Tofu is not as boring as I thought, in fact . . .

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Tofu Steak

. . . it can be pretty amazing.

But "delicious" and "tofu" are not words I ever dreamed of pairing not too long ago. I had enjoyed fried tofu in Pad Thai and other dishes where it was tossed in for good non-animal protein, but I had never even considered eating it as its own course, big and geometric on the plate. That texture, and the blandness. Bleh. Once again, my ignorance of what has been enjoyed for 2,000 years is mind blowing. When ignorance leads to aloofness, or worse, arrogance, it's not good. And, it can prevent you enjoying tremendous offerings. This is how I was about tofu. Then a few months ago, my boss (who lessened my ignorance of Early American Lit eons ago) took me to lunch at Omi, a terrific Japanese restaurant near the university, and since Don and I were on a path to eat less of the beef steak variety, I saw tofu steak on the menu and the description convinced me to try it. After the first bite, I thought I'd die (from enjoyment, not from choking). My boss, Steve, looked incredulous at my enraptured face, and when I offered him a bite, he declined and started off on something about Nathaniel Hawthorne and witches . . .

With tofu steak, the outside of the tofu is delicately crispy, while the inside is creamy. Those textures coupled with the sweet-savory sauce are a winner (you can leave it savory without any sweetness if you prefer, as in the original recipe, below. Also, If you don't like mushrooms, just leave them out.)

Now, whenever Don and I go for sushi and rolls, we also get tofu steak. In fact we love it so much we decided we ought to learn to make it at home. We dug around for a recipe online, and so I want to share the one we picked and tweaked, because it's so simple and yummy, and I want you happy. Making it together takes about 10 minutes prep (mostly chopping) and 10 minutes cooking; Don sautés the tofu, and I make the sauce. Tofu may be bland alone, but it absorbs flavors beautifully, so I'll keep trying new dishes. Maybe you have favorites you'd like to share.

The online recipe is here. Our tweaks in autumn rust. Here is a podcast of me reading the recipe. . .  Just kidding!

Tofu Steak With Japanese Mushroom Sauce (or without mushrooms, if you prefer)

Yield: 4 Servings - We halve the recipe for the two of us, since this doesn't keep well.


Ingredients


4 firm tofu - we use soft tofu, which gets crispy outside and stays creamy inside
1 c fresh shiitake mushroom
1 c fresh enoki mushroom
1 pk regular white mushrooms - we use whatever mushrooms we have on hand
1/2 green onions
2 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons sake (Japanese rice wine) - we don't have sake and use Sherry

4 tablespoons soy sauce

2/3 c dashi (Japanese fish stock) - I need to find some of this, but we use about 1/3 c fish sauce mixed with 1/3 c veggie broth
2-3 tablespoons brown sugar, to taste (Whenever we've eaten tofu steak at several sushi places, it has been sweet, though this original recipe does not call for sugar.) 

          2 teaspoons cornstarch

         a few teaspoons cornstarch on a plate.

         1 teaspoon salt

        4 tablespoons vegetable oil

Instructions

1. Place a clean cloth towel in a shallow plate (something like brownie
pan would be good) and put Tofu on it for 30 minutes to drain water. Wipe the surface of Tofu with paper towels and sprinkle some salt (to make the surface of the steak crisp and brown when done.)


2. Cut off the stem of mushrooms and slice them. divide Enoki into small
bunch. Cut green onions in 2 inches long. Finely chop garlic.


3. Dredge Tofu in cornstarch on a plate covering all sides 
and ends with cornstarch. Put 2 Tbsp of vegetable oil in a
 frying pan and fry all sides of Tofu in medium-high heat 
(we slow it down a little and sauté on medium heat),
until Tofu turn golden brown. Put them on serving plates.
We buy packaged soft tofu in water and cut it in half for two people,
halving this recipe. After draining per #1, we cover all surfaces
with cornstarch and sauté all six sides of the oblongs
(what are oblong "cubes" called? Oh, Don says they are rectangular prisms.)


4. Wipe the frying pan with paper towel and add another 2 Tbsp of vegetable oil. Saute garlic and the mushrooms in medium heat quickly. Add Sake, soy sauce and Dashi stock and bring it to boil. Add green onions. We wait and add the green onions at the very end, since we like them better barely cooked. Dissolve cornstarch in 2Tbsp of water and add to the sauce. Stir from the bottom of the pan and pour it over the cooked Tofu. Serve while hot! (4 servings) We cook the sauce in a separate pan while sautéing the tofu.

NOTE: Dashi is the basic soup stock used in most Japanese dishes such as
Miso Soup and Udon. You can get the powdered stock called 'Hondashi' in any Oriental stores. Substitute it with chicken stock or veggie stock if you like. Shiitake and Enoki are very expensive in the U.S., but they are very flavorful. Try not to cook them too long.

Allow me to share one more great tip for preparing tofu for adding to stir fries and soups. Rather than frying (I'm trying to use less oil), you can bake it and get that nice fried texture. I found the instructions here.

BAKED TOFU: Buy one pound of extra-firm tofu and bake it in the oven using this easy method: Heat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit (200 Celsius); cut the tofu into 1/2-inch slabs; marinate it for a few minutes in a couple of tablespoons of soy sauce, a tablespoon of honey, and some minced garlic; then spread the tofu on an oiled baking sheet and bake until crispy on the edges and golden brown (about 25 to 30 minutes).

It contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health, 

to be brought into habits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, 

who care little for his pursuits, and whose sphere and abilities 

he must go out of himself to appreciate. 

~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Oatmeal

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When I was a pixie-haired kid, oatmeal was a gelatinous mass of gray putrescence in a shiny stainless steel serving tray in the breakfast line at camp. I have no memory of eating oatmeal at home. I watched as a smiling, steamed lady behind the counter served up a wedge of gray mush-matter onto the food tray of the camper ahead of me in line. Shudder. Thankfully there were scrambled eggs, triangles of toast and colorful honeycombs of juice glasses filled with orange, grape or apple liquid. Oh, and those one serving size boxes of cereal that you could cut open and eat from the box if you wanted. The oatmeal shudder has colored my memory darkly of that pretty log dining hall with a huge fireplace that crackled us awake while it rained outside. Dark room. Dark memory in an otherwise bright camp.

Leap forward like a grasshopper to now, when oatmeal with dried or fresh fruit, walnuts and vanilla almond milk is one of my most pleasurable meals. Before deciding something is putrid, a person really ought to taste it, in a well prepared and presented state. Steel cut oats are less milled than rolled oats, so they are a better source of fiber. For years we had brought steel cut oats to a boil on the stove the night before, boiled one minute, covered, let sit overnight, then simmered in the morning for 10 minutes, stirring all the while. This method kept me from just going to my overstuffed red leather chair and waking up with a cup of coffee, which is what I really wanted to do. (See those precarious stacks of books in the top left photo below? That's my table, next to said chair, in the family room next to the kitchen.) My sister-in-law Wilma taught us a new quick easy method for cooking steel cut oats. With this slow cooker method, because it isn't cooked on the stove, we even eat it in the summer. In fact, we eat this almost every single day and never tire of it. The amount we make provides leftovers for the two of us for a couple of days. We refrigerate what's left right in the Pyrex bowl, plastic wrapped, then we reheat it in a double boiler.

By the way (post script), we find steel cut oats at the health food store, and at Whole Foods. Those of you outside the U.S., you're on your own! But you can ask for this, and see if they laugh (at my literal translations via an online translator): Spanish: avena de corte de acero; Portuguese: aveia de aço de corte; French: l'avoine en acier de coupure; British English: porridge?)

You’ll need a slow cooker. Ours is a big one.

And a Pyrex-type (heat-proof) bowl. Ours is 2 ½ quarts (2.5 liters).

Before going to bed at night, set the bowl in the slow cooker. Fill the slow cooker, not the bowl, with about 2 inches of water.

Into the Pyrex bowl, pour 2 cups steel cut oats, 6 cups water (any 1-3 ratio), a handful of dried fruit if you wish (we do dried Michigan cherries), and a little salt. Stir.

Cover the slow cooker, and turn it to Low. (Don't forget to plug it in.)

Next morning, you’ll awaken to a house filled with a warm, nutty fragrance, and your delicious oatmeal is ready to serve and eat, though I usually turn it down to Warm and drink two cups of coffee first. Ahhh, time to read the NYTimes Op Eds Nicholas Kristoff and Gail Collins, and some blogs . . .

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Ode to Quinoa

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quinoa seeds

If you came from One Stop Poetry for the One Shot Wednesday poem, it's at the end. (Of course you're welcome to read the preamble, I hope you will, since it builds to the ode.) 

I really don't understand how one civilization knows something important for 6,000 years, and I just heard about it a few months ago. Now, if I'm browsing online for recipes (while my beautiful cookbooks lie, unopened in the cupboard), especially healthy ones, it's hard to miss it.

These are quinoa seeds. Quinoa isn't a grain, it's not in the grass family. It's a leafy vegetable, related to spinach, kale and beets, of the Chenopodium species. Quinoa was the second most important food source for the Incans, after the potato, but more important than maize. It's Inca's gold, sacred, the mother grain. They could grow it in the Andes at 13,000 feet (but not maize).

This excellent 1999 article on the history and exciting prospects of quinoa becoming a sustainable major source of food for the world, explains:

By the beginning of this century, quinoa had lost its status as the Mother Grain. Foreign crops, such as barley, had been introduced and surpassed quinoa in importance. Further decline occurred in Peru in the 1940s when the government began to import large amounts of wheat. Between 1941 and 1974, quinoa cultivation plummeted from 111,000 acres to 32,000 acres. Compounded with the growing acculturation of indigenous populations and the stigma of indigenous identification attached to its consumption, quinoa lost its grandeur and became just another subsistence crop for poorer rural families.

Thankfully, with the exploding demand for quinoa from people like me way up here in Michigan, exports from countries like Bolivia are increasing, and quinoa is also being eaten by the masses in the Andes again.

You can see Thomas Jefferson's handsome profile there on the nickel, appropriately resting his head on pillows of quinoa seeds. Among the many geniuses of Thomas Jefferson, one was a passion for experimenting with fruits and vegetables, hundreds of varieties in his 1,000-foot garden at Monticello. He ate mostly vegetables and considered meat a "condiment." (Read here about his favorite vegetables.) I don't know if he knew of, tasted, or experimented with quinoa, but it wouldn't surprise me if he did. An interesting bit of history is how Jefferson smuggled rice from Italy in his pockets, risking punishment by death, to develop a new breed mixed with Carolina rice, so that the French would import it, which you can read here.

I visited Monticello at age 13 with my parents and Virginian aunt and uncles;

the top sketch is Jefferson's first of the house he designed;
his inventions, architecture and design sense really captured
my aesthetic imagination. 

 Mulberry Row, Vegetable Garden Terrace, & South Orchard
(Photos borrowed from monticello.org)

I was intimidated by what I didn't know about quinoa, not the least of which was pronouncing it (KEEN-WAH). At last, after my niece potlucked a quinoa dish at the family reunion, we cooked some for a perfect summer Sunday meal. Here is the simplest method for cooking quinoa that I've found. Be sure to rinse it before cooking, although apparently most quinoa at the market now has been rinsed already to remove the bitter outer coating called saponin.

Do you want to know why you might want to eat it? It's delicious - mild and nutty, and the texture is nice, like rice. It's super easy to cook in 15 minutes (don't overcook it). You can even pop it like popcorn apparently. It's high in protein (a half cup serving has 11 grams!) and contains all the amino acids to make it a complete protein to boot. It's gluten-free. It has fighto-chemicals that phyt against cancer and prevent cholestrol from clogging your arteries. It's loaded with potassium, magnesium and manganese. I mean seriously, was this secret buried in stone at Macchu Picchu? Sometimes I really think we "civilized" peoples have unlearned almost every useful bit of wisdom readily available to mankind.

Perfect Summer Sunday Lunch

Black Bean & Tomato Quinoa

Pesto & Crostini

Fried Green Tomatoes

Black Bean and Tomato Quinoa

(we added crushed garlic, cucumbers, chopped spinach,
zucchini, and green peppers to this recipe)

I love the little curlies.

Pesto and Crostini

I use the pesto recipe from The Silver Spoon.

(I do pull The Silver Spoon down off the shelf, often.)

Blend in a food processor:

25 fresh basil leaves

scant 1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/3 cup pine nuts

1 cup Parmesan cheese, freshly grated

1/3 cup romano cheese, freshly grated

salt

& I add 1-2 cloves crushed garlic

Fried Green Tomatoes

(Don's specialty)

The garlic and basil flavor-bursting pesto

with the milder quinoa and fried green tomatoes

made a nice balancing act.

Accompany with iced tea, lemonade or Pinot Grigio.

Bon appetit!

It was Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's birthday Monday, July 12 (1904, d. September 23, 1973). He was famous for his odes to simple ordinary things, like an artichoke, socks, maize, a lemon. Neruda's sensuality and mindfulness of the universe in every small thing is inimitable, but the inspiration he keeps shining from Chile is a prompt for this Ode to Quinoa anyway. I think quinoa is a good candidate for a Nerudian ode, since it was spurned by Spanish conquistadors as merely food for Indians.

Ode to Quinoa

My fingertips
roll the beads,
miracles of asymmetry,
tiny as toad eyes,
hard as coriander,
the color of my skin.

A bed of it
would be like thick
sand, my knees
and elbows,
hips, my toes
would not be able
to find the bottom.
Happy
airy mattress.

An ocean
or a cup,
softened in a pan,
a spoonful
of autumn sun,
a pillow of
downy earth.
Useless teeth,
a tongue, a mouth,
the wet pads
of my cheeks
massage it into life,
down through the funnel
of my craving,
and into the well
of my stomach’s
open empty hand.


~ Ruth M.

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

My ode is part of One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday poetry gathering, where all poets are welcome to share, and readers will find delights. Leslie (Moondustwriter) is this week's host.

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cross cultural rhubarb & my peeps

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I had been picking rhubarb and strawberries, making pie and photographing the process (hahaha, only a blogger) during Memorial Day weekend, nagging myself: If you post at sync about making a beautiful pie you might mislead people into thinking you are like Nigella Lawson (the British food maven who showed me that food is sensual). You are not like her, except that you love food.

I'm not going to show you all my "warts", but I also don't want to misrepresent the facts.

So I was happy for something to synchronize with strawberry-rhubarb pie and divert from oh-aren't-I-a-food-goddess fantasies when I read something about Samuel Pepys in the Writer's Almanac on Memorial Day. Thanks to Lorenzo, I resubscribed to the Writer's Almanac. I like reading the poems Keillor picks, and also the literary birthdays and histories. The May 31st post said it was the last day Samuel Pepys wrote in his famous diary, in 1669.

This jiggled loose two 1975 London eating memories, one with my peeps, I mean Pepys, and the other with rhubarb.

When I was little, our neighbor had rhubarb growing in the back yard. Jimmie and I used to go out in May and pick and munch a stalk right there, its sourness making our faces twist up like this just born punk rhubarb head in Don's garden this spring, below.

Raw rhubarb is an adventure, but I love rhubarb best in pie with strawberries. Rhubarb feels gritty on your teeth, especially raw. Even in a pie by itself, it has a texture that makes your teeth feel like the enamel just dissolved. But when it's paired with strawberries, the grittiness goes away.

At the end of the summer that I turned 14, I sat on the cabbage rose carpeted floor of my parents' house (which by the way had been Jimmie's, the one with the rhubarb, whose grand-in-a-soul-sense house we bought when I turned 12) while my brother Bennett showed slides on a big screen of his tour through Europe on a history study program with his college. I vowed sitting there under the snow-covered Jungfrau that I would go on that same trip when I was in college. The summer I turned 19, after one year of college in Illinois, I hopped on a plane with twenty-some students from Boston and fulfilled my vow getting my brand new passport stamped in 10 countries over an eight week period. Those were the days of eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of the backs of vans, sleeping in campgrounds outside Paris and Amsterdam, crawling out of the sleeping bag and tent and stepping in a cow pie, with Elsie the cow chewing grass ten feet from my face.

I was somewhat prepared for Europe to be different than the U.S., where English was not the native language. But I didn't expect England to feel as different as it did, which resulted in my having more culture shock there than in other places. How could we speak the same language but have so many different words for things, like lorry for truck and jumper for cardigan sweater?

London came in the second of eight weeks, and I was already feeling a tad homesick. My friend and I found an inexpensive restaurant on a London street, and when I saw rhubarb pie on the menu, I felt like my parents' back yard was behind me, and I asked for some. "They have rhubarb in England!" I declared. Little did I know that Europeans had it first and took it to America with them back in the day. (When I say "first," I mean before us Americans. The Chinese had rhubarb thousands of years before any of us.) The rhubarb tart was warm and served with warm custard in a small white pitcher on the side to pour over it. I had never in my life had warm custard on anything, and it was fabulous. Boxed instant vanilla pudding does not translate into this experience. There was something in that moment that morphed home and foreign into something new inside me.

It's funny, the things that educate you about life. I first heard of Samuel Pepys and his diary at a restaurant with his name. When you're 19 and trying to make your pocket money last for eight weeks, visiting shops and museums and falling in love with things that have price tags, you eat a lot of street food, like white cheese, tomato and butter sandwiches on baguettes. I had never eaten or seen a tomato and cheese sandwich, had I even had cheese other than plastic cheese known as American? Nor had I ever eaten tomato, butter and bread in one bite. I liked it. I liked it more than Miracle Whip, and at least as much as mayonnaise. But one evening some of us decided to splurge and make reservations at the Samuel Pepys restaurant overlooking the Thames River after a play in the theater district. I felt sophisticated eating a prime piece of British cow with my new Boston friends, dressed up in the one dress I'd packed in the suitcase between one pair of cut-off jeans, one pair of straight-leg red-tab Levi's, three t-shirts and a sweater for the summer, as we dined by candle light with flickering London lights reflected in the river outside. I remember John-of-the-khaki-pants, the bearded student who never wore blue jeans because he wanted to be different, pontificating about Samuel Peeps when we entered the restaurant and saw pages of the diary under glass. I saw how Peeps was spelled, and I silently learned that even English names can sound nothing like they appear.

And that weird spelling of that other word with a silent letter, the "h" in rhubarb? The Online Etymology Dictionary says:

rhubarb - c.1390, from O.Fr. rubarbe, from M.L. rheubarbarum, from Gk. rha barbaron "foreign rhubarb," from rha "rhubarb" (associated with Rha, ancient Scythian name of the River Volga) + barbaron, neut. of barbaros "foreign." Grown in China and Tibet, it was imported into ancient Europe by way of Russia. Spelling altered in M.L. by association with rheum. European native species so called from 1650. Baseball slang meaning "loud squabble on the field" is from 1938, of unknown origin, said to have been first used by broadcaster Garry Schumacher. Perhaps connected with use of rhubarb as a word repeated by stage actors to give the impression of hubbub or conversation (attested from 1934).

Rhubarb is a great world traveler, starting in China at least 2,000 years BC. You can read more about the history of rhubarb, including Marco Polo's excitement about finding it in China, because Europeans were crazy for Chinese rhubarb's medicinal qualities, here. 

I leave you with the recipe for rhubarb pie. The version with strawberries is toward the bottom. Oh, and you know how you can find anything on the Internet? Here is a site with daily readings from Samuel Pepys' diary.

-Betty Crocker

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haricots verts - be still, my heart

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I nearly fainted when I saw a large package of haricots verts at the store
- French green beans, thinner than our green bean varieties here.
I get more delirious over haricots verts
than I do over clothes, shoes or jewelry.
Their consistency and flavor are more delicate
in a firm, fresh way, than larger, meatier beans,
their stature like the thinnest, highest stiletto heel to a shoe lover.

When I'm in Paris, at the end of a long day out walking
and a big meal at noon,
I cook them up for supper,
with just cheese, baguette and red wine.
It's comforting to know haricots verts, like all green beans,
are a great source of Vitamins A, C,
potassium, magnesium, folate and riboflavin,
because those nutrients are so good for the heart,
which is important when it's beating hard with excitement
from food. It balances itself out.

This time I blanched them two minutes
with some equally swoon-worthy young asparagus
- asperges in French, doesn't that sound beautiful -
makes me want to sing, or better, listen to "Je t'aime".
Then I rinsed them in cold water and dried them,
stir-fried them in olive oil in the wok until just tender,
in the last half minute adding
a couple tablespoons of fresh minced garlic,
a tiny amount of minced ginger, a couple tablespoons of soy sauce,
and a few dashes of balsamic vinegar.
They're topped with broken walnuts.

When you can't get to Paris in the spring,
you can taste Paris in the spring, right on the farm.
Everything is starting to vibrate.
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spring green & a tanka

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It might be the middle of winter and we've been dumped with a lot of snow in the last 24 hours, but a fresh green salad just lifts the spirits. I've always loved the simple salad with ginger dressing served at Japanese restaurants just before the miso soup, and finally I googled and found a recipe for it at allrecipes.com. The salad is just torn Boston bibb lettuce (also called butterhead, buttercrunch and Tom Thumb) and this light, fresh dressing.

Japanese Restaurant-Style Salad Dressing

• 1/2 cup minced onion
• 1/2 cup peanut oil
• 1/3 cup rice wine vinegar
• 2 tablespoons water
• 2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger root
• 2 tablespoons minced celery
• 2 tablespoons ketchup
• 4 teaspoons soy sauce
• 2 teaspoons white sugar
• 2 teaspoons lemon juice
• 1/2 teaspoon minced garlic
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

In a blender, combine the minced onion, peanut oil, rice vinegar, water, ginger, celery, ketchup, soy sauce, sugar, lemon juice, garlic, salt and pepper . Blend on high speed for about 30 seconds or until all of the ingredients are well-pureed.

Tanka

(a form of Japanese verse in five lines of 5, 7, 5, 7, 7 syllables
which is older than haiku;
below is my first and not very lyrical attempt;
find more samples by clicking on the word "Tanka" above,
and here for a little history of tanka)

green salad so cold -
winter should not be the time
to lay you on my
tongue; but spring, on vacation,
convinced me: 'wish you were here'

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On the drive home yesterday it took an hour instead of 30 minutes. These photos are from the first few minutes leaving campus, when I was stopped more than I was moving (um, I would never take pictures while driving). After a while my windshield wipers got crusted with ice, and there was no place to stop and snap them clean as the pavement got thicker with snow and we all crawled along at 30 mph.

The farm this morning:

Neighbor Bill plows our drive before also going to the University, like me.



The sunflowers might give Jean Paul Gaultier fashion headgear inspiration?




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eggs & eggplant

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Some husbands give their wives flowers. Or Cadbury Kraft chocolates. Some get robin's egg blue Tiffany boxes enclosing something shiny. I watched old movies when I was little where tuxedoed men gave mink stoles to their wives, who then twirled round and round, diaphanous gowns flaring at their calves as they buried their lipsticked smiles in fur.

Happily for me, my husband gives me photo ops.

Like ornamental chickens with Samuel Beckett hairdos (see Honey on my sidebar). A weather vane named Carl the Cutter. A row of heavy bent sunflowers left for chickadee feeders and corn stalks that radiate the January sun. Gifts that are stealthy and still life-y, such as veggies in September just off the stem resting on the turquoise metal garden chair where I can see them when I pull in the drive. Or gourds and pumpkins lined up on fence posts.

Sunday it was the day's just washed eggs arranged by color on a dish towel showcase. Better than jewels. He said he was really just seeing how many he had of each color.




So what does the wife offer the leaver of egg art? His favorite vegetable that happens to have egg in its name, in a winter-warming soup: roasted eggplant with garlic. Even I who am not the #1 fan of eggplant's texture loved it, because it was pureed and super yums. Why do you suppose they're called eggplant? Sometimes Don's hens lay long eggs shaped this way, poor things. Well, apparently some cultivars of eggplant in the 18th century looked like hen's or goose eggs and were yellow or white. And, who knew? They originated in India, where they are known as brinjal, and that sounds something like the name I think is most beautiful for them: aubergine.

eggplant roasted with mashed roasted garlic mixed with Herbes de Provence

Eggplant-Garlic Soup


Ingredients:
1 cup roasted garlic
1/2 cup Herbes de Provence (available bottled, or dried herbs of your choice)
Drizzle of olive oil
Kosher salt and black pepper to taste
2 large eggplant
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup minced onions
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 1/2 quart of vegetable (or chicken) stock (I added more stock to leftover soup the next day and liked the thinner consistency better)
1 cup coconut milk (or heavy dairy cream)
Cayenne pepper to taste

Directions:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In a mixing bowl, combine the garlic, herbs and drizzle of olive oil together. Season with salt and pepper. Mix thoroughly. Split the eggplant in half, lengthwise and smear the garlic mixture over the top of each eggplant half. Place the eggplant on a baking sheet and place in the oven. Roast the eggplant for 30 minutes or until the eggplant is tender.

Remove from the oven and cool. Using a spoon, remove the flesh of the eggplant and discard the skin. Heat the oil in a 2-quart saucepan. When the oil is hot, add the onions. Saute for 2 minutes. Add the roasted eggplant and garlic and continue to saute for 2 minutes. Stir in the stock and bring the liquid to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes. Using a hand-held blender (I don't have one, so I just put it in a regular blender), puree the soup until smooth. Stir in the coconut milk or cream and continue to simmer for 3 minutes. Season the soup with the salt and the cayenne.

Modified from a recipe found here.
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Aşure - Noah's pudding

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Pronounced AH-shoo-REH.

In İstanbul in the late eighties when Don was selling kilims and copper to the U.S. market hot for Turkish stuff, and we four lived in a "marble palace" apartment (Turkish homes are sparkly with chandeliers, marble floors and countertops; we broke a few milk bottles on that unforgiving marble), on a certain special day two or three neighbors brought a dish of Noah's pudding to us. Aşure günü (say the ü with your lips rounded and a u just behind your teeth) is the holiday celebrated in Turkey on the 10th day of the Islamic lunar month of Muharrem, this year December 27. Noah's is one of the biblical stories shared by Christians, Jews and Muslims. In the Qur'an, Noah is a prophet.

The story goes that when Noah's ark landed on Mt. Ararat (in Turkey), after so much time bobbing on water with no land in sight, the inhabitants celebrated by making a pudding out of the remnants of what lay in the hold: nuts, dried fruits and grains.



The apartment neighbors who brought our bowls of Noah's pudding took a bowl of it to every neighbor in the building. Tradition says that your "neighbors" are inhabitants in forty houses to your East, West, North and South. I imagine "everyone in the building" is the adaptation for modern times. When we explained this tradition to Inge and Lar when we served them some aşure for dessert Saturday (the first time I made it), Inge (of the German steel trap mind) asked, "you mean everyone took some to everyone else? Doesn't that sort of cancel the whole thing out?" Well since we weren't taking aşure to anyone, I never thought about it.

The aşure holiday is about keeping up good relations with neighbors no matter what their religion or beliefs might be. It is common Turkish practice to make big cauldrons of aşure to distribute to the poor. Everything goes into the pot, and what is in the pot goes to everyone.



Here, Neighbor, I am sharing a bowl of aşure with you. It's nice for breakfast. If you make it, share with your neighbors and tell them you appreciate them. You can do that with fruitcake too, which is sort of the same idea, but I like this better. No, that is pudding it too mildly. I would rather toss a fruitcake than eat it. I've co-opted aşure and sharing with neighbors as a new Christmas tradition at our house. Hey, Santa Claus started in Turkey too, and look how far he got!

Aşure - Noah's pudding

2 cups instant barley, it will be much more when cooked
1 cup canned white Northern beans, washed and drained
1 cup canned chickpeas, washed and drained
1 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
10 cups water
10 dry apricots, soaked in water overnight, cut in pieces
10 dry figs, cut in pieces
1/2 cup raisins

Garnish:
1/4 cup walnuts, crumbled, slivered almonds, currants, pine nuts, pomegranate seeds

Cook barley according to directions on package. (If using non-instant barley, get it to boil on high heat. Then as soon as it boils, turn it down to medium-low heat and cook for about half an hour.) Set aside 1-2 cups of cooked barley and put into a food processor or blender. To the barley in the pot add the beans, chickpeas, vanilla, apricots, raisins, figs, sugar and 6 cups of hot water. Simmer for about 45 minutes on medium to medium-low heat. Stir occasionally. Process 1-2 cups cooked barley that you set aside in a food processor or blender, mixing water if needed to make it pudding-ish. Add this to the pot to thicken it. Cook a couple more minutes, then pour into a large service bowl and let cool.

Keep Noah's Pudding refrigerated. When serving, garnish with crumbled walnuts, roasted slivered almonds, currants, pine nuts and pomegranate seeds. The garnish is the best part, and you might think of different ones.-
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harvest

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It doesn't seem to matter what I give the Earth - discarded knobs and knuckles of bone from our table, cucumber peels, broken eggshells, or used coffee grounds that look and feel like the black sand of Kailua-Kona, even invisible and toxic things, such as fears that swirl through my brain synapses - whatever little deaths I dump into Her lap, She absorbs them.

Some days, understandably, She explodes in a torrent of wind or water, or fire borrowed from the Sun. But reguarly what She returns is purified, through some filigree filter (think mycelium and earthworms) that cleans up what I give thoughtlessly. She gives back another day of Life.

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Postscript: To answer Ann, we have a hard time letting our tomatoes ripen, because we pick them green and Don fries them. Mmm, fried green tomatoes - a little tart, very savory, crisp outside and tender inside.

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Chef Don's Recipe for Fried Green Tomatoes (for Judy and y'all):

Slice green tomatoes about 3/8" thick.
Pour some milk in a shallow dish.
Place flour in a bag (some use cornmeal, or breadcrumbs; we prefer flour).

Cover the bottom of a fry skillet with olive oil and heat over med-high (on the low side of med-high) heat. Add 1 T. butter.

Dip tomato slices in milk, then dredge in flour and place in hot oil. Season with salt and pepper to taste. If heat is too high, tomatoes will brown but the center will be raw. Tomatoes should cook 5-7 minutes per side. When you see oil bubbling through holes near the edges of the tomatoes, lift the slice to see if it is brown. Flip when brown on first side and brown the second side. Enjoy, my friends, enjoy.

homey clean

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Finally, after years of intending to make a home cleaner from natural stuff, I did it. None of the recipes had allured enough to push me past lethargy until Design Sponge shared this one (I've posted my version below). Read here some of the disturbing reasons you should consider it too, such as the fact that 17,000 petrochemicals have been approved for home use, but only 30% of those have been tested for impact on humans, and that the average American home has 10 gallons of harmful chemicals hiding in cabinets and drawers.

There are many things to like about this recipe, but the best for me is adding my favorite scents with essential oils.

Homemade All-Purpose Spray

Ingredients (I bought them all at a health food store, except the empty spray bottle, which I got at Bed, Bath and Beyond):

• 1 empty 32 oz. spray bottle
• 3/4 c. Distilled White Vinegar
• 1 c. Hydrogen Peroxide
• 1 1/2 tsp. Castile Soap*
• 30 drops Tea Tree Oil
• 30-45 drops Essential Oil of choice - I used 15 rosemary drops and 15 spearmint, then I added 15 drops of lavender to rise above the smell of the vinegar (other choices include lemongrass, lemon verbena, clove, cinnamon, anise, sage, grapefruit, lemon, and lime)
  

Mixing:

• Place all ingredients into the spray bottle using a funnel or measuring cup with a spout.
• Add water until contents reach top of bottle.
• Shake vigorously and clean with pleasure!

I can still smell the tea tree oil on my fingers (I had to be sure it was coming out of the dropper). Tea tree oil is also known as melaleuca oil, something that was in Australian soldiers' first aid kids in WWI for its natural antiseptic properties.

With an initial investment of over $30 in the various bottles of stuff, I thought this homemade cleaner might be more costly than a ready bottle of GreenWorks natural all purpose cleaner, but I was willing to pay extra. When Don and I calculated the cost (by the way, apparently there are 600 "drops" in one fluid ounce), we discovered it was only $2.13 total for 32 ounces. (Compare: GreenWorks $3.39/32 oz.)

Squeaky, streakless. I've just increased my chances of becoming a clean freak.




*Castile soap alone is a profound discovery for its simplicity and pure, gentle cleaning qualities.

double fisted French apple pie

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These are my apple pie tools.

Apple pie may be very American, but this is French apple pie, needing special considerations. The buttery crumb topping makes it French, according to Mme. Betty Crocker. I always thought crumb topped pie was called Dutch apple (remember double Dutch, in jump rope?). Dutch apple pie is actually when you pour cream in through slits in the top crust during the last five minutes of baking. Wow.

I rolled the dough out on the cutting board that I carried home on the Metro from the Paris flea market. People on the train looked at me like I was carrying a weapon. I tried to look nonchalant, as if a) I weren't an American tourist and b) it is perfectly normal to get on the Metro with a big round board with a handle. Travel tip: no matter how you try to blend in, those Parisians pick up your Americanness every time. I is what I is, I guess.

The apples I used were our yellow transparent apples, what was left of them by the deer and the kids playing knock-the-apples-off-the-tree at the wedding. I used Don's ice scraper to pull the high, remaining apples within reach.

I see that the winner of the national pie championship was made with yellow transparent apples. I don't think you can find them in many shops or farmers markets, so we are fortunate to have this very (French)-tart variety right in our little orchard. (I don't think they're really French apples; I just threw that in with the tart.) You can use Granny Smiths, another tart apple, if you can't find transparents. But really, wouldn't you rather have a French tart than a Granny Smith?





This is Don's ice scraper tool co-opted for pulling apple boughs down.



















Here are the yellow transparent apples, so pretty, with Don counting sunflowers in the background. (It's over, Don, the wedding is over, it doesn't matter how many we have now.)













The weapon.









French apple pie before adding ice cream.

The recipes:

Instead of a top crust, I topped it with crumbly yums, making it French apple.
I added chopped, salted pecans to the crumb topping: