Dear Love at First Bite:
Well, Excuse Me, Ms. Oh-So-Nouveau at Passover Time, but I thought charoses was supposed to remind us of, you know, slavery, building pyramids with bricks (that's what the apples are for--and yes, I know some people use dates. [Sigh.]) and mortar (that would be the walnuts) and the blood, sweat, and tears that went into doing that work (that's what the wine is for), but what do I know? I guess out on the West Coast anything goes--but strawberries and blueberry jam? Really? Sounds like fruit compote or pie filling to me.
Fan of Tradition
Dear FOT:
Thank you for sharing. The great thing about charoset, which is how it's often spelled these days, is that you can put in pretty much whatever you want, especially in my kitchen. You do need something to symbolize the bricks (that's what the strawberries were doing) and mortar (that's why the banana was involved) and something to bind them together (that's where the blueberry jam came in), preferably with a little juice to symbolize the blood, sweat and tears you mentioned. (Saw them years ago at the Fillmore East. Awesome.)
Should I tell you about the amazing charoset at Rosa Mexicano the other night with coconut? (Also starring almonds, dates, tangerines, pomegranate seeds, and rose apples.) Maybe not.
Anyhoo, below is another newbie you might appreciate.
Citrus, Walnut, and Oh, Those Dates! Charoset:
A couple of soft dates (like Medjool), pits removed
A few firmer dates (like Deglet Noor and dried Yellowtail Medjool), pits removed
3 organic kumquats (sweet rind, tart center)
1 large and three small organic sweet kumquats
A healthy handful of walnuts, chopped
1/4 organic lemon
Ground ginger
Cinnamon
Chop dates and, if you can, mash the Medjool. Slice the kumquats, rind and all, and remove the seeds, chop into small pieces, reserving the liquid. Combine everything (yes, that includes the kumquat juice) in a bowl and squeeze the lemon over the mixture. Grate the lemon zest into the bowl. Toast the walnuts and add them, then sprinkle the ground ginger and cinnamon over all and mix.
Enjoy!
Oh, and FOT: Just between you, me, and the NSA: Anytime you combine
fruit with nuts and some kind of liquid, you are dancing in the
neighborhood of fruit compote. And would this be yummy inside the right pie? Sure. But not this week. So here's a piece of matzo. Try it.
©2014, 2015
Laynie Tzena.
Showing posts with label Passover. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Passover. Show all posts
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Tuxedo Under Raincoat, or Listen to Jim: Anthropology for Foodies
I was at the Farmers' Market the other day, eyeing some especially good-looking Lisbon lemons Twin Girls Farms had on offer.
"Do you have any Meyer lemons?" somebody asked.
"Sorry, no," came the reply.
And she passed right over those Lisbons.
Now, I think Meyer lemons are out of this world. Some people have Meyer lemon trees in their very own backyards. Lucky ducks. I have a fruit tree, too, with figs so beautiful they could make you cry, so full you know they will burst any minute. But those figs, like the tree that is their very own display rack, belong to my landlord, and I wouldn't dream of touching them.
Because once upon a time I had a (fill in adjective here) neighbor who was growing something I have blocked out of memory. (I was growing black peppermint and perpendicular carrots* at the time, since you asked, and rosemary that is now approximately the size of those items so popular during the month of December.)
I mentioned to my neighbor, in passing, that I had tasted a strawberry or whatever it was and he should feel free to have some mint and rosemary and perhaps a perpendicular carrot, too, and next thing you know Mr. Wonderful had written in red, on a piece of wood that he had thoughtfully nailed to the garden wall, a note informing me that he had taken something of mine from the garden in restitution, and then I believe he shared with me and whomever else happened to be reading the garden wall at the time some actions he was considering.
Fortunately, our paths never crossed after that because a) he was on another floor; and b) I avoided him like the plague. And then one day he moved to another state and I could go into the backyard again.**
Praise the Lord.
At any rate: I was tempted to ask the nice lady shopping at the Farmers' Market if she had ever heard of oranges or mandarins (which we in New Jersey always called "tangerines," but I digress). Because I wanted to tell her what I realized sometime last year: a lemon--say, one of those fine Lisbon lemons that was languishing right in front of her very eyes) + an orange or an orange relative = (pretty much) 1 Meyer lemon.
I kept my mouth shut.
Reminded me of the times I've been at Whole Foods and they've had one of their fabulous half- or whole salmon sales. We're talking beautiful fish here. And someone comes up to the counter and asks for the $49/lb. salmon filet. And I ask what they're planning to do with the fish.
They are putting a sauce on it.
This is a bit like putting a raincoat on a tuxedo and not removing it for the entire evening. (The raincoat. If you are in the habit of taking off your tuxedo in the middle of the festivities, I cannot help you.)
But as my mother likes to say, "As long as they're happy."
While I am at the fish counter I do (gently) lobby for people to split the half- or whole salmon with me, though. That's a lotta salmon.
And now, back to Pesach.
Maroo-Cashew Charoset:
¼ cup Maroo raisins (or pour boiling water over Thompson raisins and plump for about 10 minutes)
2-3 dates (at least one Medjool and one Deglet, which is a bit dryer)
3 kumquats
2 tablespoons raw cashews
1 blood orange
1 lemon
1 slice ginger root, peeled and minced; or a pinch of ground ginger
Sesame seeds (unless you’re off kitniyot*** this week)
Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Plump raisins, if not Maroo. Place cashews on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop. Chop dates into small pieces. Slice kumquats in half and remove seeds, chop without removing rind, and add to dates and raisins. Cut blood orange and lemon in half. (Reserve the unused half of each.) Juice the half-blood orange and half-lemon, then remove the zest from them. Add the toasted cashews and zest to the fruit mixture, along with the fresh or ground ginger. Now add the blood orange and lemon juice, toss, and taste. If needed, juice the remaining blood orange and lemon and add to the charoset. Toast sesame seeds, place atop charoset, and serve.
*There is nothing like growing your own carrots to give you enormous respect for the well-formed versions found at the Farmers' Markets and the store.
**I've had lots of neighbors in the 20-plus years I've lived here. Many have become friends. Some have been memorable: a couple that seemed to be practicing modern dance--until the police came; the woman who audibly enjoyed her boyfriend. But Mr. Wonderful does stand out. Rumor has it he is now in the South. I imagine him living in Flannery O'Connor's old neighborhood.
***What’s “kitniyot”? Among other things, sesame seeds. Honey, you could always look it up, you know.
Wait. What do you mean "Listen to Jim"?
I asked my friend Jim at the Farmers' Market if he thought it was funny when people would tell him their orders each time, week after week, given that they usually ordered the same exact thing.
He said, "You really want to know what I think?"
"Yeah," I said.
Somebody else might have looked around to see if anybody else could hear him. Not Jim. He just smiled and said, "People are weird about food."
©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
"Do you have any Meyer lemons?" somebody asked.
"Sorry, no," came the reply.
And she passed right over those Lisbons.
Now, I think Meyer lemons are out of this world. Some people have Meyer lemon trees in their very own backyards. Lucky ducks. I have a fruit tree, too, with figs so beautiful they could make you cry, so full you know they will burst any minute. But those figs, like the tree that is their very own display rack, belong to my landlord, and I wouldn't dream of touching them.
Because once upon a time I had a (fill in adjective here) neighbor who was growing something I have blocked out of memory. (I was growing black peppermint and perpendicular carrots* at the time, since you asked, and rosemary that is now approximately the size of those items so popular during the month of December.)
I mentioned to my neighbor, in passing, that I had tasted a strawberry or whatever it was and he should feel free to have some mint and rosemary and perhaps a perpendicular carrot, too, and next thing you know Mr. Wonderful had written in red, on a piece of wood that he had thoughtfully nailed to the garden wall, a note informing me that he had taken something of mine from the garden in restitution, and then I believe he shared with me and whomever else happened to be reading the garden wall at the time some actions he was considering.
Fortunately, our paths never crossed after that because a) he was on another floor; and b) I avoided him like the plague. And then one day he moved to another state and I could go into the backyard again.**
Praise the Lord.
At any rate: I was tempted to ask the nice lady shopping at the Farmers' Market if she had ever heard of oranges or mandarins (which we in New Jersey always called "tangerines," but I digress). Because I wanted to tell her what I realized sometime last year: a lemon--say, one of those fine Lisbon lemons that was languishing right in front of her very eyes) + an orange or an orange relative = (pretty much) 1 Meyer lemon.
I kept my mouth shut.
Reminded me of the times I've been at Whole Foods and they've had one of their fabulous half- or whole salmon sales. We're talking beautiful fish here. And someone comes up to the counter and asks for the $49/lb. salmon filet. And I ask what they're planning to do with the fish.
They are putting a sauce on it.
This is a bit like putting a raincoat on a tuxedo and not removing it for the entire evening. (The raincoat. If you are in the habit of taking off your tuxedo in the middle of the festivities, I cannot help you.)
But as my mother likes to say, "As long as they're happy."
While I am at the fish counter I do (gently) lobby for people to split the half- or whole salmon with me, though. That's a lotta salmon.
And now, back to Pesach.
Maroo-Cashew Charoset:
¼ cup Maroo raisins (or pour boiling water over Thompson raisins and plump for about 10 minutes)
2-3 dates (at least one Medjool and one Deglet, which is a bit dryer)
3 kumquats
2 tablespoons raw cashews
1 blood orange
1 lemon
1 slice ginger root, peeled and minced; or a pinch of ground ginger
Sesame seeds (unless you’re off kitniyot*** this week)
Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Plump raisins, if not Maroo. Place cashews on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop. Chop dates into small pieces. Slice kumquats in half and remove seeds, chop without removing rind, and add to dates and raisins. Cut blood orange and lemon in half. (Reserve the unused half of each.) Juice the half-blood orange and half-lemon, then remove the zest from them. Add the toasted cashews and zest to the fruit mixture, along with the fresh or ground ginger. Now add the blood orange and lemon juice, toss, and taste. If needed, juice the remaining blood orange and lemon and add to the charoset. Toast sesame seeds, place atop charoset, and serve.
*There is nothing like growing your own carrots to give you enormous respect for the well-formed versions found at the Farmers' Markets and the store.
**I've had lots of neighbors in the 20-plus years I've lived here. Many have become friends. Some have been memorable: a couple that seemed to be practicing modern dance--until the police came; the woman who audibly enjoyed her boyfriend. But Mr. Wonderful does stand out. Rumor has it he is now in the South. I imagine him living in Flannery O'Connor's old neighborhood.
***What’s “kitniyot”? Among other things, sesame seeds. Honey, you could always look it up, you know.
Wait. What do you mean "Listen to Jim"?
I asked my friend Jim at the Farmers' Market if he thought it was funny when people would tell him their orders each time, week after week, given that they usually ordered the same exact thing.
He said, "You really want to know what I think?"
"Yeah," I said.
Somebody else might have looked around to see if anybody else could hear him. Not Jim. He just smiled and said, "People are weird about food."
©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Just a Little
So let's talk about matzo.
Do I love matzo? Not especially. Although I do love egg matzo and onion matzo.
But the plain variety? Not unless it's under some charoset. I am not a huge fan of matzo brei.* I know it's traditional. So are corsets.
Still, remember the following:
a) You've eaten worse. I was once at a friend's house and she served aduki bean and miso soup. I later came to love miso soup, but at the time I said, "I am eating this because you are my friend."
b) You only have to do it for a week.
and perhaps most importantly,
c) People! Why do you think those perforations are there? Have a tiny piece. Put John Lagier's amazing almond butter on it.
After that piece, break off another and put this on it:
Apple-Almond-Miso Spread (adapted from Cookin' Healthy
with One Foot Out the Door, by Polly Pitchford and Delia Quigley):
4 parts apple butter (I like Eden, which is just apples)
2 parts roasted almond butter (Lagier, if you can get it; Massa Organics is also great)
1 part miso (During Pesach, use brown rice miso or white rice miso)
Blend and add water to taste. Keeps well in the refrigerator for about a week.
Also, nowhere in the Haggadah does it say you may not eat scrambled eggs with green garlic and basil, with asparagus and brown rice or sweet potatoes on the side. So I hope that wasn't more kvetching about breakfast I just heard.
*I had a conversion experience at the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco, assisted by Frank London and Lorin Sklamberg of the (fabulous) Klezmatics, along with their esteemed colleague (and world-class singer and storyteller) the late, lamented Adrienne Cooper, during their “Esn: A Shabbat Concert with Cooking" show on February 11, 2011. Here's what I remember of that fateful night:
They needed a matzo brei taster.
I raised my hand.
And children, that was all it took. Frank's was savory, and yummy. Lorin's was light and fluffy, like an omelette. Also divine. And Adrienne's had a wonderful fruit compote that was out-of-this-world.
So. I now love matzo brei. In fact, I'm making some new recipes and will post them if you insist.
©2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
Do I love matzo? Not especially. Although I do love egg matzo and onion matzo.
But the plain variety? Not unless it's under some charoset. I am not a huge fan of matzo brei.* I know it's traditional. So are corsets.
Still, remember the following:
a) You've eaten worse. I was once at a friend's house and she served aduki bean and miso soup. I later came to love miso soup, but at the time I said, "I am eating this because you are my friend."
b) You only have to do it for a week.
and perhaps most importantly,
c) People! Why do you think those perforations are there? Have a tiny piece. Put John Lagier's amazing almond butter on it.
After that piece, break off another and put this on it:
Apple-Almond-Miso Spread (adapted from Cookin' Healthy
with One Foot Out the Door, by Polly Pitchford and Delia Quigley):
4 parts apple butter (I like Eden, which is just apples)
2 parts roasted almond butter (Lagier, if you can get it; Massa Organics is also great)
1 part miso (During Pesach, use brown rice miso or white rice miso)
Blend and add water to taste. Keeps well in the refrigerator for about a week.
Also, nowhere in the Haggadah does it say you may not eat scrambled eggs with green garlic and basil, with asparagus and brown rice or sweet potatoes on the side. So I hope that wasn't more kvetching about breakfast I just heard.
*I had a conversion experience at the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco, assisted by Frank London and Lorin Sklamberg of the (fabulous) Klezmatics, along with their esteemed colleague (and world-class singer and storyteller) the late, lamented Adrienne Cooper, during their “Esn: A Shabbat Concert with Cooking" show on February 11, 2011. Here's what I remember of that fateful night:
They needed a matzo brei taster.
I raised my hand.
And children, that was all it took. Frank's was savory, and yummy. Lorin's was light and fluffy, like an omelette. Also divine. And Adrienne's had a wonderful fruit compote that was out-of-this-world.
So. I now love matzo brei. In fact, I'm making some new recipes and will post them if you insist.
©2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015 Laynie Tzena.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
New Food, Part One
So it's Pesach (that's Passover) again, and that means new food for a week. Well, some of the usual contenders: fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, protein, chocolate. And the miracle that happens every year: This descendant of Lithuanian, German, and Polish Jews--Ashkenazim--suddenly becomes Sephardic.
It's a long story. The short version is: Rice and beans. Most Sephardic Jews eat legumes and rice during Pesach; most Ashkenazi Jews don't. If you want to learn more about this, look up kitniyot. See if you can stay awake during the debate. I'm cooking rice.
And not burning it, ever since some angel years ago taught me a simple method:
Fool-Proof Brown Rice:
1 cup brown rice, short- or long-grain
1-1/2 cups water or stock
Preheat the oven to 350°. Coat the inside of a pan with oil. I use olive oil. Rinse the rice in a strainer, and add the rice to the pan. Bring the water or stock to a boil, and pour the boiling liquid over the rice. Cover the pan, and place it on the middle rack of the preheated oven. Set the timer and go do something else for 25 minutes.
Which reminds me: Has anybody else been hearing in the news about how multi-tasking doesn't work and you can really only do one thing at a time, blah blah blah? Am I the only person to wonder if the researchers might be descended from, say, androids? Let's face it: Mothers have been multi-tasking since the beginning of recorded time. The clothes were in the dryer while Mom was getting dinner on the table and whipping up sandwiches for tomorrow, helping with homework, and maybe organizing the car pool. Never mind piano lessons and recitals, practices and games, haircuts, visits to the doctor and, if the family was lucky, a vacation to be organized as well. These things, or at least the planning for them, had to be done simultaneously or nobody would have gotten to school and then college and then graduate school where they could do a study and determine it couldn't be done.
Cooking is a wonderful combination of single-pointed focus (on measuring that rice, for example) and multi-tasking (the rice is in the oven while you're dicing an onion and mincing some herbs for another dish, choosing the greens for the salad and rinsing them in the colander, etc.). Text and context.
And speaking of that rice: Once the timer rings, check to see if the water or stock has disappeared and the grains are just starting to come away from the sides of the pan. If it's close, just turn off the oven and set the timer for another five minutes. Then check it again, and taste it to be sure.
So now you have rice--which, if you make it tonight and you are Jewish and celebrating Pesach, means you're Sephardic, too. Bienvenidos. Who knew?
Next time, a Pesach recipe or two. Maybe more about my mother. If she ever gets online, I'm toast--er, matzo.
©2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013 Laynie Tzena.
It's a long story. The short version is: Rice and beans. Most Sephardic Jews eat legumes and rice during Pesach; most Ashkenazi Jews don't. If you want to learn more about this, look up kitniyot. See if you can stay awake during the debate. I'm cooking rice.
And not burning it, ever since some angel years ago taught me a simple method:
Fool-Proof Brown Rice:
1 cup brown rice, short- or long-grain
1-1/2 cups water or stock
Preheat the oven to 350°. Coat the inside of a pan with oil. I use olive oil. Rinse the rice in a strainer, and add the rice to the pan. Bring the water or stock to a boil, and pour the boiling liquid over the rice. Cover the pan, and place it on the middle rack of the preheated oven. Set the timer and go do something else for 25 minutes.
Which reminds me: Has anybody else been hearing in the news about how multi-tasking doesn't work and you can really only do one thing at a time, blah blah blah? Am I the only person to wonder if the researchers might be descended from, say, androids? Let's face it: Mothers have been multi-tasking since the beginning of recorded time. The clothes were in the dryer while Mom was getting dinner on the table and whipping up sandwiches for tomorrow, helping with homework, and maybe organizing the car pool. Never mind piano lessons and recitals, practices and games, haircuts, visits to the doctor and, if the family was lucky, a vacation to be organized as well. These things, or at least the planning for them, had to be done simultaneously or nobody would have gotten to school and then college and then graduate school where they could do a study and determine it couldn't be done.
Cooking is a wonderful combination of single-pointed focus (on measuring that rice, for example) and multi-tasking (the rice is in the oven while you're dicing an onion and mincing some herbs for another dish, choosing the greens for the salad and rinsing them in the colander, etc.). Text and context.
And speaking of that rice: Once the timer rings, check to see if the water or stock has disappeared and the grains are just starting to come away from the sides of the pan. If it's close, just turn off the oven and set the timer for another five minutes. Then check it again, and taste it to be sure.
So now you have rice--which, if you make it tonight and you are Jewish and celebrating Pesach, means you're Sephardic, too. Bienvenidos. Who knew?
Next time, a Pesach recipe or two. Maybe more about my mother. If she ever gets online, I'm toast--er, matzo.
©2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013 Laynie Tzena.
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