Swimming Into the Spotlight.

Yellow Umbrella, or Yellah Umbrellah as many Richmonders call it, has been serving up choice seafood in Richmond's West End since my whole life (they opened in 1975). I only learned about the place a few years ago but it quickly became my The Go-To for extraordinary – and sustainably harvested - fresh fish (when I was in town, of course). I also always had to grab some of their remarkable prepared cheese grits right before checking out. Random, right? Not in the South.

This past February they moved. Across the street. You can throw a rock, it's so close. But now they are way bigger and even better. I imagine much to Belmont Butchery's chagrin, they now boast a nose-to-tail, butcher shop with humanely-raised meat. Even better, they offer 'cellar-to-table' wines and cheeses, seasonal produce, artisanal breads and homemade prepared foods.

On their website they claim to have 'fanatical and quality service', and I'm here to tell you it is absolutely true. A week or so ago, whilst my dad, Fred and I began planning a dinner party for six people, their intrepid Travis endured twenty-four hours and a myriad of phone calls from yours truly. During one return call I mistook Travis for my friend, Spencer, and squealed familiarly; during another, Travis thought I called him 'honey' – I'm pretty sure I didn't, but one never knows. I for sure knew I wanted whole fish. They expected whole Rockfish, Red Snapper and Branzino delivered the next day and did not know the exact specs of the fish. Why?

Because someone had to go catch the fish.

So, my new BFF, Travis, called me first thing the next morning with the option of fifteen pounds and over thirty inches of Rockfish. That was definitely the option I desired most but I was quickly reminded that cooking something of that size would be impossible. There was no way it would fit in the oven or the grill. Parade rained on, I settled for four large Branzino and about six pounds of mussels. And a huge chunk of those cheese grits. They scaled and gutted the fish right there in front of us in the store, and even asked if we wanted heads and tails on – which we did.

We cooked everything that night. Dad was on fish duty, Fred took the Mussel patrol, and I was assigned 'the sides' (I made a delicate salad of frisée, lightly dressed with finishing oil, lemon and salt, and roasted sunchokes with a buttery bagna cauda). The mussels were so plump, briny and rich – and the Branzino – which we roasted whole, was bracingly fresh, simple and exquisite.

Back in LA and doing some grocery shopping yesterday, I poked around the fish counter to check out my options. They had whole Branzino, but even to say that it paled in comparison would be weak. Paz had a memorable Yellah Umbrellah story to share: she bought a whole Red Snapper from them once and named her fish Carl. I recall her sending me a picture of Carl. This was probably about four years ago and she still waxes on about Carl, the most beautiful, freshest fish she had ever seen and eaten. Ask her about him, I'm serious.

The crew at Yellow Umbrella Provisions are doing something singular and noteworthy. I honestly think their product is unparalleled and the people behind it are equally so. I just don't understand why they are still in the best-kept-secret category.

When I return, I'm going to go back and give Travis a hug.

Spicy Coconut Mussels with Lemongrass
(recipe from NYT Dining, April 2012)

Serves 2

2 tablespoons coconut or safflower oil

1 shallot, finely chopped

3 garlic cloves, finely chopped

1 stalk lemon grass, trimmed (outer layers removed) and finely chopped

1 serrano chile, seeded and finely chopped

1 cup unsweetened coconut milk

2 pounds fresh mussels, rinsed well & de-bearded

Zest of 1/2 lemon

1 teaspoon lemon juice, or to taste

1/2 teaspoon fish sauce, or to taste

1/2 cup whole cilantro leaves

Heat the oil in the bottom of a large pot until hot. Add the shallot, garlic, lemon grass and chile. Cook over medium heat until soft, about 3 minutes. Add the coconut milk and mussels. Cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook until the mussels have opened, 5 to 7 minutes (discard any mussels that remained closed). Remove from heat, and use a slotted spoon to transfer the mussels to a large bowl, leaving the liquid in the pot. Stir the lemon zest and juice, fish sauce and cilantro into the pot. Taste and add more fish sauce and/or lemon juice if needed (fish sauce provides the salt).

Scoop the mussels into a large serving bowl. Pour the remaining sauce on top. Finish with a generous sprinkling of fresh cilantro. Add lemon or lime wedges on the side.

Serve with crusty French loaf to help soak up the juices.

A good, crisp white wine pairs nicely with this dish. 

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Pasture

Two years ago: Classic Tuna Salad

Three years ago: Paz's World Famous Rice & Beans

Out Like a Lamb.

The end of March is nigh, and thus is Easter. Passover is happening right now. It's a big time for a lot of people. And plants. Plants are having a blast right now. And people are having a blast with plants. Or, at least, Fred and I are.

When we last spoke, I had mentioned having chatted around to get a feel as to what food things meant to people with regard to Easter. I ended up settling on chocolate and lamb, though not necessarily together – which might not be a bad idea, come to think of it. So I shared a chocolate recipe.

So you probably know where we will be going with this. Lambville.

Coming from completely non-religious parents, other than the Easter Bunny covertly surprising me with an Easter basket each year at my mom's house, Easter meant little else. I don't even recall a special meal. So after sifting through people's responses to my query about what Easter represented, culinarily, to them, I went about figuring out what it meant to me. And I decided to embark on the most traditional Easter supper I have ever had. First order on the agenda: order a giant leg of lamb.

I like lamb just fine, now, but as a child it unnerved me a little. I think it was just the gamey-ness of the meat. It wasn't on the dinner table too often at home, but I know Dad loved it. He always ordered it at the Greek restaurant in our neighborhood. He loved their Lamb Guvetsi.

As I mentioned, years ago, like 2005, I heard Nigella Lawson interviewedon NPR around this time of year. She was promoting her then new book, Feast, a cookbook devoted primarily to celebrations, holidays and entertaining. I vividly recall her discussing her favorite Easter meal, and the great detail with which she described a saffron roasted leg of lamb and some sticky, crispy garlic potatoes. Obviously it stuck with me if eight years later that was the first thing to pop into my head when I decided to make my first, big Easter dinner. So I started planning the menu, the flowers, the dining room look, and called some friends.

Easter dinner was so happening.

Two days before the event I put the lamb in its marinade and refrigerated it. The day before, while Fred went out to get all of our groceries, flowers and the like, I poked around on the computer to find out why lamb in the Spring, and why lamb on Easter. Why throughout the entire world the most popular Easter symbol is the lamb. I'm sure, as usual in this department, everyone else already knows this stuff, but I'm new here.

The roast lamb dinner that many eat on Easter Sunday goes back earlier than Easter to the first Passover of the Jewish people. The sacrificial lamb was roasted and eaten, together with unleavened bread and bitter herbs (a Seder) in hopes that the angel of God would pass over their homes and bring no harm. As Hebrews converted to Christianity, they naturally brought along their traditions with them. The Christians often refer to Jesus as The Lamb of God. Thus, the traditions merged.

In the 7th century the Benedictine monks wrote a prayer for the blessing of lambs.

A few hundred years later the pope adopted it and a whole roasted lamb became the feature of the Pope's Easter Dinner, and has been ever since.

I wasn't going to roast a whole lamb, of course. Just one of its legs.

Now this lamb recipe involved saffron, which I absolutely love. I know a lot of people do not, however. It seems to be one of those ingredients like cilantro: people either love it or hate it. And I understand. Also, like cilantro, it has an unmistakable, very distinct aroma and taste. The thin, delicate, muted red hair-like strands are fragrant, floral, earthy, and honey-like with a bit of bitterness. Saffron also happens to be the most expensive spice in the world. Use too much and that will be the only thing you take away from that dish. With saffron, the words 'a little goes a long way' have never been more accurate. A little dab will do ya.

It's no surprise that you will find a wealth of recipes with saffron and lamb together. Kind of like chocolate and peanut butter, they just make sense. They are also both prominent elements in a lot of Middle-Eastern cuisine. Actually, it's funny, lamb takes me back to eating Greek food with my dad, and I used Greek saffron with my Easter lamb.

Yesterday, on the event of my Easter dinner celebration, once the lamb went into the oven after two days of marinating, I went about the décor of the dining room. I hand-picked each and every piece of silverware, plate and glass, dug through the linens to find the right napkins – I went for the fancies – and began meticulously arranging the bundles of daffodils and hyancinths into little vintage creamers and jelly jars while listening to my go-to soothing sounds: Explosions in the Sky. All the while the house was filling up with the entrancing smell of lamb, lemon and garlic fusing together in the oven. I dare say it was beginning to smell like Easter. Or, at least, really, really good. The air smelled like family and friends and the promise of festivity and future fond memories.

Everything was coming together perfectly. The food was on schedule, the room looked great, I had the perfect wines; some lovely rosés from a tasting the day before, and just moments before the guests arrived, as I was lighting the candles, Fred and I got our Easter baskets in the mail! I guess the Easter Bunny is trying to help out the US Post Office in their time of need... Nevertheless, that took care of dessert; Cadbury Creme Eggs!

As we all sat down to the table, we raised our glasses of rosé and toasted to a happy Easter. And as I looked around the room, I took stock. The smiling faces of my friends, the table looked beauteous, the food was delicious, the wine went perfectly with the saffrony lamb, the flowers smelled wonderful, and best of all we were all so happy to be with each other. Good friends, together, on our Easter, eating, drinking, smiling, talking, sharing Easter memories and laughter.

SAFFRON ROAST LAMB WITH STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

(recipe adapted from Nigella Lawson's book, Feast)

Serves 6

1 leg of lamb (4.5 lbs)

1/3 cup olive oil

3 cloves garlic, bruised

6 scallions

2 bay leaves

juice of 1 lemon

small bunch mint, 1 1/2 oz including stalks, torn roughly makes 1 cup

1/2 teaspoon saffron threads, steeped in 1 cup very hot water

1/3 cup rosé wine

 Put the lamb in a large freezer bag, pour over the olive oil and then throw in the garlic, trimmed scallions and bay leaves, squeeze in the lemon juice and throw in the squeezed-out lemon halves too, then add the torn-up bunch of mint. Seal the bag and marinate in the fridge overnight.

Bring the lamb to room temperature before you even think of putting it in the oven, and preheat that to 425 degrees F when you take the lamb out of the fridge.

Pour the entire contents of the freezer bag into a roasting pan and roast for about 20 minutes a pound, or until the lamb is cooked a perfect, à point pink; you will just have to pierce it with the knife to see. Just before the lamb is due to come out of the oven, put the saffron strands in a measuring cup and pour over the hot water so that it can get on with steeping.

Remove the lamb to a wooden carving board to rest. Pick out the lemon rinds, and then place the roasting pan on the stove over medium heat, and stir until it starts bubbling. Stir in the saffron in its water and add 1/3 cup rosé – tasting for seasoning as you go – as needed to let this bubble into a small amount of ungloopy gravy. 

Carve the lamb on to a large warmed plate and strain the saffrony juices, stirring in any liquid first from the carving board, over the pink meat.

Read the sticky garlic potato recipe now so that you can coordinate your movements. And, to go with, I'd want no more than a bowl of green peas, turned in some butter.

STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

Serves 6

1 1/2 lbs small fingerling potatoes

8 cloves garlic (more if you like)

1/2 cup olive or other vegetable oil 

Coarse salt & freshly cracked pepper to taste.

Bring a saucepan of water to the boil and add some salt, add the potatoes and cook for 30 minutes. Drain, and put back into the dry pan.

Peel the garlic cloves by squishing with the flat of a knife so that they bruise slightly and the skin slips off. Put them in the dry pan with the potatoes, and then bash potatoes and garlic  so they are cracked and split. You can do this ahead and leave them in the pan – though with the lid off, so that they don’t get watery – until you want to roast them.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F and slip a roasting pan in to heat up at the same time. Once the oven’s hot, pour in the oil and let it, in turn, heat up for 10 minutes.

Carefully tip the potatoes and garlic into the hot oil and cook for 15 minutes. Turn the potatoes over and then give them another 15 minutes. 

Salt & pepper to taste.

Serve on a platter with the lamb.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Rustic Cremini Mushroom Soup with Chives & Basil Oil
Two years ago: Nutter Butter Cookies
Three years ago: The Grill 'Em All Truck

Flora and Fauna

I usually appreciate all four of the beautiful seasons that we are presented with each year. I love the differences, big and small, that each one embodies. And even though we hardly ever have much of a Winter to speak of here in LA, and that this Winter has been one of the mildest in my memory, I simply can’t wait for Spring.

I feel kind of like a jerk for saying that. I do appreciate the now, just so you know.

Maybe it’s my enormous jade plant in the front yard, that Uncle Dougerton gave me when he moved recently, with it’s new blossoms’ magical, floral scent floating past my nose each time I walk by. Or maybe it’s the produce at the markets changing, now giving us strawberries, carrots, blueberries, peas, rhubarb, asparagus, green garlic and artichokes. Or maybe it’s that slight change in the light in the sky – that hint in the breeze that we may very well shed our warmies and get out our sweet, little dresses and sandals. Well, us girls anyway.

I’m ready.

This Winter has been great and all - one I will remember for the rest of my life, in fact. But I’m ready to press on. I’m ready for watching the day slowly melt into evening, on my patio, listening to Alice Coltrane, with a glass of Lillet in my hand and the smell of the charcoal on the grill just getting going. I love it when I’mthat house. The house that smells so awesome, everyone walking or driving past races home to open a bottle of wine – or a beer – and grabs some meat – or veggies? - to throw on the grill, and relax in the waning afternoon/early evening. So they can then be that house. And so on.

I imagine you’re with me now, right?

Well, we all need to just chill out. Because it’s only early February. And even though our City of Angels throws these climate curve balls at us, we have another month and a half until it’s officially Spring.

Though the flowers and the market veggies belie this truth.

I’m going with a theme this month. Why not? It's garlic.

Soup is – and has been for some time – my thing. I’m sure it’s other people’s thing, too. I guess. Biters.

The recipe I’m sharing with you is another one from the last Dinner at Eight (double theme for February!), and involves spring market produce and garlic. Green garlic. It’s like the super hero of garlic. Its alter ego likely being black garlic.

I’ve just had a few glasses of wine. Sorry.

Okay. Soup O’Clock. I’m not certain as to how, exactly, this brainflower of a recipe happened, but it did. This was also the dish at the last dinner party that had the magic ingredient that almost caused my undoing. But the elusive green garlic was found, in plentitude, at the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market - where it will remain for quite a few more months.

Here’s to the promise of long sunsets with Lillet, the smell of the charcoal grill and the promise of Spring!

First-of-the-Season 

Creamy Green Garlic Soup with Bacon & Black Garlic Chips

Serves 6

Ingredients:

• 1 tbsp olive oil
• 2 slices minced bacon
• 3 cups sliced green garlic
• 4 medium russet potatoes
• 1 quart chicken stock, more if needed
• 1/2 cup cream
• salt and pepper to taste
• 2 cloves of black garlic, sliced, fried and crumbled (for garnish)

Preparation:

Add the olive oil and bacon to a soup pot, and place over medium heat. When the bacon is cooked and starting to get crisp, remove and set aside for garnish. Add the green garlic. Cook stirring for 3-4 minutes. Add the broth and potatoes. Simmer for 30-40 minutes, or until the potatoes and garlic are tender. Use more broth as needed. 

You can use a potato masher to break up any large pieces of potato. Use a stick or regular blender to puree about 70% of the soup, and leave the rest unblended for texture. Add the cream, and season to taste. Once the soup is heated through, serve immediately topped with the bacon and black garlic.  

Printable Recipe

One year ago: I Left My Heart in San Fran-Cheesy; Part 1.

Two years ago: Roasted Chickpeas with Garlic & Sage

Four years ago: Special Toast

Forty Days, Forty Nights and Forty Cloves.

Good gracious. Where have I been? I promise I haven’t forgotten about you. I only hope you haven’t forgotten about me. I guess the past month has been filled with curve balls. But mostly my Time appears to have changed. Again.

  

I’ve talked about Time a lot on here over the years. How intrigued I am by how it passes away and how it moves forward - the memories we create from our past, the things we look toward in our future, and most of all, how, at different times, it has the uncanny power to expand and/or contract. How does the same twenty-four hours have the ability to feel like more or less than what it actually is?

As a kid I thought a year was like forever. I would make a point to tell people I was six and three quarters years old, because that quarter of a year was a significant chunk of Time. A significant chunk of Time that I earned to be exactly that old. Yet over the past few years I have felt that Time has been whirling past me at dizzying speeds. Where did that day go? Where did that week go? Where did that month go? How did a year just happen?

But very recently it feels that Time has changed yet again. Now it feels like it’s on double duty; it feels like it’s both whipping past and inching along. Last week feels like both a second and a month ago, I can hardly hold onto the now and next month feels like it’s taking for forever to be the now.

The really cool thing is that yesterday, today and tomorrow all feel pretty awesome.

This past weekend we had our monthly Dinner at Eight. To be honest, none of us were up for this one. Said curve balls and whatnot. I had also personally wanted a month off to recoup from The Holidays. But we had committed to doing the dinner for a private group, and committed we were. I had even conceived of the menu back in October when the group’s host and I were in the initial talks of the evening. She picked the theme: Garlic.

In the spirit of the way Time is behaving at present, the period leading up to this dinner party ambled relaxingly along while sneakily creeping right on up on us. We were seemingly unprepared, yet at the same time we were disarmed by how smooth everything was going. Maggie had her cocktail set; a classic gin martini garnished with okra that she pickled in garlic and dill (interestingly, this was the only element of the meal that had even a speck of our Southern theme peppered in). Nastassiaand Esi were to put their sweet minds together to materialize my brain flower of dessert: a honey-garlic mousse with pinenut-garlic brittle. My mom was going to bake the bread. Me, I had the rest covered. And even though each and every one of these dinners has had one *&%%@# ingredient that gives me issues, I even found my elusive green garlic at the Wednesday Santa Monica Farmers’Market. This was for the creamy green garlic soup garnished with black garlic chips and bacon.

Then the day was upon us. Forty-three days since the last dinner and an unknown number of days until the next dinner. Mom sliced her finger open the day before and had to get five stitches. Not only was she unable to bake the bread for the dinner, she was unable to attend at all.

OK.

The girls weren’t going to be able to show up to the house until about four-thirty to help – and to bring their dessert.

No problem.

Maggie was in the (tiny) kitchen pickling onions (always a hit) as take-away gifts for the guests (in her union suit!) until late-morning, until she worked her magic on The Room (see picture below).

That’s totally cool.

But you know what? It was OK, and not a problem and totally cool. It all worked out. It always does.

It seems like forever ago, now. But it has only been forty-eight hours.

The main course of this particular dinner (of which you can see the full menu here) was a riff on a famous recipe I first heard about many years ago when I worked in a video store in Atlanta. It was mentioned in the Les Blank documentary, Garlic Is As Good as Ten Mothers.It’s called Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic.

Forty-three days, forty-eight hours, forty cloves. Well, I used a few more…

By the by, all photographs in this post are credited to Fred. The reason for my Time being what it presently is can probably also be credited to Fred.

Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic

Ingredients

• ·      3 whole heads garlic, about 40 cloves
• ·      2 (3 1/2-pound) chickens, cut into eighths
• ·      Kosher salt
• ·      Freshly ground black pepper
• ·      1 tablespoon unsalted butter
• ·      2 tablespoons good olive oil
• ·      1 1/2 tablespoons Madeira, divided
• ·      1 ½ tablespoons Sherry, divided
• ·      1 1/2 cups dry white wine
• ·      1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
• ·      2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• ·      2 tablespoons heavy cream
• ·      A bunch of Italian parsley, chopped

 

Directions

Separate the cloves of garlic and drop them into a pot of boiling water for 60 seconds. Drain the garlic and peel. Set aside.

Dry the chicken with paper towels. Season liberally with salt and pepper on both sides. Heat the butter and oil in a large pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. In batches, saute the chicken in the fat, skin side down first, until nicely browned, about 3 to 5 minutes on each side. Turn with tongs or a spatula; you don't want to pierce the skin with a fork. If the fat is burning, turn the heat down to medium. When a batch is done, transfer it to a plate and continue to saute all the chicken in batches. Remove the last chicken to the plate and add all of the garlic to the pot. Lower the heat and saute for 5 to 10 minutes, turning often, until evenly browned. Add 1 tablespoon of the Madeira, 1 tablespoon of the Sherry and the wine, return to a boil, and scrape the brown bits from the bottom of the pan. Return the chicken to the pot with the juices and sprinkle with the thyme leaves. Cover and simmer over the lowest heat for about 30 minutes, until all the chicken is done.

Remove the chicken to a platter and cover with aluminum foil to keep warm. In a small bowl, whisk together 1/2 cup of the sauce and the flour and then whisk it back into the sauce in the pot. Raise the heat, add the remaining tablespoon of both the Madeira and the Sherry and the cream, and boil for 3 minutes. Add salt and pepper, to taste; it should be very flavorful because chicken tends to be bland. Pour the sauce and the garlic over the chicken and serve hot.

Garnish with parsley.

Printable recipe 

One year ago: Mercantile

Two years ago: Swiss Fondue with Truffle Essence

Four years ago: The Hungry Cat, Santa Barbara

Simplicity: The Hallmark of Genius

My mother's name Kathryn Virginia. My grandmother called her Divinia (Virginia jumbled up and pronounced similarly) and nicknamed her Divi. Most Virginia's are nicknamed Ginny or Ginger but my grandmother had her own special naming and language process. My grandmother had her own special way of doing most things. The mother of five, she became weary of hearing "Mom, oh Mom, Mama" from her brood. Once she announced that she was to be addressed as Brenda (not even close to her name: Esther), so for almost a month she would not respond to anything but Brenda.

If you recall, my mom also has her own special, shall we say, language. Recently, water has turned into watzee, Maggie is Magothy, and I’m still Tweeters. I too have fun playing with my words. So I suppose the apple has not fallen far from the tree for the past three generations.

My grandmother passed away when I was about twelve or thirteen years old. I don’t think I knew her all that well but do I have some very specific snapshots of her and her world. First of all, I swear she looked just like Roy Orbison. There was often cream chipped beef on toast happening in the kitchen. And one time, when I was crying about something, she gave me a Monchichi coloring book to try to lift my spirits. I used to love those Monchichis. I remember really loving her bathtub, and I can also recall a hole in the floor upstairs in her house that looked down into the kitchen. I had all of my Christmas mornings at her house in Roanoke until she passed away.

Apparently Grandma made a very involved and very decadent rum cake of which my mom has a very specific, very visceral memory. According to Mom, the cake took days. Part of its process involved wrapping the cake in a rum-soaked towel overnight. Apparently this cake weighed about as much as the family dog. Mom has been trying to unearth that recipe for quite some time now, to no avail.

I’m spending today writing this and trying to track down a recipe that fits the bill for that elusive cake. I'm poring through vintage cookbooks, asking my food cohorts via Twitter, and searching online. I even sent an email to Aunt Babe and Noel. We shall see. If unearthed, this will be the cake served at the December 16^th Dinner at Eight. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime I am going to share with you the recipe for the most elegant, yet simple, hors d'oeuvres I can imagine. They are little onion sandwiches and they were served at the most recent Dinner at Eight during cocktail hour. I had been hearing about them for years. Mom used to make them in her café back in Richmond and they were a hit. My dad even called me one time after he stopped by a party for their mutual friend, Breeda, where Mom had served them. He said he ate five of them in as many minutes and then had to promptly leave because of his onion breath. I guess they were so good, he sacrificed the party for the sandwiches. Priorities.

The success of this dish depends on the quality of the bread used and the thinness of the onion-slice filling, which must be nearly transparent. I highly recommend using a mandoline. And, of course, you must use Duke’s mayonnaise.

Divinia’s Tea Sandwiches

12 servings

24 slices of a fine-textured white bread
36 small, wafer-thin slices raw sweet onion
1 ½ cup Duke’s mayonnaise
Salt to taste
1 cup minced parsley

Cut the slices of bread into rounds with a small biscuit cutter (or a water glass), about one inch diameter.

Choose small onions and slice them so that each circle will be a little smaller than the bread rounds.

Spread each piece of bread with mayonnaise. On half the pieces arrange the onion slice and season with salt. Cover the onion with the remaining pieces of bread to assemble sandwiches.

Spread the remaining mayonnaise on a wooden board and sprinkle the chopped parsley on another board. Hold each sandwich round lightly between thumb and finger so it will turn like a wheel. Roll the edge in mayonnaise, then in parsley. Set the sandwiches, as they are completed, on waxed paper and chill thoroughly.

Printable recipe

Two years ago: Buttermilk Corn Soup with Curry & Mint

Mozart. Music. Flowers & poetry.

 
It’s Sunday morning, we’ve just gained an hour, and it’s pouring down rain. It’s perfect. The next Dinner at Eight is creeping up and I’ve been testing recipes like it’s nobody’s business (or definitely like it’s my business). I’m very pleased with the creamy chestnut soup, though I haven’t settled on its garnish. The only problem with the soup is that I gave all my friends samples of it and completely forgot to take some to Jill so she can assess an appropriate paIring. So I’ll be making that again today.

Maggie is infusing the vodka with kabocha and acorn squash for her cocktail and Esi just dropped off her first go at the pumpkin bread pudding with bourbon-vanilla sauce. And I have made two, overly massive, rounds of the short-rib stew with mushroom and parsley dumplings. The second one pretty much nailed it. 

Save for the anxiety dream in which I told the guests the wrong date resulting in no one showing up, I think everything is on course.

It seems things are going well in my universe. Things are stable. Work is picking up, I finally caught up on Sons of Anarchy and sleep, and an old, college friend, Frampy, stopped through town for a visit. That was nice. Mostly.

But let’s get back to the stew. And the dumplings. You see, I had never made dumplings before this whole project. I didn’t really know exactly what to expect. The recipe I used is from The Colony Club Cookbook: one of the dozen old school cookbooks I brought back from my recent trip to Richmond. The recipes in this – and many of the cookbooks from this place and time – are very archaic and very, very simple. They are made for people who were already familiar with the techniques and ingredients that they require and also with how the end result should look, feel, smell, and taste. They are short and sweet.

But for someone like me, who is accustomed to Sunday Suppers at Lucques, with recipes that are pages long, these old school cookbooks are so simple that they become complex.

For instance, with this stew (recipe originally from Gloria Brahany), after searing off the short ribs in their flour mixture, I am supposed to combine four cups tomatoes, some garlic and a little Worcestershire, simmer for and hour and a half and pour over ribs. Fresh tomatoes? Canned tomatoes? This is my stock?  No red wine? No chicken or beef stock? The rest of the directions instruct me to add sliced carrot, onion, potato, and simmer for forty-five minutes. Well, that’s hardly enough time to get the veggies all soft and smushy. Where’s the bay leaf? Where’s the thyme? Hell, where’s the salt and pepper?

Apparently the good folks using this cookbook needed only some bare bones, a skeleton off of which they could riff. And it’s true, a basic beef stew is not rocket science. But what’s the point of a cookbook then, right?

So first off the lack of anything except tomato that would create liquid bemused me.  But the tomatoes quickly became a viable stock, if a bit too sweet. And too tomato-y. Also, Maggie thought that we should do mushroom and parsley dumplings rather than just parsley dumplings. Without thinking I followed the recipe for parsley dumplings and did not compensate for the amount of moisture the mushrooms would add. The dumplings fell apart if you merely looked at them too hard.

Okay. Round two. This time I began with marinating the short ribs in red wine, salt and pepper overnight. I then used about half the tomatoes but added two cups of home made chicken stock and a quarter cup of the marinade wine. I doubled the garlic, added a bay leaf, a sprig of fresh sage, a little thyme and a generous amount of salt and pepper. For the dumplings I compensated for the moisture by adding a great deal more flour, less milk and a drop more salt. I also made the dumplings considerably smaller as they poof up twice their original size once they steam up. They still looked weird to me, but after I did some research online, they looked exactly the way they were supposed to. 

Another example of how stripped down the instructions in the cookbook are. There is no description of how things are supposed to turn out.

The fact that I used LindyGrundy’s meat the second go ‘round also made a world of difference. I would have used theirs the first time but they were closed on the day I needed to get started. Of course, their meat will be used for the stew at the dinner party.

So, in the time it’s taken me to write this, the sun has come out and the sky is clear and bright blue. I’ve still got that extra hour. It’s perfect.

But we are full-on in the throes of Fall and Winter is three weeks away. The holidays are not far off. It’s time for stew.

Short Rib Stew with Mushroom & Parsley Dumplings

Serves 6

Cut 2 lbs beef short ribs into serving pieces. Marinate in red wine overnight.

Combine 1/4 cup all-purpose flour, 1 tbsp salt, 1/4 tsp pepper; dredge ribs in mixture and brown on all sides in 2 tbsp hot fat.

Combine ribs with 2 1/2 cups chopped Roma tomatoes, 2 cups chicken or beef stock, 1/4 cup marinade wine, 4 cloves of chopped garlic & 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce. Cover and simmer for 2 hours. 

Add 4 sliced carrots, 2 medium onions, chopped, 1 medium potato, peeled and chopped, 1 bay leaf, a sprig of fresh sage and a tsp of thyme. Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally for 2 more hours.

Skim off the fat and season with salt & pepper to taste.

Mushroom & Parsley Dumplings

Sift together 1 1/2 cup sifted all-purpose flour, 2 tsp baking powder, 3/4 tsp salt. Add 1/4 cup chopped parsley and 3 tbsp chopped mushrooms. Combine 1/4 cup milk and 2 tbsp vegetable oil, and add to dry ingredients. Stir just until flour is dampened. 

Form small, large-marble sized balls atop bubbling stew. Cover tightly and bring to a boil. Reduce heat (do not lift cover!) and simmer for 15 minutes longer.

Printable Recipe

One year ago today: SugarFISH
Two years ago today: Scallops with Wild Mushroom Risotto & Rosé Fonduta

32. The Manila Machine

I have been meaning to get to this truck for quite some time. I have followed co-owner, Nastassia Johnson’s blog, Let Me Eat Cake for a while, and like her style. Additionally, her truck hit the streets scant few days prior to one of my first Dinner at Eights, which lamentably resulted in Nastassia not being able to attend. I’ll get her there eventually.

Arguably the first food bloggers to man a food truck, Johnson and Marvin Gapultos (Burnt Lumpia) are serving up the City of Angels Filipino food on wheels – and, in doing so, filling a notable hole in our city’s wide range of cultural cuisines. And this, my friends, would be The Manila Machine.

So when Doug told me that they would be The Frosted Cupcakery’s Thursday truck of the week I was pretty pleased.

We sauntered on up to the window of the truck around 1pm to find the sprightly and enchanting Nastassia greeting us with a winsome smile. And but a moment later I was also introduced to the equally personable Marvin. They were both so welcoming that I kind of just wanted to hop into the truck and kick it with them for a few hours. But I was already holding up the line that was forming behind me. And so…

I asked them to lay it on me: serve me what you want me to eat. And here we go.

Pork Belly and Pineapple Adobo ($6)

This was chunks of pork belly braised in a rich, sweet and tangy sauce of vinegar, soy, and pineapples. Served over steamed jasmine rice. Although we all know my fruit drama, this type of situation is in my "happily working on it" category. I really enjoyed this dish. When I plunged my fork into the rice I was pleasantly surprised to find all of the yummy sauce which which to stir everything up. The sweet and the savory played perfectly together here and those few little scallions cut up on top actually added a lovely fresh and crisp accent.

A trio of sliders. From left to right: The Original Manila Dip, Longganisa, Tapa ($2.50 each)

The Original Manila Dip is shredded chicken adobo and caramelized onions on a pan de sal roll. Served with an adobo dipping sauce. I tasted this one last, and perhaps as a result it was the least interesting to me. It was solid, yes. It was good, yes. I love dipping sauces, yes. I found no fault with this slider, but I simply didn't find it as compelling as the two that graced my palate prior. I will say that I really loved the way the bread (which I just loved, anyway) held everything together, in addition to sopping up the dipping sauce.

The Longganisa is sweet pork and garlic sausage, caramelized onions, arugula, and mango jam on a pan de sal roll. I loved this. I loved that sausage. It was smoky and a little sweet - to me, ever so slightly reminiscent of a good chorizo, but a bit milder. And hey folks, I even like the mango jam!

The Tapa is sweet calamansi beef, achara slaw, and spicy sriracha mayo on a pan de sal roll. This was Doug's favorite. In fact, we are fortunate enough to have a Doug sound bite: "This was a dynamic combination of sweet and sour that provided an unexpected (and welcome) bite." I agree, this is also fantastic.

I think we were supposed to get Lumpia as well but we forgot. This was a good thing as both Doug and I were perfectly sated. AND now I have something new to try upon my return. And return I shall. Thanks for a great lunch, guys!

Hey! You should follow them on Twitter!