Food bloggers and their readers tend to be a supportive, upbeat, crowd (“Kale! Wow! Double thumbs-up!”). We don’t get many complaints, helpful suggestions for improving the site, but every few months this plea arrives: “Can’t you do something so we don’t have to cut and paste your recipes?” Never let it be said The Garum Factory …
Spanish Mackerel, Saffron and Honey with Blood Orange – Fennel Salad. If you make nothing else from us this year, make this. It’s crazy delicious, one of my contenders for the tastiest thing Jody’s cooked in the past year, and it’s easy. Contrary to what you may think, the recipe doesn’t involve filleting your own mackerel. Unless you want to. If so, have it. That’s what we did, but only because the whole fish were so gorgeous I couldn’t bear not photographing them, so I spared our fishmonger the hassle of filleting them for us. You’ll also notice that there are three fish and only four fillets, when you’d expect six. That’s because we roasted the third mackerel whole. If Spanish mackerel’s around, we can’t get enough of it. Make this dish.
Jody cautioned me not to create any titles with “babies” and “blood” in them. Then she made the tactical error of going to work. Herewith Dutch Babies with Blood Oranges. C’mon, like you wouldn’t have done the same thing? Besides, after last week’s Attack of the Devil Baby* prank on New Yorkers, I figured you could handle it. What’s a little shudder when these “babies” taste so good, when the payoff is having a hot air balloon collapse in front of you, its final gasps scented with vanilla, cinnamon, orange and lemon? What name would you choose for this wheezy pastry–Dutch baby or German pancake, the main alternative? Dutch babies sound playful, easy, maybe even good for you. German pancakes, whatever their other virtues, convey an air of seriousness. “Time for German pancakes!” could be a euphemism for “Let’s build a railroad through the Black Forest.” So what’s your choice? Light-cuddly-easy? Or Heavy-serious-Hans-Henry-was-a-steel-drivin’-man? Right. Dutch babies it is. And don’t forget the blood oranges.
Hi, Everyone– For some reason a teaser for a post we haven’t yet published went out awhile ago. Take my word for it – there’s no post there. Sorry for the bother. We will have a new post tomorrow – but it won’t have anything to do with glazing, or seafood, or confusion. Ken
Shouldn’t Prairie Home Companion have a folksy sponsor like the American Soup Council to tout this most comforting of all dishes? Imagine the catchphrases: “Soup – we’ve got your back,” or “Soup – a mom in every bowl,” or even, “Soup – at least the barn didn’t burn down.” That’s how I feel about this week’s spicy makeover – Lentil, Pepper and Escarole Soup. I just had a bowl. It was all the things soup should be – tasty and warm and reassuring. It certainly dispelled some of the gloom attendant on my losing this week’s photographs.
That’s right, I lost them.
As I write this (Thursday) the Big Bad Wolf howls about our house, a slavering gale sniffing out chinks, probing for weaknesses. The temperature is expected to plunge to 5 or 6 above zero by morning, with Boston adrift in over a foot of snow before the blizzard subsides Friday evening. In our current larder we have bread, sweet potatoes and bitter greens that Jody made tonight, chewy papardelle noodles with smoked goose and tomato sauce–the last hurrah of our Christmas birds–and a few precious survivors of this week’s post, Salted Butterscotch Custards. We couldn’t be snugger.
If you’re looking for something homemade this weekend but are ready to give elaborate cooking a rest, here’s a treat, Sadie’s Gingersnaps. The eponymous Sadie is the grandmother of our great friend and traveling companion, Bette Ann (BA) Harris. Several weeks ago BA arrived for dinner at our house with a plastic bag of these oversize ginger snaps. Score! There’s an embargo on our house for cookies, unless we make them ourselves. It ensures quality control and minimizes temptation. You can have a treat… as long as you make it yourself. We do, however, issue culinary visas to all friends bearing baked goods. After all, how often do friends show up at your door with homemade cookies? These were definitely worth the wait.
A “stuffy,” just in case you don’t know, is the Rhode Island term of art for a baked stuffed clam, although I can vouch for its use as far north as southern Massachusetts. Typically, buttered and seasoned breadcrumbs do-si-do with chopped clam, usually but not always) atop a quahog on the half-shell and baked. It’s a filling, poor man’s seafood treat, which is not to denigrate it, just to note that it may not be the place to go if you’re looking to sate your bivalve love. Jody’s stuffy climbs up a notch on the menu, subbing lobster for clams, and adding andouille sausage and green pepper for a Cajun twist. Lobster-Andouille Stuffy – the stuffy for our times.
I met my first leek in high school. I was a senior and the leek was in Julia Child’s Vichyssoise. I wanted to be an instant convert, but it just wasn’t happening for me. Potatoes, these funny sci-fi onions, cream, the cold temperature–it was just too far off the map. Three years later I gave leeks another try. This time I was a student in Switzerland and the leeks were baked in a gratin with cream and Gruyère. Whammo! Direct hit. The Swiss also love potato-leek soup, hot and cold, so I got plenty of opportunity to endear myself to this long allium. As a young householder I braised them with chicken stock and cream, while Jody has always been a bit more restrained, using evoo. As I get older I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to Jody’s side of the fence, ergo this week’s post, Braised Leeks with Meyer Lemon, Pancetta and Parmigiano Reggiano.
Last month I attended a special dinner at Rialto featuring dishes from Fabrizia Lanza’s wonderful 2012 COMING HOME TO SICILY. Everything was cooked by the Rialto Team, under Fabrizia’s direction, whom Jody had met years ago on a biking adventure in Italy. You may know Fabrizia as the daughter of Anna Tasca Lanza, founder of the famed Sicilian cooking school Case Vecchie. Art historian turned passionate cook and cultural advocate for her native land, Fabrizia now leads Case Vecchie, writes about Sicilian food and is building a video archive of Sicilians engaged in culinary traditions increasingly imperiled as the outside world seeps into island life.
As usual, I got held up, arrived late for the dinner, and slid into my chair with a longing glance toward everyone else’s empty appetizer plates. At that moment Fabrizia, a slender patrician woman who looked as though she might have as easily discussed the subtleties of Botticelli’s brush technique as she did the culinary pleasures of wild fennel, was giving the room a brief introduction to Sicilian cuisine and I didn’t want to cause a stir by asking anyone to explain what I’d missed. The menu card next to my plate simply identified the course as Panelle. A waiter took pity on me and few moments later set a saucer with two triangles of something in front of me. Without my glasses I might have mistaken them for shortbread. I took a bite. A rich toasty flavor at once comforting and tantalizing elusive filled my mouth. The triangles had thin crispy edges and a bit of creaminess in their thickest part, the center. “What are these?” I asked Jody, who said hi on her way back into the kitchen with Fabrizia. “Chickpea flour,” she said. “And water and salt.” “That’s it?” “That’s it,” she said, “Amazing, aren’t they?” And that is how I had my first taste of the subject of this week’s post, Panelle.