Triptophan-tastic!

Turkey… sigh…

I’m not trying to sound like a Scrooge (although I am), or poo-poo on holiday traditions (although I kinda couldn’t care less), or generally displease or offend, but the fact is: I don’t really like turkey dinners.  There.  I’ve said it.

I've recently been trying to identify what exactly it is about the meal that I don’t enjoy.  I think it can be summed up by that one uninvited, yet inevitable guest at any turkey dinner: tryptophan.

Many people enjoy that borderline coma-inducing, sneaky little amino acid’s effects, but since I’m usually having turkey amongst a group of people, and rarely in my own home, it just makes me anti-social and tired.  Anyone who knows me knows that a sleepy fascist is a bitchy fascist.  If I am at someone elses house I’d rather be able to maintain the illusion of being semi-gracious, rather than just slinking off to doze under the nearest, most inconspicuous duvet, or deliberately overturning a gravy boat onto an antique Berber rug in an overtired tantrum.

When it’s up to me to make the turkey there’re downsides, too.  A) I end up with a handful of glassy eyed tryptophiles on hand who are seeking out MY duvet (bitches get yo’ cranberry-stained grillz off my pillow!), and B) I end up with a tonne of leftovers.  I know, I know: “That’s the best part…” I can hear a small (off-key) choir of you exclaiming.  Well…sadly, not to me.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I just don’t do leftovers.  Particularly ones that have such a lather, rinse, repeat pattern to them aka: roast the turkey, make sandwiches, make soup.  Yaaaaawn!

However, a while back I saw a local Vancouver culinary genius, who was born and raised in Mexico, take the holiday leftovers and transform them into something which did justice to the leftover bird, as well as his cultural influences.  Rodolfo Rodriguez Vazquez took the leftover turkey and infused it with Latin brilliance, drawing a new respect from this food snob for a leftover meal that I previously couldn’t’ve cared les about.

Inspired by his creation I took a stab at it myself, and thus was born:

Turkey Quinoa Stew (apologies to Rodolfo for the liberties I’ve taken)

·      2 (each) turkey thighs and drumsticks ( I didn’t use a carcass, because I just didn’t feel like having turkey the night before purely to get to make the stew.  I just kind of skipped to the fun part)

·      Stock (I used veggie) – enough to cover the bird bits in the stock pot

·      3 jalapeños (I fire roasted them on the bbq.  Not so much because I knew what I was doing, but more to do with my inclination towards pyromania.  I don’t think I would roast them in the future) You can adjust the jalapeños to taste.  Remember: the heat is in the seeds, so if you want a bit less “OW!” scrape em out.  I recommend wearing gloves.  Particularly if you plan to take out contact lenses later on.

·      Bunch cilantro

·      Garlic (I used 5 cloves) - chopped

·      Shallot – chopped fine

·      Small handful dried porcini mushrooms – reconstituted in warm water, and chopped

·      3 tomatoes – roughly chopped

·      ¾ - 1 cup quinoa (barley would also kinda rock, but requires a much longer cooking time)

·      Kale – 1 bunch (about 12-20 leaves.  Washed and tough inner vein removed, then chopped)

·      3-4 scallions (green onion)

·      lime juice (I used half a lime, but the ones I have on hand are these mutant uber-limes which pack quite the pucker.  The juice of 1 lime would generally be apropos)

·      fresh avocado (small chunks) and sour cream to garnish

I precooked the turkey with veggie stock, a handful of ripped cilantro and about half of the jalapeños.  When cooked through, I removed the turkey, let it cook, then pulled the meat into rustic chunks.  If you’re using a leftover turkey you could still simmer it first to get some of the flavours into the meat beforehand, but if you’re lazier you may as well just remove the meat from the carcass and keep it on hand.

I strained the miscellaneous bits of que est-ce que c’est of the stock and discarded them.  The bits, not the stock.  Save that.

Next, I returned the turkey to the stock, threw in the tomatoes, mushrooms, shallot, garlic, and a bit more of the cilantro (chopped).  I let it simmer merrily away until the skins of the tomatoes just started to pull away, then added the quinoa, covered the pot and let it do it’s thing for about 20 minutes. 

When the quinoa has softened, thrown in the kale as well as the remaining jalapeños, stir them in and allow to the stew to continue simmering until the kale loses it’s squeak when bitten into.  No one loves a squeaky kale.

Remove from heat and add the lime juice and green onions.   Adjust salt and pepper to taste.  Throw into bowls, and top with a dollop of sour cream, avocado chunks and a further smatterance of finely chopped cilantro.  I was skeptical of the avocado, but TRUST ME!

I know many people aren’t really huge fans of cilantro, but I’m thinking they probably stopped reading early on, so screw them.  Meanwhile, you can feel free to enjoy a new twist on leftover turkey in their absence.

I hope I did Rodolfo’s recipe justice.  I know I was impressed with the results of my experience, but since I didn’t have anything to compare it to, who knows.  I just may have to snag a dinner invite sometime (hint hint hint!).

Yes, it had that narcoleptic effect, and yes, I was in bed by 9:30 as a result, but with my own duvet close at hand, and no guests to entertain, I’d have to say it was the most ideal turkey meal to date.

 

Inspiration/plagiarism. To-may-to/to-mah-to

Cooking is all about selective plagiarism.  Someone else makes something, whether at a restaurant, a party, on cooking shows (except for that banshee and her “E.V.O.O” wail), and next thing you know inspiration has struck and that’s the next experiment taking place in the kitchen.

Sometimes experiments fail.

Horribly.

However, this post doesn’t start out with failure.  It starts out with old friends of mine who opened up a coffee shop in Gananoque, Ontario called the Socialist Pig (Find them on Facebook).  The owners, Shannon and Jay, are both foodies who put this humble acolyte to shame.  I recall a nasi goreng which Shannon, made and brought to an Oscar party (which rapidly turned into a piss-up on the roof of the building) and it still makes my mouth water at the memory.

On the Facebook page they’re eternally taunting me with their daily soups (brainstormed by Shannon and executed by Jay).  Always served with locally made artisan bread.  I’ve begged them to FedEx me stuff in the past, but so far they just laugh.  I’m starting to get serious about the matter, though.

Recently they were making a Thai sweet potato, squash, spinach and coconut milk soup, and since I happened to have everything but the spinach on hand, I decided I’d make a go of it.

Cut to me slicing, roasting, simmering, currying, pureeing, and generally feeling entirely too smug with myself: “Thai yellow curry soup?!  Hell yeah!  I’m AMAZING!!!”

It was ok. 

Just…

kind of…

there.

My hubby ranted and raved about the store-bought roti, but barely dented the soup itself.  Nuff said.

I was disappointed with my result (primarily blaming the lack of spinach), but far be it from me to admit complete failure (as I say, it was obviously the damned spinach’s fault!), I diligently poured the remaining soup into a bowl, and tucked it into the fridge, thinking “maybe it just needs time”.  What does soup need time for?!  It’s not like it was psyching itself into entering a long-term relationship, bungee-jumping, or getting a tattoo… or was it…?

And thus it sat, most likely destined for the compost bin or a long, fuzz-growing death in the fridge.  That is, until the Socialist Pig announced they were making a Malaysian Laksa.  My soup could find new life as the base for this!  Or I could end up making another disappointing meal.  Twice in one week.  No pressure.

The ingredients for hopeful redemption were as follows:

·      ½ package rice vermicelli noodles

·      3 cups (or less.  Not really sure) veggie stock

·      3-4 stalks lemon grass

·      2 cups boring leftover soup (exciting soup not an option)

·      2 green onions, sliced into rounds or matchsticks

·      Handful each of basil and cilantro, chopped

·      Chili paste (to taste)

·      Soy or fish sauce

·      2 eggs

·      beansprouts

·      sesame oil

·      tofu puffs (no, they’re not vegan cheesies), sliced

·      1 and a bit handfuls of prawns (shelled and divined.  Yes, “divined”, apparently)

I simmered a bit of veggie stock with a few bashed up stalks of lemon grass and some chili paste.  Next I threw in a couple cups of my reserved soup.  Let it all simmer for a while to let the flavours meld a bit.  While this was splurping on the stove, I gave some rice vermicelli a quick 3-minute boil in a separate pot.  Drained, rinsed with cool water, and set into a deep-sided serving bowl.

Next I brought the heat up and tossed in some prawns and let them cook.  In the meanwhile, I took two eggs, beat them with a bit of sesame oil (just a quick, thin “tsssst” from the bottle), and seared them into a thin crepe, which I then sliced up, and again set aside.

When the prawns had done cooking, I re-seasoned (more chili paste and a bit of soy), then reduced the heat, added the beansprouts, sliced tofu puffs, and about half the basil and cilantro.  A quick stir to heat through, and allow the herbs to give some flavour to the base, the tofu to suck up some of the flavours, and for the beansprouts to soften just slightly, but not so much that they lose their crunch.

Finally, I poured it all over the vermicelli, tossed on the egg, remaining herbs and green onion, et voilà!

So, the next time you find yourself with an unsatisfying Thai sweet potato and squash soup on hand you can thank me for helping you breathe new life into it.

Better yet, visit the Socialist Pig, because Jay has inevitably figured out how not to screw it up in the first place.

"Well, that's...'different'..."

Growing up, I often wondered where I got my own sense of wanderlust.  My parents, for the most part, seemed disinterested in the world beyond our West Coast bubble.  I had visions of visiting the pyramids, gazing at the frescoed ceilings and walls of Italy, riding on a boat from Europe to Asia in Istanbul.  More likely, our family trips involved trips to visit family and friends (within the province), a one-time trip to Barkerville (note: still in the province), and as the years passed, my brother and I contented ourselves with trips to Costco.  Hardly Disneyland or Hawaii, but admittedly there was a certain excitement the first time I saw Reese peanut butter cups sold by the case.

In hindsight, I think that it was a matter of not wanting to talk about these exciting, far-off lands for fear of getting my brother or I’s hopes up for something that we, quite simply, just could not afford to do as a family.

Time passes, mortgages get paid, kids grow up, move out, and lo and behold my parents are catapulting themselves to the four corners of the earth like water droplets from a manic, global sprinkler.

They had the chance to visit the Philippines as guests of a family recently, and they pounced on the opportunity.

My mother (gracious, kind, and a wee bit bonkers) packed their already voluminous luggage with gifts of questionable import status for the host family.

Homemade smoked salmon, fresh salad greens, and (the pièce de résistance) a 10lb prime rib roast.

She froze the roast beforehand, wrapped it umpteen times, insulated it, padded it, put it in a cooler bag, and padded and insulated it further.

Since their flight left first thing in the morning, they came to the airport the night before.  When they got to their hotel at the airport, she ran the roast down to the concierge and had it put in the hotel freezer.

First thing in the morning, amongst the other items on the mental checklist, she re-obtained the roast, repacked, padded, etc.

They missed their connecting flight in Hong Kong, and their baggage was still checked, so my dear Ma spent an already sleepless and jetlag-laden night fretting over the fate of the slab o’ beef potentially melting in her luggage, somewhere in Asia.

Well, they got to Manila the next day, got to the family home, and ta-DA!  The roast was fine.  Hardly thawed at all.

Superb.

So, off they trundled on their adventures, trying new foods, getting scared by others (baluts. *shudder*).  Always up for something new (within reason.  No Anthony Bourdain action going on here), because they knew, if nothing else, there was always a prime rib meal to look forward to: their bastion of comfort and familiarity in a sea of spit-roasted suckling pig, blood stew and embryonic ducklings.

This is the G-rated photo.  If you feel the urge to purge, google "balut"

And so it went for six weeks, and the roast had remained off the menu.  Time was running out, so after some discussion it was decided to have the roast on the evening my parents returned from a mini-trip to one of the beach resorts, which also happened to be the last night of their trip.

They talked to the family on the day they were to return from the resort and were told that they had marinated the roast.  My mother, in her slightly higher-pitched questioning tone turned to my Dad and said “Marinating a prime rib roast?  Well, that’s…different…” (Note: “different” in my mother’s language means “I’m barely going to give you the benefit of the doubt on this one, but my proper upbringing restrains me from telling you you’re wrong”)

They arrived back to the home to find a feast laid out for them.  My Mom scans the tables of food in search of the “mishandled, but I’ll give it a try” roast. 

Nothing.

“Unless they cooked whatever that gray thing over there is, instead of the roa…. GAAAAAASSSP!”

I can picture the next few moments of silent horror as she attempts to discretely get my Dad’s attention by tugging on his sleeve, or kicking him, but unable to find words.

“They b…b…boiled it!”

They boiled a prime rib roast.

I’m not sure I can trust the rest of my Mom’s retelling of the story, as I’m preeeeetty sure she promptly began to drink heavily.  From what I gather, though, they didn’t even carve it.  They just had a small machete-like knife on hand to hack chunks off.

It would seem that the hosts had only removed it from the freezer earlier that day to pop it into the marinade.  So, not only was this poor cut of once-bovine meat boiled, it was also raw inside, with that crunchy, still-frozen texture at the core.

On the plus side, all others present were delighted by the gift, and it was attacked repeatedly with the blade, devoured with gusto, until there was nothing left but a puddle of newly melted blood on a platter.

My mother ate rice.

What's the Worst That Could Happen?

A shitty meal.  That’s about it.  Oh, or food poisoning.  Yeah…there’s that, too.  That said, it is critical to ones development to always at least attempt to expand ones repertoire.  Just because you can make one good thing doesn’t mean that you’ll be contented with eating it every day.  As in all things (jobs, conversations, sex, etc) if you condemn yourself to a repetitive routine you’ll be condemned to resent it.  Mix it up!  Try new recipes.  Buy weird ingredients.  I’m not saying you should head straight to Chinatown, pick up the stinkiest, most desiccated, unrecognizable ingredient you can find and expect to turn out some sort of Julia Child miracle with it (but if you do, please post it here so I can applaud your ingenuity and bravery).

For example: my hubby likes to order katsu-don when we go out for Japanese food.  In case you’re unfamiliar with it, katsu-don is a breaded, fried pork cutlet, served over rice with a fried egg, onion and a sweet/salty sauce.  Last night I used that as my inspiration for a vegetarian rice dish.   My cupboards were rather unstocked, so I tried to scrape together as interesting a meal as I could with limited ingredients.

I started out with some tofu, sliced into thin pieces (about 4mm thick, and the size of a square on a checkerboard), marinated them in some soy sauce, a small blurp of maple syrup (I was too lazy to reach the top shelf and grab the sugar) some ginger and garlic (both dried and powdered, as I was out of fresh).  I would’ve liked to have added a dash of sesame oil, but, yeah, I was out of that, too.  Let the tofu hang out for an hour or two in the marinade.   

Get a skillet good and hot, then (with a splash of oil) fry the tofu until golden, flip and repeat until other side is golden, too (make sure you don’t pour out the remaining marinade).   Remove tofu from pan and place to the side I didn’t have any regular onions, but I did have a bag of pearl onions for a beef bourguignon which I just haven’t bothered to make yet.  I took about a dozen of the lil suckers, peeled them, and sliced them thin.  This is, of course, much easier with regular onions, so do NOT go out and buy pearl onions thinking this is how the recipe should be.  If you do, you’re either masochistic or thick.  Perhaps a bit of both.  

Once the onions had softened slightly I threw in the sliced white parts of a head of baby bok choy. Tossed that around the pan awhile until everything was showing signs of translucency, then added the green bok choy tops, the tofu, the remaining marinade and a splash of water, and stirred it until the greens had wilted.  

I only had one egg left in the fridge, so I had to make the best of it.  Rather than a whole fried egg in each bowl, I used the one egg, slightly scrambled it and divided it between the two bowls.

Oh yeah!  Rice!  Before I got cooking the other stuff I threw some bamboo rice into the rice cooker.  This was the first time I’d used this particular rice, and I must say it was a pleasant experience.  I bought it because it’s green, and I’m a total sucker for novelty.  The key to the bamboo rice (or any sticky rice, for that fact) is to allow it to rest for about 15 minutes after it’s finished cooking.  This seems to allow for any remaining chewy bits of the rice to soften up.  It also seems to defeat the glue-like nature of the starch.  

I then took a mound of rice, threw the veg/tofu on top and half the scrambled egg.  An additional splash of soy on top and dinner was served.  Pretty frickin tasty for not a lot of ingredients.  

Let’s recap, shall we?

To serve two:

Sticky rice (1 cup dry rice to 1 ¾ cup water)

Small block tofu (firm)

Soy sauce

Ginger

Garlic

Sugar (or maple syrup, if you’re a lazy SOB)

Sesame oil (ideally, but apparently not requisite)

Sliced onion (about half a small onion.  Use more if you like)

Bok choy (green tops and white base separated, and sliced)

Egg

I got a good review from the hubby on this one, despite the fact that I had issued a warning as he came in the door: “Consider this a disclaimer on the edibility of dinner”.  Personally, I would’ve liked more egg, and maybe more marinade to allow for more sauce on the rice, but since I was pretty much braced to be calling out for pizza after the first mouthful, I’m gonna have to chalk this one up as a success.  Kudos me!

*there were photos of this, but do you think I can find them?  No.  Am I about to remake the dish purely to take photos?  No.

OEUF! There it is!

Eggs. 

We can be so particular about them.  A fried egg alone has enough variations to quantify it for multiple personality disorder.  Over easy, sunny side up, solid, runny, toad in the hole, etc.  Do they even know who they are anymore?  They’re like Shelley Duvall in ovate form.

Scrambled eggs.  Now that’s a sad evolution if ever there was one.  Not good enough that the incarnation of them most commonly known today is that of a quick no-brainer breakfast, speedily skillet-seared into second-rate solidity.  True, one could be fancy and throw in some cheese, but there’s a greater aesthetic to be achieved.

Or we could talk about “cafeteria eggs”.  Those sad, dehydrated and powdered eggs, later reconstituted with scads of some sort of oil-based, cost-saving, margarine-esque sludge.  I’ll assume most people don’t have a whole lot of powdered egg lurking about their kitchen as their “go-to” oeuf de choix, so I won’t go into a full on preach.  You get the idea. 

We must press on.  We have bigger things to fry (well, scramble, really).

Please, if you ignore everything else I say (you won’t be the first), at least do yourself this one kindness: Reclaim the scrambled egg!

Once again, the French deserve all kudos in this matter.  OF COURSE, the people who gave us omelettes and soufflés would have something to say about the most basic of egg functionality.  Sorry to my Brit friends, but the French got this one on you.

Here’s the deal:  your skillet?  Forget it.  Instead, take a saucepan and grease the bottom and sides of it with butter.  You could use margarine or a smear of oil, but really, if you’re going to be treating yourself to the best damned scrambled eggs ever, then just use butter.  Seriously.  Also, these are not necessarily the quickest of preparation, so if you’re in a hurry it may be advisable to stick with a bowl of cereal for breakfast (or, if my breakfast today was any indication, stick with a lump of Serbian garlic sausage, a Clif bar, and what may have once been a kiwi).

Meanwhile, crack your eggs into a bowl and add half a teaspoon of milk (only!) PER EGG.  Throw in pepper and a pinch of salt.  Beat until blended.  Keep in mind that since you’re not adding a whole lot of extra stuff to it, or whipping it into a preposterous frothy mound, you’ll probably want to use about 3 or 4 eggs per person.

Pour your eggs into the greased saucepan and set over a med-low heat and stir.   

After a minute or so you’ll probably think you’re doing something wrong, as not much will happen.  This means you’re on the right track.  Keep stirring, though.

After a few minutes the eggs start to slowly pull together.  You might have to reduce the heat, or move the pan off the heat, if curds start to form too quickly.

Continue stirring until the eggs have achieved the consistency of a lumpy pudding (appetizing visual, no?), or to whatever degree of solidity you find acceptable.  Take ‘em off the heat.  At this point you could throw in a small pat of butter for additional flavour, or adjust the S&P.

They may look austere, but I promise you they're just being humble.

If I were single I could well imagine myself sitting in my studio apartment on weekends, treating myself to these eggs, as I stare out the window, or flip through a book, or pet one of my 4 cats.  But since I’m married, I…  oh…wait… I stare out the window…

Which reminds me, I need a new book.

When it's Just Cruel to Make Nachos

One of the daily conversations my hubby and I have (generally via text messaging) is my initial “Dinner requests?”  Followed by whatever thought occurs to him, or is craving at that particular moment.  Granted over half the time I ignore him completely and end up making whatever I damn well feel like, but there are times when deviating from the suggested menu is just not an option.  Post wisdom tooth extraction is one of them.

Poor guy.

When the text message comes back and just says “Something very soft” I know I can brace for an evening of uncharacteristic nurturing on my part.

Soup it is!

Here’s what hit our table:

Broccoleekagus soup

·      1 small onion - chopped

·      1 shallot - chopped

·      2 cloves garlic (I used 5, but not everyone is a garlic whore like me)  - peeled and smashed with the broad side of a knife

·      1 leek (white & pale green parts only) – thoroughly cleaned and sliced 0.5cm thick or less

·      a few heads broccoli (I used 4) – chop off florets, then peel stalk and slice to same thickness as leeks

·      1 bundle asparagus – ends snapped off and discarded, and remaining stalks cut in half.

·      6 cups veggie stock (or chicken) Just don’t waste your time with a half-assed stock.  I use Harvest Sun Organic Vegetable Bouillon cubes.  I usually use a smaller number of cubes than is recommended by the package directions (in this case I use 2 cubes instead of the recommended 3).  When you’ve got so many other veggies lending their flavour you don’t need to fake it with an overpowering stock.  Plus you have a more control over the salt content at the end.

·      A few tbsp oil for sautéing

·      ¼ cup sharp white cheddar, or slightly less of parmigiano or asiago (optional) Recommended if you want a heartier feel to the soup (think John Corbett).  If left out, it would be well suited to lighter, lunchier occasions (think Andie MacDowell)

Sauté the onions in a large stockpot over medium heat with a plurp or two of oil and a pinch of salt, stirring occasionally until somewhat translucent. 

Add the sliced leeks, and after a minute or two chuck in the garlic and give it a good stir.  Keep the heat medium to med-low.  Don’t caramelize the suckers.  Stir often until the leeks get kinda floppy. 

Toss in the broccoli and asparagus, give it all a good stir, and then add the stock.  Add salt and pepper to taste, partially cover it, bring to just below a boil, then crank the heat back down (closer to low than medium) and let it simmer for a while.  Not entirely sure how long.  A WHILE.  I only say this because I initially planned to simmer it for about 10-15 minutes, but I got distracted (ebay is fun!), and it was more likely close to half an hour.  You want your veggies to be fork-tender.  Poke around and find a piece of the broccoli stem, as that’ll be the last thing to give up the crunchiness.

Simmered and fork-tender

At this point, turn off the heat (the element, not the thermostat).  Blitz to a puree with whatever food processor de choix you have on hand (in small batches if necessary).   

I don't recall promising it would be pretty.

You can either refrigerate or freeze it now, or return it to the stovetop.

Green is good.

If you find the consistency too thick, then add a bit more stock, and allow to simmer for a while (yes, another while) longer. 

If using cheese: about 5-10 minutes before serving, toss in the cheese, and stir until the pieces seem to disappear.

I could state the obvious here and say “serve hot!” but I didn’t feel like reheating it the day after, and just dipped crusty bread into it and it was pretty damned good then, too.

Serve at desired temperature.  Bread?  Yup.

Why “Fascist”?

I guess this explanation comes a little late, but given my borderline attention deficit nature, it’s right on schedule, really.  

I was initially met with cocked eyebrows and pursed lips when I had introduced the title “Fascist Foodie”.  “Isn’t the term ‘Fascist’ a little extreme?”  “Like, war-time food?”  “Do you kill people in restaurants?”  No, no, and sometimes.

In my experience, the ethics and ideals of your kitchen are yours to write, to dictate and enforce.  Even my husband questioned the term Fascist.  However, I merely pointed out the number of times he’d been threatened (or mercilessly stabbed) for an infraction as simple as lifting a pot lid, or even just being too close to my work area.  I work alone, unless others become implicitly INVITED to join.  I am Il Duce della Cucina.  My title is self-proclaimed and questioned by no one within my domain under pain of death, or laxative-laden appetizers.  In the true spirit of fascist totalitarianism, I always reserve the right to change my stances, as well as the goals I set for myself and my domain, without the need to justify anything to anyone other than my ever-inflating ego.  Although, my ego is also known to deflate faster than a mishandled soufflé when met with my (many) failures, such as… mishandling a soufflé.

I partially envy those who are able to share their space, their experience, but I’m thankful for my lone-wolf mentality, too.  It’s made me branch out more than I think I would’ve if I was second-guessed by a person next to me.

My Aunt by marriage seems to share this approach, and I wasn’t able to properly reconcile my own relationship with the home fires until I could be an outside observer.  Her boundaries are clear.  Expectations of all present are clear.  Her food is amazing, and (I believe) she achieves that by coming from an intimacy with the raw ingredients, knowledge of strengths and limitations, and an understanding that no one would dare cross one of those boundaries and interfere with the Process.

It’s like, I can’t imagine having a shared Facebook account with my husband.  My kitchen is a space where I create and define part of myself.  A part of myself that loves food, and all the idiosyncrasies that come along with it.  It is a relationship.  We’re pretty exclusive.  At times: torrid, passionate, sinful and tawdry.  At other times, well, we have a disagreement, get frustrated, one thing leads to another and I storm out and end up calling out for some Thai action on the side.  You get the picture. 

Create your space and define your boundaries.  You can create these boundaries without being a bitch, but that can also be part of the fun.

*since there was no food to take photos of for this post, here's a pic of cats in a bathtub:

Leftovers and laziness are not exclusive

As a general rule, I hate leftovers.  Even the leftovers that are known to be better the next day, ie: lasagne or other pastas.  I would rather make it a few days beforehand and let it hang out in the fridge to glean the benefits of it’s leftover nature than eat the same item the next day.

*AWOOOOOOGAAAA!*  Tangent coming through:

Another dimension of my Fascist Food Manifesto is that I despise microwaves.  They shall be one of the first things sent of to the culinary gulag.  I’ve yet to pop an item in a microwave and have it come out how I want it. 

Defrost?  Most of us are familiar with the cooked halo which forms around chicken when one attempts to thaw in the microwave. 

Reheating?  Well, the plate gets screaming hot long before the food does (I have the scars to prove it).

General cooking: if you think a meal can be properly cooked in a microwave and be fit for human consumption, then I’m sorry.  Your ticket is being booked on the Gulag Express now.

Oh wait, this wasn’t a rant about microwaves (which, to conclude that tirade, I do not own one anymore.).  This is about leftovers.

When last we chatted, I had cranked out a vat of mashed potatoes with kale.  Despite the fact that I shoveled them down like a speed freak in a grave-filling contest, there was still a substantial amount left hanging out in the fridge.  Rather than force them into a date with the garburator I decided to suck up my leftover prejudices, and allow them to carry forward into another day.

My hubby is from Newfoundland, and often craves the hearty fare of home.  Since I seemed to be fresh out of seal-flipper, I decided cod cakes would be a suitable reincarnation for the spuds.

A quick trip to the new, sustainable fishmonger’s (The Daily Catch), and a slab of beautiful, wild-caught Pacific ling cod later, and I was skipping my merry way back home with memories of fiddle music, puffins and Screech hangovers dancing in my head.  

First off, a quick steam of the fillet (until just cooked through), and allow to cool.  Flake the cod into the spuds, and mix well.  Generally you would throw in a finely chopped onion, but since the onions I had on hand seemed to be a bit “off” (they shouldn’t resemble large prunes with psoriasis, right?), I opted for a generous smatterance of onion powder.

Salt and Pepper to taste (easy on the salt!  Remember: salt is more evident in hot foods than it is in cold.  Why?  I dunno.  Julia Child said it, and this humble foodie isn’t about to challenge her legacy)

Throw in an egg to help bind the mix.  I found that since I had kale in the potatoes and it seems to lend a lot of extra moisture, plus the moisture from the cod, I had to add a couple tablespoons of flour to the mix.  This way, the water has something to adhere to, and allows the egg a better chance of fulfilling its binding duties.

A quick roll in some panko breading, and they’re ready for a bronzing roll in a hot oiled skillet.  Allow to cook until deeply golden before flipping.  You may need to add more oil to the pan.  Let's face it, breaded potatoes just maaaaay absorb a bit.

Crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy inside. 

In the meanwhile I had pan seared some zucchini moons and generously seasoned them with salt and za’atar (BRILLIANT middle-Eastern spice blend!)

A simple salad of mixed greens dressed with balsamic, extra virgin olive oil and fresh-cracked pepper and this meal was ready to go.  

*Note: I did not eat the flowers

I allowed my trashy inner self to be indulged with a squirt of ketchup for the fishcakes, but I’m sure if I had’ve been feeling more civilized a spritz of lemon or homemade tartar would’ve sufficed, too.

Needless to say, it was a far cry from traditional Newfie cod-cakes (I mean, it was served with salad, for god’s sake!), but I got good reviews from my resident Newf, and at the end of the day I guess that’s all that matters.  Well, that and not poisoning us both.  That’s a plus, too.

Rockin' the Potato

(and no, that's not a euphemism) 

I would be hard pressed to find an item more offensive in a kitchen than a box of instant mashed potatoes.  It seems like such an affront to everything my poor (inbred?) Irish ancestors worked for.  The potatoes were the easy part of the meal.  It was the matter of coming up with anything else which proved to be the challenge.  A lump of mutton. Maybe some salt fish.  Peat?  Perhaps.  Then Guinness was created, and we know what wonders that did for the advancement of our culture.  But I digress…

I recall a friend of mines mother, upon discovering her daughter had had instant mashed potatoes for the first time at her then boyfriends parents house, exclaiming “How hard is it to boil a f@#king potato and HIT IT?!”

It took me a few years, but now, I couldn’t agree more.

It probably took the extra bit of time to sink in with me because I pretty much avoided la purée des potates for most of my life.  Starchy, bland, gag-inducing,  heaped mounds which always carried the “eat ten more bites of that or you don’t get dessert” clause.

My first few years after leaving home were sheer potatoless bliss.  Of course, they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I guess that’s what caused me to start experimenting with the carb-laden bastards anew.

I had pretty much achieved my appreciative ceiling in the preparation of mashed potatoes, and was in a rut.

And then an angel came unto me and said:  “Oh my god!  You’ve GOT to try this baby food!”

I was out with some coworkers at a swanky restaurant (Diva at the Met, for those Vancouverites who may be wondering) for a celebratory meal, and one of the attendees had her child care cancel on her at the last minute.  She was already dressed and long overdue for a night out, so she said “Screw it!”  and put her little guy in the best clothing she could muster at short notice.

Now, I’m gonna feel a bit guilty here, because I KNOW the chefs prepared an incredible meal.  I’ve yet to go there and be served anything other than sheer, gorgeousness on a plate.  However, the highlight of the meal was the mashed potatoes the staff whipped up for my friends toddler.  They had all the components of every other incarnation of the much-maligned side dish, but they had that certain je ne sais quoi.

My coworkers and I immediately passed around the remaining baby-food, devouring it with a gusto not seen since Goya’s “Saturn”, then returned to the culinary masterpieces on our own plates.

I couldn’t let it go.

I cornered our waiter and asked about the potatoes.

He said he’d check with the kitchen staff.

He came back.

You wanna know what the thing was?

Nutmeg.

Frickin nutmeg.

Whole nutmeg, seconds before assaulting it with a grater.  And no, I don't use all of this at once.

One of the most neglected spices in any pantry, cracked out only at Christmas to dust an eggnog, or go into a cake for god-only-knows what reason.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I can rock a batch of mashed potatoes, and tear into it with that same animalistic fervour that I did on that night out with my coworkers.

Tonight for example, was all about comfort food, and therefore my beloved smashed spuds were on the menu, alongside onions sautéed with fresh Kranjski sausage, and steamed broccoli.   

Green things!  This makes it good for me!

Pink things.  Not so good for me, but oh so good to me.

I went up an additional notch by throwing in a bunch of chopped kale a couple minutes before the potatoes had cooked through, and mashed it all in.  

Butter, milk (didn’t have any), a pinch of fresh ground nutmeg, salt and pepper, and the once hated potatoes become a thing of beauty.

Huzzah for comfort food!

To back up my anti instant mashed potato rant, you may want to check out Jamie Oliver's session in the TED studios about processed food: