Nonna’s Meatballs (Polpette)

When my cousin returned to North America after spending several years away in Taiwan, she was asked what she’d like to have at her repatriation dinner. Without skipping a beat, she uttered: “Grandma’s meatballs. I want Grandma’s meatballs.”

It made sense. Anyone who’s had them knows the effect that they can have on people. I’ve even known vegetarians to try them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d secretly trade their first-born for one.

Like virtually everything that has come out of Nonna’s kitchen, her meatballs are straightforward and to-the-point; the recipe never changes and you can almost count the number of ingredients on one hand. These meatballs don’t mess around, people. I recommend that you respond in kind, resisting the urge to mess around with them by adding or subtracting components. This is not your opportunity to, say, make foie gras or quinoa-ball concoctions. Any attempt to get inventive would result in a polite, yet firm, “tsk” from Nonna, reminding you that some recipes are better left intact.

Like any good family recipe, this one has a secret weapon. I’d love to tell you that it’s the amore that’s put in it or that there’s some special, ancient rolling technique involved. But really, it’s the veal. It’s all about the veal. Forget everything you learnt about meatballs containing beef. Beef does not belong in this meatball. Trust me. And for the love of God, put away the quinoa.

I should mention at this point that the recipe included here is a variation of Nonna’s decades-old recipe*. Her version requires that the meatballs be cooked slowly in homemade tomato sauce. But on this given day, circumstances (and more specifically, time) dictated that we bake them in the oven. They are not identical to Nonna’s, but they still contain the traditional ingredients and retain the original version’s deliciousness.

(*the real deal will surface on this blog at some point)

Polpette

• 1/2 kg minced pork
• 1 kg minced veal
• 4 cloves of garlic, minced
• a handful of parsley, minced
• 3/4 cup of breadcrumbs
• 3 eggs, beaten
• 1 1/2 tsp salt + 1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper

Directions

Preheat oven to 375°F. Place meat in a large bowl. Add garlic, parsley, salt & pepper; mix into meat. Add breadcrumbs and eggs; mix until combined and until ingredients are evenly distributed. Roll into golf ball-sized portions.

Arrange on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and place in the preheated oven. Bake for about 10-12 minutes, or until cooked through, turning them once halfway through the cooking process.

Note: these delightful little things freeze really well. Simply place cooked meatballs on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and freeze, later placing them in freezer bags or airtight containers equipped for the freezer.

Breakfast tofu

It has become quite apparent in the last few months that I am a compulsive food shopper. Not in the way you might imagine, though. Despite being a food nerd, I’m not particularly interested in obtaining obscure ingredients like pink salt from the Himalayas or white alba truffles, or pretty much anything that’s sold with the promise that it’s been aged in a dragon’s den and transported across the desert by galloping unicorns.

No, my compulsive food shopping does not revolve around sourcing exotic products. Instead, it involves hoarding things that go on sale. It goes something like this: “Ooh, tomato paste is on sale. I should buy 10 cans.” Then weeks later, when I tidy up the pantry, I come upon those same 10 tins of tomato paste, plus an inordinate amount of canned beans, dried mushrooms, baking powder, and a sedentary army of Asian sauce enhancers that I barely know how to use. More and more, my food-shopping M.O has become: “Get it right now, even if you don’t need it.”

Aside from amassing ridiculous quantities of canned goods and hoisin sauce, there are also a few items picked up during a binge-shopping spree that end up residing in my fridge for a longer period of time than expected. Without fail, tofu consistently wins the prize for “item-neglected-the-longest”. It’s the one thing that I stare at blankly when I open the fridge door; the one item I have a hard time getting excited about. And once I’m distracted by something more immediately gratifying, say, a chunk of Gruyère or a bowl of leftover noodles, I catch myself making the same guilt-ridden promise to poor ol’ tofu: ”Tomorrow. I will make you tomorrow.” The problem is that eventually “tomorrow” becomes the expiration date and, whether you like it or not, you have to deal with that chunk of soy bean curd sitting in the lonely spot on the top shelf next to the jam.

I don’t really know why I neglect the tofu in my fridge. I like tofu. It’s texturally interesting, it’s substantial, and it helps to balance out the omnivore’s diet. But I suppose what throws me off is how anaemic it looks, especially under that thin film of plastic that it comes in. To me, tofu straight out of the package is the aesthetic equivalent of bare legs that haven’t seen a lick of sun all winter – not the ugliest thing you’ve seen in your life, but also not the prettiest. And not the most inspiring thing to look at when you’re hungry after a long day and just want to tuck into a plate of something handsome.

But today it was me, the tofu and the expiration date. It also happened to be 8am on a Saturday. This is when not being finicky about strict definitions of “breakfast food” can be a blessing. If, however, you find the idea of having tofu before 11am a little unsettling, you can always toss in a few of the usuals, i.e. an egg, some toast and a little fruit, and Bob’s your uncle.

Breakfast tofu (serves 2-3)

Marinade:

• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• a thumb-sized piece of ginger, minced
• 4 tbsp canola oil
• 1 tbsp sesame oil
• 1 tbsp tamari sauce
• 1 tbsp mirin sauce
• 1/2 tbsp rice vinegar

—-

• 1 package firm tofu, drained
• Wafu® dressing (to serve)

Mix all the marinade ingredients in a bowl. Adjust quantities to your liking. Slice the tofu into uniform rectangles, each about 1/4″ thick. Place slices in a casserole dish and pour the marinade over the tofu. Let it bathe in the fridge for about an hour, turning once.

Remove from the fridge and allow the tofu to come to room temperature. Remove the garlic and ginger pieces. Put a grill pan on medium-high heat; when hot, place a few slices of tofu in the pan. Working in batches, continue to grill all the pieces, 2 minutes on each side, keeping the previous ones warm in the oven. For an improvised breakfast, this version was served with Wafu®, a scrambled egg, toast with cashew butter and some broiled mango.

A true lady – and duck

It started with the realisation that I’d spent half the day with my watch on upside down. And the secondary realisation that I had probably consulted it a few times since putting it on. These are moments when I feel lucky not to have the responsibility of taking care of pets and small children. I can easily imagine my morning starting with a dog in a diaper or a child frolicking in the garden on a leash. I’m not generally a scatterbrain. But it’s clear I’ve been a tad distracted these past few days – for good reason, I assure you.

This week marks a milestone birthday – one that both petrifies and thrills me. And while a true lady never divulges her age, I can tell you that the week I was born, the number one country music hit in Canada was “Same Ole Me” by George Jones.

Did you really just look that up? Impressive. You win a big, fat plate of duck.

There’s something vaguely regal about duck. It’s got pomp. It’s got sass. And it’s the kind of thing I pick up when I’m feeling a bit posh. If I’m feeling EXTRA posh, I’ll also pick up a bottle of port to accompany my duck, in the spirit of “one splash for the pot, and one splash for me”. On birthdays, a dish of duck and port is a good way to highlight another year that has past – and to usher in all the ones to come. *Cin cin*

Birthday Duck (serves 2)

• 2 duck legs (thighs)
• 1/2 cup chicken stock
• 1/2 cup of port
• one carrot, diced
• one stalk of celery, diced
• one small onion, diced
• 3 cloves of garlic, chopped
• one bay leaf
• sea salt & black pepper

Directions

Heat the oven to 325°F. Put a cast-iron pan on the stove on medium-high heat. While that’s heating up, prepare your duck by patting it dry with paper towel and seasoning liberally with sea salt and freshly ground pepper. When the skillet is hot, place duck legs in the pan and sear for about 5 minutes on each side. Remove from pan and place in an oven-proof casserole dish. Pour off most of the fat, leaving behind about a tablespoon in the pan.

With the pan on medium heat, add the onion, garlic, carrot and celery. Sauté a couple of minutes until softened, then add the port. Allow to reduce for about 5 minutes, then add the stock and bay leaf. Reduce again for about 10 minutes.

Pour the port mixture over the duck and cover loosely with foil. Allow to braise for 30-45 minutes, checking from time to time to make sure that there’s still braising liquid in the dish. The duck is ready when the meat can be easily pulled away from the bone.

Cappuccino in casa

I’m not a fancy girl; I can live without fancy things. There are, however, a handful of humble luxuries that I hold close to my heart, including hot showers, toast and marmalade, down pillows and Negronis. Granted, these are not what some people would consider luxuries, but what can I say? I’m a cheap date.

Home-made cappuccinos also rank high on the list of simple things that I could certainly live without, but choose not to. It’s 10am on a Sunday and I find myself jonseing for one – a Pavlovian side-effect from making them nearly every weekend for the last 2 years. But not this weekend. The problem being that my enfeebled arm is at least a couple of weeks away from doing any vigorous whisking; from a medical standpoint, making cappuccino is verboten until I can move my arm sideways without wincing. The one thing I CAN do, without reprimand from my physiotherapist, is click through my unpublished food photos and dream about the days when I’ll be able to make cappuccino again. I know this all sounds a tad melodramatic, but trust me – you’ll get just as schmaltzy once you’ve made your own.

—-

To make cappuccino, you do not need any special implements or gadgets (like that 3$ battery-operated hand frother that you got at last year’s Secret Santa). All you need is a good arm and a whisk. It helps if you have some residual stress from the week to work out; this will produce a more impressive foam. Make sure your partner, kids and/or out-of-town couch surfers are out of bed, because you will make quite a racket.

Cappuccino

• 1/2 cup whole milk*
• 1/2 cup freshly brewed coffee (from a stove-top percolator)
• unrefined sugar (if desired)
• a wire whisk

*Notes: organic milk takes longer to foam that regular milk – I haven’t figured out why, but it just does. Milk with a higher fat content will also take longer to froth up, due to a higher concentration of glycerol – but don’t let this dissuade you; whole milk is the lovelier option. Just make sure it isn’t hovering around the expiry date, or else you’ll have problems getting it to foam properly.

Directions

In a small saucepan, set the milk over medium-high heat.  Let the milk heat up gently, taking care not to let the milk boil. When it starts to steam slightly, start whisking. If your arm gets tired, alternate between whisking in a cranking action and a side-to-side action. As you whisk, the bubbles will get smaller and the foam will get thicker. Once you’ve gained a nice layer of foam, remove the milk from the heat.

Find your favourite mug; pour coffee into it. If you take your coffee with sugar, add it now & stir. Tilt the saucepan over the mug, holding back the foam with a spoon, and pouring the steamed milk into the mug until it’s about 2/3 full. Spoon on the foam from the saucepan.

(Side note: I highly encourage you to resist sullying your carefully prepared, pristine white foam with cinnamon. As far as I know, adding cinnamon to cappuccino is not an Italian flourish, but rather an adulterant used by baristas to mask a bad cup of coffee.)

Easter weekend + one piñata-fail

Some way, somehow, I always manage to romanticize my abilities in the realm of crafts. Like that time I was hell-bent on making homemade marshmallows, imagining all of the neat thematic shapes I would make: Chicks! Baby bunnies! Oh, how marvelous they will be! Luckily, I’ve had enough Anglo-Saxon pragmatism running through my veins (thanks, Dad) to help curb those impulses and keep me in line. It goes without saying that DIY projects involving boiling candy can unleash a Pandora’s box of nightmarish incidents. So while my soft side may have been lost in an ambrosial haze of fluffy marshmallow bunnies, my sensible side was there to remind me that getting burned by the candy thermometer and distributing smears of sticky gelatin onto everything in sight, including my hair, was probably not that fun.

Alas, my fantasy of becoming craft-lady extraordinaire still manages to inject itself into plans that are supposed to be easy, lovely and stress-free. A little while back, a friend asked me to make her daughter’s birthday piñata. It’s true that my mental Roladex was pretty sparse in the piñata department, but I did my homework, consulting Youtube and Pinterest and noting down suggestions made by Facebook friends. I bought taffy and ribbon and crêpe paper and ginormous balloons. I WAS GOING TO MAKE THE BEST PIÑATA EVER.

(Disclaimer: I had never made a piñata prior to this. I am also still recovering from shoulder surgery and can barely tie my shoes. Clearly, my Anglo-Saxon pragmatism was on holiday. Probably off on a beach, sipping a piña-colada.)

The details of the piñata-demise are not particularly thrilling, but long story short, the balloon deflated before all the layers had dried and the papier-mâché shell collapsed into a pathetic pile at the bottom of the bathtub. In a sorry attempt to revive it, I slipped in a second balloon and blew it up as quickly as I could. It was like trying to douse a beached whale with little sandcastle pails filled with water – desperate and ultimately useless. Not wanting to flake on a promise I had made to my 5-year-old god-daughter, I made a mad dash for the party supply store 20 minutes before closing and bought a dubious-looking paper cow made in China. Anglo-Saxon pragmatism restored, but craft-romanticism crushed.

Luckily, there was Easter dinner the next day to distract me from the wreckage and restore faith in my ability to make things – at least of the kitchen variety. My brother, dad and I were in charge of salads and sides; but mom was the one at the helm, constructing a handsome lasagna, several frilly layers high. This is not something we typically have at Easter, but the lamb seemed quite pleased to be curled up against that hot mess of béchamel and noodles. You may want to do the same.

Mamma’s Easter Lasagna

1 package oven ready lasagna pasta (375 grams or 3/4 lb)
1 cup water
1 cup grated mozzarella
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Meat Sauce
3 tablespoons extra virgin oil
1 onion, finely chopped
1 carrot, finely chopped
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
2 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 lb minced veal
1/2 lb. minced pork
1/4 cup tomato paste
handful chopped Italian parsley
6 cups canned tomatoes (or better: Nonna’s tomatoes)
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a skillet. Add the chopped onions and cook for about 4 minutes. Add the remaining vegetables and half of the chopped garlic. Continue to cook until golden. Stir in the pork, veal, parsley and the remaining chopped garlic. Cook the meat until it is no longer pink and the juices are absorbed, about 10-12 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste. Pour in the tomatoes and simmer until the sauce thickens (40-60 minutes).

Ricotta-Spinach filling:
1 bunch fresh spinach
1 container of ricotta (1 1/2 cups)
1 egg
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Cook the spinach. Drain and wring out as much moisture as possible. Chop the spinach and set aside to cool.

In a bowl, whisk together the ricotta, egg, parmesan, and 1 teaspoon salt. Whisk in the chopped spinach and set aside.

Béchamel sauce:

3 cups hot milk
6 tablespoons butter
6 tablespoons flour
1 bay leaf
pinch of nutmeg

In a medium saucepan, melt 6 tablespoons of butter until foamy and stir in the flour with a wooden spoon (you are making a roux). Continue to stir and allow the flour to cook for about 2 minutes . Gradually pour the hot milk into the roux while continuing to whisk, taking care to stir out any lumps. Bring to a boil. Lower the heat and continue to whisk continuously until the sauce is very smooth. Cook for 3 minutes and remove from the heat.

Assembly 

Preheat oven to 375°F with rack in middle.

Spread a layer of meat sauce to cover the surface of the 9×13 inch baking pan or casserole dish. Pour in 1/2 cup of water (if using the oven ready lasagna). Lay some sheets of lasagne over the sauce (leaving space between the noodles); add a layer of meat sauce and a sprinkling of parmesan and mozzarella.

Place a second layer of pasta sheets. Spread some of the spinach-ricotta mixture on top of the noodles. Then add a layer of béchamel sauce.

Repeat with one more layer of pasta/meat sauce and one more layer of pasta/ricotta mixture and finish with a generous layer of béchamel and some grated parmesan. Cover pan with foil and bake 50-60 minutes. Uncover and continue to bake to allow the béchamel to become golden.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Back-to-it Minestrone

Three weeks ago to the day, an orthopedic surgeon made three small incisions in my right shoulder to fix a recurring dislocation problem. Since then, there have been things that I’ve temporarily had to bid adieu to, including pantihose, chopsticks, bras, clothes-folding, bed-making, hair-styling, hugging people with both arms and sleeping in any other position than corpse-pose. It’s bewildering that I’ve managed to look remotely presentable this last little while – barring those first few days at the beginning when I looked like something you might find in the recesses of your couch cushions. Luckily, the people in my day-to-day didn’t seem to notice. That, or they’re magnificent liars. I can appreciate either.

Despite feeling like a gimpy three-legged dog over the last couple of weeks, it hasn’t been all bad. In fact, I’ve taught myself some pretty neat tricks, like putting on socks with one hand, applying liquid eye-liner like a lefty and resisting the urge to catch things when I drop them (anthropological note: watching passively as your most beloved piece of porcelain escapes your grip and shatters into a gazillion pieces on the floor is an interesting testament to the strength of human willpower). Equally interesting is the realisation that you will not be able to sweep said shards of porcelain into a dust pan in order to discard them. Human ingenuity dictates that a quick sweep with one’s sock to hide the evidence in the corner of the room will do the trick. That is, until your mother visits with food and casually asks if you need help “tidying up” (I know this sounds like I’m making a snide remark about my mother, but what I’m really trying to convey to you is that she is, without a shadow of a doubt, the best mom in the universe and I’m not quite sure how I would have managed without her. Dad – you too).

Having relied almost exclusively on the care-packages of a lovingly doting mother and take-out sushi from down the street, the extent of my kitchen activity has involved reheating leftovers and pouring the contents of plastic containers onto plates. Ooh la la.

I know I’m very lucky and things could have been worse (on all sorts of accounts); but I missed my pots and pans and various kitchen implements*. It felt like I hadn’t used them in so long that on any given day they might mobilize and walk out the front door, bereaved and weepy.

*the last couple of posts were dug up from the archive – saved specifically for a rainy day…or in this case, days.

But this past weekend I reached a recovery milestone: being able to wield a knife and chop things. I cannot tell you how happy this makes me. Below, I bring to you the first real thing I’ve made in the last 3 weeks – from beginning to end – in my kitchen, ALL BY MYSELF. I may still not be able to shave my right armpit, but apparently I can make a mean minestrone – gimpy arm and all.

Minestrone (serves 4)

• 1 small onion
• 1/2 leek, finely chopped (white part only)
• 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
• 1 carrot, diced
• 1 celery stalk, diced
• 1 stalk of swiss chard, finely chopped (spinach or kale could be used instead)
• 1/2 cup white vermouth
• 1 litre home-made chicken stock
• 1/2 can crushed tomatoes (or better: 1/2 jar of Nonna’s tomatoes)
• 1 can cannelli beans (or better: dried beans, soaked overnight & cooked)
• 1/2 cup small pasta, preferably ditalini (“little thimbles”)
• a few sprigs of parsley, chopped (fresh basil or thyme also work – just go easy on the thyme)
• olive oil
• salt to taste

Optional: fried garlic and pine nuts (to serve)

Directions

Prepare a dutch oven with some olive oil and set on the stove at medium-high. Once the oil starts to get warm, add the onions, leek and garlic sauté until translucent.

Add the carrot and cook for about 2 minutes. Then add the celery and swiss chard and cook for another minute. Pour in the vermouth and stir. Add the crushed tomatoes, parsley, broth and some salt. Give a good stir and reduce the heat to low.

Allow to simmer for about 10 minutes then add the beans and the pasta (cook until al dente). Feel free to add more broth or water if you think it looks too thick (note: you can extend the cooking time to let the flavours settle in a bit more – but don’t add the pasta until the end and be sure to start with more liquid).

Serve with fried garlic and pine nuts and a generous shaving of parmesan.

Chinese tortellini

Venus and Jupiter walk into a bar…

There are a few popular legends surrounding the creation of tortellini – three to be exact. But my favourite by far is the one that involves a boozy encounter between Venus and Jupiter and a perverted in-keeper. I’ll spare you the details, but it’s a fun jaunt through medieval lore via the Interweb. Look it up. At the very least, it can be a fun story to share with the in-laws at dinner, especially if you sass-up the specifics. If you’re feeling shy, you can rely on this week’s space news to introduce the topic.

While I can’t confirm the true origins of tortellini, I can tell you this: it is not amongst my Nonna’s tried-and-true recipes. In fact, I had never come close to seeing a homemade tortellini until I went to Bologna to visit family in 2001. Please note that I’ve just used the words “homemade”, “tortellini” and “Bologna” in the same sentence - meaning that I must have had a horseshoe up my posterior.  Yes, this was a ridiculously idyllic setting to have my first real tortellino - this one served up in the form of a soup. And if that simple backdrop wasn’t enough, get this: the stuffing was made of two types of meat sourced from the family farm, parmigiano-reggiano (Parma being just down the road and all) and herbs grown from the garden; the pasta was made in casa, hand-rolled by a Bolognese mamma; the broth was homemade too – stock made FROM THE FARM’S CHICKENS. Oh and p.s – this was only the starter.

Like any good romantic fling, this one stayed suspended in the pillowy nostalgia of a short-lived, cross-continental escapade. I was happy to look back on it fondly as a moment that could never be replicated, presumably explaining why I’d never attempted making tortellini in the confines of my depressingly small North-American kitchenette. There was definitely a fear of making sub-par specimens and, ultimately, popping the rose-coloured bubble of my Bolognese food fling.

There had always been, however, a little dumpling that my mom used to make – something that my Nonna refers to as “Chinese tortellini”. Basically, a gingery meat mixture tucked into a wonton wrapper, served in broth. This has nothing to do with the Bolognese version – god forbid we compare them. But laid out on a counter-top, looking a bit Georgia O’Keefe-y, they bare a striking resemblance to their Italian cousin, tortellini. The filling is Cantonese-inspired, yet it isn’t exactly the kind of wonton you’d find at Sunday’s Dim Sum. But they belong to neither country, resting somewhere in between two worlds, in a kind of Sinotalese grey area that can’t, and probably shouldn’t, be categorized.

Chinese tortellini (adapted from mom’s recipe):

• 1 lb ground pork
• 1 egg
• 1/2 cup water chestnuts (drained)
• 4 green onions
• 1/2 teaspoon finely minced fresh ginger
• 1 1/2 tablespoons light soy sauce
• 1 teaspoon sesame oil
• 1/4 cup of fresh cilantro

Directions

In a food processor, finely chop the water chestnuts, shallots, ginger and cilantro.  Add the ginger, soy sauce and sesame oil to blend.  Add the pork and egg. Pulse to incorporate the ingredients.

Place a teaspoon of the pork mixture on the center of each wonton wrapper, brushing some water along the edges. Fold dough to make a triangle. Press the edges to seal the filling inside the dough, being careful to eliminate air pockets. Gently criss-cross the two tip of the longest edge of the triangle to make a tortellini shape.

Place on cookie sheets and freeze. Transfer to freezer bags. When ready to use, cook for about 5 minutes in boiling water, drain, then transfer to hot broth and cook for a few more minutes until filling is cooked through. Add veggies and seasonings as you see fit.

Makes about 80 dumplings

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Dessert-shy

Desserts are definitely not my forte. The primary reason being that I’m generally not very good at sticking to a recipe. With cooking, it’s a character trait that has served me well. But with desserts, this otherwise innocuous habit has led me down the path of the bad and the ugly.

Successful baking generally requires the anal-retentive precision of a scientist – someone who revels in the joys of perfect calculations and measurements. Unfortunately, since 10th grade calculus, I’ve had a hard time getting excited about numbers. It’s a fetish that escapes me. I can’t remember the last time I cooked anything by following a recipe to the letter, let alone MEASURE the quantities. I prefer to eye-ball it. Given that I’m not much of a rebel in other facets of my life, I take great pride in eschewing the strict requirements of recipes. It makes me feel tough. Pat Benetar tough.

Unfortunately, desserts require a bit more predictability and little less tomfoolery. They LOVE precision. They adore carefully leveled cups of flour and pristine egg whites; timers and double-boilers. But don’t be fooled – even one’s best lab-coat meticulousness cannot guarantee success with some of the more capricious members of the dessert family. Akin to dogs, bees and small children, they can sense fear from a mile away. This is especially true of meringues, shortbread pastry and dainty little confections like French macarons. As far as I’m concerned, these are the hard-to-please sultanas of the baking empire – fussy, bitchy and unforgiving. They know when you are afraid of them and they take great pleasure in melting into a floppy mess when you treat them with quivering hands.

Knowing that many of my dessert-fails can be traced back to performance anxiety, I am making a concerted effort to make more of them – the logic being that the more comfortable I get with beating egg whites, calculating measurement conversions and shaping pastry, the less intimidated I will be with all things delicate and sweet – particularly those of the French persuasion.

French lemon tart (adapted from Laura Calder)

• 2 whole eggs
• 4 egg yolks
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 3/4 cup lemon juice
• 2/3 cup heavy cream
• zest of 1 lemon

Shortbread pastry

• 1 cup + 2 tablespoons flour
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 1/2 cup butter, cut into pieces
• 2 tablespoons cold water

DIRECTIONS

1. Put the flour, salt, and sugar into the bowl of a food processor. Add the butter pieces and pulse to create a texture that resembles coarse meal.
2. Add ice water in a slow steady stream through feed tube of food processor with machine running. Pulse for a few seconds to incorporate the water.
3. Turn out into a lightly floured work surface and knead until dough comes together in a ball. Be careful not to over-work the dough.
4. Form dough into a disk, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate 15 minutes.
5. Heat the oven to 400ºF. Roll out the dough, line the tart shell and bake blind by placing a piece of parchment paper over the shell and filling it to the top with baking beans. Bake for about 15 minutes.
6. Remove pie shell from oven, remove baking beans (store for future use) and allow to cool.
7. Reduce oven temp to 325ºF. Beat together the eggs, yolks, and sugar in a bowl. Add the lemon juice. Whisk in the cream.
8. Pour lemon cream mixture into the shell. Bake until just set, about 30 minutes.
9. Remove from oven and sprinkle with lemon zest. Let cool before serving.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

A morning sans toast

Baby, I am a toast girl – through and through. Make me toast with marmalade and I’ll be yours forever. Over the years, in different ways and in different places, it has held a special place in my heart: Grandpa used to make us whole-wheat toast with blueberry jam – always cut straight through the middle, always with the jam spread right to the edges; two years of my adult life was spent getting up on Sunday mornings to watch Coronation Street in the company of black tea and toast; in the wee hours of the morning after a night out, almond butter and toast is what I’ve craved most; and toast and cheese is pretty much the first thing on my mind once I’m up and out of bed. It’s a love affair, dear readers. And I am not ashamed.

So on mornings when there’s not a single piece of bread in the house, it is not uncommon to hear a slow rumble of swear words slip out of my mouth. I can’t help it. Toast has stolen my breakfast-loving heart. Cereal can go take a hike.

Now, let’s address the obvious, shall we? When faced with this dilemma, one could simply step out and procure some bread from any one of the fine boulangeries nearby (with a total of 5 French bakeries within a 2 block radius from my apartment, I realise how whiny and ultimately spoiled I may sound). Whiny, spoiled, lazy – call me what you will – but on this given morning, you couldn’t PAY me to wrestle with winter boots, a scarf, mitts and a set of unshoveled steps at 8am on a weekend to go out for a bread-run. Winter 1, Julia 0.

In cases like these, laziness can be beneficial as it forces you to be creative. It will test your ability to scrounge up the contents of your fridge and turn seemingly disparate food items into something edible: there are eggs, some leftover baby greens. And – oh well, hello there, Mr.Risotto. Care to join me for breakfast?

Risotto hash, scrambled egg and mesclun salad (Serves 1)

• 1 egg
• splash of milk
• leftover risotto
• baby greens
• vinaigrette: olive oil, juice of 1/2 an orange, splash of red wine vinegar, 1/4 tsp whole-grain mustard, touch of honey
• butter
• olive oil
• salt & pepper

Get 2 skillets ready: a small one for your egg and another for your risotto. In one skillet, heat about a tbsp of oil. Add your risotto and flatten it out all the way to the edges of the pan. Allow to crisp up on medium-high heat, turning once the bottom has turned toasty-brown. You don’t need to be gentle with it – you’re making a hash.

While the rest of the hash is browning, melt a small knob of butter in the other skillet. Beat the egg with a splash of milk and some salt and pepper. When the butter starts to get foamy, add your egg, removing it immediately off the burner – you should be able to cook the egg with the residual heat of the pan by gently pushing it to and fro.

Serve with the salad and remember that you can always have toast tomorrow.

Getting it all in one forkful. Happy times.

Sausage factory

The other day, at 8:53 am, my mother calls me: “We’re making sausages tonight, you want in?”

Now, most people would shudder at the thought of spending their leisure time squeezing 15 lbs of pork meat into intestine casings. But not me. The idea gave me goosebumps – and the good kind.

Making sausages is not for the faint of heart. In part because you’re handling pounds of raw pork, intestines and a meat grinder. But also because someone will inevitably comment on how the much the act of strapping a wet casing onto a nozzle and filling it with meat resembles the use of a common prophylactic. In my case, TWO people felt at liberty to make this assertion. And before you call me a prude – did I mention we were doing this as a family?

One other caveat: since each intestine needs to be blown into before it gets rolled onto the nozzle of the meat grinder, you’d better have someone who isn’t afraid to get up close and personal with pig intestine and nominate them as “casings-blower”. (FYI - I’m almost certain that modern recipes skip this step, but it makes for an amusing bit of comic relief in a process that is pretty intense. Don’t be surprised if you are overcome with the urge to ask the casings-blower to make you a balloon-poodle).

So why on earth would we put ourselves through something that sounds so unpleasant? Well first, I should mention that we generally buy sausages from the butcher. But even the best butchers in town mix additives into their meat. The man behind the counter may look the part – authentically rotund, red-cheeked, moustached and Parisian – but the fact is that they will most likely put preservatives in their meat to extend the shelf life of their product.  Since the word “nitrate” is no less disconcerting than the words “Aspartame” and “monosodium glutamate”, I feel that any chance you can make something from scratch (with ingredients your grandma would use) is worth a shot.

***

A note on botulism: while it is understandable that you would avoid sausage-making for fear of killing your loved ones, fret not. As long as your implements are extremely clean and that you keep the meat chilled, you shouldn’t have to worry about contaminating anyone. In fact, in the 50 + years that our family has made sausage, we have never heard of anyone getting sick – and it’s not because we have magical immune systems. If you think about it, the foods that generally make us ill are the ones that have been processed in a plant somewhere miles from our home. In fact, the last few food-poisoning stories I’ve heard involved pre-packaged, highly processed foods. I promise not to get on my soap box – just a point to consider.

So, dear reader, I ask you to trust me and to trust yourself in this process. If you’re willing to take on this project, make sure to have a few people on board – it makes everything go much smoother and ultimately, makes for better stories.

Sausages (fennel, paprika and salt & pepper)

• Two large pork loins (about 5lbs total)
• Boneless pork chops (about 10 lbs; cut an inch thick)
• 1 package of casings (from the butcher)
• Twine
• Meat grinder
• 2-3 committed people

Seasonings (to be divided amongst 3 batches of meat):

• 2 tbsp fennel (anise) seeds
• 2 tbsp paprika
• 2 tbsp each of salt & pepper
• Extra salt for the fennel & paprika sausages

Directions

1) Soak the casings in cold water to soften them (the butcher will have packed them in salt).

2) Remove connective tissue from the meat, cut it up fairly small, and chill it.

3) Meanwhile, have someone rinse each casing three times in cold, running water. This step will remind you of the water-balloon days of your youth; admittedly, the activity of filling casings with water is far less thrilling.

4) Grind the meat in batches, alternating fattier pieces with leaner ones to evenly distribute the fat. Place a cookie sheet under the grinder to collect the meat. It’s important to make sure you’re turning the crank and pushing the meat through the top of the grinder at a consistent, steady pace. Failing to do so will invite comments from the more seasoned sausage-makers in the room.

5) Transfer meat to a large bowl, then add seasonings. At this point, you may want to cook a small meatball to test for seasoning.

6) Place a wet casing onto the nozzle and roll it up gently so that the entire casing is scrunched up against the base of the nozzle. Grind the meat again, so it emerges from the nozzle into the casing, wiggling the casing gently away from the nozzle as it fills. Wait for someone to make the first inappropriate joke about the way this all looks.

7) Periodically, tie the casing to make links. Lay out on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper to chill or transfer directly to freezer bags.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.