A sunny recipe for dreary January days

Photo love: Flickr user K.Hurley

As a native Southern Californian, citrus is in my blood. As a kid, I’d go on calls with my dad, a large animal vet, and we’d drive past mile upon mile of citrus trees. Without fail, he’d always pull the truck over, and we’d help ourselves to some tangerines or oranges. What’s a little theft in exchange for replacing a Holstein’s prolapsed uterus?

I came up with this refreshing, aromatic compote for a cooking class. This time of year, California farmers markets are flooded with a staggering array of citrus varieties, from rosy-pink Cara-Cara oranges, to tart, briny little finger limes. Regardless of what kinds you use, this dessert is a snap, and sure to evoke sunny skies and fragrant groves, with nary a strip mall in sight.

CITRUS COMPOTE IN GINGER-STAR ANISE SYRUP

serves 4

5 cups water

¾ cups sugar

1 cinnamon stick

4 slices peeled ginger, each about the size of a quarter, smashed

3 star anise pods

3 medium blood oranges, peel and pith removed and cut into 1/8” cross sections (be sure to remove any seeds)

1 Navel orange, skin and pith cut away (follow the contours of the fruit with a sharp paring knife), and separated into segments by freeing the sections from the membranes holding them in place with paring knife

2 medium pink grapefruit, such as Rio Star, peel and pith cut and away and segmented, as above

3 kumquats, cut into paper-thin slices

fresh mint leaves, julienned, for garnish

Combine water, sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and star anise in medium saucepan and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to medium low and simmer for 15 minutes, reducing heat if too high.

Strain liquid to remove ginger and spices, and add liquid back to saucepan.  Bring back to boil, then reduce heat to medium and allow liquid to reduce, about 15 to 20 minutes, until a syrupy consistency that just barely coats the back of a spoon (it will still be fairly runny).  Remove from heat, pour into a glass bowl, and chill for at least one hour.

To serve, add citrus to four martini glasses or compote bowls, and pour syrup over fruit.  Garnish with mint.

© The Sustainable Kitchen ®, 2000.

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Tasting profiles are the new dirty

The other night, I did a cheese and spirits pairing with my friend/distilled beverage guru Bryan Dayton. Bryan is the co-owner and force behind the cocktail program at Boulder’s much-lauded OAK at Fourteenth. He also digs cheese, and provided invaluable information for the pairing chapter in my book, Cheese for Dummies. I blame him for my current obsession with bourbon and aged Gouda.

Photo love: Flickr user Orofacial

We were at the Boulder Wine Merchant, a kick-ass shop owned by MS Brett Zimmerman–one of five Master Sommeliers living in Boulder. After a busy two-hour event, Bryan left to oversee dinner service at his restaurant, while I packed up. The cheeses and selection of four spirits (which included a heavenly Hans Reisetbauer Apple Brandy ) were still on the table. Suddenly, a tall, dark stranger appeared before me.

“Whatcha got going on here?” he asked. His considerable girth was barely contained by a bulky CU hoodie, and his beady eyes gleamed as they took in the array of free booze and cheesy nuggets. He looked not a day over 19, but upon checking his ID, I discovered he was barely legal, in drinking terms.

Still high on the vapors of a highly successful evening, I asked if he’d like me to walk him through the pairing. I noted the fistful of raw, local goat’s milk cheese already in his meaty paw, and poured him a taste of the late-harvest Riesling. He downed it before I’d even had a chance to mention its dominant notes of honey and melon, underscored by an earthy finish.

We moved on the brandy. Its searingly potent fumes were brilliantly tempered by the butterscotch and caramel flavors of the L’Amuse 2-year Gouda I’d chosen. Gulp! The spirit vanished down my pupil’s maw, followed by a handful of Gouda. “What’s next?” he asked, chewing with his mouth open.

By the time he’d pounded the Samuel Smith Imperial Stout, I finally clued in to the fact that this guy hadn’t been sober when he’d walked in the door. But I persisted, determined to see this through to the end. I poured him the final tasting–Averna–and went into my spiel:

Me: “This is a bitters, an herbal liqueur often served as a digestif. It’s made from a proprietary blend of botanicals, but you’ll notice it’s more syrupy and sweet than many in this category, such as Fernet, or Jagermeister….”

Him (starting to slur): “Hey, d’you, like, think this stuff when you’re just hanging out drinking wine?”

Me: “Um, no. I mean, this is a tasting, so it’s meant to be educational. I love food and all, but I don’t have these thoughts running through my mind when I’m trying them, unless it’s in a professional capacity.”

Him: “So, y’don’t, like, drink some wine ‘n say to yourshelf, ‘Ooh, I’m getting a lot of really ripe fruit in this. Oh, yeah, this is sooo good?’”

Me (squinting): “No.”

Him (leering, and gesturing to Averna): “I want you t’ talk to me about thisch like you would if you’re taschting wine. Like, for real. You know, like, describe it t’ me. Like thosch wine magazines do.”

Me ( Laugh, or vomit, laugh or vomit?): “Yeah, that’s so not going to happen.”

Mercifully, his frat friends found him at that moment, beer purchases made. And thus my would-be suitor shuffled into the snowy night, knuckles dragging. Drunk, lonely, horny, and doomed to yet another session reciting the Coors Lite flavor profile to himself. Tapping the Rockies just isn’t as easy as it used to be.

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A fungal fall salad

A major haul in Colorado’s Lizard Head Wilderness. Those are not my hands…I may have eczema, but not man-hands.

Ever since I wrote a report on mushrooms in the fourth grade, I’ve been obsessed with fungi in all its glorious permutations. I spent many childhood hours tromping around after a rainfall, searching for elusive species. Yet, typical of my finicky palate at that age, I refused to even consider actually eating a mushroom. The horror.

Thankfully, things change, and some gluttons are made, not born.  I now enjoy eating wild mushrooms as much as I love foraging for them.

Although this recipe long predates an epic chanterelle harvest I did in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, it’s still my favorite way to showcase these meaty, woodsy-tasting golden mushrooms.  Hello, autumn.

WARM FINGERLING POTATO & CHANTERELLE SALAD

serves four as a starter

1 tablespoon + 1/2 tablespoon unsalted butter

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1 lb. fingerling potatoes, parboiled and drained, and cut into 1/2-inch slices

3/4 lb. chanterelle mushrooms, wiped clean and quartered if large, halved if smaller

1 medium shallot, minced

1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme

1 tablespoon Champagne vinegar

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Parmigiano-Reggiano, for garnish

Heat a sauté pan over medium-high heat, then add 1 tablespoon unsalted butter and the olive oil.  When butter is foamy, add chanterelles and cook until golden and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Important: the first few minutes of cooking, the mushrooms will release their liquid- you must keep cooking until the liquid has absorbed and mushrooms begin to brown.

Add remaining half tablespoon butter, and sauté shallots and thyme with chanterelles for 1 minute.  Add potatoes to heat through, being careful not to break them up as you stir. Remove from heat.

Allow salad to cool in large bowl for several minutes, then add Champagne vinegar, more  olive oil, if needed, and salt and pepper to taste.  Garnish with shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Serve warm.

©The Sustainable Kitchen 2001®

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Nature vs Nuture

At a book signing the other night, I was asked why I love goats so much. The long answer is here, in my essay called “Goat Girl.”

 
The short version: This is the card my parents sent out when my brother was born. I think it explains quite a lot.
P.S. My mom still has that hat.

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Building a better tomato: the logic according to BigAg

So today, the international team of scientists on the Tomato Gene Consortium (yes, that’s a real thing) have made headlines for what Reuters calls, cracking “the genetic code of the domesticated tomato and its wild ancestor, an achievement which should help breeders identify the genes needed to develop tastier and more nutritious varieties.”

“Nooo, not the gene-splicer!”

The article goes on to state that, “Tomatoes represent a $2 billion market in the United States alone, while in Britain the market for tomatoes is worth around 625 million pounds ($980 million) a year.”

Meanwhile, a similar think-tank at the University of Florida believes that the secret to a great-tasting tomato lies in “a dozen or so volatile compounds,” according to ABC Science. The scientific team “examined 152 types of ‘heirloom’ varieties to determine what makes the best-tasting tomato.”

The result findings are that a specific type of apocarotenoid (geek-speak for “organic compound”) makes tomatoes taste sweeter, rather than higher levels of sugar, as previously thought.

So it shouldn’t be surprising that “the team are now breeding tomatoes that produce more apocarotenoids to look for a genetic link to flavor. Explained one of the researchers, “Consumers care deeply about tomatoes. One could do worse than to be known as the person who helped fix flavor.”

Yes, one could do worse. Like be a scientist trying to justify needlessly fucking with our food supply in order to fulfill demand from BigAg, and wholesalers and retailers unconcerned with the effects of unnecessary GMO foods. Or do pointless things like genetically engineer hybrid tomatoes to taste like heirloom tomatoes.

The irony behind these statements and studies is that heirloom tomatoes–as well as other antique varieties of produce–first made a reappearance in the marketplace (aka farmers markets) because consumers longed for fruit that tasted like “the real thing,” and were increasingly accepting of the fact that out-of-season produce isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

In the last decade, heirloom tomatoes have gone about as mainstream as an heirloom crop–one that hasn’t been genetically altered with to withstand the rigors of long-distance transport and is bred for durability and shelf-life, rather than flavor–possibly can. Once found only at farmers markets, they now populate the produce department of even some mainstream grocery chains, for a premium price, of course (I’m not saying this is a bad thing).

Heirloom crops fell by the wayside in the early to mid-20th century, because they were bred for flavor, not looks or longevity. With the backlash in GMO foods came a revival of heirloom foods. This is in part due to the concern amongst small-scale farmers and savvy consumers that relying upon a handful of hybridized crops is a great way to destroy genetic diversity, and set us up for a global famine should disease or pesticide-resistance (thanks, Monsanto) result in widespread crop failure.

Why are scientists receiving funding that’s ultimately about destroying the progress small farms and the marketplace have made over the last decade?  There are many ways to use GMO”s for the good of humanity (increasing specific nutrient contents in crops grown in regions plagued by deficient soil, creating crops more resistant to drought, etc.), not wallet-padding.

[Photo love: Flickr user tankgirls]

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Hunka hunka burger love

In honor of National Grilling Memorial Day, I’ve decided to rerun this post on how to make the most kickass burgers you’ll ever taste. Really. Happy holiday weekend!

I have Depression-era parents. That’s why I grew up eating freezer-burned heels of bread, and why there are spices in my mother’s pantry older than I am. One useful culinary thing Mom did teach me, besides making braising liquid for pot roast with Lipton’s Onion Soup mix (totally trailer, but so good), is to stretch my pennies by mixing egg and breadcrumbs into ground meat when I make hamburgers. Not only does this make for a lighter, juicier burger, but they taste pretty kick-ass when you liven up the grind with minced shallots, garlic, and chopped fresh herbs.

So, now that summer is finally here (yes, I realize it’s September but I live in Seattle), I thought I’d celebrate by firing up my metaphorical barbecue (I also live in an apartment at the moment), and share with you my tips for making a better burger.

*Remove your ground meat of choice from the fridge half an hour before you plan to make your burgers. You’re going to be adding stuff to it, and it will bind better if the meat isn’t too cold. Allow about one-and-a-half pounds for four people, depending upon what else you plan to serve. It’s always better to prepare too much than too little, and leftover burgers are great crumbled into stir-fries, pasta sauce, or scrambled eggs.

*Open a beer (personally, I prefer cocktails or wine but raw meat flecks and smeary fingerprints on glasseware is just not sexy).

*Dump the meat into a large bowl. Add one egg and one or two largish handfuls of panko or breadcrumbs; make them yourself with leftover bread or score some discounted day-old stuff from a bakery or local dumpster. Storebought stuff works, too. Add another egg if the mixture seems too dry. The point of these two ingredients is two-fold. The egg adds moisture and acts as a binding agent, while the breadcrumbs increase your yield and ensure your burger won’t end up festering in your colon for the next several months.

*Be sure to wash your hands after handling the egg and raw meat, and keep them separate from any utensils or ingredients you plan to use on raw food. E. coli is also not sexy.

*Add to meat one large shallot, minced, and at least three cloves of garlic, also finely minced. I always add a dash or four of soy sauce or Worcestershire, for added flavor. Throw in a handful of chopped Italian parsley or chives. Ground lamb with mint is also wonderful.

*Season to taste with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper and mix well using your hands until all the ingredients are fully incorporated. To determine if your seasoning is right on, fry up a pinch of the mixture. Form into one-and-a-quarter-inch-thick patties by scooping the meat into your hands and gently! patting them into shape. Resist the urge to fondle too much, as it will compact the meat, making for a dry, tough burger. If you make them slider-sized, you’ll be able to double fist, clutching burger in one hand and beer in the other. I may not like greasy glasses, but I’m a huge advocate of eating and drinking ambidextrously.

I always make a slight indentation in the center of each patty, because that’s what my mom did to prevent “shrinkage.” I have no idea if this is true or not, but it does make you look like a wise old kitchen sage. You can make the burgers up to a day ahead; if you’ve got a crowd, place a sheet of parchment paper or plastic wrap between layers to prevent them from glomming on to one another. Bring up to room temperature before grilling.

*Preheat your grill or flat-top. Have another drink while you’re waiting.

*When coals are ashy and white and you’ve got some flame going, lightly oil the grill using a damp rag dipped in cooking oil. If you’re using a pan, get it smoking hot and brown both sides of the meat for better flavor. Try to refrain from cooking past medium rare if you’ve thrown down cash for good meat.

*Toast your buns. Artisan or Wonder Bread, they’ll taste better and it will help prevent the condiments from making them soggy.

*One more drink. Eat. Enjoy. Make friends or significant other clean up.

Lamb makes great burgers, too!

Sourcing

Depending upon your budget and the state of your arteries, you can opt for lean ground beef (around the eight- to ten-percent fat range), or go big on something 20- to 25-percent fat. Hamburgers are not the place to skimp on fat–it’s a necessary component, whether you use ground chuck, sirloin, or round. I recommend grassfed- and -finished beef for health, humanity, and flavor reasons, but bear in mind it’s lower in fat and shouldn’t be cooked past medium-rare.
Chuck is the most popular and economical, and provides a good fat and flavor balance. When purchasing, look for a bright, pinky-red color, and if cellophane-wrapped, avoid anything gray, leaky, smelly, or otherwise bio-hazardous. Tempting as it may be to purchase the preformed, opaque-packaged, phallic “chubs,” refrain. Saving a few bucks isn’t worth eating gussied up pet food.

If you’re on a tight budget, however, even if you buy the $2.99/lb. ghetto
grind, it will be vastly improved by the addition of a truly great egg. Pasture-raised chickens snack on foraged bugs and decaying vegetation (Those of you with McNugget crumbs around your mouths shouldn’t look so horrified) and the results are exceptionally rich, orangey-yellow yolks packed full of all kinds of that healthy antioxidant crap. They’re a great, inexpensive protein source on their own, and so much better than pale, watery, flavorless commercial eggs that are god knows how old.

Bon appetit!

[Photo love: burger, Flickr user Adam Kuban]

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Me, me, me.

Holy crap.  I wrote a book.

Or, as I like to call it, “Dairy Treats for ‘tards.”

It’s been a long journey and an incredible experience. I had no idea when I started this project that writing a cheese book would enable me to ace “Jeopardy” in my lazier moments. “What are Visigoths, Alex.”

Many thanks to my kick-ass co-author, Lassa Skinner, who helped save my sanity many, many times over, our star editor, Tracy Barr, and to culture magazine for presenting me this opportunity.

Buy now, and I’ll send you a personalized, signed copy. Woo! I’ll continue to post book tour info. here and on Twitter.

BOOK  EVENT SCHEDULE

August 4: American Cheese Society conference; Raleigh, NC, 10:30am

August 18: Boulder Wine Merchant; Wine and cheese pairing, book signing, 5-7pm.

September 16: Justice Snow’s Restaurant + Bar, Aspen; wine, cocktail and cheese pairing,  6pm.

October 3:  Book Passage, San Francisco; reading, artisan cheese tasting, and signing, 6pm.

October 11: Boulder Bookstore, Boulder, CO; reading, local artisan cheese tasting, and signing, 7:30pm.

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Goat girl

People often ask what inspired me to become a food writer and cooking instructor. I think they expect to hear heartwarming recollections of a childhood spent beside my mother at the stove, and reminiscences of glorious holiday repasts, table groaning with the bounty from our garden. They anticipate my memories of milking goats, and tangy chevre on homemade bread for an after-school snack. They imagine my Russian grandmother frying latkes for breakfast (using eggs I’d collected from our flock of Rhode Island Reds).

And, to a certain degree, there is truth in these examples. Looking back, I’m quite certain my formative experiences with food are what shaped my career. But the reality is that, while I grew up on a small ranch, the daughter of a large animal veterinarian and a former barrel-racing-champion-turned-homemaker, my own culinary education had a few…inconsistencies.

I did watch my mom cook sometimes; she still has a way with instant mashed potatoes and cracks open a mean jar of Prego. Our neighbors had a garden, and at the age of ten, I established a roadside produce stand, yet Birds-Eye was still a staple at my own dinner table. The eggs I gathered each morning (when I wasn’t being held hostage in the henhouse by our sadistic asshole of a rooster) my mother whisked in a microwave-proof bowl, before being nuking them into rubbery oblivion. I was in college before I learned that scrambled eggs aren’t traditionally made in a microwave.

My paternal grandmother was the daughter of a Russian émigré. Grandma Miller possessed a heavy New York accent, and she was—my dad will agree—the worst cook this side of Minsk. The (real, not instant) potatoes in her latkes were an oxidized grey, the resulting pancakes flabby and greasy from improperly heated oil. Small wonder I was the pickiest eater on the planet, utterly exasperating my Depression-era parents who, let’s face it, were only trying to embrace the advent of convenience foods.

“What breed of dog am I, you ask?”

The one time my mom tried making yogurt and cheese from our goat’s milk (she was having an early 1970’s back-to-the-land moment), the results were not exactly edible. In retrospect, I don’t think she realized the milk required starter cultures. So we instead drank goat milk by the gallon, and in the process my family became huge caprine aficionados. We bred our Nubian doe, Go-Go, every year, and ended up keeping several of her doelings; the bucks we donated to Heifer Project International. For my part, I adored our goats. Even when I fed Go-Go an uninflated balloon, it was with the best of intentions (it was Easter, and I thought she’d appreciate its pretty pink color).

In sixth grade, I decided to follow in my older brother’s footsteps and raise goats for a 4-H project. I bounced out of bed each morning to milk Rose, a distant relative of the late Go-Go (who died of natural causes, not from ingesting peony-hued rubber). Despite my rural upbringing, our property was located in a peaceful canyon only a couple of miles from what is today a populous, yuppified bedroom community of Los Angeles. There were a few other families with children up the road, but I was the only one living on a ranch.

The rooms at Westlake Elementary School were packed with upper-middle-class, mostly white kids, and it turned out they didn’t share my  goaty enthusiasm. It was Jason Racinelli, a criminal in the making if ever there was one, who dubbed me “Goat Girl.” It was the first week of school, and as part of our “What I Did for Summer Vacation” oral reports, I’d waxed poetic about Rose and the wonders of lactation. If memory serves, I even passed around Dixie cups of her milk for my classmates to taste.

I was waiting for my mom to pick me up from school in our elderly, wood-paneled station wagon, when Jason appeared by my side. He looked me up and down, a sneer on his handsome face. “Hey Goat Girl,” he drawled, leaning in close and taking a long, exaggerated sniff. “You smell like a goat. Why would anyone want a goat, anyway? Why do you even go to this school? Why don’t you go back to your stupid farm?”

Mercifully, my mom arrived at that moment, but before I could escape to the safety of the car and the slobbery kisses of our three dogs, Jason yelled, “’Bye, Goat Girl! Don’t forget to wear your overalls tomorrow!”

I think it’s pretty safe to say that someone, somewhere, eventually kicked Jason Racinelli’s ass to Kingdom Come or incarcerated him. Unfortunately, before that could happen, I essentially became known as Goat Girl for the remainder of the year, and developed several nervous tics that abated only after we sold Rose and I instead concentrated on raising rabbits (fuzzy, rodent-like creatures were apparently on the list of “cool” pets to own). I don’t recall exactly when I allowed my goat obsession to resurface, but suffice it to say, I’m now a contributing editor at culture: the word on cheese and live in Seattle, one of the few cities in the U.S. that allows residents to keep backyard dairy goats.

So, while my somewhat dichotomous culinary upbringing played a large role in my career of choice, I usually opt for a shorter, easier, wholly truthful answer. “I became a food writer because when I was eight years old and walking my brother’s goat at the county fair, a middle-aged man asked me, “What type of dog is that?” It was at that moment I realized: most people don’t have a fucking clue where their food comes from.”

Thanks, Mom and Dad. And yeah, you too, Jason Racinelli.

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The mysteries of the universe

Jason Kessler of The Nitpicker addresses one of life’s greatest hypocrisies: that vegan food is frequently unhealthy. No word on why it often tastes like crap.

Photo love: Flickr user nyxie

Coming soon: why many vegetarians don’t consider eating real bacon cheating, and the reason vegetarian and vegan restaurants and food producers feel the need to emulate meat products (Exhibits A and B: Tofurkey and Tofu Pups).

P.S. Just to show that I’m open-minded, I once dated a vegan for several months. My sister-in-law wanted to know, “How do they feel about oral sex?”

I kiss, but I never tell…

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Give it up for the geoduck: a clamming adventure

Ever had the urge to eat a sea creature that resembles a giant, uncircumcised penis?* No? You have no idea what you’re missing out on.

Read all about my day digging for geoduck clams on Seattle’s Olympic Peninsula right here!

*At a recent dinner with friends, my friend Laura, who was deep into a bottle of wine, said, “Hey, tell Maryann about, whaddaya call it? Digging for dicks! That’s a great story.”

[Photo love: Langdon Cook]

Got geodick…er, duck?

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