Posts Tagged ‘food’

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The Tailor and I were talking today about holiday traditions. In his family, it’s standard fare to find an orange in one’s stocking on Christmas morning. He’s originally from Kansas, where the tradition hearkens back to the days when citrus fruit was an exotic luxury. I remember my grandmother telling me a similar story about her childhood Christmases—she grew up on a farm in Nova Scotia, and an orange in the 1920s Maritimes must have been about as singular as it would have been in Laura Ingalls’s stocking.

If you mostly subsist on local, seasonal produce, those old tales mean a lot more than they would otherwise. After all, all the Florida oranges and Chilean strawberries in the supermarket don’t matter much if you choose not to partake of them. So today, when I cut into the huge, beautiful avocados Sarah and Jesse had brought with them from California when they came for Thanksgiving, I think I knew how Nana, and the Tailor’s ancestors, and Laura Ingalls must have felt all those years ago. Jesse bought them green, directly from the farmer, so they’d have time to ripen for us here. Sarah wrapped each fruit individually in paper, and packed them carefully in a tin. And then together they journeyed for two days to give them to us in person. I can’t think of a more precious treat than that.

We’re just finishing up our Christmas lists this weekend, and planning the final round of gift shopping. I know the Tailor will be expecting the annual orange in his stocking, just for tradition’s sake. So maybe I’ll ask Santa for an avocado in mine.

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It might officially be spring out there, but around the house, winter still has us in its grip. Both the Tailor and I have been battling a particularly nasty, über virus for weeks now, so no matter how promising the weather reports might be, my brain is just screaming at me to stay home. I’m finally on the upswing, it seems, but just to give the ol’ system an extra boost, I’m going through our winter stores of citrus fruit like there’s no tomorrow.

My favorite thing is to squeeze a big splash of lemon and orange juice into piping hot Earl Grey—this time I juiced a couple of last October’s ruby-red pomegranates (yep, they’ll keep that long!) as well, since I haven’t had a chance to pick up any of the blood oranges that are just coming into season now. I toss in a few cloves and cinnamon sticks, stir it with a goodly dollop of honey, and sip away. And suddenly I feel far less poorly … at least until my mug is empty again. Which reminds me—I think I hear the kettle whistling.

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If I ran the world, there would be a national holiday to celebrate the first strawberries and cream of the season. This is worth the closing of stores, school cancellations, paid vacation time. I would send greeting cards for this. Happy Berry Day!

I think it’s time to get that new wok I’ve been meaning to buy, because I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot of use. The cookbook I illustrated is now available, and I can’t wait to give it a whirl.

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Tacoma Community House has been serving Tacoma’s immigrant community for decades, offering an enormous range of educational and social services to its clients—including language translation and interpretation, job training, citizenship assistance, and employment programs. The diversity of clients is astounding—in the last year alone, TCH served clients from fifty-four countries. To bring their clients together and welcome them to the community, TCH has a tradition of holding potluck dinners. As a result, they’ve compiled an impressive collection of international recipes over the years. In honor of their 100th anniversary this year (can you believe that?), TCH has compiled a collection of their favorites into a cookbook: ¡Entrée!

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I have a feeling they had quite a job of editing; ¡Entrée! contains over 140 recipes from five world regions.

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Dishes represented here include empanadas, tabouli, spring rolls, moussaka, samosas, gazpacho, cottage pie, a wide range of curries, and even American Indian fry bread.

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To bring all these recipes together into a cohesive theme, all the illustrations focused on hands—which came in handy for the step-by-step instructions.

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(Hence all the hand-modeling by Zooey.)

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Each recipe is as authentic as it gets—instead of being filtered through some chef or ethnic restaurant, these dishes come directly from the family traditions of TCH’s clients. They even passed the Tailor test (and he has high standards!)—no processed ingredients, no store-bought shortcuts, no mention of canned cream-of-mushroom soup. He even gave the English plum pudding recipe (which is one of his specialties) his stamp of approval.

I think I’ll be trying this one first:

Arroz Mexicano (Mexican Rice)

1/2 cup tomato sauce
1/2 cup water
2 green onions, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1/4 tsp salt
2 Tbsp lard or cooking oil
1 cup long grain rice

Tip: It’s important in Mexican rice to fry the rice before you add the liquids. It will make a difference in the texure and taste.

1. Mix tomato sauce and water together; add green onions, garlic and salt to the tomato sauce.

2. Heat lard or oil in a sauce pan on medium-high heat; add the rice and cook till slightly brown.

3. Add tomato sauce mixture and lower the heat; add more water of the mixture does not cover the rice. Cover and let simmer for about 20 minutes or until liquid is gone from the pan.

4. Lard is used by many Mexican families for cooking instead of cooking oils.

Oh, and about the lard: heck, yes. If you’ve ever tried refried beans at an authentic Mexican restaurant, the lard is what makes it taste so good. Don’t be afraid—a little lard won’t kill you. Go ahead and try it! Learn it, love it, lard it.

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I loved working with TCH (and with Hana Kato, their talented designer, who treated my illustrations with such care), but even better was seeing ¡Entrée! on a bookstore shelf. You can find a copy in town at King’s Books, or you can try more sample recipes and order online here.

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Now that we live in a vacation destination, we tend to get a lot of out-of-town visitors. We have a list of favorite places to take first-timers, so we can often be found at places like the Pike Place Market, Point Defiance, and Mt. Rainier National Park with house guests in tow. When a pair of French foodies arrive on your doorstep, however, it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame. Our friends Gilles and Jean-Philippe had just one major request for their visit last weekend: mushroom hunting. Since it’s chanterelle season and the weather was good, Saturday seemed like a good day to lace up our hiking boots and grab our pocket knives.

Disclaimer: the Tailor and I are not experienced mushroom gatherers, so we’d never try this on our own—incorrectly identifying edible fungi is not a mistake one wants to make. Even the most detailed books can’t replace the presence of a skilled guide, so if you don’t have your own French mycophile on hand to take you hunting, skip the risk and buy a bag of chanterelles at the farmers market!

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As far as dinner ingredients go, we came away empty-handed—the conditions just weren’t right. But as a crash course in the sheer diversity of local fungi, it was a spectacular day; we found several dozen different varieties ranging from beautiful to bizarre; delicate to disgusting.

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We did find a few edible species (these orange peel cups were a beautiful and exciting highlight), but nothing worth turning into a meal. So the day turned out to be more of a scientific field trip—certainly a worthwhile adventure in its own right.

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When we got home, Gilles spread out our haul and set to work identifying, making us laugh whenever he called out something strange (stinkhorn, elfin saddle, hedgehog—called sheep’s foot or pied-de-mouton in France).

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As for me, all this mushroom-naming reminded me of the newest addition to my reference library: the stunning Pictorial Webster’s, by book artist John Carrera (for a mind-blowing art experience, check out the video on the process behind the book here). So I took a page out of his book (sorry, I couldn’t resist), and did a little visual taxonomy of my own.

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Jean-Philippe, meanwhile, had the best idea yet: purchasing a pound or two of fresh chanterelles, and putting his mad French cooking skills to work. The sumptuous champignons dish he whipped up disappeared into our mouths long before I thought to grab the camera, but I did remember to ask for the recipe:

Chanterelles à l’improvisation

– 1 1/2 pounds fresh chanterelle mushrooms, halved
– 1/2 cup bacon (3 slices or so)
– 1 medium yellow onion, chopped
– 4 to 5 Tbsp olive oil
– 1/4 cup dry white wine (the Muscadet we had on hand was great)
– dry parsley to taste (fresh is better, but we didn’t have any)
– salt and pepper to taste

Brown the bacon until crisp, then break into small pieces. In a separate, large pan (so as not to overpower the mushrooms with the flavor of bacon fat), sautée the onions in olive oil over medium-low heat until lightly browned. Add the chanterelles, bacon, salt, pepper, and white wine, and sautée until the mushrooms are slightly limp and drained of most of their water content (oh, say 5 or 6 minutes). Season with parsley at the very end, then serve either alone or over brown rice. Watch the dinner conversation devolve into a series of satisfied grunts.

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If you had seen our back porch last weekend, you’d probably think we were starting our own farmers market. But this is a typical sight for many seasonal foodies like us; when you swear off strawberries in January, you need enough fresh autumn fruits and veggies to last you until the end of April (notwithstanding my usual February freak-out where I cave in to a craving or two for salad).

We still have quite a ways to go yet, but we’re working hard to fill our root cellar, attic, freezer and pantry shelves with a wide variety of staples and goodies to keep our winter diet interesting. Here’s what we’ve got so far:

In the root cellar:
– 20 lbs. onions
– 10 lbs. apples (still need 2 bushels)
– 10 lbs. potatoes (still need at least 80 lbs., plus a bushel of carrots and parsnips)
– 9 bottles of wine

In the freezer:
– 4 lbs. locally cured, nitrate-free bacon
– 5 whole, local “Rosie” chickens
– various cuts of local, organic meat (all, with the chicken and bacon, from the fantastic Meat Shop of Tacoma)
– various cuts of venison, provided by my father-in-law

In the refrigerator:
– 5 lbs. fresh cranberries (for canning; more to come)
– 2 or 3 red cabbages
– 6 or so honeycrisp apples (which don’t keep long but are my favorite kind)
1 bunch celeriac root now in my belly—yum!
– 1 lb. garlic

In the pantry:
– 25 lbs. rolled oats
– 5 lbs. steel-cut oats
– 10 lbs. coarse-ground grits (not local, obviously, but the Mill is definitely a mom n’ pop operation)
– at least 6 different kinds of rice
– 30 lbs. sugar (mostly for canning)
– 3 quarts local, single-source honey
– 15 or so different varieties of loose-leaf tea

The Tailor’s 2009 home preserving yield to date:
– 5.5 quarts dried blueberries
– 6 pints blueberry syrup
– 5 pints canned whole blueberries
– 9 pints blueberry jam
– 9.5 pints blackberry jam
– 8.5 pints raspberry jam
– 6 pints strawberry jam
– 15 pints canned heirloom tomatoes
– 16 pints tomato sauce
– still to come: apple butter, apple sauce, cranberry sauce, chicken broth

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And then there’s the winter squash in the attic: one of my favorite parts of the season, and of living and eating in the Pacific Northwest.

In the attic:
– 14 sugar pie pumpkins
– 8 kabocha squash
– 7 delicata squash
– 6 carnival squash
– 7 acorn squash
– 6 butternut squash
– 3 spaghetti squash
– 1 mini hubbard squash
– 1 jarrahdale pumpkin

Okay, we might have gone a little overboard on the squash, but I never get tired of it, and it’s an important staple of a seasonal diet. We keep these babies in the attic because they last much longer there—pumpkins and squash prefer a cool, dry environment to the cool humidity of the cellar. Our squash colony is a big conversation piece, and we get a lot of questions about pumpkin storage, so I’ll share the scoop:

First, choose squash and pumpkins with intact stems—those that have had their stems snapped off won’t last long. Next, make sure your squash was harvested before the first hard freeze; post-freeze specimens rot fast. Check around the stem and on the bottom end for any mold, rot, blemishes, damage, or sogginess. Now it’s time to sock them away—an attic is best, but anywhere that’s cool, dry and dark will work fine (but never let them freeze! During a cold snap last year we had to haul them all down into the living room when the attic hit 32 degrees!). Don’t stack your squash; just like apples, a rotten squash can infect any neighbors it touches. Instead, we make little “nests” for them by crumpling up newspaper and cushioning each one individually, in a single layer. As long as they’re unblemished and in good shape, and stored carefully, many varieties will last until at least March. Spaghetti squash will often keep until April, but sadly, butternut (my absolute favorite) tends to have the shortest lifespan. So eat those first, and relish every bite.

I feel like a little pumpkin pie. How about you?

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Autumn is, hands-down, my favorite time of year. So many of the things I love about fall have to do with food (mulled cider, pumpkin pie, spiced apples, butternut squash, fried green tomatoes, celeriac—the list goes on and on), and since the Tailor and I eat as seasonally and locally as we can, it’s a darn good thing we live in a state with such abundant produce at hand.

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Both T-town and Seattle have incredible open-air markets (hello, Pike Place? I love you.), but my favorite of all is the quietly-unassuming Olympia Farmers Market. Our state capital might not be the hoppin’ tourist hub that downtown Seattle is, but Olympia’s gigantic, spectacular market is one of the best I’ve ever seen, anywhere.

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This is the place where you can find around forty different types of Washington apples, and another dozen or so kinds of pears (above are Asian pears, which count as honorary apples in my book).

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And there’s plenty of everything else, too. The sheer variety is staggering, and distracting—especially when your mission for the day is to buy just one variety of overwintering apples for your root cellar.

Though I must say, I love seeing the transformation from this:

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To this:

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Ingredients for a perfect Sunday: crisp sunny weather, countless apple bins to dig through, a handful of friendly Olympians, and a dash of live bluegrass music for spice.

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The apples are always a show-stopper, but our biggest goal for the day was something we can’t get at any of the three Tacoma farmers markets:

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Fresh cranberries. Olympia is the first stop for cranberries coming in from the coast, and the season is now in full swing. We took home just five pounds this time, but you can bet we’ll be back for more. The Tailor and I have a deep and abiding love for cranberry sauce (it’s great on grits. Don’t look at me like that.), and we kicked off this year’s harvest by finishing off the last jar of our 2008 canning crop.

Homemade cranberry sauce is an incredibly easy thing—so much so that I really don’t understand why so many recipes call for Jello. Cranberries have so much natural pectin in them that with enough sugar they’ll jell on their own. In any event, the Tailor and I believe that cranberry sauce should be a sauce, not a can-shaped cylinder of jelly. So in honor of those little rubies from our rugged coast, here is our favorite recipe:

Cranberry sauce

– 1 lb. fresh cranberries, washed and drained
– 2 c. water
– 1 1/2 c. sugar

Combine the water and sugar and bring to a boil in a small saucepan. Boil for about two minutes on high before stirring in the cranberries. Put the lid on and listen; when the cranberries start popping like crazy and the sauce has begun to foam up, it’s done. This takes less than five minutes. Serve hot or cold (or on grits!).

Note: remember to put that lid on, or you’ll have hot, popping cranberries everywhere!

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They’re predicting 105 degrees today here in T-town—that’s an all-time, record-breaking high. Now, if you’re in the Midwest, the South, or the Southwest and you’re reading this, you’re probably thinking, “And this is news how?” Well, this is where the part about “all-time” comes in—since white settlement of this area, at least, it has never, ever been this hot before. This place ain’t made for 105°. Almost nobody has air conditioning, but the discomfort is only the half of it. Who knows what this will mean for the snow pack in the mountains, or the water supply?

Beastly or not, though, it seemed a shame to let all this amazing solar energy go to waste. So over the weekend the Tailor devised a passive food dehydrator out of old window panes (buying an electric dryer, to us, seemed to defeat the purpose of home sustainability). Our first attempt at drying berries seemed successful, so at 5:30 this morning,before the heat kicked in, we headed to Blueberry Park to pick about three gallons more. (The berries are happy with the heat, even if nobody else is!)

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Here’s how it works: four nylon window screens (don’t use aluminum! It reacts with the food) hover over the pavement, propped up on wooden beams to allow for air circulation. Tied to each screen is a black linen cloth to absorb more heat and provide a clean surface for the food, while still letting air pass through. The glass windows fit right on top, providing the perfect space to trap hot air, just like a greenhouse.

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Now, on to the fruit itself. For blueberries, at least, the dried yield ends up being about a quarter of what you started with (so for example, two quarts of fresh berries will become about a pint dried), so it’s best to start with a big batch—another vote for a large, homemade drier over those tiny electric ones. Our drying system will hold five or six quarts of fresh berries.

Wash the berries and remove any stems, petals, grass and unripened fruit (and especially spiders!), and set a large stockpot of water to boil. Place about a quart of berries into a steamer —the berries will dry faster if you split the skins first, and smaller batches seem to be more effective than boiling the whole batch at once.

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Once your water is boiling, put the steamer into the pot, and boil for thirty seconds—just long enough for the skins to split. Then remove the steamer and dump the hot berries into a colander in a cold sink (the ice water stops the cooking process).

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Here’s what the split berries look like; they should feel squishy, and you should be able to see the pale interior flesh on some of them. (Sorry about the photo quality—that red tile just kills the light.)

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Okay, now you’re ready to take ‘em outside. Distribute the berries evenly over the cloth-covered screens,

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and spread them out until you have a single layer.

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Now, just put the glass back into place, and let the sun do the work. It’s amazing how quickly the humidity inside the glass disappears, and how hot it gets in there. The ideal temperature for drying blueberries is about 140°F, but we’ve already seen our dryer get up to 155°. It doesn’t seem to hurt the final product, but at the hottest part of the day we cover the glass with a sheet for an hour or so, just to cool it down a bit.

About once a day it’s good to redistribute and un-stick the fruit, which helps it dry faster and more evenly. It takes about three full, sunny days  to dry the berries completely—unlike raisins, you want blueberries to be so dry they rattle. You should end up with hard little husks that don’t squish and don’t stick together.

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Here you can see the difference between fresh, split berries and ones that are almost done. Once they’re dry, pasteurize them for fifteen minutes in a 175° oven to kill any residual germs, and store in a sealed, air-tight jar.

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Since we’ll probably use our dried berries for a wide variety of recipes, we left them unsweetened. That way we can reconstitute them for pancakes, sauces and baked goods this winter without any recipe guesswork. They’re still sweet enough to eat plain, too (trail mix, anyone?), although if you prefer your berries pre-sweetened, you can coat them in simple syrup before drying.

Either way, you’ll end up with sunshine in a jar.

First, invite your family down for the day;

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squeeze out some fresh lemonade;

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and fry up a free-range chicken.

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Then mix up some cream, sugar, and fresh berries (plus just a pinch of that lemon juice to bring out the flavor);

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pack ice and salt around it;

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and start crankin’.

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Let everyone pitch in—the longer you churn, the harder it’ll get.

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Finally, when even teamwork won’t turn that handle, you’re ready.

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And hey, presto—

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summer in a bowl.

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If all that ice cream gives you a chill, just head for the hot shop;

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gather around the fire;

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and bask in the perfect day you made.