A Finger in Every Pie

Without Salt

I'm sure that by now you're completely sick of  bloggers writing posts about the amazing discovery of Jim Lahey's Sullivan Street Bakery No-Knead Bread as shared in Mark Bittman's NY Times column.  But like just about everyone else in the food blogosphere, I had to throw my apron into the ring, even though I'm coming late to the party. 

So I won't wax ecstatic over the ease of this bread or the marvels of its texture, crumb and crust.  I'll simply share a couple of photos with you and tell you how this afforded me an opportunity to snatch triumph from the jaws of disaster. 

Rather recently, the charming Bakerina and I found ourselves departing Payard Patisserie.  We were replete with a Thé Royale (which, should you feel like indulging yourself similarly, includes champagne with crème de mûre, caviar and blini, gorgeous tea sandwiches, scones, madeleines, tons of even more gorgeous tiny pastries, and, of course, tea).  Much as I might be tempted to delude you (or myself) into thinking that Bakerina and I are glamorous New York creatures who have such a tea on a regular basis after shopping for thousand-dollar bedroom slippers and jewel-encrusted thongs on Madison Avenue, I'll just say that yes, it was a special occasion.  But I digress.  As we strolled towards our respective forms of transportation, we entered into a discussion of why so-called "Tuscan" bread in this country, usually a flavorful, "rustic" loaf, bears no resemblance to the tasteless, generally heavy bread one actually finds in Tuscany.   This bread, in addition to being ofttimes a bit leaden and doughy, has no salt.  Low salt is one thing, but no salt?  No salt, no flavor, at least not when it comes to bread.  Or so I thought.

I meandered home and that very evening, mixed up some bread flour, AP flour, instant yeast and water to try my hand at the infamous No-Knead.  All was well, or so I thought -- until about 14 hours later, when upon revisiting the recipe to see what I had to do next, it occurred to me that I had omitted the salt.  Brainlessly, yes -- or perhaps it was my subconscious, getting back at me for sniping at Tuscany's saltless staff of life.  If it had been any other bread, of course, I could have just kneaded in some salt before the next rising.  But since there is no kneading to this loaf, there was no way to incorporate anything else into a dough which demands minimal handling.  I shrugged and proceeded with the recipe.  When life (or your own cluelessness) gives you saltless bread, make breadcrumbs, I thought.   Surely it will be inedible as it is, especially for G and myself, who love salt and crave it with almost anything. 

But this bread was full of surprises.  As you can see from the photo, it came out of the oven sporting ears, and a kind of pissed-off expression. G was taken aback by the loaf's astounding resemblance to Mr. Garrison, and decided to heighten the likeness by lending the loaf his own glasses for a photo op.  So at least we were having fun, no matter what the bread would taste like.

And then the real surprise.  It was good.  Really good.  Would it have been better with salt?  Undoubtedly it would, and will be, just as soon as I get around to making the next batch.  But it had a sort of charm of its own, saltless though it was.  Unlike saltless Tuscan bread, it was full of its own flavor.  Somehow the long fermentation period gives this bread an extraordinarily complex flavor:  slightly sweet, very wheaty for something made solely of white flour.  This, in addition to the light, snappy crust and moist crumb, made it perfect  with salty things.  One night we had it as a base for open-faced grilled cheese with bacon, where its sweetness gave great contrast to the cheese and pork. 

It's been eaten all the way down to a small heel at this point.  And I, like everyone else, will make this again, and often, but I'm almost tempted to make it this way again -- without salt. 

Hunger of Memory: Turkey-Lentil Soup

On the day after Thanksgiving, my mother would always put the turkey frame up to boil with lentils and aromatic vegetables to make her very simple and delicious turkey lentil soup.  For years I ate this good soup the week after Thanksgiving, usually with crisply broiled Kosher frankfurters (for their beefy, garlicky flavor, rather than for any reasons of observance) on rye bread. 

The coming of age allows us the freedom to experiment, branch out and move away from our family traditions or at least play with different versions of them, exploring the exotic, coming to know for ourselves what we like.  Although I always make soup of some kind or another, most of my adult life I've made any and all kinds of turkey soup -- other than turkey lentil, that is -- on the day after Thanksgiving.  I've made turkey vegetable, turkey rice and turkey barley, as well as other variations too numerous to list and too far away in time to remember.  And it's not that I don't make lentil soup -- I make lentil soups all the time.  Sometimes I make a Spanish lentil soup with chorizo and spinach.  Then there's the mulligatawny, made with red lentils and coconut milk.  I love to make aromatic Moroccan harira with lamb and chickpeas as well as lentils; or there's a vegetarian lentil that I'm fond of, scented with cumin and copious quantities of garlic and mint.   But it's been a very long time since I made my mother's turkey lentil soup. 

This is the time of year when my own particular brand of seasonal affective disorder sets in.   I spend some time dwelling in the past, and sometimes I seem to get stuck there, at least for a bit.  I'm nostalgic for the way things were, in what seems like the long ago and far away.  I'm no longer a child, anticipating the holidays.  We grow up, we grow older, we lose people we love.  Those we're close to get married, and start spending their holidays in other family circles.  Friends move to other parts of the country or become estranged; beloved elders die. 

A good part of yesterday and a fair portion of today were laced with these broody, melancholic moments.   But each time I was ready to sink under the weight of my own thoughts, strong arms wrapped themselves around me and G said, simply, "I'm here."  That was all I needed in order to remember that indeed, I have a lot for which to be truly thankful.   And so suddenly I knew how to live inside some of my sorrow, the grief that never really goes away.  It seemed time, today, to come full circle, and invoke the spirit of my mother, five years gone, by making her traditional post-Thanksgiving soup.  I didn't even have to leave the house -- everything I needed was right here.  It was clearly meant to be. 

The soup is now made, and waiting in the refrigerator for tomorrow's dinner, to be eaten with crisply grilled Kosher frankfurters and rye bread.  I've changed just a couple things -- I tend to make the stock from the frame first, and then make the soup on that.  And I add leeks, and some shallots too.  But it's more or less the same recipe and really, the soup tastes almost exactly like hers, enough that it will bring her into the room with us as we eat it. 

Strong arms are wrapped around me as we make plans for the holiday traditions we've begun to evolve over the past few years -- Christmas Eve with my favorite cousin and her family; Christmas breakfast with my father; Christmas dinner and a movie, perhaps, with dear pals Nathalie and Josh. New Year's Eve will be à deux, as has always been our custom together, and maybe this year we'll host a New Year's Day fest.  Making plans always cheers me up.  And really, how sad can I be when I'm eating leftover pumpkin soufflé, maple pecan and caramel apple crumble pies, all topped with homemade cognac-scented whipped cream? 

Turkey Lentil Soup

Stock
1 turkey frame with bits of meat still clinging to the bones
10 cups of water, or enough to cover the frame
1 carrot, chunked
1 small whole onion
4 or 5 sprigs of parsley
1 stalk celery, broken into 3 or four pieces
salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 bay leaves
a pinch of fresh or dried thyme
a pinch of fresh or dried sage

Soup
Turkey Stock
3 cups lentils, green/brown, red, or a combination
3 leeks, cleaned and sliced
1 large onion, chopped
2 shallots, chopped
3 stalks celery, chopped
4 carrots, peeled and in small chunks
salt and freshly ground black pepper

Combine all the stock ingredients, and boil for about an hour or an hour and a half, until you have a rich turkey stock.  Strain.  Pick the turkey meat off the frame, and reserve.  Put the stock back in the pot
with all the other soup ingredients.  Boil gently until lentils are very tender and partially dissolving into the soup, at least 45 minutes, but perhaps as much as an hour and a half..  Give an immersion blender a quick spin through one corner of your soup to thicken it up a bit.  Don't puree it all -- you want the lovely texture of the lentils and vegetables, too.  Add the picked turkey meat back into the soup.  Taste, and adjust seasoning.     Serve with grilled frankfurters -- or maybe just some good bread and cheese and a salad. 

In The Land of Meat 'n' Three or How I Lost My Heart At The Loveless Cafe

When last we saw our heroine, she was about to embark for the wilds of Nashville, wondering if, for the three days of her stay, she would be doomed to hotel breakfast buffets, conference boxed lunches and dining at evening with large groups eating "cutting edge cuisine" of the sort that just tries way too hard.

Something in her (or in me, actually) rebelled at that prospect, and I was determined to have at least one good regional meal.  I had done a bit of research before leaving New York, and had fixed on the Loveless Cafe as my one destination dining locale on this trip.  I would go whether others came with me or not.   

We landed in Nashville on a stormy afternoon.  Two colleagues (one of whom is my site director and therefore my boss) happened to be on my flight.  I proposed that they accompany me that very night to the wilds of Highway 100, to seek deep-fried bliss at the Loveless Cafe.  They eyed me with skepticism.  "We'll see," they said.  And a short time later, as I had just gotten installed in my hotel room, a phone call came.  "The others are waiting for us," my director said.  Our beloved former site director, who now works for our national office, had commanded us to appear with all haste where she and some other colleagues were dining -- at an Italian restaurant in town. 

Do I go to Nashville to eat Italian food?  I do not.  Do I, however, obey the commands of those who are higher up in the, ummm, hierarchy than I?  Well, yes,  at times I do; when I'm at a conference, at least one, and sometimes two nights out of three.    So my first night was spent at a perfectly good sort of so-called Italian restaurant of a certain kind.  I suppose if Italian-trendy-fusion were a category, this might be how you'd label it, since the pastas were combinations that no Italian ever invented, and the menu was full of popular dishes that would be anomalies on a true Italian menu.  But the food was reasonably good.  Even if the bruschetta weren't particularly authentic, and even if no Tuscan has ever made something called "Tuscan-Style Crab Cakes with White Bean Salsa," everything was just fine.  My cedar planked fish (another not-so-Italian specialty) was smoky and well-coooked.  Most important, the company was sparkling and the conversation, which centered around the the results of the election and its implications for public education, was fascinating. 

That was our first night.  On our third night, I had been commanded to find a restaurant for a party of ten that would suit everyone -- the healthy eaters, the hearty eaters, the drinkers, the live music aficionados, those who want to shoot the moon, those who don't want to spend too much.  Somehow I always get saddled with this completely impossible task at conferences, despite my helpless pleas that writing a food blog does not mean I know where to eat in a strange town.  I mean, it's hard to find a place that's decent for a party of ten here in NY.  So I got some recommendations and settled on a local place, a restored old house with live jazz and what turned out to be sort of mediocre food.   Again, it was the company that counted. 

The evening in between, however, I was determined to have my way, alone or accompanied.  I was going to go to the Loveless Cafe for meat 'n' three, a true southern institution consisting of a heavy, meaty, often fried main course, two rich side dishes and bread -- usually cornbread or biscuits.  It's the sort of meal that I can eat only once in a while, since its heaviness generally makes me feel as if I don't want to eat again for a month.  But every now and then, a craving for really good fried chicken arises.  And truthfully, really good fried chicken isn't something I know to be available in NYC. 

I rushed back to the hotel from a scouting expedition in town, since I was to co-facilitate a writing marathon the following day.  I was late, stuck in traffic, and my friends were waiting for me.  I'd called the restaurant earlier in the day to find that reservations weren't accepted for parties under 12.  During that conversation, everyone at the restaurant called me sweetie.  "No, sweetie, no reservations for groups under twelve.  But you know, sweetie, call us about an hour before you want to eat and we'll put your name on the list, okay sweetie? What's your name? Julie?  Okay, Julie sweetie."     It turned out to be a good thing that six of my colleagues wanted to accompany me, since the cab fares back and forth from Highway 100 were a bit daunting.  Split between seven of us, however, they were nominal. A few of my cohort were worried about the cuisine we would find.  I was honest; I told them that there would be no tofu on the menu, although I'd heard there were salads as well as vegetable plates.  Fortunately for them, they decided to come along for the adventure, and had a very good time indeed. 

The Loveless Cafe was quite a trek from where we were staying.  My colleagues mumbled a bit on the way out as we were stuck once again in some traffic.  And when we pulled up in front of the shabby former motel building, they positively looked askance at me. Yes, there were indeed some askance-type glances in my general direction.  But once we were seated at checked-gingham tables with hot biscuits, butter, homemade preserves, and waitresses who called us all "sweetie," their savage breasts were soothed.  Once we'd ordered (I'd long known that I was going to have the fried chicken, despite the fact that pit-smoked pulled pork, fried catfish and country ham all called out to me as well), my friend Ronni and I made our way to the shop, Hams 'n' Jams, which was still open to catch susceptible tourists (read: suckers) like myself.  I loaded up on kitsch and food, feverishly gathering mugs, t-shirts, grits and preserves, all to be somehow fitted into my luggage.  Sadly, I gave up on the idea of trying to shove an entire country ham into my suitcase and settled for some vacuum-packed slices.  We went back to the restaurant in time for our suppers to be set down piping hot in front of us.

That was some fried chicken that had to have flown down on its crispy little wings directly from heaven.  It was my holy grail of chicken -- the kind of chicken where it isn't just the coating that's crisp, but the actual skin is fried to golden crackly crunchiness, and yet underneath lies meat that is so moist, so juicy and tender that it defies cliché -- even the breast meat.  And, of course, it's seasoned to perfection, simply, nothing interfering with the pure flavor of chicken fried in what are probably ham or bacon drippings.  Or maybe just plain, good ol' lard.  (I'm sure you'll all be thankful to know that I refrained from buying a t-shirt proclaiming "Praise the Lard.")  Every now and then I looked up from my chicken to have another bite of perfect biscuit, or to fork up some creamily delicious macaroni and cheese or a mouthful of turnip greens in pot likker (G, a transplanted quasi-southerner, actually moaned when I told him I'd had turnip greens). 

Momentarily sated, I started making the rounds of the rest of my party.  Everyone was laughing, enjoying the food, the company, and the fact that we were doing something we couldn't and wouldn't do in our own home towns.  I tasted Debi's pit-smoked turkey, which was moist and smoky, but honestly not a patch on the fried chicken.  Melanie's fried catfish, however, was phenomenal, as were the hushpuppies that came with it.  Darshna tempted me with fried okra, addictive as candy, and exhorted me to let readers know that vegetarians would have plenty to eat at the Loveless, since she had just had a full plate of mac 'n' cheese, beans, greens, okra and other goodies.  Felicia let me taste her squash casserole, a special of the evening that was a salute to the way in which cream, butter and cheese make everything taste good.  Even those in terror of fried food, like my dear former director Linette, had found the special of pit-smoked stuffed chicken to be delicious without overwhelming her cholesterol count. 

It was one of those moments where not having room for dessert filled me with regret.  Darshna, however, broke down and ordered the apple pie with lots of extra forks.  The one bite I could force on myself was simply extraordinary -- spicy and juicy with a fervently flaky crust.  Ever since Thursday night, my imagination has been occupied with how I can get back down to Nashville, purely in order to stay long enough to try everything on the Loveless Cafe menu -- including all the pies.  Even now, I'm hatching a plan for a long car trip -- perhaps during summer vacation, perhaps using the New Orleans Writing Marathon as an excuse to bring G in a southerly direction...

But although I could only get in one meal at the Loveless this time, I brought a bit of it home with me.  This morning we had (as pictured above) country ham and grits with red-eye gravy, biscuits and coffee in our new Loveless mugs.  You see, I had even broken down and bought biscuit mix at the Loveless store, despite my hatred of mixes.  And this morning's breakfast proves that biscuits from the Loveless Cafe's mix are just great.  They so far exceed the soap-powder taste of Bisquick and the spongy layers of tube biscuits as to be quite comparable to homemade, especially since you use fresh buttermilk in the preparation.  I'm not quite a southern girl in the way I make my biscuits -- I don't love them as much when they're those high-risers placed close together in the pan.  I give them space on a baking sheet, and even though they don't rise quite as high, I get more surface area, more crusty exterior, which is the part I love best.  The stone-ground grits I bought at the Loveless are fantastic as well, and the ham was salty and chewy as country ham should be, making a perfect red-eye gravy after only a few minutes of pan-frying. 

The one disappointment is the blackberry preserve, which was superb in the restaurant and is not at all that way in the jar.  I must have gotten a burnt batch, because mine tastes overcooked, more of super-caramelized sugar than of berries.  I may drop the nice folks at Loveless a line, and let them know how good everything was and is, despite the fact that we did have this one disappointment.  Just so they'll know who I am, I should probably sign my note with love from "Sweetie."

On The Road Again

It's been a hectic week, and we're only two days into it.   G's music effects company released a new product; we've both had enough work and other commitments to keep us scrambling.  Over the weekend I baked cupcakes from a couple of recipes, one being Shuna's fantastic one for yellow cake.  I then brought them in to school so that the kids in my cooking class could make delicious frosting from scratch and thereby have a revelation about never using frosting from a can again, hopefully ruining Sandra Lee's career or at least her product endorsements. 

But the normal work week is already over for me; today I fly out for another conference, this one in Nashville.  I have an exciting task:  I'm co-facilitating a Writing Marathon for folks from any and all of our 180 member sites, along with my friend and colleague Richard, the Writing Marathon Guru of New Orleans Fame. 

November is the month of conferences and travel for me, at least for the last several years.  Last time I was in Nashville, 8 years ago, I stayed in the deeply frightening Opryland Hotel, the largest non-gambling hotel in the world.  There are five glass-covered lobbies.  A "river runs through" one of them, and you can take a "boat ride".  Every time we tried to get a taxi into town, we were told by the nice (read *Stepford*) people at the desk that there were 16 restaurants and lots of shops  right in the hotel -- no need for us to leave or go anywhere else. Ever.  A couple of years later I read Siri Hustvedt's vivid and gorgeous novel, What I Loved, and found an extremely threatening passage set in the endless hallways of this hotel.  I shuddered in recognition. 

This time I'm in a thankfully more pedestrian Marriott, but I will venture out, at least at night, in hopes of pan-fried chicken, biscuits, and maybe even barbecue.  Anyone have restaurant suggestions for Nashville? 

My Dinner at...

At some point a few weeks ago, I realized that I would be going to L.A., as I have done each November for the past couple of years, for an absolutely wonderful education conference at UCLA.  Last year I presented a workshop; this year I would be coaching/supporting a colleague in a presentation. 

Generally I've been a good girl at these conferences, and just gone along with whatever dinner plans are made for my group.  After all, not every trip has to include stellar dining experiences, does it? 

Well, no, it doesn't -- but it's always so much better if it does.  My plan was to arrive in L.A. fairly early on Thurday, one day earlier than in prior years.  Our conference had been extended to two days and so I needed to arrive a day early in order to participate in the Friday sessions.  As it turned out, no dinner plans had been made for Thursday, since members of our team would be arriving at all different times from all different parts of the country.  Where should I treat myself to dinner? was the question most on my mind.

Lucques, of course, was the obvious answer.  I've dreamed of having a meal here ever since blogs (and other media) began to praise Suzanne Goin's lovely cookbook.  Some of the recipes were even shared online.  I hadn't yet purchased the cookbook, but I had made the wonderful Romesco sauce for a dinner where people positively wanted to bathe in it.  And honestly, not to be too much of a groupie or anything, but I've never really had a bad meal at a restaurant started by a Chez Panisse "alum". 

Whom would I get to accompany me?  Most members of my team were coming in too late for dinner on Thursday.  An email to my colleague Elyse bore fruit, however.  I'd had the feeling that if the very busy Elyse were free, she might bite, so to speak.  Although we also share a set of *loftier* values, delight in an excellent meal is something we certainly have in common (then again, is there anything loftier than a good meal?  Other than saving the world, I mean).  The first time I ever had lunch with Elyse, at downtown in Berkeley, I knew that I was in for a good afternoon when she suggested that we begin with the oysters and the fried olives, and move on to the salad of duck confit with plums.  To my great good fortune, Elyse was free for dinner on Thursday night.  And as is often the case in almost any place that is NOT New York, it was not difficult to get a prime dinner-hour weeknight reservation only a couple of days in advance. 

Lucques is a beautiful, intimate space, spare and tasteful in decor but with a lovely warmth.  The light is quite low, and the space is not big, so I must confess that I didn't even try to take pictures.  Clearly I would have needed a flash, and I really didn't like the idea of disturbing other diners' evenings.   Like all dinners at Lucques, ours began with good bread, a crock of sweet butter and a little pile of sea salt, and a dish of the delicious eponymous olives and some very shiny almonds.  At first glance I thought the almonds were candied -- they had an almost lacquered surface, so I was expecting a sweet flavor -- and not particularly looking forward to that as one of the evenings opening flavors.  But I was wrong.  Somehow these were the crispest, most delicious almonds I had ever had, even better than Marconas, to which I'm positively devoted.  Was it the variety of almond?  Something in the preparation?  Our waiter shared the secret with us.  They are roasted at a very high heat, in a pizza oven, for just the few minutes that they can withstand before they would start to burn.  Then they're tossed in just a bit of olive oil and salt, and somehow this develops the shiny burnished coat.  I foresee some experimentation here at home, kids, during which many burnt almonds will probably be issuing from my not-professional oven.  I ate these lovely treats with an amazingly delicious cocktail -- a fresh-picked guava martini.  I think it was guava.  Anyway, it was great. 

I wanted to try everything on the menu.  If I win the lottery any time soon, I'm going back to that restaurant with a big crowd, my treat, as long as I can taste some of everyone's plate.  Oh, and you all have to order different things.  On Thursday, however, I sadly narrowed my choices to a starter and an appetizer.  Since I had fixed on the suckling pig for my entree, I thought something light to start would work -- especially since Chef Goin is famed for her wonderful way with seasonal salads.  I went for a plate of "fall fruit with jamon serrano, ricotta salata, arugula, and pomegranate salsa".  Elyse decided on the "market butter lettuces with buttermilk dressing, avocado and radishes" which was a lovely, very fresh plate of greens.  I had not expected to be so completely bowled over by my starter, which emerged from the kitchen looking like a tiny Renaissance still-life on a plate.  Fall fruit, ho-hum,  I had thought to myself.  My limited imagination had envisioned only a plate with some apples and pears, maybe, and the other stuff named.  But I was wrong.  On my plate were tiny pink-and-green fig quarters, sweet apple slices, sugary and chewy pieces of fresh date, various grapes, and half-moons of a delicious bright orange fruit that I couldn't identify.  Turns out it was persimmon, with which I have limited experience, but which now, thanks to Chef Goin, enters the list of delicious things to eat in the fall.  Small slices, differently shaped pieces of all of these things were artfully arranged on the plate, with fresh peppery arugula leaves twining around them, and just a thin slice or two of ham and ricotta salata providing a salty, savory counterpoint to all the sweetness.  Little rubies, perfect pomegranate seeds flecked the whole plate, and the dressing, which was applied with just the right sparing hand tasted of very good olive oil.  Sorry to go on about this at such length, but really, it was one of the best salads ever.  I love being wrong about something when it's wrong like this.   

Before she went on to a perfectly cooked veal chop with sauteed greens and a dark, mysterious, delicious sauce, Elyse and I talked of many things.  It's great fun to have dinner with a colleague/friend whom you don't get to see all that often.  With Elyse, the talk is always a nice mix of the professional and the personal.    The following day, I was to support a colleague in a Native American studies presentation.  This very beloved colleague, who is Lakota Sioux, has given me what amounts to the beginnings of an education in Indian culture, and an understanding that the idea of "Native Ways of Knowing" is not based in legend or myth, but has to do with a culture that functioned perfectly well for thousands of years before intruders came west.   I told Elyse of my current obssession with Bill Buford's Heat, which has been lying on my bedside pile for several months.  I decided to schlep it with me and take advantage of the long flight, despite its heft.  In the book, I discovered that once corn was brought to the old world, Northern Italians became so infatuated with polenta that they gave themselves pellagra, a deficiency disease that I had thought was limited to the rural south.  Of course, the Native Americans had planted beans and squash to eat with their corn, which provided the necessary niacin to prevent pellagra.  Thus do education, history, food lore, conversation and revelation mix over a good meal. 

My plate of roast suckling pig was a tower of food that had as its foundation a piece of cornbread.  Next was a layer of sauteed greens, and then a large chunk of dissolvingly tender roast pork encased in super-crunchy crackling skin was balanced on top.  Buttery-soft little black-eyed peas were scattered over the plate.  This was a beautiful and delectable interpretation of  southern-style "meat and three."  The portion was absolutely mammoth, and I could only get through about half of it before calling quits.  The sad thing about having a great meal when I travel is that I rarely ask to take the remainder with me, since I don't usually have a fridge nor, in all probability, time to eat it.  And we were both so very full that although we glanced at the dessert menu, we decided that we couldn't even share a sweet.  Drat.  I really do have to go back to Lucques, although I don't have many other reasons to go back to L.A. any time soon. 

Or perhaps, although I won't be able to match the elegance and deliciousness of what emerges from Lucques' kitchen, I will try out my newly acquired (and signed!) copy of Sunday Suppers at Lucques.  Don't touch that dial.