There's one kitchen practice that I've followed with increasing consistency, to the point that I essentially always doing it when cooking from a recipe. That's the practice of having my ducks in a row before I get started.
(The pros have a fancy term for this, but we needn't trouble our pretty heads about them.)
Having my ducks in a row means that I have everything gathered before I get to the recipe's first step. I get all the ingredients not only measured, but prepped. If the recipe calls for a cup of minced onion, I mince a cup of onions. If the recipe calls for softened butter, I dig the butter out the very first thing.
(On the cooking shows, you'll see displays of cute little bowls, each containing a separate ingredient. Because I don't especially like doing dishes, I'll usually add ingredients to the same bowl if they come into play at the same time. For example, many baking recipes call for adding the dry ingredients all at once, so for those recipes I'll measure those ingredients into the same bowl.)
There are a number of big advantages to having my ducks in a row:
1) There's no discovering when it's way too late that I'm out of something. If I discover such a lack while I'm still in the prep stage, I can either make a store trip or make another plan.
2) If things get going fast, I won't have garlic burning in a hot pan while I'm measuring out chicken stock. This is especially important when stir-frying.
3) It helps me keep my small kitchen less cluttered. When getting my ducks in a row, I will get out my flour canister, measure out what I need, and put the canister away. If I try to measure out the flour when things are moving fast, I won't have the time to put the canister (or anything else) away and what little counter space I have will quickly disappear.
4) If I need to use a measuring cup or spoon more than once in prepping a recipe, I have the time to wash and reuse.
Your ducks. In a row. Put them there.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Crusty the Beginner
My area of the United States is hardly in the tropics, but it does get hot and humid here. Since my kitchen isn't in the air-conditioned part of my home, the time of year during which I'll want to do a lot of baking will be ending during the next month or so.
That's why I got to thinking recently about what baking projects I wanted to get in before the hot weather. And the answer in my heart was pie crust.
This may seem odd: good quality crusts are available in both frozen and refrigerated forms, and there are a number of creditable alternatives to traditional pie crusts for a person like me who doesn't need to bake many pies. Still, as part of my basic approach of building skill and confidence through terrified audacity, I really wanted to try the traditional approach. And last weekend appeared to be the time to do it.
I chose the "Traditional Single-Crust Pie Dough" recipe from "The America's Test Kitchen Family Baking Book". Since I'd need something to put into the crust and didn't want that to be a project in itself, I decided on the "Simple Cheese Quiche" from the same book.
I also sought advice from online friends, especially Princess Ladybug. It was emphasized to me that success lay in keeping both ingredients and equipment cold. I got a mental picture of spraying my kitchen down with liquid nitrogen.
Armed with information, I began the cooking day by refrigerating my dry ingredients and fats, my food processor bowl, and my rolling pin. (I didn't think about a mixing bowl and spoon.)
Stepping through the recipe, my first real problem came in rolling out the dough. My sheet of dough wanted to develop cracks at the edges. (I've learned since that this is to be expected.) I dealt with this by patching and rolling, patching and rolling, patching and rolling. At length, I had a dough sheet of the requisite size. To my astonishment, moving the sheet from countertop to pie plate occurred without disaster. I gently nudged the dough into fitting the pie plate, trimmed it, and crimped the edge with a fork.
Time for parbaking. I covered the crust with two layers of aluminum foil and filled it with dried beans. I then baked it checking repeatedly for the browning the recipe wanted. I also used this time to assemble the filling.
The only frustration I had with this recipe had to do with needing to repeatedly uncrimp foil from the edge of my crust to check doneness.
Once the crust was out of the oven, it was all over but the shouting. I let the crust cool (but not completely), added the filling, put it back in the oven, and removed it when it seemed to be done.
Look, I realize that, as a beginner, there's usually a limited amount of credit I can take for a dish that turns out well. I can choose a good recipe and follow it carefully, but beyond that there's a good deal of luck involved. Nonetheless, I feel that my crust (and the quiche it contained) were a triumph. I thought it was delicious, but I was anxious to see what my neighbor lady thought. She loved it and pronounced the crust to be 'light and flaky'.
To paraphrase Tom Petty, even the beginners get lucky sometimes.
That's why I got to thinking recently about what baking projects I wanted to get in before the hot weather. And the answer in my heart was pie crust.
This may seem odd: good quality crusts are available in both frozen and refrigerated forms, and there are a number of creditable alternatives to traditional pie crusts for a person like me who doesn't need to bake many pies. Still, as part of my basic approach of building skill and confidence through terrified audacity, I really wanted to try the traditional approach. And last weekend appeared to be the time to do it.
I chose the "Traditional Single-Crust Pie Dough" recipe from "The America's Test Kitchen Family Baking Book". Since I'd need something to put into the crust and didn't want that to be a project in itself, I decided on the "Simple Cheese Quiche" from the same book.
I also sought advice from online friends, especially Princess Ladybug. It was emphasized to me that success lay in keeping both ingredients and equipment cold. I got a mental picture of spraying my kitchen down with liquid nitrogen.
Armed with information, I began the cooking day by refrigerating my dry ingredients and fats, my food processor bowl, and my rolling pin. (I didn't think about a mixing bowl and spoon.)
Stepping through the recipe, my first real problem came in rolling out the dough. My sheet of dough wanted to develop cracks at the edges. (I've learned since that this is to be expected.) I dealt with this by patching and rolling, patching and rolling, patching and rolling. At length, I had a dough sheet of the requisite size. To my astonishment, moving the sheet from countertop to pie plate occurred without disaster. I gently nudged the dough into fitting the pie plate, trimmed it, and crimped the edge with a fork.
Time for parbaking. I covered the crust with two layers of aluminum foil and filled it with dried beans. I then baked it checking repeatedly for the browning the recipe wanted. I also used this time to assemble the filling.
The only frustration I had with this recipe had to do with needing to repeatedly uncrimp foil from the edge of my crust to check doneness.
Once the crust was out of the oven, it was all over but the shouting. I let the crust cool (but not completely), added the filling, put it back in the oven, and removed it when it seemed to be done.
Look, I realize that, as a beginner, there's usually a limited amount of credit I can take for a dish that turns out well. I can choose a good recipe and follow it carefully, but beyond that there's a good deal of luck involved. Nonetheless, I feel that my crust (and the quiche it contained) were a triumph. I thought it was delicious, but I was anxious to see what my neighbor lady thought. She loved it and pronounced the crust to be 'light and flaky'.
To paraphrase Tom Petty, even the beginners get lucky sometimes.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Beginner in the Rye
While I've allowed myself to be diverted by cakes and such, my main goal in taking up baking has been bread. I want to make my daily bread, and I also want to make special breads. I want to make basic breads, and I want to make breads with grains many people have never heard of.
I'm pretty comfortable, also, with the notion that learning to bake bread is going to have stumbles. There are a lot of variables, a lot of judgment that has to be developed, and a lot of things that can go wrong.
Still, it was with optimism in my heart that I proceeded with the "Deli Rye Bread" from "America's Test Kitchen Baking Book". This was the first bread I've made that called for a "sponge", AKA "starter", that needs to be made 8-24 hours in advance. The sponge is sort of the recipe in miniature, and the purpose is to allow the yeast to develop flavor.
The trouble appears to have started with the first rise. The recipe called for the dough to rise until doubled in volume, about 1 to 1 1/2 hours. I usually let dough rise in my oven, where just the gas pilot light creates a temperature that yeast and yogurt both seem to really like. But when I checked it after an hour, the dough had tripled, maybe even quadrupled. Perhaps there was some residual heat from baking my cake, perhaps something else was happening. Though I knew I was probably in trouble, I formed the loaf and put it back in for the second rise.
The result was a bread that smells good, tastes goo, and has a crust that would make a turtle proud. When I first cut it last night, the crust was hard but edible. Tonight, I could barely saw through it.
The little bit of investigating I've done suggests that the over-rising is likely to blame for the over-crustiness. (No comments about the baker being overly crusty, please.) The suggestion I read was to knead it some more and let it rest for a while. Mostly, though, I think I need to be more vigilant and not take naps during rising times.
It's a good thing I have a rye sense of humor!
I'm pretty comfortable, also, with the notion that learning to bake bread is going to have stumbles. There are a lot of variables, a lot of judgment that has to be developed, and a lot of things that can go wrong.
Still, it was with optimism in my heart that I proceeded with the "Deli Rye Bread" from "America's Test Kitchen Baking Book". This was the first bread I've made that called for a "sponge", AKA "starter", that needs to be made 8-24 hours in advance. The sponge is sort of the recipe in miniature, and the purpose is to allow the yeast to develop flavor.
The trouble appears to have started with the first rise. The recipe called for the dough to rise until doubled in volume, about 1 to 1 1/2 hours. I usually let dough rise in my oven, where just the gas pilot light creates a temperature that yeast and yogurt both seem to really like. But when I checked it after an hour, the dough had tripled, maybe even quadrupled. Perhaps there was some residual heat from baking my cake, perhaps something else was happening. Though I knew I was probably in trouble, I formed the loaf and put it back in for the second rise.
The result was a bread that smells good, tastes goo, and has a crust that would make a turtle proud. When I first cut it last night, the crust was hard but edible. Tonight, I could barely saw through it.
The little bit of investigating I've done suggests that the over-rising is likely to blame for the over-crustiness. (No comments about the baker being overly crusty, please.) The suggestion I read was to knead it some more and let it rest for a while. Mostly, though, I think I need to be more vigilant and not take naps during rising times.
It's a good thing I have a rye sense of humor!
Monday, March 12, 2012
Recipes and Non-Recipes
Many years ago, while a college student, I rented a room in a big old house near campus. My housemates there included a young man from China. (He was a great guy. I took him to my family's Thanksgiving dinner, where his sweet nature evaporated our usual "humor" of trading insults back and forth. Best Thanksgiving ever.)
One day, my friend asked me to teach him how to make a sandwich. I was completely baffled (and thus, I fear, completely unhelpful). In more than twenty years of sandwich making, I had never once considered sandwich construction in a way that allowed me to convey anything useful to my friend. I just knew how.
In my pursuit of good food that I don't have to think about, I have come to really love recipes that aren't really recipes at all, but more like approaches. If I want a sandwich, I don't grab a cookbook, I just get some bread and see what I've got to put in it.
In February 2011, I began experimenting with frittatas, which are a sort of no-fuss omelet that (in this version) are started on the stove top and finished in the oven. (I wrote about them here.) I've made six or eight of these now, and no longer consult a recipe, because the recipe is just some eggs, some cheese, and whatever I want to put in it. Sure, there are limits to that whatever (such that it needs to either be cooked before it goes in or small enough to cook really fast), but I'm comfortable with what those are. Last night, in my need to produce something actually tasty after a day of iffy results, I threw together a frittata with shallots (because I had some I needed to use), some reconstituted dried shitake mushrooms (because I'm on a kick for them and like to use the soaking liquid for other things, and goat cheese (because it sounded good). It was tasty, though the goat cheese disappeared: I may have to look at a couple of recipes.
Twice, now, I've made a simplified paella that (again) starts on the stove top and finishes in the oven. It has struck me that just leaving out the saffron produces a pilaf, and opens a world of possibilities. Once I've learned the rice and liquid amounts (or written them on a note inside my cupboard door, there are hundreds of possible no-need-for-planning suppers.
But I'm still not sure how I'd teach someone to make a sandwich.
One day, my friend asked me to teach him how to make a sandwich. I was completely baffled (and thus, I fear, completely unhelpful). In more than twenty years of sandwich making, I had never once considered sandwich construction in a way that allowed me to convey anything useful to my friend. I just knew how.
In my pursuit of good food that I don't have to think about, I have come to really love recipes that aren't really recipes at all, but more like approaches. If I want a sandwich, I don't grab a cookbook, I just get some bread and see what I've got to put in it.
In February 2011, I began experimenting with frittatas, which are a sort of no-fuss omelet that (in this version) are started on the stove top and finished in the oven. (I wrote about them here.) I've made six or eight of these now, and no longer consult a recipe, because the recipe is just some eggs, some cheese, and whatever I want to put in it. Sure, there are limits to that whatever (such that it needs to either be cooked before it goes in or small enough to cook really fast), but I'm comfortable with what those are. Last night, in my need to produce something actually tasty after a day of iffy results, I threw together a frittata with shallots (because I had some I needed to use), some reconstituted dried shitake mushrooms (because I'm on a kick for them and like to use the soaking liquid for other things, and goat cheese (because it sounded good). It was tasty, though the goat cheese disappeared: I may have to look at a couple of recipes.
Twice, now, I've made a simplified paella that (again) starts on the stove top and finishes in the oven. It has struck me that just leaving out the saffron produces a pilaf, and opens a world of possibilities. Once I've learned the rice and liquid amounts (or written them on a note inside my cupboard door, there are hundreds of possible no-need-for-planning suppers.
But I'm still not sure how I'd teach someone to make a sandwich.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Modest Success, or No Success at All?
I've been kind of wanting to make red velvet cake. I've looked at some 'regular' recipes, but decided at length to try this reduced fat and calorie version from Bobby Deen's show, "Not My Momma's Meals". (I really like this show, in which Bobby produces healthier versions of his mom's classics, with her full approval. It's fun.)
The only huge change I made to the recipe was that I decided to make a sheet cake instead of cupcakes. Other than that, I followed the recipe to the best of my ability, and encountered no real problems. The biggest difference in this recipe from most is that the batter gets its color (and, I assume, some of its sweetness) from roasted beets rather than food coloring.. (It seems to me that I've red that the earliest red velvet cake recipes used beets.) The frosting also uses a reduced fat cream cheese and less sugar than would be typical.
The results were quite good, though not great. I do taste beet, but I'm not sure I would if I wasn't looking for it, and it's a bad thing anyway. I did find the frosting to be goopier than I expected, so I think it'll be a challenge to transport.
The mixed feelings hinted at in this post's title come from my realization as I ate my piece of cake that I'd worked all afternoon (much of it on another baking project I'll write up in due course) and didn't really have any "real" food prepared for the week to come. I was exhausted, and what I had to show for it was 90 square inches of cake that I shouldn't eat much of - a disappointing outcome from that respect.
I think perhaps I've gotten off course a little bit -- the amount of time and effort to make this cake was a distraction from my main goal of making myself tasty and nutritious food for my life. I just need, when planning future projects, to make sure they leave me with enough time and energy to make 'real food' as well.
As I planned, I'll be taking the bulk of my cake to work. And my refrigerator is not devoid of things I can eat - I made a frittata tonight that turned out pretty well. (Yum.)
The only huge change I made to the recipe was that I decided to make a sheet cake instead of cupcakes. Other than that, I followed the recipe to the best of my ability, and encountered no real problems. The biggest difference in this recipe from most is that the batter gets its color (and, I assume, some of its sweetness) from roasted beets rather than food coloring.. (It seems to me that I've red that the earliest red velvet cake recipes used beets.) The frosting also uses a reduced fat cream cheese and less sugar than would be typical.
The results were quite good, though not great. I do taste beet, but I'm not sure I would if I wasn't looking for it, and it's a bad thing anyway. I did find the frosting to be goopier than I expected, so I think it'll be a challenge to transport.
The mixed feelings hinted at in this post's title come from my realization as I ate my piece of cake that I'd worked all afternoon (much of it on another baking project I'll write up in due course) and didn't really have any "real" food prepared for the week to come. I was exhausted, and what I had to show for it was 90 square inches of cake that I shouldn't eat much of - a disappointing outcome from that respect.
I think perhaps I've gotten off course a little bit -- the amount of time and effort to make this cake was a distraction from my main goal of making myself tasty and nutritious food for my life. I just need, when planning future projects, to make sure they leave me with enough time and energy to make 'real food' as well.
As I planned, I'll be taking the bulk of my cake to work. And my refrigerator is not devoid of things I can eat - I made a frittata tonight that turned out pretty well. (Yum.)
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Butternut Squash Oven Fries
A few weeks ago, I was looking for a recipe for sweet potato oven fries and came across this recipe and finally got around to making it this evening.
The recipe calls for salt to be mixed into the oil you coat the fries with. I did that, and also added about a teaspoon of ground cinnamon and maybe half a teaspoon of cayenne pepper.
I also found that mine cooked much more quickly than the recipe indicated - I skipped the reduced temperature baking entirely.
I found them to be really good. Not really crisp, but they had a texture much like a good-but-not-great steak fry. And, I think my intuition on seasoning was a good one. I'd set aside some to share with my neighbor lady, and if I hadn't run out of the ketchup I'd put in a little cup, she wouldn't have gotten hers!
I'm not a huge french fry guy, but it's really nice to have an alternative.
The recipe calls for salt to be mixed into the oil you coat the fries with. I did that, and also added about a teaspoon of ground cinnamon and maybe half a teaspoon of cayenne pepper.
I also found that mine cooked much more quickly than the recipe indicated - I skipped the reduced temperature baking entirely.
I found them to be really good. Not really crisp, but they had a texture much like a good-but-not-great steak fry. And, I think my intuition on seasoning was a good one. I'd set aside some to share with my neighbor lady, and if I hadn't run out of the ketchup I'd put in a little cup, she wouldn't have gotten hers!
I'm not a huge french fry guy, but it's really nice to have an alternative.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Free Food
I am not a thrifty person. But something deep within me dislikes throwing away what I trim off food as I cook. I sometimes get downright cranky about it. So, I often try to find a way to use, say, the liquid in which I've reconstituted dried mushrooms or the central stalk from a head of broccoli. Doing things like this feels like I'm eating free food - and there's no seasoning quite like free.
Today, I bought a half dozen beets (for a secret plan that may or may not actually happen) and decided that I just didn't want to throw the tops away. After looking at a few recipes on the web, this is what I did.
Cranky Bob's Beet Tops
Makes 2-3 cups.
1/2 dozen beets
1/2 cup sliced onion (approx) (Note: quite a bit more would have been fine.)
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup (approx) oil (I used part olive, part canola)
Zest and juice of 1/2 a lemon
Salt and pepper
1. I trimmed the tops off six beets and set the beets aside for another dish.
2. I cut the stalks where the leaf began and carefully washed the leaves and dried them in the salad spinner. .
3. I cut the stalks into one-to-two-inch pieces and carefully washed them and dried them in the salad spinner.
4. Heated my biggest frying pan and added the oil.
5. When the oil was hot I added the onion and the beet stalks and added salt and pepper.
6. I cooked the stalks, stirring frequently, until they were somewhat softened, 5 to 10 minutes.
7. I added the garlic, lemon zest, and greens. I added more salt and pepper.
8. When the greens were tender (like cooked spinach) I added the lemon juice, put the lid on, and turned off the gas burner. (If using electric, move it off the heat.) The goal is to steam the veg in the lemon juice a bit.
9. Add more salt if needed and serve hot.
I think it's delicious. The stalks weren't completely softened, so there's a nice variety of texture. It's garlic-y and lemony. I won't hesitate to make this again.
Today, I bought a half dozen beets (for a secret plan that may or may not actually happen) and decided that I just didn't want to throw the tops away. After looking at a few recipes on the web, this is what I did.
Cranky Bob's Beet Tops
Makes 2-3 cups.
1/2 dozen beets
1/2 cup sliced onion (approx) (Note: quite a bit more would have been fine.)
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup (approx) oil (I used part olive, part canola)
Zest and juice of 1/2 a lemon
Salt and pepper
1. I trimmed the tops off six beets and set the beets aside for another dish.
2. I cut the stalks where the leaf began and carefully washed the leaves and dried them in the salad spinner. .
3. I cut the stalks into one-to-two-inch pieces and carefully washed them and dried them in the salad spinner.
4. Heated my biggest frying pan and added the oil.
5. When the oil was hot I added the onion and the beet stalks and added salt and pepper.
6. I cooked the stalks, stirring frequently, until they were somewhat softened, 5 to 10 minutes.
7. I added the garlic, lemon zest, and greens. I added more salt and pepper.
8. When the greens were tender (like cooked spinach) I added the lemon juice, put the lid on, and turned off the gas burner. (If using electric, move it off the heat.) The goal is to steam the veg in the lemon juice a bit.
9. Add more salt if needed and serve hot.
I think it's delicious. The stalks weren't completely softened, so there's a nice variety of texture. It's garlic-y and lemony. I won't hesitate to make this again.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Chimichurri, Part 2
When I made chimichurri the other day, it occurred to me to try it with chicken breast. Because, you know, chicken breast can be a little bland. And maybe a little dry. (In your heart, you know it to be true.) So, I tried it tonight. I made a double batch: half for marinade and half for sauce.
Oh. my. goodness.
The beneficent universe must have caused chimichurri to be, knowing that someday people would want to eat and enjoy boneless skinless chicken breast.
The olive oil certainly counteracted any dryness my chicken might have had. And flavor? Yes. Emphatically yes.
Not that I didn't have difficulty. You're remembering, aren't you, that I don't claim to know what I'm doing?
I chose to make chicken cutlets, produced by cutting the breasts in half horizontally. I then put them in a bag with the marinade and squished it around until everything seemed to be covered and put it in the refrigerator.
Note: while my chicken was marinating, I did some web browsing for suggestions on how long I ought to marinade. The same document that suggested two hours also said that marinades impart the most flavor when there's as much acid as oil - this is not true of my chimichurri recipe. So next time I might make a low-oil version, take some of the mixture for my marinade and then add more oil to what was destined for sauce. (You really can't use marinade for a sauce unless you cook it after the meat is removed. You know, the whole food poisoning thing.)
The difficulty came when I removed my chicken from the marinade. Since I planned to saute the cutlets, I thought that I ought to get pretty much all the parsley off under the assumption that it would burn. Wiping the marinade off with paper towels proved ineffective, so I wound up rinsing my chicken and drying it with paper towels. There's got to be a better way:I just don't know what it is.
I think, though, that the chimichurri would have made my cutlets delicious had I not marinated at all.
Give it a try.
Oh. my. goodness.
The beneficent universe must have caused chimichurri to be, knowing that someday people would want to eat and enjoy boneless skinless chicken breast.
The olive oil certainly counteracted any dryness my chicken might have had. And flavor? Yes. Emphatically yes.
Not that I didn't have difficulty. You're remembering, aren't you, that I don't claim to know what I'm doing?
I chose to make chicken cutlets, produced by cutting the breasts in half horizontally. I then put them in a bag with the marinade and squished it around until everything seemed to be covered and put it in the refrigerator.
Note: while my chicken was marinating, I did some web browsing for suggestions on how long I ought to marinade. The same document that suggested two hours also said that marinades impart the most flavor when there's as much acid as oil - this is not true of my chimichurri recipe. So next time I might make a low-oil version, take some of the mixture for my marinade and then add more oil to what was destined for sauce. (You really can't use marinade for a sauce unless you cook it after the meat is removed. You know, the whole food poisoning thing.)
The difficulty came when I removed my chicken from the marinade. Since I planned to saute the cutlets, I thought that I ought to get pretty much all the parsley off under the assumption that it would burn. Wiping the marinade off with paper towels proved ineffective, so I wound up rinsing my chicken and drying it with paper towels. There's got to be a better way:I just don't know what it is.
I think, though, that the chimichurri would have made my cutlets delicious had I not marinated at all.
Give it a try.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Chimichurri, and Other Things
I didn't put in the kitchen time this weekend, but there were a few things worth mentioning. Here are a few bullets:
- Have you ever tried chimichurri? It's Argentinian and is sort of a counterpart to pesto. I made this version and found it fabulous. I used it as a marinade for a sliced round steak, and really enjoyed the result.
- As a side note, I'm beginning to accumulate a lengthy list of foods I've prepared without ever having them as prepared by somebody that knew what they were doing. Chimichurri is just the latest example.
- A pizza place in my area does a cheeseburger pizza I've enjoyed, and I decided to try one on my own. I cooked up some ground beef and made a sauce from catsup and mustard. The pizza, which also included a few pickles and some cheese, was pretty good. I could have been more heavy with the sauce, which I'd applied lightly because I was a little afraid of the mustard dominating the flavor.
- I used the food grinder attachment for my mixer to take a first shot at making sausage. I made an Italian sausage which I did not put into casings. The result was okay, if a little dry when cooked into patties, but I had some problems. I'll write more about sausage making at some point.
- I made another attempt in the great tomato sauce quest I mentioned in my last post. This version featured anchovy paste (I'll use less next time) and the soaking water from reconstituting shitake mushrooms. I even wrote down what I was putting in! The sauce was pretty good, but I'm not home yet.
- Tonight, I used the hamburger left over from the pizza, the rest of my sausage, and some of my sauce to make an un-lasagna casserole. I also put in whole wheat pasta, the mushrooms I'd soaked earlier, and several cheeses. It's very good, the tastiest thing I made this weekend. (Okay, second tastiest: that chimichurri steak was delicious.) Plus, it's a win because I hadn't needed a recipe to make it.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
You Say Tomato, I Say 'Meh'
Yes, I know it's unusual. Yes, I know some would consider it anti-American. But it's true.
I don't like tomato sauce.
Sure, I've had good tomato sauces from time to time. But if a sauce is red and being spooned over spaghetti, the chances are pretty good that I won't care for it.
Maybe it's not quite accurate to say that I don't like it. It's more that I find it boring. Uninteresting. It just doesn't invite me to take a second bite.
This really hasn't been much of a problem. I just don't order pasta in restaurants. (I don't care for average alfredo sauces either.)
But a few weeks ago, I made eggplant lasagna for a group of friends. People liked it, but there were a number of things that disappointed me.
Such as the sauce. It was okay. But, it was, to my mind, completely unremarkable.
And so, I've begun a quest to develop a tomato sauce that I can have confidence in. A sauce with depth, with complexity, with interesting-ness. ("Mommy, 'interesting-ness' isn't a word!" "No, darling, it isn't, and I never want to hear you say it!")
In my quest, though, I didn't want to get away from pantry ingredients. I didn't want to include a lot of fresh herbs that would make the sauce too expensive to make frequently.
I decided that the way to go might lie in glutamates, the ingredients that add that "umami" thing the foodies like to talk about. So, my first stab at this, made last weekend, included tomato paste, which is typical, and Thai fish sauce and sesame oil. ("Mommy, he added fish sauce! EWWWW!" "Don't worry, sweetie, I won't make you try it.")
The result was okay on pasta that night. A couple of days later, it was pretty good on my pizza. And last night, the last of it was FABULOUS with mozerella over spaghetti.
So, I think I'm on the right track. In the next batch I make, I'll swap out the fish sauce for the more Italian anchovy paste. I'm also harboring dark thoughts involving dried mushrooms AND their soaking liquid. We'll see.
It's a work in progress. When I've got something like a recipe, I'll share it here.
I don't like tomato sauce.
Sure, I've had good tomato sauces from time to time. But if a sauce is red and being spooned over spaghetti, the chances are pretty good that I won't care for it.
Maybe it's not quite accurate to say that I don't like it. It's more that I find it boring. Uninteresting. It just doesn't invite me to take a second bite.
This really hasn't been much of a problem. I just don't order pasta in restaurants. (I don't care for average alfredo sauces either.)
But a few weeks ago, I made eggplant lasagna for a group of friends. People liked it, but there were a number of things that disappointed me.
Such as the sauce. It was okay. But, it was, to my mind, completely unremarkable.
And so, I've begun a quest to develop a tomato sauce that I can have confidence in. A sauce with depth, with complexity, with interesting-ness. ("Mommy, 'interesting-ness' isn't a word!" "No, darling, it isn't, and I never want to hear you say it!")
In my quest, though, I didn't want to get away from pantry ingredients. I didn't want to include a lot of fresh herbs that would make the sauce too expensive to make frequently.
I decided that the way to go might lie in glutamates, the ingredients that add that "umami" thing the foodies like to talk about. So, my first stab at this, made last weekend, included tomato paste, which is typical, and Thai fish sauce and sesame oil. ("Mommy, he added fish sauce! EWWWW!" "Don't worry, sweetie, I won't make you try it.")
The result was okay on pasta that night. A couple of days later, it was pretty good on my pizza. And last night, the last of it was FABULOUS with mozerella over spaghetti.
So, I think I'm on the right track. In the next batch I make, I'll swap out the fish sauce for the more Italian anchovy paste. I'm also harboring dark thoughts involving dried mushrooms AND their soaking liquid. We'll see.
It's a work in progress. When I've got something like a recipe, I'll share it here.
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