"Chow-dare?? Chow-dare??"

Feeling not much the student, not much the cook, but ever much the desk jockey has not been good on my psyche. I never imagined that taking a job at what is arguably BU's most rewarding but misunderstood red-headed stepchild of a department has taken its toll on me. Consequently, I've decided to take a semester off from class. Hey, mad props to the grad students who pull it off with two kids, an hour commute to class, an aging parent, a needy spouse, our any combination therein, but frankly, I think life is too damn long to justify driving myself crazy. So, my thinking cap rests perkily and patiently in the corner until I'm ready to put 'er back on.

In the meantime, it's time raining. It's cold. It's winter – still (oh, haven't you heard?) But after a surprisingly early end to the work day, I was in good spirits. An icy, soggy walk back from the train had me prepped for my first afternoon nap in ages, a cup of hot chocolate, some quality time with Murakami (who gets funnier the more I get to know him), and then a look through my cookbooks, some of which I haven't had time to open since I got them. One of them was Barbara Lynch's Stir, which was apparently a big hit by the end of last year. Now that I've finally opened it, I see why. The writing is funny and sassy without being obnoxious (I imagine it's a way of pushing her nails-tough/whip-smart Southie wunderkid angle), and the recipes are simple, thoughtful, and often genius. Her Creamy Potato Leek Soup with Bay Scallops (p. 93) prompted me to close the book and take to the kitchen. I was called to a mission to make myself a similar creation, knowing full well that I had no cream, no milk, and definitely no seafood. Ah well. This is was I came up with. Starch creates a creamy base for soup, hence the potatoes and beans. Without the butter, this could be a decent vegan chowder. I don't normally advocate for a bright, summery ingredient like corn in the throws of winter, but it was in my freezer, and these are desperate times. It came out surprisingly delicious – maybe my thinking cap snuck its way onto my dome.

Wintertime Corn Chowder

1 large shallot, minced
12 oz cannellinni beans, rinsed
1 large russet potato, peeled and cubed
2 cups vegetable stock
2 tablespoons butter or oil (olive or canola)
½ cup frozen corn kernels
2 scallions, mined into rounds
plenty of salt and freshly ground black pepper
fancy olive oil for drizzling

Heat the butter or oil in a stock pot over medium-low heat. Add the shallot and cook until tender but not browned. Increase the heat to medium dd the beans and stir for a minute or two. Add the potatoes and stock and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, about ten minutes. Puree the soup with an immersion blender until very smooth. You may need to add a bit of water and stir the pot around, especially to break up the beans. Stir in the corn and thaw in the hot soup for a couple minutes. Season with a big pinch of salt and, oh, a dozen grindings of black pepper. Serve in a bowl topped with lots of chopped scallions, a pinch of course sea salt or fleur de sel, and maybe a drizzle of buttery olive oil. Serves 3-4.

Apparently, "I" Like It

One of the few, unsung glories of working in (slaving to?) "academia" is a magical time of year called "intersession." You might know it as winter break. Ten glorious days off a work-a-day schedule, no pending paper deadlines, and if you're lucky, a snowy landscape against a kitchen that begs for some use and abuse. This recipe accounts for both. I got really into making breakfast over break (poached pears over french toast, a savory bread pudding that needs some revision), and this frittata was on the line-up. Maybe I was inspired by recent breakfast-y posts. Perhaps it was five days of listening to tapas mastermind Deborah Hansen demonstrate tortilla española to middle-schoolers. Or, more sheepishly, maybe great minds really do think alike.

Anyway, I fixed this beast up for breaky. Yes, I am white. Yes, I dig on breakfast (I know, I know, my whiteness is showing). I just DON'T get into "going out for breakfast," contrary to popular blogpinion. Five years in the coffee-filling, eggs-back-to-the-kitchen-sending business will do that to you. I'm delighted to cook breakfast when I don't wake up twenty minutes before I need to catch the bus, a luxury I had over break! The filling for this morning delight was inspired by one of the best dishes at my old restaurant, an apple and cheddar omelette. My friend John used to order it for his shift meal, but he'd up the ante by adding spinach (or sausage if we weren't sharing that day). Either way, it was a winning combination. The only trouble with my attempt was that I used a tragically UNseasoned cast-iron pan, and this mother burned like a 13-year-old's face in the "coming-of-age" talk. I peeled off the blackened bottom layer and salvaged the leftovers. My advice: oil the hell out of the pan and keep the heat to a very modest low after you add the eggs. You'll save more face than I (or your barely-pubescent self) did.

Apple, Spinach and Cheddar Frittata

6 eggs

splash of milk, cream, or non-dairy milk (anything with vanilla is lovely)

good pinch of salt a a grinding of black pepper

1 tbsp. butter

2 cups or more fresh spinach (baby leaves or stemmed grown-ups)

1 apple, cored and cut into small cubes

3/4 - 1 cup sharp cheddar cheese (I love Wisconsin)

*If you like your eggs plenty done, heat of the broiler and adjust your oven rack if needed.*

In a bowl, whisk the eggs, milk, salt an pepper until the yolks are just broken an incorporated with the whites and milk.

Steam the spinach until just wilted... in a microwave, colander in a covered stock pot, or right in a saute pan, covered, with a couple tablespoons of water and a pinch of water. Squeeze of the excess water, then add the spinach, apple and cheese the egg mixture. Stir a couple times to mix.

Generously oil a deep-sided cast-iron skillet or saute pan. Heat over medium and add the butter. Rotate the pan to coat with butter as the butter foams. When the butter has just melted, add the egg mixture. Reduce heat to *low,* cover, and let the eggs cook for about 8 minutes. When you pull off the lid, the eggs will have puffed up and the top will be foamy. Slide onto a plate, cut into wedges and serve. If the frittata resists release, cover the pan with a plate an invert it. If you want a browner, more-done crust, throw it in the oven you've preheated and broil for a minute or two (no more). Serves 4-6.

'Mmm 'Mmm Flu

This was not how I was planning on honoring the conclusion of the semester. There was suppooosta be a lot more Christmas shopping and beer-drinking involved. Instead I've spent the last forty-eight hours drifting in and out of consciousness like I had an oxy habit, hacking up archaeological remains from my lungs that would make Indiana Jones swoon, and catching up TV-via-the-internet. Several hours of the Daily Show later, I have to say that I'm shocked that the naughty-language-no-no crew is ok with Jon and Co.'s rampant use of “dick,” “dickishness,” and “assface,” but puts the iron fist down on “cock” (eehheheheh, á la Peter Griffin). I mean, at least “cock” has a counterpart in the animal kingdom. But who am I to question? I'm just a helpless recipient of third-party infotainment.

Between fits of feverish delirium and picking up the graveyard of used tissues on my bedroom floor, I followed through with hankering for something similar to chicken noodle soup. It started when my amazingly matronly sister brought me some velvety-delicious red lentil and rice soup on Thursday. I ate half of it and it got my wheels turning in the way-back direction of my mom heating up some Campbell's with Ritz crackers when we were young and sick. Of course, even when I was little, those dark, globular, pseudo-chicken bits freaked me right out. So, I have an updated, chikless response that has lots of immuno-boosting goodness. It's got all the tiny minced vegetables of the original, but it replaces the mystery meat with lentils. It took me a day and a half to finish it. I kept crawling back into bed over the effort of standing. Hopefully health input will balance out the net energy output.

Sick Day Noodle Soup

1 quart vegetable stock
2 cups water, or more as needed
1 carrot, finely diced
1 celery stalk, finely diced
1 large onion, diced
1 bell pepper, finely diced
a whole mess of garlic (six cloves or more), vertically sliced
2-inch piece of ginger, grated or minced
olive oil for saute
1/2 cup lentils
salt and fresh pepper
hot sauce
1-2 ounces spaghetti

Heat the olive oil in a stock pot. When it's warm, add the onion and saute for a couple minutes, until just translucent. Add the garlic and saute for another minute. Add the carrot, celery, pepper and ginger and saute for a couple minutes to soften. Add the stock and water, raise the heat, and bring to a boil. Add the lentils, cover, and cook until the lentils are cooked, about 20 minutes. Check the liquid level and add more water if it starts to look more sludgy than soupy.

In the meantime, cook the pasta and set aside. When the lentils are cooked, add the pasta an season the soup with a good pinch of salt, several grindings of pepper, and as much hot sauce as you're up for. It's good for your sinuses.

Cocoa Cram Fest

By no rights whatsoever should I be interrupting my researching/writing cram session to write a blog post right now. But of course in the frantic twilight of the semester we have the first legitimate snowfall of the year. As the sunlight reached my window and bounced the vibrance of fresh, fleeting snow through the glass, I finally put the academics on life support to go for a quick walk. It was lovely out there; the Jamaicaway looked more like the interior of a snow globe than one of the more suicidal tracks in MarioKart. I came back invigorated, ready to focus – only after satiating one relentless craving for hot chocolate. It was a perfect storm of needing to make something, and actually having everything I need to make it. And as I write this and fish out the last cinnamon-y, cocoa-y bits from the bottom of my mug (so?), I feel prepared to take my sugarized, caffeinated brain back to business.

Cinnamon Hot Chocolate

½ cup almond, rice, or soy milk

1 tablespoon cocoa powder

sugar to taste (I used about a teaspoon, since I used sweetened almond milk)

½ teaspoon vanilla

1/8 teaspoon spicy (Vietnamese, Saigon) cinnamon

1 cinnamon stick

Heat the milk in a saucepan over low heat. When it just starts to steam, add the rest of the ingredients and whisk constantly for a minute, checking to make sure that the cocoa doesn't stick to the bottom of the pan. Pour into one or two (but really one) mug, garnish with a cinnamon stick.

Tandoor-ish Tofu

If you ever find yourself tempted to immerse yourself in the magnificent world of food studies, prepare yourself for an inexhaustible journey into the nature of “authenticity.” Seriously, people can't get enough of it. Who eats what and why and for how long and since when – these are the questions we ask to chip away relentlessly at someone's personal or cultural identity until we either figure out why they do what they do, or, more realistically, until we just start asking different questions. These are issues I love to explore, but ones that have rendered me incapable of just sitting down for “ethnic” food without deconstructing every menu item, every ingredient. I find this to be particularly the case with Indian food (though it applies just as much to “Italian,” “Mexican,” or – god help you - “American”). The bottom line is that there is no national cuisine of India, but an amalgamation of regional specialties. Even what is arguably the most “Indian” dish around – curry – is borne straight out of the womb of colonialism.

Despite my hyper-analytical brain and pseudo-scholarly cynicism, I still found myself yesterday taking stock of the ingredients I had on hand and deciding they spelled I-N-D-I-A-N. And hey, if an American-borne white girl can't marinate some Chinese-invented fermented soy in a mix of flavors that she calls Indian, then, shoot, we might as well take the curry away from the Brits.

Tandoor-ish Tofu

1 package extra-firm tofu, drained

¼ cup plain yogurt

1 tsp tomato paste

1 jalapeno, finely diced

1 tsp cider vinegar

1 inch grated ginger

pinch of brown sugar

1 clove of smashed garlic

2 tsp-ish of garam masala powder, or an audacious mix of cumin, cinnamon, fennel, nutmeg, black pepper... combined with a mortar and pestle

Preheat the oven to 350F. Cut the tofu into strips, cubes, or steaks. Combine the ingredients for the marinade in a small bowl, whisking together and adjusting the seasoning (I emphasized the cumin, just because I thought it was “safe”). Pour the marinade over the tofu in a small baking dish and marinate for twenty minutes or so. Bake for about ten minutes, or until the tofu is slightly browned, turn, and bake until the other side is browned. Serves 4-6.

Optimist Prime

Sometimes the best things happen when we suspend our conventions. In love, and life, and the kitchen, there really are no recipes, no rules – just a continuum of trial and error. Quoth the lady Julia, after expertly flipping an omelette square onto the side of a saute pan: “you just have to have to courage of your convictions.” And how she stands to embolden us all.

So today I spare the recipe. Though I'm flattered that my mom requested that every page of this modest blog be printed out so that she may try these silly recipes (!), I really can't claim to know many of the rules. I'm just finally in touch with what feels right. I will, with that in mind, share this bangin' breakfast sammy I made today, one that last year's vegan-leanin', dogmatic locavore would have only dreamt of, and never realized. In completely non-structured format, I suggest you toast a couple pieces of bread, brush one with a touch of spicy mustard, fry or scramble an egg, slice up an apple, shred some Wisconsin sharp cheddar, heat up a couple Morningstar veggie patties, stack it all up, and go to town. Life is too short and too rich with potential to worry rules, be they self-imposed or otherwise. And I was too hungry to care that London-cat walked into the frame the instant the shutter turned. 'Cause this little glass of o.j. is half-full, y'all.

¡Ay Ay Arepas!

Since incurring moving costs, darting between jobs, and spending several weeks without a paycheck, the food budget's been pretty tight. But I remembered how I avoided starvation in my early 20's on a thrift store employee's salary: ethnic = cheap. Find yourself an Indian, Chinese, or Latin market in your neighborhood and put your grocery savings towards bills, beer or, ahem, a new tattoo.

Enter my new affair with Hi-Lo, the Latin supermercado up the street. I'd rather go there than to the Stop-and-Shop in Jackson Square; it's closer and cheaper, and as long as I stay clear from the creepy meat aisle, I'm all set. No, it's not organic, not local, but it's what I got. And shopping there always inspires me to cook Latin. I wanted to do something with the Goya corn flour that my sister gave me awhile back. It's just been chillin' in my freezer, so for inspiration, I went straight to the back of the bag: arepas! They're a Columbian/Venezuelan griddle cake made from corn flour, sometimes milk and butter, or just water.

Polenta, mush, hasty pudding, grits, hominy - folk culture has a long history with similar dishes, as corn was often the only grain available to poor or disenfranchised groups. Most of our ancestors probably ate a steady diet of corn and cured meat, and we can be thankful if they were spared from pellagra. Which is why I'm always amused when a polenta dish shows up on a menu. Peasant food becomes haute cuisine and the green grass grew all around...

Anyway! ¡Back to arepas! I threw in some additions based on this Times recipe and had enough batter to make 'em twice. The first time I fried them, as tradition dictates, and found them to be crispy, yes, but too greasy even for this lover of all things deep-fried (potatoes, clams, oreos...). The next day I baked those babies, and while they were more palatable with less oil, I was missing the crispy outside. So, I'll lay out both ways and let you be the judge. Also, I wussed out and removed the seeds from the jalapeño, and I got no heat, which was not my plan. And let me just say that while I don't love cornmeal dishes (I've never had a polenta dish that I like), I see oodles of possibilities with these guys. I first tried them with flash-cooked cherry tomatoes. I ate my leftovers with sauteed kale and onions. With some sort of gravy, these would be a bangin' breakfast item.

Arepas

1 cup cornmeal

1 cup water, milk, or perhaps soy milk (which I just thought of!)

½ cup queso fresco o queso columbiano, crumbled

1 jalapeño, seeded if you're shy about heat, and finely diced

¼ cup cilantro, finely minced

possible accompaniments (not all traditional, but tasty): salsa, black beans, cooked greens, quartered tomatoes, chopped scallions, gravy...

For the dough: Combine the cornmeal and queso, then slowly add the water or milk and stir to combine. Allow the dough to rest for about 15 minutes. Form the dough into a golf-ball sized ball and flatten with your palm.

To fry: Add 3 tablespoons of mild oil (corn, grapeseed, or canola) to a a fry pan with a sturdy bottom. Heat the oil and when it's good and hot, add the arepas, cooking until crisp and browned on one side (about 3 minutes). Flip and cook the other side. Set on a paper bag or paper towel to drain.

To bake: Preheat oven to 375F. Grease a baking sheet or pan with oil. Add the arepas, bake until brown on one side (about ten minutes), flip and bake until the other side is browned.

To serve: You can slit a cooled arepa through the middle like a pita and stuff it with your choice of yummies. Or you can serve them sandwich-style, with two arepas subbing in for bread. Or you can serve them griddle-cake style, with some sort of veggie on top.