The Best American Poetry

Much Depends on Dinner -- Making Chicken Stock with Stacey Harwood

     All human history attests
That happiness for man,—the hungry sinner!—
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.
     --  Lord Byron, Don Juan. Canto xiii. Stanza 99

Whenever I post to this series I wonder what my own contribution might be.  The answer came yesterday when I awoke to a forecast of cool weather and the words "chicken stock" popped into my brain. Chicken stock is something I’ve been making for years; it is the foundation for so many dishes, and making it always brings me spiritually closer to my ancestral roots.  Plus, a certain person in the household had developed a bad bad cold and how better to keep it from turning into “La grippe, La grippe, la post-nasal drip” than with a hot cup of broth?

The key to great chicken stock is of course the chicken.  Mine come from a farm in Pennsylvania, they’re free range, organic, etc. etc. but most importantly, they arrive with feet and head attached.  I whack these off and freeze them, along with the backs and necks. When my freezer drawer is full, it’s time to pull out the stock pot and get going. 

One could probably make a perfectly delicious stock with these chicken parts alone but I prefer to enrich mine with vegetables and aromatics.  Here, then, are my ingredients, most of which I picked up during a morning circumnavigation of the Union Square farmers market. Clockwise from top right:  chicken parts, carrots, thyme, cloves,parsley, peppercorn, ginger, salt, leeks, lovage, onion. The practice of adding a  knuckle-sized piece of ginger began circa 1990 and adds a bit of brightness though the flavor cannot be detected. I would ordinarily use celery but instead used lovage because, well, there it was at the market. Why not give it a try?

The first step, and this is something recommended by a celebrity chef whose name escapes me, is to rinse the chicken parts, put them in a pot, fill it with water, and bring it to a low boil.  Let it boil away for a few minutes while lots of scummy stuff, similar in appearance to what you might see trapped between rotting branches on the shoreline of a stagnant pool, rises to the surface (below left). Strain the chicken, discarding the cloudy water.  Wash the film of scum from the pot, return the chicken to it along with the remaining ingredients (below right) and fill with water. 

You can see that I've left the skin on the onion and everything else is chopped rather coarsely. This is all that's required because your stock will cook for a long time and you don't want the vegetables to disolve into mush and make it cloudy. 

Bring the filled pot to a simmer, and stand by for ten or fifteen minutes or so. ( If you turn your back, this might happen.)  More scum will rise to the surface and you must remove it with a fine mesh skimmer, repeating to yourself this mantra, revealed to me by a college boyfriend who later attended cooking school:  “Skim the scum with a skimmer then simmer, skim the scum with a skimmer than simmer, skim the scum with a skimmer then simmer.”  

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Gerard Manley Hopkins as interpreted by Karen Resta

Karen Resta and I began a correspondence a couple of weeks ago when she commented on a post here.  She was at one time a chef  and now writes and maintains a couple of lively blogs and a facebook page.  She collects vintage postcards (eg. right; reverse ) and these are often a jumping off point for her blog posts.  Oftentimes her meanderings lead her to a favorite poem or a snippet of literature.  I love these imaginative leaps; the card and post may seem unrelated yet the one is how she got to the other so they make sense anyway.  She e-mailed me today's post as an afterthought, as something I "might like."  She was right - I do like it.   When I showed it to David he had one word:  "Brilliant!"  I'm hoping that Karen will share more of these "recipes inspired by poems" with us.-- sdh

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things –

   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                Praise him.

-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

Ingredients:

Well-marbled steak (brindled cow)

Waterchestnuts (chestnut falls)

Golden chanterelle mushrooms (finches' wings)

Pear (whatever is freckled)

Chili-Tamarind Sauce (sweet, sour)

Steamed White Rice (whose beauty is past change)

Directions:

Place brindled cow (well-marbled steak) on grill till heaven approaches with aromas bold in a pink-centered imperfection.

As brindled cow passively beckons its destiny, approach hellfire with sturdy pan and steady hand. Rapidly consign chestnut falls and finches' wings (waterchestnuts and golden chanterelle mushrooms) to fiery brimstone along with toss of sweet oil in sturdy pan. With steady hand lead the dance of a well-informed jig.

Add whatever is freckled (thick slice of hard winter pear), being sure to crisp its curves and warm its heart.

Pool the sweet, sour (chili-tamarind sauce) on a plate of willing design then denounce the martyred steak upon it. Chestnut falls, finches' wings, and freckled things (waterchestnuts, golden chanterelles, and pear) should glorify in circular testament to a fine edibility. Allow space for that whose beauty is past change (steamed white rice).

Pray or not, as you wish. Lift pitchfork and pierce delicately to eat.

-- by Karen Resta

  Karen Resta has had an . . . interesting career history, one part as Executive Chef for Partners Dining at Goldman Sachs in NYC, and another as VP for Goldman Sachs NYC. She is a proud graduate of both Buttonball Lane Elementary School and Gideon Welles Middle School in Glastonbury, Ct. Her writing can be found at eGullet, The Culinary Media Network, Serious Eats, Book of Rai, and Christian Science Monitor.

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Kate Angus & Family

     All human history attests
That happiness for man,—the hungry sinner!—
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.
     --  Lord Byron, Don Juan. Canto xiii. Stanza 99

(Ed note:  Kate Angus is a brilliant poet - I'm especially fond of "Letter to the Younger Me"-- and, as you'll see, a fine cook and baker.  A couple of weeks ago we got to talking and she mentioned that she'd inherited a cast-iron Dutch oven.  One thing led to a couple of recipes and I asked her to document for us her first attempt at lamb shanks, my "go to" dish.  I must say, hers appear to have turned out better than mine! And I'm hoping to prevail upon her to document a pie baking session too. Here's what she writes about cooking lamb shanks.)

About a month ago, I saw Stacey Harwood at the Bloof Books reading at KGB and I confessed (two drinks in) both how frequently I read her Facebook status updates for cooking inspiration and that one of my (many) resolutions this year was to expand my own culinary repertoire. She generously emailed me a recipe from the Union Square Cafe Cookbook for lamb shanks and so, behold, I give you a chronicle of the events of my cooking:

 I should begin by stating that I am an excellent baker of pies and cookies and dessert breads (ginger, pumpkin, banana) and a fair hand with making stews and soups and other vegetarian fare, however I learned to cook haphazardly when I lived in a vegan co-op in college and so even though I eat meat now, somehow I’ve always been too intimidated to cook it myself. I was, in essence, until trying this recipe a meat-cooking neophyte. So I did what many amateurs do: I put it off. Since I also believe that, as eating is best enjoyed in good company, so too is cooking, so I waited to try the recipe until I visited my parents in Michigan and could enlist their help. There, I did as I invariably do with all directions: do mostly as I’m told except when I’d rather experiment.

 To begin: The first step is to preheat the oven. Simple.

  

 The second step requires rubbing the lamb shanks with a cut garlic clove and then slicing the remaining cloves to set aside. Garlic is important in our family (so much so that my sister once made garlic ice cream for me during some adolescent summer at home), so, although the recipe asks for 6 cloves, I used 10. I also used, as per Stacey’s suggestion, 6 lamb shanks instead of 4. I also used Stacey’s suggestion of Wondra flour to dredge the lamb in.

 Step three: Browning the meat. This is the part I initially found intimidating but, actually, it’s pretty easy once you get used to the oil occasionally spitting and hissing at you. My mother and I put two shanks at a time in the Dutch oven and let them sit for about 5 minutes on the first side and 4 or so on the other sides, not moving them after we put them in so each side formed a crust (above, left).

  While Mom and I were browning the meat, we enlisted my father to help by chopping the onions. Once chopped, we added them to the sliced garlic and put them aside with the fresh rosemary, mint, and thyme (above, center). After removing the meat from the pan, we tossed in the onions and garlic to soften, and then added the herbs (above, right).

You then add 1 cup white wine (drinking the rest, of course, if you lack storage space for the bottle) and reduce by half.  Add in stock (we used chicken, not veal), seasonings like salt and pepper and the shanks, accepting the fact that some of the meat will remain above the liquid--it’s fine, the meat will still be tender. Cover and bake for 2 hours. Uncover the pot and turn the heat up to 500 for 20 minutes, basting the meat with the pan juices every 5 minutes.  We then removed the shanks from the pan and let everything cool overnight.

 The next day, we skimmed off fat (so much fat! I’ll spare you the picture) from the liquid. We reheated the lamb, making sure not to skip the crucial tasting stage (right). I also made an apple pie to accompany them (Picture 9), using the Better Homes and Garden recipe my grandmother used, but with a little less sugar and the addition of about a tablespoon of freshly grated ginger. We served the lamb with steamed brussels sprouts, a mash of rutabagas and turnips, a simple salad (spinach, avocado, oil & vinegar dressing) and red wine. Delicious. 
Thanks, Kate!

If you would like to contribute to this series, please e-mail bestampo@gmail.com.

-- sdh

Much Depends on Dinner -- Cooking Latkes with Gabriella Gershenson by Stacey Harwood

"Fried things are highly popular at any celebration:  they add a piquant variety to the menu; they are nice to look at, possess all of their original flavor, and can be eaten with the fingers, which is always pleasing to the ladies." Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, The Physiology of Taste.

This is really a public service announcement disguised as a cooking post. In case you hadn't noticed, we're deep into latke season here.  If you read through this post, study the photos, and follow the instructions, you will never have to eat the leaden, oily, flabby discs that so often pass as latkes in restaurants and delis, and, yes, your relatives' homes.  My friend, the superb writer and editor and Food Network judge Gabriella Gershenson  (photo, above) has generously agreed to share the outstanding recipe passed down from her Latvian babulenka and perfected for the modern kitchen by her mother, the superb chef and caterer Anna Gershenson. Your search for latke heaven ends now.  By heaven I mean that your latkes will be thincrispflavorful and so light that you will dispense with all social niceties such as dishes, knives, and forks and eat them with your hands as soon as you can after they emerge from their brief bath in bubbling oil.  

We begin:  As Anna instructs in the recipe at the bottom of this post, assemble your ingredients and cooking accouterments.  You will need several bowls, sheet pans, lots of paper towels, some aluminum foil; the kinds of things that may not immediately come to mind.  If you have to stop mid-cooking to find them, latke perfection could be out of reach this time around.  (Below, the ingredients: eggs, flour, onions, potatoes, oil. You will also need salt and pepper.) 

Before we took this photo, Gabi and I had already peeled and cubed a boatload of russet potatoes.  The type of potatoes is key: you want a starchy variety.  I'll leave it to the food scientists to explain why. You also want to have a lot of oil on hand (Ed. note: Gabi uses Canola.)  
Once you're at the point shown in this photo, you grind the onions and potatoes.  "WTF? Grind? Every latke I've ever made has used shredded potatoes." I know, I know, me too.  At first Gabi and I couldn't believe it either but you do grind the potatoes. You fit your food processor with this blade and blast away. How do you know when your potatoes have been ground to the proper texture?  You listen to Anna: When you see that the potatoes are beginning to slide in the bowl and don't just sit attached to the walls, and moisture starts appearing, it's time to stop.

(Here is where we pause for a brief departure from Commandment #2 to say thank you to the god of small kitchen appliances for creating the food processor, without which we would be doing  this.)

Next, you dump your first batch of ground onions and potatoes into a strainer set over a large bowl.  Grind and strain the remaining potatoes and onions and when you're done, a goodly amount of milky water will have accumulated in the bowl. Peer through the water and you will see that the bottom of the bowl is coated with a thick white paste.  This is the potato starch. Pour off the water, being careful to preserve the starch (see photo, right).  

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Carly Sachs

I first met Carly when I attended a reading of hers at the Cornelia Street Cafe.  She was just beginning her graduate studies in New York City.  Over the years, I've followed her career as she's moved from New York, to D.C. and back and I've admired her humor, insights, and initiative. Lyn Hejinian picked Carly's poem "the story," which first appeared in PMS, for The Best American Poetry 2004.  Carly is the author of the steam sequence (Washington Writers' Publishing House, 2006) and the editor of the why and later (deep cleveland press, 2007). She holds an MFA from The New School and has worked as a teacher, professor, baker, cook, and barista.  She tends bar and teaches yoga in New York City. You can find out more about Carly and an exciting  project (read: handstands!) of hers here. Carly tells us about today's recipe for pasta with chickpeas:

I started cooking at a young age. It has been just my mother and I since I was barely talking. One of the things my mother prides herself on is that even though she worked, she never wanted to be the kind of mother who cooks food from a box. No Mac and Cheese, No Hamburger Helper! I was a stirrer, a pourer, a measurer, or a sit and watch and taste kind of kid. Our first house was a Cape Cod with a blue linoleum kitchen. Pastel blue cupboards, blue vinyl walls and blue tiled floor. I loved it---the 1950’s of it, but revisited with the 1990’s more inclusive definition of family. In that kitchen, mom taught me how to bake, braise, sift, measure and create. Blue is still my favorite color.

My mom’s cooking style was chicken, potatoes, vegetable. So when I became a vegetarian at twelve, I threw her for a loop. She wouldn’t break from her standard meal. She didn’t want to eat vegetarian so thus began my adventures away from the familiar. The first thing I made for myself was spaghetti with Ragu tomato sauce with tofu. It was terrible, the tofu watery (then, I didn’t know to drain it, press it, and marinate it).  Eventually I caved in and let mom make brisket and lemon chicken and I happily returned to life as it was.

My vegetarianism went latent until the end of college when I had my own (shared) kitchen. The only rule I had was no using my wok and keep the ham out of sight. Mostly I made vegetable stir-fry, and the sauce was the variant. Lemon, spicy, tamari, peanut, it was enough invention for me. But after a while, I got sick of salads and veggie burgers. Just the sight of the wok was enough to make me lose my appetite.  With no one to cook for me (my roommates were all carnivores), I looked for recipes. And this is one of my favorites. I came across it in Real Simple and fell in love. And then I tested it out with my mother. It’s one of her favorites now too. My joke: Chick Peas are the new Chicken. Gradually, she’s come around to see that the student can teach the master a few tricks. She now eats vegetarian at least once a week and has figured out how to modify some recipes to fit both of our tastes. She’s still hesitant about the tofu but I can throw in fake sausage and bacon and for a minute, she thinks I’ve gone back to the dark side until I show her the packaging.

I know I’ll never get anyone to change their minds about eating meat. That’s a personal choice, but what I like is being able to make something that tastes good and that two people with different eating habits can enjoy. That’s why I cook—because it is a way of connecting and telling a story. I have to admit, I don’t really measure anymore but that’s the fun, tasting as you go along, forging the path until you get to that eureka moment, not too hot, not to cold, but just right.

And yes, I am wearing an apron. This one is one of my great-grandmother’s. My grandmother added the pink top because I told her I was a messy cook and just the around the waist wouldn’t cut it. All of this makes me feel connected to the women in my family who taught me how to be a woman, and even if I don’t always cook like them or share in their opinions about how to live, they taught me how to navigate the kitchen (and beyond), how to take care of my own hunger, and how to feed those you love.

Chickpea Pasta With Almonds and Parmesan (serves 4)

1 tablespoon olive oil
3 cloves garlic, chopped
7 cups low-sodium vegetable or chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
kosher salt
1 pound pasta (I've used penne)
1 15.5-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 cup flat-leaf parsley, chopped
1/4 cup unsalted roasted almonds, chopped
1/2 cup grated Parmesan

Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat.

Stir in the garlic and cook for 1 minute. Add the broth, red pepper, and 3/4 teaspoon salt and bring to a boil.
Add the pasta and cook, stirring, until the broth is nearly absorbed and the pasta is al dente, about 6 minutes. Stir in the chickpeas and parsley.

Divide among individual bowls and top with the almonds and Parmesan.

Much Depends on Dinner: Baking with Robin Neidorf and Talia

Robin Neidorf and I were classmates in graduate school and whenever I think of her or we exchange e-mails I have to remind myself that she's not still one year out of Williams College. In grad school, even though she was studying non-fiction, she would try anything!  Like the sestina she wrote a few hours after learning the form - it was hilarious, a narrative, from the point of view of an actress who didn't want to kiss her leading man. Here's what Robin has to say about her recipe for hamentaschen: 

It has been many years since I’ve had proper hamentaschen, which to me means my grandmother Lillian’s hamentaschen. This is only in part my own fault: The last time I tried to make her recipe, my aging gas oven gasped its last just as I heated it up to bake the goods. That event precipitated three months of eating sandwiches and microwave foods from a makeshift setup in the dining room and $60,000 in renovations.  Not unexpectedly (if somewhat illogically), I was a leery of trying that recipe again.

Over the next few years, I tried other recipes. I’d purchased a book of Jewish holiday crafts, stories and recipes, and naturally my daughter Talia wanted to make those recipes, rather than the one scribbled on an index card. Since part of the purpose of the book had been to engage us both with the traditions and the (now fabulous) kitchen, I could hardly say no.

But these weren’t my recipes, or my tastes. We tried the butter version – too like a shortbread. We tried the oil version – I couldn’t get the dough to stick properly. We filled with pie filling – the lazy-mom’s version… feh! We filled with chocolate chips – Talia was delighted, but the texture was all wrong. The ideal, to my mouth, was cakey rather than crispy, and filled with a savory mixture of golden raisins, prunes, apricots and… something.

Hamentaschen, for those who are not familiar with this gift to the world, are filled cookies baked for Purim, an early spring holiday celebrating Queen Esther’s courage in speaking up for her people. Bad guy Hamen (for whose triangular hat the cookies are shaped) takes the death sentence he planned to mete out to the Jews. And in commemoration of this noble victory, Jews forevermore stave off constipation with the prune-filled sweets.

There are as many versions of the cookie as there are Jewish kitchens. The matrix of options is almost mind-boggling: The cookie can be milchig (made with dairy) or parve (suitable for either meat or milk). The filling can be tangy, sweet or super-sweet. An endless array of options for tasting and testing. (As long as the oven doesn’t let you down.)

The last butter version was a disappointment. For the cookies to be shaped around the filling, the dough needs to be chilled to stiff-but-workable. I couldn’t get the ratios right, and the dough either melted in my fingers or crumbled into sweet dust.

My cousin Malcom’s wife Kara came to my rescue when I announced in a Facebook status update that only an extra stick of butter seemed to save the day. ‘They can’t be Lillian’s, then, because hers were parve and they were perfection.’

She was right. Lillian’s were perfection. Why was I looking somewhere else when I already had what I craved?

So. Grandma Lillian’s hamentaschen. Know that Grandma Lillian was a wretched cook – her baked steak was legendary for its jaw-strengthening properties. Her percolated coffee, re-perked throughout the day, could hold a teaspoon upright. Her salads featured a bright arrangement of fruit (both fresh and tinned), boiled eggs, radishes and greens of uncertain provenance. But the hamentaschen were, as Kara reminded me, perfection.

A Friday evening I prepared the dough and chilled it. On Saturday morning Kara and Malcom’s daughter Tsaudik (only a few days younger than Talia) came over to play. At  mid-day I convinced both girls (pictured above) to help me assemble, squeezing little triangles together.

The oven worked. The aroma was just as I recalled. The great-granddaughters paid little attention to the whole process, more interested in creating outfits for the cats (and trying to catch one) than creating with me. That was fine. More than fine. It was perfection.

Grandma Lillian’s Hamentaschen:
Keep in mind this makes approximately 300 cookies. I usually make half the recipe, but this is the unaltered version:

Cookie:
6 eggs (5 makes crisper)
2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups oil, (Lillian used Wessen)
2 oranges--juice and zest
1/4 tsp salt
5 tsp baking powder
6-7 cups flour

-mix all until barely dry, (adding flour as you go)
-chill overnight to make it stiff and workable
-roll out on a floured surface, (not too thick, thin is better)
-add about 1/2 tsp filling and form into triangles.

Filling: Grind up packages of prunes, white raisins, dark raisins, apricots. Lillian added a small jar of apricot jam, juice and zest of one lemon.

Bake at 375 for 10-16 min.

Robin Neidorf lives, writes and cooks in Minneapolis. She holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from the Bennington Writing Seminars, where she wrote a memoir about her grandmother Lillian for her thesis. Current projects include essays on being a community volunteer and notes towards a book about preparing for an interfaith-friendly Bat Mitzvah.

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Jeanne McCulloch and Charlotte

I met Jeanne (above left, with daughter Charlotte) through David, who met her during her decade-long tenure as managing editor of The Paris Review.  In addition to being a gracious and generous cook and host,  Jeanne is a brilliant editor and wonderful writer.  Track down her moving essay about Paul T. Gilberts' childrens' books and, for a lesson in how to conduct an interview, read her conversation with Nancy Mitford, both published by Tin House.  Her writing has appeared in Vogue, The New York Times Book Review, Elle, O Magazine, and elsewhere.  Jeanne is founding editor of Tin House books.  She's writing a memoir, to be published by Bloomsbury USA.  Here's what Jeanne has to say about today's recipe for Ewww Stew (aka Boeuf Bourguignon):
 
I don’t remember when precisely I started cooking, but I remember why.   I came shockingly late to the   domestic arts.   At least that was the opinion of my beloved first mother-in-law, Priscilla Taylor, a woman who majored in Home Economics at Skidmore College in 1953.   When we met, I was a young magazine editor in New York City, all of 24, and she was a homemaker—a job description she took great pride in—on the coast of Maine.  She’d raised four children, accumulated a towns’ worth of mouths to feed, and several file boxes of family recipes to accomplish it.   Though she hid it with grace, she felt an urgent need to catch me up on what I’d been missing with my head in my books all these years.   I was married to her son, it was her duty, but I also think it was her commitment to a strong held belief in the womanly arts, which she never saw as a throwback to anything.   She made me my first sewing kit, knitted me a homemade sweater and, tactifully hiding her shock at my ignorance, taught me how to bake and ice a cake.   On late August afternoons, she’d ask me about the literary world of “New Yaacck” while we sat at her kitchen table snapping the beans we’d just picked, slicing apples for pie, the sun in a slant across the wide pine floorboards of their farmhouse. 

It has been many years since Priscilla’s son Dean and I were divorced, but in the last year of her life I was able to visit her and tell her just what an important inspiration she had been in my life.   My own mother had bought me my first pair of high heels, and told me how to not get pregnant, but it was Priscilla who had taught me the art of making a home.   When she passed away, Dean found Priscilla’s recipe file on her kitchen shelf.   On the front page was the one meal I had made for Priscilla from my own family’s archive, a rich, wintery boeuf bourguignon.   “The city girl made it” Priscilla would proudly tell her friends when they’d come to her home to eat it.   “The city girl made us a real gourmet meal!”  Just as the boeuf bourguignon in Paris inspired Julia Child to become a great chef, the boeuf bourguignon in Camden, Maine inspired Priscilla Taylor to think that her “city girl egghead” daughter-in-law just might amount to something after all.   I prepare it to this day with my own daughter Charlotte who, despite her vegetarian leanings, makes an exception for the savory mélange of beef, carrots, red wine and pearl onions.   Though in my household it is fondly referred to as what it really is:  “Ewwww, stew”.    “Ewwww stew” should be served on a cold winters night with warm, crusty baguette for maximum sopping up, and followed by a light mesclun salad and a runny cheese—I recommend a Clarines or Camembert.   Pour a nice Burgundy, light a few candles and mellow out.   It will satisfy everyone from New England mothers-in-law to health-conscious Manhattan tweenagers (who believe if they eat beef too often it might trigger the apocalyse).  Now, I figure, Charlotte has something in her bag of domestic tricks to pull out if she’s ever fortunate enough to land a mother-in-law as impressive as Priscilla to impress.

Ewww Stew  (with a tip of the toque to Julia Child and Ina Garten—stewardesses non pareil)

1 tablespoon good olive oil
8 ounces diced bacon
2 ½ pounds beef chuck cut into 1-inch cubes
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper
1 pound carrots, sliced diagonally into 1-inch chunks
2 yellow onions, sliced
2 teaspoons chopped garlic (2 cloves)
½ cup Cognac or good brandy
1 (750 ml) bottle good dry red wine, such as a Burgundy
2 to 2 ½ cups canned beef broth
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature, divided
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 pound frozen pearl onions
1 pound fresh mushrooms, stems discarded, caps thickly sliced
6 sprigs flat-leaf parsley for garnish

For serving
Crusty French baguette
Soft, creamy cheese such as camembert or clarines
Mesclun salad lightly dressed with olive oil and balsamic
A few bottles of a hearty red wine

Preheat the oven to 250 degrees.

Heat the olive oil in a large Dutch oven such as a Le Creuset.   Add the bacon and cook over medium heat for 8 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the bacon is lightly browned.  Remove the bacon with the slotted spoon to a large plate.

Dry the beef cubes with paper towels and then sprinkle them with salt and pepper.  In batches in single layers, sear the beef in the hot oil for 3 to 5 minutes, turning to brown on all sides.  Remove the seared cubes to the plate with the bacon and continue to searing until all the beef is browned.   Set aside.

Toss the carrots, onions, 1 tablespoon of salt, and 2 teaspoons of pepper in to the fat  in the pan and cook over medium heat for 10 to 12 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onions are lightly browned. Add the garlic and cook for 1 more minute. Add the Cognac, stand back, and ignite with a match to burn off the alcohol.  Put the meat and bacon back into the pot with any juices that have accumulated on the plate.   Add the wine plus enough beef broth to almost cover the meat.   Add the tomato paste and thyme.  Bring to a boil, cover the pot with a tight-fitting lid, and place it in the oven for about 1 ¼ hours, or until the meat and vegetables are very tender when pierced with a fork.   Remove from the oven and place on the top of the stove.

 Combine 2 tablespoons of the butter and the flour with a fork and stir into the stew.  Add the frozen onions.   In a medium pan, sauté the mushrooms in the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter over medium heat for 10 minutes, or until lightly browned, and then add to the stew.   Bring the stew to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer uncovered for 15 minutes.   Season to taste.

Snip a bit of parsley and place as garnish on each individual serving, along with a generous hunk of bread.    As Julia Child would say, “bon appétit!”  Or as Priscilla would have it, “Fancy!”

all photos by William Wadsworth

-- stacey harwood

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Lisa Vihos

L-R: Illia Mazurek, Lisa Vihos, Georg Vihos  (Photo by Stephan Mazurek)

I met Lisa Vihos when David and I visited Lakeland College in Wisconsin last October.  We were in a workshop together and I loved her poems.  Later we talked about food and cooking and I was thrilled when she agreed to contribute a recipe. Lisa's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Free Verse, Lakefire, Wisconson People and Ideas, Seems, and Big Muddy.  She loves to cook for family and friends (see how happy she is in the photo above, with her sister and dad?). Lisa maintains a weekly poetry blog here. And here's what she has to say about this week's recipe for spinach pie:

I learned how to make spinach pie from my paternal grandmother, Irene Vihos, who was born on the island of Melos and came to America in 1932 as a young woman with a small daughter and very limited English. My grandfather was already here, slinging hash in a Greek diner in Detroit. My father was not yet born. When I knew my Yaya, she lived on Avery Street in a dark house filled with old things. The bright spot in all this darkness was the kitchen, where she served nose-tickling Vernor’s ginger ale in colored metal tumblers and cooked up dandelion greens she had picked along the roadside, drizzled with olive oil and lemon. In the bright kitchen in the dark house, my Yaya taught me to make a puff pastry for spinach pie. She did not teach me to roll individual thin sheets of phyllo dough, though recipes for this can be found on the Internet. I am told there is one bakery in New York that still makes fresh phyllo. I switched to frozen phyllo in my twenties and never turned back. I like Athens brand, available in any grocery store.

A Note About Phyllo

Phyllo can be one of the most maddening substances on earth. After making many dozens of spinach pies in my life, here is what I have learned about it: Like a recalcitrant child, the phyllo dough will constantly be telling you, “you are not the boss of me!” And just as you would do with a child, you must lovingly push onward and let it know in the kindest of ways that in fact, you are the boss, and it is going to have to do your bidding.

It helps immensely to properly follow the thawing instructions as written on the box. Take it out of the freezer two hours before you will use it, just like it says. Do not try putting the phyllo in direct sunlight for a 20-minute speed thaw. Plan ahead! 

Have all the ingredients mixed and ready before you open the phyllo package. Don’t be leaving your phyllo exposed to the air while you are melting butter or mixing spinach or anything like that. If you must leave your phyllo unattended to go to the bathroom, answer the phone, or help a child tie a shoe, make sure to cover the sheets with a clean, dry dish towel to protect them from the air.

Work quickly and stay calm. A few sheets may stick together. A few sheets may end up in shreds. No matter. If you keep your wits about you and just keep pushing on, you will end up with a spinach pie. I have made a whole pie from shreds and a few well-placed sheets that kept their shape!  Remember, butter is your friend and can be used to glue everything together if need be.

In the making of spinach pie, as in life, there are no mistakes! Only reminders to pay closer attention to detail next time. Be quick, but not sloppy. Mend when mending is required. Do not skimp on butter. Stay calm. Be kind and gentle. Do not tear into fragile things. Share. Spinach pie tastes best when eaten with friends. Yasoo!

Lisa’s Yaya’s Spinach Pie

1 lb. package frozen phyllo dough

3 10 oz. packages frozen chopped spinach

8 oz. feta cheese, crumbled

24 oz.. container small curd cottage cheese (sometimes, I only use ¾ of it and I eat the rest for lunch)

2 eggs, beaten

2/3 cup grated parmesan cheese

1.5 sticks of butter, melted (approximately - if anything you will need more)

3 Tbls chopped fresh dill (optional)

Remove phyllo from freezer at least two hours before you will be making your spinach pie and leave it on the kitchen counter to thaw. (Read the instructions on the box. They know what they are talking about! See “A Note About Phyllo” above.) Preheat the oven to 375. Melt 1.5 sticks of butter on low heat and keep it melted but watch so it doesn’t burn.

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Phoebe Putnam

me in Jaipur.

Hi all!  I want to share with you my favorite home-cooked Indian dish, which at home my husband calls "my mom's spinach," because no one in India, apparently, but Uttam's mom makes this particular spinach dish.  She invented it.

Now let me be absolutely honest:  when Uttam and I first went to India, he was very excited for me to taste his "mom's spinach," and I was rather less excited.  I don't like saag, the Punjabi dish that is creamy and mushy and dark brown and redolent of cloves.  I just don't have a taste for it.  So I was relieved and delighted when my future mother-in-law set before us little bowls of brothy, tomato-y spinach, hot and fresh tasting, flavored with cumin and flecked with golden drops of ghee, and a tall stack of soft, gently toasted chapthis.  We ate it in 120 degree weather, just before the monsoon season, on the cool marble floor of their great room, fans whirring, cross-legged, with our fingers.  But I think it's perfect for winter too, and hope you'll try it soon.

Braised Greens in Buttery Tomato Broth (& fast fresh bread!)

Cooking time: ~ 45 min, start to finish, serves 2-4.

INGREDIENTS

SPICES

We can all agree that the intimidating thing about Indian food is the feeling that there are all these spices.  But the good news is that this is a fiction.  There aren't all these spices.  There are really only 5 important ones, and you use at least four of them every time you cook.  The secret of cooking Indian food at home is this little round tin; no cooking happens in Indian homes without it

 

This little tin is the best.  It sits on top of our microwave, over our stove, and is much nicer than fiddling with a lot of screw tops.  Mine has my name engraved on it because my husband is romantic like that, but a regular one costs about $7.  The spices should run you about $2-4 per bag in an Indian grocery store.

Going clockwise, starting with the container with the spoon, you'll want to have on hand:  

1. Mustard seeds; 2. Cumin seeds (whole).  3. Turmeric. 4. Salt.  5. Cayenne pepper.  6. & 7. The two lumpy beige powders are cumin powder (in the center) and coriander powder.  In terms of #s 1-5, these don't vary from home to home.  #s 6-7: Someone might substitute something else for the cumin powder, which I like, but basically you'll always have the others.  

OTHER INGREDIENTS:

- When you're buying the tin and spices, also buy a small bag of "atta" (whole wheat flour), & a jar of ghee (you can use butter if you like but ghee is nicer).  Think how cool you'll look going up to the shopkeeper and asking for atta!  (pronounched AH-ta).

- Two bags of fresh baby spinach

- 1 jar of canned tomatoes (doesn't matter how big; you won't use all of it)

- 1 lemon

- A little olive oil

COOKING! 

easy easy easy.  ready?

1. Fast Fresh Bread first.  Put some flour in a bowl, 1-2 cups.  Add a 3-4 tablespoons of water.  1 tsp oil.  1 pinch salt.  Rub it all together until it's a very dry ball about the size of a grapefruit.  It shouldn't be sticky, wet, glistening.  If it is, add more flour. You want it quite dry, just holding together in a ball. Cover, set it aside. 

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Rob Shore

all photos by Bradd Shore

We met Rob Shore in May, 2008, during a trip to Mongolia where he was working as a Peace Corps volunteer. Today Rob lives in Atlanta, Georgia where he is a writer, producer, and photographer.  His essays are forthcoming in Harvard University Press and the Peace Corps at 50 Anniversary Story Project and his photography has appeared in Fifth Wednesday Journal and elsewhere.  Rob is at work on a documentary film series about American family rites of passage, funded by the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation.  He graduated from Emory University in 2006 with degrees in anthropology and film. See more of his work here.  Rob has this to say about cooking and today's recipe for ceviche:

From 2006-2008 I lived alone in a yurt on the Mongolian steppe.  My desire to cook was more out of nutritional necessity than any inherent interest.  A diet consisting of boiled sheep’s innards, dried milk curd, and the odd potato, carrot, or onion, is enough to drive anyone to culinary experimentation. 

In Mongolia I made peace with meat’s more cute and cuddly exteriors, as opposed to the cling-wrap and Styrofoam of American grocery stores.  I learned to sharpen knives on the underside of bowls and mugs.  The militarily punitive aspects of potato peeling were replaced by a deep affection for the Zen-like rhythms of the chore. 

Today, I cook because it is one of ways in which my mother and I relate as adults. I cook because good, home-cooked food is an incontrovertible excuse to drink good wine. I cook because people don’t expect twenty-something men with unruly hair to have secret ingredients.  I cook because no one else makes it spicy enough.

I like simple recipes that allow for a lot of experimentation and personalization.  I love dishes that are better on the second day, where leftovers can be the main event.  I love fish.

In the summer of 2007 I took up residence next to a river, miles from the village and without a neighbor in sight.  I lived almost solely on what I caught from the river: fat, beautiful rainbow trout.  I learned every conceivable way to prepare them: baked, smoked, sautéed, fried, boiled, stewed, and stuffed in dumplings.  I even took the risk of trying trout sashimi-style.  No cooking method, however, satisfied as much as cleaning a freshly caught fish, sprinkling it with salt and pepper, and laying it over the hot coals of a fire built on the banks of the river.