What a Little Minneola Can Do, Part Two

Complete This Sentence: _______ is the Spice of Life.

A few years ago I was introduced to the Santa Rosa plum. We hit it off immediately.

What I love about the Santa Rosa plum is that it's not just sweet. It has sweetness, to be sure, but its flavor is also deep, full-bodied.

And the kumquat! I'd only seen kumquats on the edges of plates, looking pretty, but one day I was curious and bit into one. Yowza! The outside is sweet, the inside, tart. It's a vacation for your mouth.

Food surprises you. The best artists do that. Like some of my favorite musicians--Bela Fleck, for example--who don't just play one kind of music. Check out what Mark O'Connor is doing for music education: teaching kids to play violin in all different genres, from Day One of their studies. Hats off! That's what'll save us in the end: the people who can see there's more than one way to do things, more than one way to see things.

And what's the best laboratory for this experiment, this question of, "What else tastes good to me? And what do I mean by 'tasting good'? What else could I try?"

Where did I taste my first Santa Rosa plum?

The farmers' market.

No, I don't get a commission. As I may have mentioned, life is unfair.

But come to think of it, my commission is the opportunity to taste, week after week, all over town, flavors I've never tasted before (along with some old favorites).

Tasting blackberries last year, the tartness of some didn't seem odd or wrong, something to be rejected, but just a different flavor--a different note on the scale, you could say.

Fast forward to the other night. I wanted a nosh. Had a minneola in the fruit bin. Cut it open, and boy, was that tart! (It was probably following a cookie. And I later remembered minneolas come from a mixed marriage and looked it up: half grapefruit.) But my first thought, after "What?" was "That's a really bright flavor." And I started thinking of ways to use it.

So back to your orange. Taste it. Is this really a bad orange, or just an orange that's heavier on texture than juice?

Let's assume this orange is a fleshy orange. Use it. Work it. We all know how to highlight the best qualities in something and camouflage the less-than-fabulous. Women do it with makeup. Men do it with facial hair.

Next time: Where Does Salad Dressing Come From?

©2010, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.

What a Little Minneola Can Do: A Hymn in Three Parts

Hello, Gorgeous!

Tragedy has struck. The orange you've just sliced open is a bit dry. I see someone reaching for it and heading to the garbage.

But what's this? At the last minute, the orange is rescued. Because the cook (that's you, standing at the sink or in front of your refrigerator, making decisions) realized that that is the absolute perfect orange--for a different dish.

I came to understand this last year when I had some romano beans that were a bit down on their luck. End of the season. Kind of dry.

Suddenly I saw my tall, good-looking blender, and realized that romano beans + some of the water from steaming them (excuse me, "vegetable broth") + sauteed onions and garlic . . .

The same texture that made the beans less than thrilling on their own gave the soup a wonderful body. The new soup was like split pea on steroids. I can't wait to make it again.

But the credit really goes to the Santa Rosa plum. And the kumquat.

Stay tuned.

Next Time: A Vacation for Your Mouth, or What Is This, Anyway?

©2010, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.

Presto, Change-O

Happens to the best of us: Somebody snubs you. Maybe a couple of buses pass you by. Or something worse. And then comes that one more thing. You were okay until then, but now you have had enough. You're not sure whether you want to scream, curl up in a ball, curl a certain yo-yo up in a ball, or hide under the covers. You stand in your kitchen, thinking, "I do not feel like cooking."

Sure you do.

Nothing restores us faster than rinsing, measuring and mincing, a sip of tea, singing along with a favorite song on the radio--especially the radio, because it's that song you love and who knew it'd be playing right now, and you crank it up, just a little, and before you know it, who cares about what happened a few minutes or even a few years ago? Here, in this kitchen, you are making magic.

Extra points if you happen to find new combinations--like the words you suddenly discover in those last few Scrabble letters. Today the lox got chevre and mustard greens in a whole wheat pocket pita. Yum. And the other day, when I had sliced open an extra lemon by mistake, I decided not to offer it up to the refrigerator where, as Baba Dave Barry has taught us, it was destined to become a science project.

http://www.miamiherald.com/2009/02/01/861087/housecleaning-tip-dont.html

Not this time around. I juiced it, zested it, and next thing you know--

Zesty Spring Green Salad:

For the salad:

A healthy handful of fava leaves
A healthy handful of pea shoots

For the dressing:

2 teaspoons olive oil
1 teaspoon lemon juice
A very generous pinch of lemon zest
A smidgen of stone-ground mustard
A pinch of salt
A pinch of freshly-ground pepper

I wanted to add anchovy, but I was eating this with "Rockfish in Indonesian Sauce" (coming up soon), which is a bit salty, so I decided instead to add a splash of cider vinegar.

And it was good.

©2010, 2013, 2014 Laynie Tzena.

Try the House Salad

Well, it certainly has been a while. Let me be the first one today to wish you a Happy New Year. And do remind me to tell you about the Fancy Food Show. (For starters: I am still madly in love with Santander chocolate. And Charles Chocolates' almonds. I could eat them for days. And I have a new love, Harry London, including their flavored chocolate. I am usually eager to avoid flavored chocolate, but I brake for their raspberry dark chocolate. Plus, while I've loved Valrhona for years, I just discovered a little item of theirs called Guanaja [which is apparently how you say "heaven" in el idioma de la comida]).

In the meantime, the tatsoi at Heirloom Organics was irresistible yesterday at the market, and after talking with Mary about something she had tasted with a green that sounds like kamasutra and was served with gomasio and bonito flakes and something else I can't remember, I suddenly saw a salad in my head with sesame oil, tatsoi, and tangerines.

Of course the sesame oil has vanished and even though I love tangerines deeply, the navel oranges are simply amazing right about now and so the original plan went sailing out the window and we have something even better.

Tatsoi Salad with Oranges and Sherry-Walnut Vinaigrette:

For the salad:

Healthy handful of tatsoi (about the size of a head of romaine or butter lettuce)
1/2 orange
1/4 Shallot, 1 scallion, or equivalent amount of red onion (optional)

For the dressing:

2-3 teaspoons walnut oil
1 teaspoon sherry vinegar
Pinch stoneground mustard
Black pepper
Pinch of salt

For extra credit:

Sesame seeds (This did start out as a sesame salad, after all.)

Rinse and drain tatsoi. Slice oranges and remove peel and white pith. Mince onion of choice. Whisk together dressing ingredients. Add tatsoi and other salad ingredients and toss. Top with toasted sesame seeds.

If you have cold chicken on hand, add that to the salad before tossing it and topping it with the sesame seeds. If you don't have cold chicken on hand, invite a friend over and ask her to bring the chicken. (It's only fair, after all you've done for her.)

©2010, 2014 Laynie Tzena.

Small is Beautiful

Well, Tenafly, I've got news for you: We're going to have to start substituting chicken for fish. (See "Betty Crocker's Unwritten Rules," http://cookwithlaynie.blogspot.com/2009/09/betty-crockers-unwritten-rules.html.)

This, according to a "Fresh Air" program I heard the other day.

In case you missed it, here's the short version: If you love "Charlie"*,
let him swim.

No fish?

"But I really, really like fish," you say.

Me, too. And according to "Aquacalypse Now," Daniel Pauly's article in The New Republic, fish are in deep trouble.

Here's the story:

http://www.tnr.com/article/environment-energy/aquacalypse-now

In the meantime, please keep in mind that science is always discovering things. A few years ago (and again this past week), someone discovered what women have known for years: Chocolate** is good for you. Now we learn that if we want to save the oceans, one of the best things we can do is . . .

. . . Eat herring.

Herring! So let's experiment with herring. I love cream sauce and wine sauce as much as you do (you being the people who have not left the room, muttering, "Herring. Noooooooo."). But we can do better than that. Look for herring recipes on the horizon.

Sardines are also fine. Add them to your pasta sauce.

Last, but not least, is the humble anchovy. Which takes us back to the Garrone family.

Ian Garrone is the man you see most often at the Far West Fungi store on Saturdays. He may seem quite serious, but spend two minutes with him and you will discover that he has the same warmth and warped sense of humor as the rest of the family. With his folks, he has expanded the definition of fungi to include marsh dwellers, such as the fabulous sea bean (which doesn't start in the marsh, but that's another story). The sea bean is a skinny, salty, crunchy item that is not a true bean and not originally from the sea but is positively addictive. It makes an appearance (and an equally quick disappearance, especially at potlucks) with its friend, the anchovy, here:

C-Carrot, Sea Bean Salad:

For the dressing:

3 parts mayonnaise
1 part dijon mustard
Smidgen anchovy paste
Pinch fresh or dried dill
Freshly-ground black pepper

For the salad:

Carrots
Sea beans

Blanch sea beans, or rinse well (lots of sodium here and in the anchovies). Chop into 1/4-1/2 inch pieces. Scrub carrots, rinse, and slice into half-coins. While the carrots are steaming, combine the dressing ingredients.

Add cooked carrots and sea beans to dressing and toss. Serve immediately.

*"Charlie" (not his real name) is a tuna to whom many of us were introduced by his relatives at StarKist (which doesn't sound like a real name, either, now that you mention it).

**Dark chocolate, to be specific. Milk, a bit less so. White chocolate did not enter the discussion, for obvious reasons.
©2009 Laynie Tzena.

Fungus Among Us

I suppose you could buy mushrooms from other people than the Garrone family. I just don't know why you would, unless you live in New York, or Chicago. And even then, I'm pretty sure they ship.

I first met John Garrone of Far West Fungi over 20 years ago, when I moved to San Francisco and happened on the Civic Center market. John told me recently that it was somewhere else at the time, around the corner or something. But I remember him at pretty much the same location he is now, not far from the escalator to the underground I was probably taking to work. Maybe I was on lunch hour.

It's not just the mushrooms, although Far West Fungi probably has everything you could ever want in that department. It's the absolute friendliness--not the kind of "Fly Me!" friendliness we see a lot of these days, but the kind that comes from an obvious love of people--with which John greets everyone.

I can't remember ever not loving mushrooms. Even the canned ones. I know: They have that weird texture, they smell funny, and if you put an open can and a fork in front of me I would probably finish the can before you came back.

When I was in high school the local wing of the French National Honor Society flew to the place where people really speak the language. We did the French equivalent of what Europeans come to see in these parts. Here, it's Las Vegas, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, San Francisco, and maybe Monterey. There, it's the Eiffel Tower, the Loire Valley, Mont St. Michel, and Montmartre, where everyone visits a church called Le Sacré Coeur.

I remember two things from that trip: the castles in the Loire Valley, and lunch after we went to church: Coq au Vin aux Champignons.

To the other kids champignon was just a long way of saying mushroom. And mushrooms, they agreed, were gross. Did I really want them?

I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

John Garrone has very good manners, so you have to look closely to see him rolling his eyes as he hears me tell yet another customer about the Miso-Soba Soup from The Book of Miso. John's interest in miso soup ia on a par with his interest in Brussels sprouts.

Someone once asked him, "What do you like to do with Brussels sprouts?"

"Personally, I throw them out," he said.

Miso Soup with Buckwheat Noodles and Eggs

(adapted from The Book of Miso by Aikiko Aoyagi and William Shurtleff)

2 teaspoons sesame oil

1 small onion, thinly sliced or 1/2 bunch scallions, cut in long strips

1 zucchini, sliced into half coins

3-4 large or 6-8 small shiitaké mushrooms, sliced

1/2 cup water, stock, or dashi

2 oz. soba (buckwheat) noodles, broken into 4-inch lengths and cooked*

1 tablespoon red, barley, or hatcho miso (the original says 3T but that's overkill, to me)

2 eggs

1 tablespoon minced parsley (optional)

Heat your favorite soup pan and coat with oil. Add the onion and sauté until transparent, then add mushrooms and cook until just shy of being done. Follow with the zucchini, also cooked till almost done. Next, add water and bring to a boil, then the cooked noodles and return to the boil. Place the miso in a bowl and add some of the hot liquid, whisk to combine, and return to the soup. Now increase the heat to medium-high and carefully break in the eggs, keeping the yolks whole. Cook for 1 minute more, or until the whites are just firm. Serve immediately, garnished with parsley.

This is like French onion soup meets poached eggs meets mushrooms and noodles. It should be illegal.

*There are rituals for cooking soba noodles. You cook them partway, put them into very cold water, drain them, cook them some more, back in the cold water, drain again, cook them some more--and then go out and shoot yourself because they are still not perfect.

If you have all that time on your hands, let me just say that Honey, do I have filing for you. If not, I say just cook them, deliver them to their winter vacation, drain them, and then add them to the soup at the proper time.

If anyone complains, my cooking instructions are as follows:
Don't invite them again.

But what if they live with you?
Then you already know what to do.

©2009-2014 Laynie Tzena.

Betty Crocker's Unwritten Rules

You may laugh, but Tenafly looked serious.

That's David, to you. People from New Jersey (don't call it Joisey, and please stop saying "What exit?") often call each other by the name of their home town. I understand that one of my temple friends is Myrna to some people, but her real name is Springfield.

Call me Plainfield.

Anyway: Way back when my sister was still speaking to the rest of the family, we were in the kitchen after a recipe had proved false. Now, you can trust my recipes. I have eaten all of them, and here I am still writing to you. (Also, as Jim Brooks well knows, when I first started eating this way I was 4 foot 10 and weighed 98 pounds. And now I am 5'9" and tower over everyone [Okay: very young children and my shorter relatives]).

But this recipe was apparently tested on the author's children who, it is said, immediately ran away from home, and possibly some species that promptly became extinct. It was called "Wonderful Old-Fashioned Gingerbread." It was not wonderful. It did not taste like any other gingerbread I have ever had, before or since--possibly because of the yogurt. Maybe it was old-fashioned. It was not allowed to grow old.

Well, wait a minute. The "fashion" in "old-fashioned"--that's not a lie. The recipe actually came from a then-popular cookbook. So it was fashionable. Just not edible.

So I thought, let's just crumble it and add some other things to it and make cookies. At which point my sister, who had only moments ago been reminding me that I must always sit in the middle when we rode in the car with Mommy because if I sat on the end I would fall out, invoked Betty Crocker's Unwritten Rule #1: "Thou shalt not make cookies from baked cake."

I obeyed. (You try arguing with her. Besides, she might have been right. But that's classified.)

But when I told Tenafly about the Salmon with Pistachio Sauce and he said he didn't like salmon and I said "So substitute chicken," he tried to invoke Betty Crocker's Unwritten Rule #2 (though he didn't call it that; that was my sister's idea), and proclaimed, "You can't substitute chicken for fish."

And the very French friend of an American friend, after a dinner party for which a chicken had given its life, provided Betty Crocker's Unwritten Rule #3, letting pass that she "would never serve chicken to my guests." (Rumor has it she somehow managed to eat a fair amount of it, though.)

Fortunately, I have just located my magic wand. I am now waving it, and pronouncing some words in a language very few people speak. But I am a trained professional. And as they say, in a language many people do speak: No charge.

And what do you know? You are now free to substitute chicken for fish, fish for chicken (though you probably won't catch any), serve chicken to your guests, and whatever else comes to mind.

And since we're mostly grown now, I hope it's okay to say that Betty Crocker, lovely as she might have been in that Ozzie and Harriet kind of way, Never Existed.

©2009, 2012, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.