, I actually think half is plenty. No need to go whole bean here.) Over very low heat, the mixture slowly, slowly cooked together – each grain growing plumper, the vanilla-specked milk thickening and turning a rich, pale yellow.

    When all the milk had been absorbed, I added another cup and let that cook down for a quarter of an hour before turning off the heat. The pudding was incredibly lush, like a risotto cooked with cream. The familiar scent of vanilla and cooked milk rose up from the pot, but it mingled with a faint, floral fragrance that I barely recognized – the bay leaf! I plucked out the bay leaf (I was feeling wary – bay can get so strong) and let the pudding cool before dolloping a luxuriant spoonful of it into a bowl.

    The pudding was delicious – the rice still had an agreeable chew to it, despite being swollen with milk and sugar. The vanilla and bay combined to give the pudding an air of sophistication, but just barely. After all, rice pudding doesn't need too much gussying up. I didn't continue with Delouvrier's caramel sauce, though I imagine that step would turn the pudding into something worthy of a dinner party. Though these accompaniments might be even more dazzling.

    For me, this rice pudding was an afternoon snack of the best kind – wholesome, nutritious, gently perfumed with the scent of my grandfather's laurels, and most definitely a good cure for any kind of Sunday blues.

    Marie Louise's Rice Pudding
    Serves 4 to 6

    3/4 cup long-grain rice
    1 bay leaf
    6 cups whole milk, approximately
    1 cup sugar
    1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
    Large pinch of salt

    1. Place rice in a small saucepan with bay leaf and 2 cups water, bring to a boil over high heat, then drain immediately. Transfer rice and bay leaf to a heavy 3-quart saucepan.

    2. Add 4 cups milk, 1/2 cup sugar, vanilla bean and salt. Place over very low heat and cook, stirring occasionally, until milk has been absorbed by rice, about 1 hour. Add 1 or 2 more cups milk, and continue cooking over low heat 15 to 20 minutes longer. Rice should be tender and mixture should be very creamy. Remove from heat, and allow to cool to room temperature.

    3. Combine remaining sugar with 2 tablespoons water in a 1-quart saucepan. Place over medium-high heat, and stir gently until sugar dissolves. Continue cooking until mixture turns a medium amber color. Remove pan from stove and place on a heat-proof surface to cool. Caramel will darken somewhat and harden as it cools.

    4. No more than 30 minutes before serving, add a little milk to rice if it has become too thick, then remove bay leaf and vanilla and transfer pudding to a shallow serving bowl. Add 2 tablespoons water to caramel, return it to stove and place over medium heat. Cook about 5 minutes until caramel has softened. Stir to incorporate water. Remove from heat. To serve, drizzle caramel sauce over pudding.

     

  • Russ Parsons’ Minestra of Root Vegetables

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    Okay, I know I need to end my streak of LA Times recipes (I think it's been seven in a row now, and my NY Times recipes are looking at me pitifully, wondering why I've been ignoring them), but before I do, I have another hit to tell you about. Though I suspect you're starting to wonder why you need me to tell you that Russ Parsons' recipes are ridiculously good. You absolutely don't. It should go without saying. In fact, at this point Russ might start to feel uncomfortable if I start raving yet again. But I can't help it! He's that good.

    And this soup? Oh yes, that too.

    First of all, it'll make you buy a rutabaga! Which, if you're anything like me, is kind of exciting. I don't believe I've ever bought a rutabaga before (and incidentally, those of you who buy rutabaga on a semi-regular basis, what's the deal with the waxy coating all over that homely root?). Furthermore, it'll help clean up your kitchen by using up those two stray carrots languishing in your fridge, and that scant cup of lentils gathering dust in the cupboards, and the last, lonely onion in its lovely little basket.

    The soup, which simmers together parsnips and carrots and leeks and rutabaga (rutabaga!) into a thick, sweet, fragrant stew, is completely delicious. All those differing strong flavors break down and fuse together into a rich amalgam that is totally vegetarian, yet has real body and character. Thin, soft strips of cabbage and chewy little lentils round out the textural components. A spoonful of vinegar brightens what could end up a somewhat muddy soup into a dinner that truly shines. As Russ says, all you need is a slice of good Gruyere and some bread to turn this into a fantastic, warming meal.

    Which is what we did tonight. And it was perfect. Thank you, Russ, once again. Your food keeps us happy.

    Minestra of Root Vegetables
    Serves 8

    2 leeks
    2 tablespoons butter (I used olive oil)
    1 onion, coarsely chopped
    2 carrots, coarsely chopped
    2 parsnips, coarsely chopped
    1 rutabaga, coarsely chopped
    3 cloves garlic, minced
    2 big sprigs fresh thyme
    1 bay leaf
    Salt and freshly ground black pepper
    1 pound Savoy cabbage
    2/3 cup French green lentils
    2 teaspoons red wine vinegar, or more, to taste

    1. Trim the tough green tops of the leeks, leaving only the white stalk behind. Cut each stalk in quarters lengthwise, cutting down to but not through the root end. Rinse well under cold running water, separating the layers of the leeks to get rid of any dirt that might be hiding there. Thinly slice both leeks crosswise.

    2. Melt the butterin a heavy 4- to 6- quart soup pot over medium-low heat. Add the onions and cook until just softened, about 3 minutes. Add the leeks, carrots, parsnips and rutabaga, cover tightly and cook gently until the vegetables are bright in color, beginning to soften and become aromatic, about 5 minutes. The vegetables do not need to be added all at once; you can chop them one at a time (they should be chopped to about the same size) and add them to the pot as you go along. Add the garlic and cook about 2 to 3 minutes, until fragrant.

    3. Place the thyme sprigs in the center of the bay leaf and fold the bay leaf around them. Tie with string to hold together in a packet. Or you can fold the bay and thyme in a square of cheesecloth and tie it closed. Add the herb packet to the soup and cook for a minute or two.

    4. Add 8 cups of water, 2 teaspoons of salt and a generous grinding of black pepper. Raise the heat and bring to a simmer. Partially cover the pot, leaving the lid ajar, and reduce the heat to maintain a sprightly simmer. The liquid should be bubbling quickly, but not boiling

    5. Cook until the vegetables have softened and their flavors have married, about 1 hour. You should not taste any individual vegetable, but a more complex combination of all of them.

    6. Cut the cabbage in lengthwise quarters and cut out the solid core. Cut each quarter in half lengthwise and then slice it about one-fourth to one-half inch thick. When the soup vegetables are cooked, add the cabbage to the pot and gently stir it in. Continue to simmer until the cabbage is silky and sweet, about 30 minutes.

    7. While the soup is cooking, in a separate medium saucepan, bring 6 cups of water and 1 tablespoon salt to a rolling boil. Add the lentils, reduce the heat to a simmer and, with the cover slightly ajar, cook until they are tender, about 45 minutes. Drain and set aside.

    8. When you are almost ready to serve, remove the bay leaf bundle from the soup. Raise the heat under the soup to a faster simmer and add the lentils. Stir gently to avoid breaking up the root vegetables. Stir in the vinegar and let the soup cook another minute or two to lose the raw smell. Season with a generous grinding of black pepper. Taste and adjust seasoning, adding more salt, pepper or vinegar as needed, then ladle the soup into warm bowls. Serve immediately.

  • SHF #27: Thomas Keller’s Chocolate Bouchons

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    I'm beginning to wonder. Is there something wrong with me? Because I'm having trouble with Thomas Keller's recipes and I can't help but think that I might be the only person in the world with these problems. First, the green beans in whipped cream, then these chocolate cakelets which are lovely to look at, yes, but almost inedibly salty. It seems that Thomas Keller is a kitchen god to everyone but me. Can that really be?

    Inspired by the adorable little chocolate corks bobbing around at Molly's house the other day, I dug through my folders to emerge triumphant with Keller's recipe for a similar confection that was published in the Los Angeles Times several years ago. I'd been hanging on to it for a long while now, waiting for timbale molds to come into my possession. But after Molly wrote about her bouchons, I was overcome with the oddest sensation that if I didn't immediately go home and make my own batch of bouchons, I might possibly faint and die.

    That ever happen to you?

    So, armed with a block of fresh butter and two bars of Ghirardelli semisweet chocolate (it's the only baking chocolate besides Baker's – and I refuse to use Baker's – that I can get at the grocery store closest to my apartment. I end up using Ghirardelli's for a lot of my chocolate baking and I'm usually quite pleased with it. It's cheaper than Scharffen Berger and though it might be lacking somewhat in complexity, I am pinching pennies around here these days.), I whipped up an impossibly thick and fudgy chocolate batter. Have you ever even seen a recipe that calls for an entire cup of cocoa powder?

    Instead of using timbale molds, I filled a 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners and plopped the rich, luscious batter down into each cup. In the oven, the cakelets rose and cracked beautifully, just like those infamous Belgian Brownies. Waiting for them to cool was pleasant torture.

    And when I finally broke open a cooled bouchon, I found a dark, cakey brownie-like interior, studded with glossy craters of melting chocolate. But when I bit in, what I tasted was s.a.l.t. And not as a faint background note that makes chocolate taste fruity and complex, or that transforms caramel into something deeper and more nuanced. No, I had a bite of salty chocolate cake in my mouth and it wasn't exactly pleasant.

    The cakes weren't salvaged by vanilla ice-cream or confectioner's sugar – neither could properly cloak the saltiness. And after I did a little web research, I came up with this item, which makes me wonder. Clearly, other people have had problems with this recipe. But is the culprit really the faulty amount of sugar? I actually liked the balance of sugar and chocolate – these are grown-up cakelets and shouldn't be too sweet. I think the problem lies more with the salt. If you feel the urge to make these, try the recipe below with a 1/2 teaspoon of salt. Let me know how it works out if you do.

    If you're wondering, I did finish that bouchon, and I brought another one to work the next day, thinking that an overnight rest might help the situation. It didn't. So I'm left with a freezerful of salty chocolate cake, a small case of aggression, and a few questions. What is it with me and Thomas Keller? Am I ever going to find a recipe of his that works? Who is going to eat my salty chocolate bouchons? And where I can get a replacement chocolate fix in the meantime?

    Chocolate Bouchons
    Makes 16 2-inch bouchons

    Butter and flour for the timbale molds
    3/4 cup flour
    1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
    1 teaspoon kosher salt
    3 eggs
    3/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons sugar
    1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
    24 tablespoons (12 ounces) unsalted butter, melted, just slightly warm
    6 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped into pieces the size of chocolate chips
    Confectioner's sugar

    1. Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour 16 (2-ounce) timbale molds or fleximolds. Set aside. Sift the flour, cocoa powder and salt into a bowl; set aside.

    2. In the bowl of a mixer with a paddle attachment, or in another large bowl if using a hand-held mixer, mix the eggs and sugar on medium speed for about 3 minutes, or until very pale in color. Mix in the vanilla.

    3. On low speed, add about one-third of the dry ingredients, then one-third of the butter, and continue alternating with the remaining flour and butter. Add the chocolate and mix to combine. (The batter can be refrigerated for up to a day.)

    4. Put the timbale molds on a baking sheet. Place the batter in a pastry bag without a tip, or with a large plain tip, and fill each mold two-thirds full.

    5. Place in the oven and bake for 20 to 25 minutes. When the tops look shiny and set (like a brownie), test one cake with a wooden skewer or toothpick. It should come out clean but not dry (there may be some melted chocolate from the chopped chocolate).

    6. Transfer the bouchons to a cooling rack. After a couple of minutes, invert the timbale molds and let the bouchons cool upside down in the molds, then lift off the molds. (The bouchons are best eaten the day they are baked.) To serve: Invert the bouchons and dust them with confectioner's sugar. Serve with ice cream if desired.

  • Charles Perry’s Rumtum Tiddy

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    You might ask yourself what could possess a smart girl like me to melt together condensed tomato soup, chopped Cheddar cheese, a splash of Worcestershire sauce, and black pepper in a pan before pouring it onto a slice of good miche and broiling (broiling!) it until it bubbles.

    Commitment to this blog and all those crazy newspaper recipes is what.

    Most days I'm grateful that my palate is privy to different tastes and flavors and experiences. On days like today, however, I seriously question my judgment. Because, as you might well have imagined, condensed tomato soup and chopped Cheddar cheese and Worcestershire sauce and black pepper melted together and broiled on top of miche doesn't taste very good at all.

    It seemed like a good idea, romanticized by my notion that apple-cheeked, golden-locked children in Victorian England ate this in their nurseries, overseen by a stern but loving governess. Where else could a name like Rumtum Tiddy be applied to anything other than a card game?

    But I warn you. It is not a good idea at all. What you will find on your plate is a lurid orange puddle that tastes of salt and preservatives, and even though I ate the entire slice because I was in an uncomfortable state of hunger, I would seriously advise against doing so.

    You know what's such a better idea? Slicing off a piece of that nice miche, cutting a wedge from your block of good Cheddar and eating the two out of hand as you decompress on your couch. Leave the Rumtum Tiddy to long-dead Victorians. Take it from me, your martyr in the kitchen.

    Rumtum Tiddy
    Serves 2

    8 ounces good-quality cheddar cheese, chopped
    1 (10 3/4 -ounce) can condensed tomato soup
    1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
    2 tablespoons minced onion
    1/8 teaspoon pepper
    4 thick slices whole-grain bread
    1 tablespoon snipped chives

    1. Put the cheese, tomato soup, Worcestershire sauce, onion and pepper in a skillet. Stir over medium heat until the cheese is thoroughly melted.

    2. Remove the skillet from the heat for 1 to 2 minutes for the cheese mixture to firm up slightly. Ladle the mixture onto the slices of toast and broil until the tops start to bubble — but don't let them brown. Garnish with the chives. Serve hot.

  • Russ Parsons’ Roasted Squash Puree with Apple and Ginger

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    Of all the winter squashes, I'd have to say that acorn squash is my least favorite. I always find it a bit watery, somewhat stringy, not as creamy and toothsome as kabocha, for example, and not so lusciously silky as butternut can be. Too often, I see acorn squashes filled with some hippy-dippy mixture of wild-rice and dried fruit, which seems to me a somewhat tired way of fulfilling the vegetarian main-course option, contributing, perhaps, to my lukewarm feelings on the subject.

    But when Russ Parsons tells me to eat acorn squash, I listen. Because it's Russ. Has he ever led me astray? Rarely. If ever. So last week I bought an acorn squash, watched it balefully out of the corner of one eye for a few days, and then got down to business. I halved it and roasted it in a puddle of water for an hour (the only time I've ever roasted anything that way), then pureed it in the food processor with a Granny Smith apple, some chopped ginger, half-and-half (instead of whipping cream) and diced butter (half of what was called for, which was a perfectly buttery amount). What I got was a silky-sweet, rich yet tart pile of whipped squash. It was loose and creamy, more like a thick applesauce than mashed potatoes, with a wonderful tang from the apple and the ginger.

    I ate one helping and then another and soon realized that if I had been dining alone, I might have eaten the entire bowl for dinner. Luckily, I had Barbara there to keep me in line. After all, it was because I had a guest for dinner that I'd prepared more than just the pureed acorn squash. We had pork chops soaked in a warm adobado oil bath and then broiled to a crispy-edged and juicy state. The sweet and tart puree alongside the heartily spiced chops was a match made in heaven.

    Oh.

    So you'd like to know about those pork chops?

    (I thought you'd never ask.)

    I actually got the recipe from the same Best American Recipes as the glorious apple pancake. The chops recipe came from the Louisville Courier-Journal (and was published on September 12, 2001, which strikes me as ghoulish, but I suppose there must have been food sections published the day after. It's just hard to wrap my head around that.). Anyway.

    The chops are soaked in this wonderful red oil (made red by the paprika), fragrant with oregano and cumin and chopped garlic, before you turn on the broiler and slide the marinated chops into the flames. And, speaking of which, now might be the time I confess to you that Saturday was the first time I'd ever actually used my broiler. Yes, I am aware of how humiliating this admission is. After all, haven't I posted recipes before in which meat or fish is broiled? Yes, yes I have.

    Here's the deal: I always thought my broiler was at the top of my oven, so when something needed to be broiled, I just put the oven rack at the top-most position, turned the oven to "broil" and waited. Then, of course, I'd have to really wait, because putting food in a very hot oven under absolutely no heating element doesn't exactly cook food at the same speed a broiler does. Yeah. I figured that out this weekend, when I tugged on the handle at the bottom of my oven and realized that there was the broiler spitting flames (and harboring absolutely no lounging mega-cockroaches, which was always my darkest fear about hot, cavernous places in my kitchen) and that there were no flames or coils or heat of any sort at the top of my oven.

    But now that this wonderful discovery has been made? I can broil broil broil to my heart's content! And thick, spiced pork chops stuck under hot, licking flames makes for an entirely different dinner than thick, spiced pork chops stuck into a 500-degree oven.

    Yeah. Hu-mil-iating, I tell you.

    Roasted Squash Puree with Apple and Ginger
    Serves 4 to 6

    2 pounds winter squash (such as 1 large acorn squash)
    1 tart apple (about 1/2 pound)
    1/4 cup whipping cream
    1/2 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
    1/4 cup butter, cut in cubes (I used only 1/8 cup)
    Salt

    1. Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a jellyroll pan (a baking sheet with sides) with aluminum foil. If the squash is whole, cut it in half and scoop out the seeds with a large spoon.

    2. Place the squash cut-side-down on the jellyroll pan and add about one-fourth inch of water. Roast 40 minutes, then turn cut-side-up and cook until the squash begins to collapse and is soft enough to be easily pierced with a knife, about 20 more minutes.

    3. Remove the squash from the oven and cool briefly, about 5 minutes. Peel, core and chop the apple. When the squash is just cool enough to handle with a kitchen towel, use a spoon to scoop the flesh into a food processor or blender (a food processor will make a fairly dense, sticky purée; the blender will be lighter and smoother).

    4. Add the apples and the whipping cream and purée, stopping and scraping down the sides as necessary. Add the ginger and the butter and continue puréeing until you can't see any traces of the butter. Add one-fourth teaspoon salt, pulse a couple of times to mix well, then taste and add more salt as necessary.

    5. Scrape the purée into a small saucepan and warm, covered, over medium heat, 2 minutes. The recipe can be prepared 30 minutes in advance and kept warm in a covered pan over very low heat. Serve hot.