le sauce

first taste: soup and rice

Childhood picture books, stories and TV shows that depicted food and dining made a real impression on me. Illustrations of steaming bowls of pasta or a piece of toast smothered in purple jam gave me my first taste of foods I'd yet to try, and are sometimes still the archetypes I hold food up to today. Instead of simply reminisce, I'm going to bring those dishes to life the way I imagined they'd be.

This is a story of a meal that I tasted first at home, not tastes imagined after being influenced by books or media, as with the other recipes in this particular column. I laid eyes on the book Chicken Soup and Rice after years of eating more than my share of bowlfuls.

The way I remember it, we--my cousin and I who grew up in a household of parents, aunts, grandparents--were expected to eat fish curries and rotis and whatever the adults were eating, for sure. But like any kids, we could be picky, and like any busy adults, there were times they just couldn't force us to eat more/worry about how little we'd eaten/deal.with.us. At times like those, we were fed "soup and rice".

Soup-and-rice, said more as one, three-syllable word, referred to salty, packaged, instant chicken noodle soup (which I never tired of and was sure to eat), with cooked white rice stirred in (always on hand as in any Asian household) to fortify the meal and to reassure our family that we fed. To appease us, they often made two packets of soup, strained the noodles out of one and added them to our broth and rice and that measly amount of noodles from just one package. The short, soft and slippery noodles were the treat that always got us to finish our bowls. I developed rituals where I managed to eat as much noodle-less spoonfuls of rice, drink the broth and be left with a glut of the reserved noodles at the bottom, hoarded in 5 minutes to be enjoyed in 5 greedy seconds.

That was pleasure enough but then, in one of the earliest examples I can recall, I saw something I was used to eating depicted elsewhere! Someone else put rice in their soup!? It might not seem like much but it was a validation of sorts. Perhaps you'll understand why if I tell you that when I was finally allowed to eat lunch at school (I hated being walked home for lunch when all of my friends got to bond at the lunchtables) my mom and I had to learn about cold-cuts and what actually might comprise a child's lunchtime sandwich (her use of bread was largely confined to spreading chilies on it). I felt out of touch with the rituals and foods of a country I was born in and one that, though cultrually diverse, still sent their kids to school with oddly identical lunches. Kids who knew instinctively how to order food on "hot dog day" and knew what they liked on their pizza. Finding a book about soup and rice was a taste of something familiar and some sort of nod to what went on in my home. This might have been my earliest taste of what it was to have my food--therefore my culture--therefore a large part of me--acknowledged.

Chicken Soup and Rice words and photos by Maurice Sendak.

Aside from all of that, the book had so much more appeal. I mean just look at this book! How fun! I love Maurice Sendak, as an author and as a honest, sometimes crusty, brilliant person. I love that this book is a book of months, in which each spawns a different season to enjoy chicken soup and rice, in the sea, with March winds knocking over and lapping up your bowls, and for having irreverant sentences like

"Whoppie once, Whoppie twice, Whoopie Chicken Soup and Rice!"

weekend class: roasted beet and blood orange salad

weekend class = learning a thing or two about cooking and dining well. techniques, ingredients, recipes projects that definitely need to be tackled on the weekend. the result? weekend-class fare, of course.

There is a place for salads in winter. A particular kind of salad, and one that you are not likely to want or have in the summer. This type of salad in question is confident and outspoken.

It is sometimes late-Friday-night surly, all tangy and a touch bitter, and sometimes it is Sunday-dinner filling, with all kinds of carbs and proteins landing with a thud in your bowl. And when the salad involves roasting ingredients, you almost always restrict it's invitation to winter, don't you? This recipe I'm sharing is not my creation but one I was compelled to make this winter, and one I reserved for weekend cooking because while easy to make, there are several components. A couple of recipes within this recipe. The resulting salad is definitely as brazen as the winter salads I described. Powerful. Violent even--the dressing at least. 

Well look at it. That is violent pink if I ever saw it and wait until you taste it. It's not for the timid and in my opinion, it can't really share the table with anything other than a docile piece of bread. My appreciation of the sharp-as-a-scolding dressing was aqcuired over many bites. I teetered on not liking it, but the enthusiastic acceptance and praise by everyone else at the table (a diverse group, too) helped me see its finer points. It saved the salad from being that fine but all too common roasted beet and nut salad you still see on all too many menus. And though I'm not one of those people that thinks every star ingredient needs a foil, this vinaigrette which gets it's kick from raw shallots is a nice partner for those beets, if--and this is what I will do differently next time--you dress the salad as you go. The amount on the beets alone, and maybe a splash off a fork thrown from a distance, is all I'd need on my greens on a normal day. If you're feeling like you can go head to head with a stronger salad, get as surly as you want, I'll get right out of your way.

This salad is from that great cookbook that I was gifted recently, and the recipe is from that awesome restaurant in Brooklyn I raved about--the one where I had that killer other salad that spawned this recipe. I think it's worth checking making while you still feel like roasting vegetables. Oh--and do not waste that garlic that the recipe has you roast for the sole purpose of infusing the beets. Much less violent than anything above, you need to spread those cloves on hot, buttered baguette and sprinkle with sea salt and the roasted rosemary too for the garlic bread of your fantasies.

a real pickle: preserved lemons

I "learned" to bake last year, by which I mean I no longer fly past any recipe that calls for flour. Now, while my eyes still grow wide and I stop breathing as I read through a recipe containing flour, I read through the recipe. Then I actually make the thing with flour. And my blood pressure still rises and I swear and things go wrong, but all of that to a lesser degree. Most importantly, I sort of understand baking now, why things are rising, falling, spreading, puffing up, become dense, shattering and collapsing at just the right moment, and that was where I wanted to get to with my baking experimentations. I'll continue to bake, perhaps more than ever before, but this year I choose to demystify...

fermentation.

You either got really excited just now or removed this site from your RSS feed. If you're still hovering over the delete button in consideration of the latter, wait for a minute! Sure, you're sort of right to wonder why people want to eat something politely named stinky tofu, and fine, you haven't tried natto but even the sound foreshadows the "no thanks" with which you might refuse it, but you love Morrocan tagine, right? And realize the quoi in its je ne sais quoi is the preserved lemon, right? You order extra pickles on your burger sometimes, and like pickled radishes with your falafel or lime pickle with your curry, yes? And even if none of these apply to you, look up "fermented salsa" in your browser, like right now. Seriously. People are losing their minds over the stuff. You want to get in on that, at least, I know it!

And for those of you who have been meaning to make everything from kimchee to kombucha for ages, we're going to do this right. As with the le sauce baking academy, I promise to research the hell out of the method and the recipes out there so we understand fermentation, but mostly so that we'll end up with the most ridiculously delicious, complex, in-your-face brined delicacies ever.

an indulgent, deep-winter dinner party

(and a guide to help you pull off the night perfectly!)

There are those dinner rituals reserved for winter, the ones that involve an extra-stuffed grilled cheese sandwich, chowder, hot chocolate--sometimes all in the same night. I'm all for those. This menu, however, is nothing like those dinners. Even more indulgent, melted in butter, tossed around in cream, topped with crispy caramelized things, this menu, rather than embracing and cozying up to winter, is about defying winter with a dinner party. It's about setting a fabulous table with the holidays long past, dragging your friends out of their homes 3 hours after the sun's set, putting on nice shoes and rewarding yourself for not letting winter beat you down. It's celebration just for the sake of it, and a justifiable rich balance to flat, grey February.

So I give you:

an indugent, deep-winter dinner party menu...

risotto-stuffed chard bundles with browned butter oyster mushrooms

cauliflower in leek cream

sauteed brussels sprouts with fried shallots & toasted almonds

domino potatoes

banana cream pie

...and the guide to help you pull it off with ease!

risotto-stuffed chard bundles with browned butter oyster mushrooms

 

These were the star of the night, and I should tell you, they shared a table with a banana cream pie.

It was Lana who reminded me that chard leaves make such pretty packaging, they look so special side by side. I saved the idea for a very special dinner, so I had lots of time to think through the rest of the details. Having made arancini, I knew that next-day risotto was full of flavour and would cooperate fully.

I debated spiking the bundles with cold pieces of butter to moisten the risotto while the bundles were being heated--and I encourage you to try this. But in the end I actually like the structure that a "firmer" risotto lends the bundles, which yeild and are creamy for sure, but you do get to cut into them. And while a mushoom risotto would be delicious, it's much nicer with the mushrooms on the outside. The oyster mushrooms get a little crisp around the edges when frying and in a browned butter sauce... I always encourage substitutions but I'm pretty damn excited about making this recipe again, exactly as is, if I do say so myself. I hope you love it too--but definitely share your tweaks with me too!

cauliflower in a leek cream sauce

 

I said cream right in the title or this "recipe", if you can call it that, so don't be shocked with how idulgent it is, please. To be even more straightforward, this is tender cream-coloured cauliflower, tossed in warmed cream flavoured with the pale parts of leeks softned in creamy butter. So we're clear. Decadent, if dangerous, and worth it.

(See how this recipe fits into an indulgent deep-winter dinner party menu.)

sauteed brussels sprouts with fried shallots and almonds

There is the camp that claims to have loved Brussels sprouts since childhood (kids far more mature than I was) and the camp that was converted when we learned how amazing they are when roasted or fried until caramelized. Then there's the camp that still hates them anyway. But I do sort of wonder if even they (you?) would like them caramelized, with some of their bright green leaves just wilted to and scattered about to for flirting purposes, and toasted almond flecks plus shallots fried in butter would change a mind or two. If anyone from that camp is willing to give these a try, please report back. Everyone from the first and second camp, gather 'round these with your biggest spoon.

roasted domino potatoes

I confess to have plucked this recipe from the pages of a magazine and inserted it into my dinner party menu solely based on its looks (the magazine image looked prettier than mine, as you might imagine). Had I stopped to consider that it had exactly one herb seasoning it, and four ingredients total, including the potatoes themselves, I might have passed it over for being to simple for a special meal. My shallowness pays off again! I loved these. I want them now.

The (slight) pains you take to shave the potatoes into dominos and stack them accordingly, gives you a soft scalloped-potato-like texture where they overlap and a crispy, shattered edge too--the little burnt edges are actually awesome. I've never used so many bay leaves in my life. It just works.  

(See how this recipe fits into an indulgent deep-winter dinner party menu.)

Roasted Domino Potatoes
(Via Bon Appetit) 

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, divided
3 1/2 pounds Idaho potatoes (4-6 large)
24 (about) fresh or dried bay leaves
Kosher salt and fleur de sel

Preheat oven to 425°. Brush a 13x9x2" baking dish or cast-iron griddle with 2 Tbsp. butter. Peel potatoes and trim ends (do not rinse). Trim all 4 sides of potatoes to form a rectangle. Using a mandoline, cut potatoes crosswise into 1/8" slices, keeping slices in stacks as best you can.
Re-form slices from each potato into a stack. Place in prepared dish, fanning apart slightly like a deck of cards. Insert bay leaves between potato slices at even intervals. Season with salt and drizzle with remaining 4 Tbsp. butter.
Bake potatoes, rotating the dish halfway through cooking, until the edges are crisp and golden and the centers are tender, about 1 hour. Sprinkle with fleur de sel.

banana cream pie

 

The reason this recipe even made it into my dinner party is because you can make almost all of it the day before. Being someone who often forgets to think of dessert when planning a menu, and someone with a healthy fear of from-scratch dough, I wouldn't advise you to take this on if I thought it would be more trouble than it was worth or that it would cause too much stress. But the truth is, it's kind of perfect for when you have company coming over, since there's only 5 minutes of pre-serving work, which is nice since a finishing touch before serving seems to add an air of specialness, I think (a little fluffing and primping before showtime) and, honestly, I can't imagine going to the effort of making this pie, easy but time-consuming, unless it was a special occasion like a dinner party.  It's for when you're pulling out all the stops.

Oh and about the final result? It's the most banana-y banana cream pie ever, and the only thing I might change next time, is to try it without a chocolate crust, because I just wanted the banana flavour to sing even louder. I wished I had more. I wish I'd spent more time caramelizing the top with a torch, but I was too anxious to split this open, building as I had been, on and off for a whole day. Please make this when you invite me over. I'll bring very, very good port to serve with.

(See how this recipe fits into an indulgent deep-winter dinner party menu.)

Banana Cream Pie with Whole Grain Chocolate Crust
(Via Bon Appetit)

Filling
1/2 cup sugar
2 tablespoons unbleached all purpose flour
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 cups whole milk
4 large egg yolks
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, diced
1 tablespoon dark rum

Crust
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/3 cup (2 ounces) bittersweet chocolate chips
1/4 cup unbleached bread flour
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
2 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, diced
2 tablespoons orange juice
1 tablespoon (or more) ice water
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
7 bananas (about), peeled
Additional sugar
Whipped cream (optional)
Chocolate sprinkles (optional)

Filling
Whisk first 4 ingredients in heavy medium saucepan until no lumps remain. Gradually whisk in milk. Add yolks; whisk to blend. Scrape in seeds from vanilla bean; add bean. Whisk over medium-high heat until pastry cream thickens and boils 1 minute, about 8 minutes total. Remove from heat; whisk in butter and rum. Remove vanilla bean. Transfer mixture to bowl; press plastic wrap onto surface. Chill until firm, at least 4 hours. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Keep chilled.

Crust
Combine first 7 ingredients in processor. Blend until finely ground. Transfer to large bowl. Using fork, cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Mix orange juice, 1 tablespoon ice water, and vanilla in small bowl. Sprinkle over chocolate mixture, tossing until dough comes together in clumps and adding more water by tablespoonfuls if dry. Using floured hands, gather dough into ball; flatten into disk. Wrap; chill dough at least 2 hours and up to 1 day.

Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray 9-inch-diameter glass pie dish (including rim) with nonstick spray. Roll out dough between 2 sheets of parchment paper to 12-inch round. Peel off top parchment. Using bottom parchment as aid, turn dough over into prepared dish. Peel off parchment. Fold overhang under and crimp crust edges decoratively. Pierce crust all over with fork; freeze 10 minutes.

Line crust with foil; fill with dried beans. Bake crust 20 minutes. Remove foil with beans. Continue to bake crust until dry and firm to touch, about 10 minutes longer. Cool crust completely on rack.

Spread 1 cup pastry cream over bottom of crust. Slice enough bananas into 1/4-inch-thick rounds to cover cream in overlapping circles. Cover bananas with remaining pastry cream. DO AHEAD Can be made 6 hours ahead. Cover and chill.

Slice 3 (or more) bananas on slight diagonal into 1/4-inch-thick ovals. Arrange in overlapping circles atop pie. Sprinkle with sugar. Caramelize, if desired, using handheld torch. Alternatively, cover bananas with whipped cream, sprinkle with chocolate sprinkles, and garnish with additional banana slices.

first taste: hot cocoa in the murry kitchen

Childhood picture books, stories and TV shows that depicted food and dining made a real impression on me. Illustrations of steaming bowls of pasta or a piece of toast smothered in purple jam gave me my first taste of foods I'd yet to try, and are sometimes still the archetypes I hold food up to today. Instead of simply reminisce, I'm going to bring those dishes to life the way I imagined they'd be.

On a dark, stormy night, on her journey to the kitchen from her cold attic room, Meg had time to get down on herself about everything from her mousy appearance, to her IQ level to her recent scrap with bullies at school. This girl needed a drink! She knew it, and decided on hot cocoa. That this was a romantic choice, for a young girl, chilled, a little scared and a lot bummed out, was only part of the appeal to me as I read those opening pages in A Wrinkle in Time. There was also the accepted adult-ness of the whole situation, because who should be heating up milk in anticipation of both Meg and her mother showing up in the kitchen in need of some, but the "baby brother" of the family, Charles Wallace, wise and weirdly intuitive beyond any human's years. He goes on to offer to make Mrs. Murray a liverwurst and cream cheese sandwich and Meg a tomato sandwich but they had me at hot cocoa. 

Don't get me wrong, I loved every page of the popular sci-fi novel and I still do. (I just downloaded the audio book read by the author, Madeline L'Engle herself. There were parts that still scared me when I listened before bed. "There is such a thing as a Tesseract!") But it was the first "scene" hooked me, no question. The idea that you could wake up in the night and have a luxurious snack--that you could dirty a pan at that hour to boil milk for cocoa (how much?? who had cocoa powder at the ready? I'd have to work for months to first explain to my parents that it was the opposite of Nestlé Quick, that no, microwaved chocolate milk would not cut it and then try to source it because there was no way their half-hearted wild goose chase would be successful. And God help me if it was expensive...), and that your family would join you instead of chasing you back to bed yelling about the hour and rising early for school/jobs in the morning--that was fantasy I ate up as much as any other part of the book.

I don't blame my parents for not knowing what hot cocoa really was, how to make it, or how it differed from hot chocolate which was a little more widely known (read: marketed). I had a chalky mug or two of cocoa that I tried to enjoy (read: use to transport me to the Murry's kitchen and their entire messed up, brilliant, multi-time+space-dimensioned adventures). But we can do better today. 

First, on hot cocoa, CHOW notes the same, that while "...hot cocoa is sublime. At its worst, it’s chalky, watery, and too sweet. This version, provided by François Payard, of François Payard Bakery in New York, is definitely in the former category: so creamy, rich, and chocolaty that it’s a suitable stand-in for dessert.

2 tablespoons cocoa powder (such as Weiss)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup whole milk
Granulated sugar, to taste

Bring chocolate powder, fresh cream, and milk to a boil; stir; and pour in a cup. Add sugar if desired.

Note: For a lighter version, use 1/3 cup fresh cream and 2/3 cup skim milk."

And An Enlightened Palate adds: "Hot cocoa lacks the creaminess and luscious mouthfeel of  a cup of hot chocolate, but it is more concentrated and has a more chocolaty taste...there is less vegetable fat (natural cocoa butter) in the cocoa than there is in shaved chocolate...fat coats the palate and minimizes flavor."

And offers a different method (note the technique):

2 teaspoons dutched cocoa powder ( we prefer dutched process cocoa because we feel that these cocoa powders have a deeper flavor, darker color and a smoother texture that blends flawlessly in hot beverages.)
2 teaspoons sugar
2 tablespoons cream, not heated
6 ounces boiling water

Optional: whipped cream or mini marshmallows for garnish

Place the cocoa powder and sugar into a mug and mix well. Add the cream and stir into a smooth paste. Add the boiling water and stir until the mixture is smooth and well blended. Ladle the hot cocoa into a mug and garnish if desired.

And, though this wasn't a contest, there is a winning technique in my mind. An Enlightened Pallette's method resulted in the best cup of cocoa I've ever had--the blend and pour method made for a deliciously creamy cocoa and it came together in seconds with water from a kettle and no pot to stand over. It was perfection with just one tweak that I would add to either recipe...

...a tiny sprinkle of salt.

Charles Wallace probably saw that coming.

...

I thought of Katherine, whose illustrations you've seen here in the past, as soon as I wrote this post. I hoped she would agree to bring Meg and the Murry kitchen to life and I hope you love her illustrations in this piece as much as I do. For more of her delicious illustrations, check out Drawn and Devoured.

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