'Tis the Season for Dessert

This weekend brought a deluge of snow, slamming the city with blizzard after blizzard. As a new home-owner, I got a crash course in snow shoveling. After such a Sisyphean chore, the idea of baking in a warm kitchen was highly appealing.

In preparation for my annual Christmas party, I decided to make a Maple Pecan Cheesecake. (The dinner theme was a Quebecois Christmas: Beet & Blue Cheese Salad served with Tourtiere. I'll post about those dishes another time.) The recipe for the cake came from Lynn's cookbook collection. If I recall correctly, it was in the Australian Women's Weekly cookbook on cheesecakes.

The delightful thing about cheesecake is that it doesn't have to involve the oven at all. It looks and tastes sinfully decadent, and yet it can be ridiculously easy to make. That was certainly the case with this cake.

The base was made from ground ginger snaps and melted butter. I took a chance and substituted light cream cheese in place of regular. A modest amount of maple syrup was added to the filling mixture. Coarsely chopped pecans were tossed with maple syrup before being roasted in the oven for about 10 minutes. The result was a kind of pecan brittle which was broken up and sprinkled on top of the cake for some crunch. The dinner guests happily plucked at the candied pecans even after finishing their cake -- it is quite addictive and gives me ideas for other recipes.

I felt compelled to finish off the bottle of organic maple syrup I had bought for the cheesecake. So I baked a maple cake for my co-workers. It's a very simple sponge cake with maple syrup mixed into the batter. After it cooled, I sliced it horizontally in half then slathered maple cream (maple syrup and whipping cream beaten until thickened) between the layers. A light dusting of icing sugar gave it a wintery look. I'll be bringing it to the office tomorrow. Hope my colleagues like it!

The Perfect Christmas

I just saw chef Heston Blumenthal's "Perfect Christmas" special on the Food Network and floated away in awe and reverie. Six very lucky dinner guests were treated to what may be the most magical Christmas dinner of all time. Blumenthal and his crew created a winter wonderland as the setting for this dinner -- one of the guests exclaimed, "It's Narnia!" -- and proceeded to blow their minds and palates with his astounding creations. I watched the entire show slack-jawed, salivating and profoundly resenting the people who had the privilege of eating that meal. I couldn't find the full episode online but a preview is available on YouTube:



There's a reason why this guy turns me into a chattering groupie, and it has nothing to do with his abundance of Michelin stars. What I find absolutely irresistible about Blumenthal is his infectious enthusiasm, imagination and meticulous attention to detail without the slightest trace of ego. He is always like an excited child who has discovered chocolate for the first time. You can't help but want to learn from him and with him. I think the opening sequence of his series, "In Search of Perfection" probably captures what it's like inside his brilliant brain: smells, tastes, colors, textures, science, magic... endless fireworks.

When the Student Becomes the Teacher

Every December, my department welcomes the holidays with a celebratory team dinner. This year, we chose The Chef's House: it is a fully operational restaurant staffed by the talented students from George Brown College and the Centre for Hospitality and Culinary Arts. None of us had been to the restaurant before, but I could attest to the quality of their education, having taken two courses and a workshop at the school.

We were not disappointed.

The venue had very clean, modern decor, comparable to some of the trendiest restaurants in the downtown core. The open-concept kitchen is the focal point, with cameras capturing all the activity for customers who can watch on flat-screen TVs installed throughout the dining area.

Diners have a choice of a 3-course meal ($39) or a 4-course meal ($45), i.e. you could choose any 3 or 4 dishes from the menu. I opted for the 3-course dinner. We were first served an amuse bouche palate cleanser: a tiny mix of tomato, pine nuts, greens plated with a streak of balsamic vinegar reduction.

For my starter, I picked the soup of the day: cream of mushroom soup. Having enjoyed Lynn's soulful soup last week made me crave more of this good thing. The trouble with cream of mushroom soup -- when it doesn't come from a can -- is its unappealing color. It reminds me of the shade of sludge that pools by the side of a curb when winter's frost starts to melt in March. However, the student chefs presented it beautifully, garnished with a dollop of what I believe was crème fraîche and emerald green herbed oils drizzled for color. The wide-rimmed bowl provided a broad, clean canvas for all these elements.

For my main, I ordered a gnudi dish without really knowing what it was, other than it sounded a lot like gnocchi. Turns out, I wasn't far from the mark: gnudi means "nude" in Italian, a reference to the fact that it is essentially the filling for stuffed pasta such as ravioli but without the pasta. It is similar to gnocchi except the potato is replaced by ricotta.

My gnudi was mixed with spinach, served on a bed of arugula and wild mushrooms. The mushrooms had been cooked or marinated in a salty/savory sauce. When eaten with the creamy gnudi and the grated parmesan, the taste sensation made me exclaim, "OMG this is good" (and I'm an atheist). I'm usually a salt hog, but this was so perfectly seasoned that I didn't touch the salt shaker even once.

Choosing the dessert was a no-brainer: maple pecan tart. I am fond of any combination of ice cream, maple syrup and nuts. They were made for each other. The tart arrived before me still warm, with the freshly made ice cream gently oozing from the heat of the pastry. To be honest, my memory of eating the dessert is very hazy because it went by so fast. I was mocked for stopping to take a photo in mid-bite, but I needed a record of the experience before inhaling it.

I can't imagine a better training ground for tomorrow's star chefs. The Chef's House emphasizes locally grown produce, which teaches socially responsible practices while supporting the local economy. The students gain invaluable experience that can't be simulated in a classroom. For the public, dining in a place like that brings them closer to the process of food preparation. I think this heightens one's appreciation for what we eat and the talent of those who serve it to us. These young cooks merit our full support.

Comfort in a Jar

"Worries go down better with soup." - Jewish proverb -

People often complain of boredom when their days are uneventful, but it is the lucky individual who has no occasion to suffer the pitfalls of life.

My weekend started joyfully, with the arrival of my brother who took a long train ride to visit me. Among other things, we went to a rambunctious pierogi-making party hosted by my huggable friend, Gila. If you want to know how pierogi-making can ever be rambunctious, factor in over a dozen boisterous individuals, at least a few hundred pierogi wrappers, dozens of traditional and questionable choices of filling (the more absurd filling ideas having come about after considerable consumption of alcohol), and flour-dusted hands deliberately finding their way onto dark clothing. It was a major gaffe on my part to forget to bring my camera. I brought home some mystery pierogis at least, and will photograph and write about them when they get cooked.

Then came the wrenching news about my brother's beloved cat, who is in a veterinary hospital as I write this, fighting for his life. I won't get into details because it's none of my business to be writing about it here, but there were many long hours that felt like days during which some painful decisions had to be made. It brought back memories of my first cat, Peanut, who passed away a few years ago. I loved him more than anything or anyone in the world. Just writing about this makes me weep even today, so it's not a stretch for me to understand what my brother is going through right now.

Just before the weekend, my very dear friend and co-contributor here, Lynn, had given me a jar of her homemade cream of mushroom soup. I don't know precisely what went into it, but if I know her at all, she would have applied the principle of simplicity: fresh, simple ingredients -- nothing artificial -- that are long on aroma and flavor. The soup was the first thing my brother and I ate after the bad news. It was comfort in a jar. The canned variety often feels too heavy and loaded with preservatives. Lynn's soup was light but captured the essence of mushrooms. It was just what we needed.

Good Things Come in Small Packages

Apologies for the long absence of new posts. I've been back from Barcelona for nearly two weeks already, but my time at work has been monopolized by the inevitable game of catch-up and overtime. And right now, my cats are not making this any easier by parading between me and my laptop and licking my face and fingers.

Another deterrent was the fact that I had ambitious plans for this first post upon my return -- ambitions that weren't matched by my energy level or mental capacity. Winter has descended upon us and this season has a way of sucking the life out of me.

But I digress. The trip to Barcelona assured me that the architectural splendor of the city has remained intact over the past decade and bold plans are already underway to further transform the landscape. Its coastline and natural charms are as beautiful as ever -- what Canuck wouldn't get deliriously giddy at the sight of palm trees in a busy, metropolitan centre? We were given ample opportunity to wine and dine until ready to burst. The conference hotel rooms were equipped with bathroom scales which the women promptly utilized to depress or reassure themselves about their rate of consumption. My scale was conveniently broken and lied to me about my weight, which suited me just fine.

Regrettably, some foul first-hand experiences with crime as well as second-hand reports of incidents from colleagues left a bitter aftertaste. It threatened to spoil the entire experience for me and now I'm not so sure I would want to go back there a third time.

Which would be a real shame given that the sins of the few shouldn't damn everybody or everything.

Spanish tapas is something that I already miss a great deal. Tapas isn't so much a style of cuisine as it is an approach to eating that differs from the regimented meal schedule that North Americans are programmed to follow. For one thing, Spaniards eat later in the day, having lunch between 1:00-4:00pm and dinner between 9:00pm-12:00am. The lateness of the last meal encourages a reduction in portion size -- going to bed with a full belly is as uncomfortable as it is unhealthy. This is in stark contrast to the massive production that is usually "dinner" in North America.

The word "tapas" originates from "tapar", which means "to cover" in Spanish. (Spanish-speakers, please correct me immediately if I'm talking out of my ass.) The consumption of tapas is inextricably linked to the imbibing of alcohol. In my research, I've consistently come across two stories about the origin of tapas: (1) the practice was decreed in the 13th century by King Alfonso X of Castile (aka Alfonso the Wise) who credited his recovery from an illness to a diet of small portions and wine; consequently, wine could no longer be served anywhere in the land without a bite of food, and (2) it became customary to cover a glass of wine with a slice of bread or cheese, either to keep out offending contaminants like sand or bugs, or to hold in the funky smell of bad wine. While I like anyone who advocates drinking wine, I think I prefer the second explanation. El mundo de las Tapas has a much more detailed history of tapas (and recipes!) for anyone interested in reading further.

Catalan food is typified by marvelous variations of Iberian pork -- cooked, cured, dried -- and delicious seafood. Oddly enough, guidebooks state that the seafood sold in Barcelona is mostly imported despite local fisheries along the Catalan coast. I couldn't tell, judging from the superb hake, cod, squid and anchovies I sampled. Paella, of course, was a dietary requirement for me while I was there. It was always moist, flavorful and crammed with monstrously huge prawns, chorizo, saffron and other goodies.

Spaniards don't have a patent on the idea of serving several small dishes instead of one heavy meal. The Chinese have dim sum (I'm planning to take a dim sum cooking course next year!). Greeks, Cypriots, Turks, Lebanese, Albanians, Serbians and Bulgarians have meze or mezze. Filipinos have pica-pica and coincidentally, even a cured beef dish called tapa. Japanese kaiseki cuisine has a tapas-like structure, consisting of an array of small dishes; Japanese pottery is resplendent with gorgeous, tiny plates designed specifically for this.

And why shouldn't this be a global phenomenon? Eating lots of small dishes throughout the day is accepted by many as a healthier alternative to overloading on food three times a day. I think smaller portions also force you to stop and taste what you're putting in your mouth. You can't just scarf it down. Like a Fabergé egg, there's something precious and charming about a small thing that still requires as much effort and skill to prepare as something bigger.

My friend Ireen has taken beautiful photographs of the food we had in Barcelona. She's a far more skilled photographer than I am, so hopefully she'll either post them publicly or let me post a few here for your enjoyment. I'll keep you posted.

Fins Després (See You Later)

This blog will be on hiatus for a bit over a week. I am jetting off to Barcelona, Spain to attend a work-related conference and bum around town for a couple of extra days. I have the good fortune of going with a fellow foodie, great friend and brilliant colleague, Ireen.

To appease our boss, of course I have to say that the conference is our utmost priority. And don't get me wrong: I am looking forward to attending the sessions and interfacing with professionals in the field from across the globe.

However, I have to confess that gorging on the food and drink of Spain are on my "must do" list. This is my second time in the fair city and food -- along with incredible architecture, flora, fauna and the utter chic-ness of the people -- was a very memorable part of the last trip. I adore tapas-style cuisine, which reminds me of a cross between French bistro and balmy Mediterranean flavors. And it goes without saying that Spanish red wine is my top choice for an evening beverage.

So, apologies for the break in postings but I will be back with an abundance of photos. If I can get around the local Catalan dialect (I can barely understand fragments of Spanish, which is no help at all in Barcelona anyway), then perhaps I might even return with some recipes. Adéu!

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Warmth from the Nordic Region

Scandinavian cooking is one of my favorite types of cuisine. There is a freshness and rustic simplicity in their choice of ingredients and manner of food preparation. Fruit figures prominently in many salads and mains like Curry and Apple Herring, Pork and Prune Meat Balls, Blackberry and Goat Cheese Salad, and Seared Scallops with Blueberry Vinaigrette. They share the Japanese inclination to use a lot of seafood such as halibut, herring, lobster, shrimp and eel. Vodka-cured salmon (aka gravlaks) is a delectable Scandinavian specialty -- Sweden is the birthplace of Absolut Vodka, after all.

A theme I want to explore in the cookbook is the soup + sandwich combo. (In warmer weather, I prefer salad + sandwich.) It's a familiar, homey style of eating. I chose to make a Leek and Potato Soup and an open-faced Mushroom and Apple Sandwich.

I hadn't counted on leeks being so hard to find. The first two groceries I went to had leeks but they were drying out and starting to turn brown. The third grocer didn't even have any. Pushed into making a choice, I bought a green zucchini and yellow zucchini to replace the leeks. The skin of the green zucchini and mild flavor of roasted zucchini would be a reasonable substitute, and adding some yellow onion and garlic would make up for the missing onion-like flavor. Two pinches of oregano, a bit of marjoram, coarsely mashed potatoes and fat free sour cream completed the soup.

The sandwich filling was a very fast and easy stir-fry of butter, oyster mushrooms, red onion, Fuji apple slices, fresh rosemary, and lemon zest, topped with a few teaspoon scoops of soft cheese. I served it with a few slices of smoked salmon.

For these and many more Scandinavian recipes, take a look at the New Scandinavian Cooking website.

Eat Your (Asian) Vegetables!

One of my projects for the cookbook is to develop a rice porridge recipe similar to nanakusa gayu (七草がゆ), a comforting Japanese dish. Nanakusa literally means seven greens. The choice of greens varies by season, but they are the primary seasoning ingredients in the recipe.

Trying to find suitable greens in North American supermarkets is a challenge. Grocers in Japan stock produce such as perilla leaves, edible chrysanthemum, variegated water parsley, shepherd's purse, Jersey cudweed, chickweed, lapsana, turnip leaves and daikon leaves -- common ingredients in the nanakusa gayu. Clearly, substitutions are necessary on this side of the Pacific.

One of my first picks is kai-lan or Chinese broccoli, a relative of kale. It is easily available in Chinese groceries and some adventurous supermarket chains. It looks like rapini with its broad leaves and vestigial flower heads, but when stir-fried, a mellow flavor emerges unlike the slight bitterness imbued in rapini leaves.

I chopped a large fistful of kai-lan leaves into fine strips, quickly fried them in cooking oil, then tossed it with a bowl of rice. Next, I grated a daikon radish, topped a small mound of daikon on top of the rice, drizzled some soy sauce, and sprinkled some yuzu-flavored ground hot pepper flakes (available at Japanese shops). The daikon added a palate-cleansing zip that contrasted with the mildness of the rice and greens. It was a deeply satisfying meal in a bowl.

Mother Knows Best

It's my mother's birthday, so I'd like to commemorate the occasion by posting about some of her cooking. After all, I think mothers (and some fathers) are the primary influence on people's food preferences and habits. It's plenty obvious that I have a predilection for Japanese cuisine which stems from growing up under my parents' roof.

Mom and Dad recently made an excursion out to Angel Seafoods Ltd., a Japanese food warehouse/market in the Saint-Laurent area of Montreal. Mom picked up a shiny red snapper, already neatly gutted and scaled. She salted it, skewered it from tail to head -- like sticking a rod up a puppet's butt -- then baked the whole thing in the oven at 350°F for about 30 minutes. To prevent burning, she covered the tail and fin with foil.

Salt crust roasting is an ancient technique used across different cultures. Salt, as I've mentioned before, has a way of drawing out moisture from flesh. However, salt crust roasting creates a barrier that locks in the moisture that the salt crust draws out, causing the flesh to steam inside.

Of course, instead of remarking on such intelligent details, I made a facetious remark about Mr. Snapper's teeth looking somewhat scary and comical at the same time. (Come on, you can't tell me this guy doesn't look like Admiral Ackbar from Return of the Jedi with piranha dentures?!)

My mother promptly replied that traditional Japanese cooking dictates that you should tie the fish's mouth shut with twine to prevent it from opening during baking. Presumably, this is to keep moisture from escaping from the mouth. I did some Googling and found that some people also sew the gills shut for roasting. Who knew? Mom knew.

I leave you with a photo of one of her New Year's feasts which she spends almost a week preparing for at the end of every December. This isn't even the full meal: these are the remnants (neatly re-arranged) after the family has devoured a number of dishes. Eventually, I'd like to accumulate enough understanding of these foods to be able to make something like this without consulting a book. My mother has all of these recipes in her head. Now that's skill.

Happy birthday, Mom!

Whatchamacallit?

Usually when you move into a new place, any "surprises" you find tend to be unpleasant horrors such as mouse droppings, mutant bug carcasses, a leaky roof, broken window panes, or a water tap that doesn't work. Fortunately, the big surprise that came with the front lawn of my new house is the expansive growth of physalis, otherwise known as "Chinese lantern", "Japanese lantern", "ground cherry", "tomatillo", "cape gooseberry", "wild gooseberry" (btw, "gooseberry" by itself refers to a completely different plant), and so on.

I make myself sound like an authority on the subject, but the identification of the plant amongst my co-workers involved many debates and Googling/Wiki-ing. ("How many analysts does it take to identify a plant?")

While Wikipedia provided the answer, I didn't know about physalis' culinary value until a colleague told me how much she loved ground cherry pies. Intrigued by the concept, I agreed to harvest what I could over the weekend and bring the berries to her.

The ground cherry aficionado also requested some cuttings of the plant so that she could plant some of her own. I was happy to comply but it should be pointed out that I have a "black thumb" and can kill almost any plant simply by trying to care for it.

After some online research on how to nurture physalis cuttings in water, how to harvest the berries without damaging the plant, how harvesting was good for the plant because it stimulates the growth of more berries, I braced myself and stepped onto my front lawn.

Unripe ground cherries are toxic, so I was leery of plucking any greenish-yellow pods. A couple of slugs had burrowed their way into pods -- it didn't appear that they were eating the berries so perhaps they were using the pod for shelter. There were signs of other critters feasting on the berries, but not nearly as many as I would have anticipated.

The physalis pod in its prime is a gorgeous shade of orange. Yet even in a state of decay -- with its orange husk disintegrated, leaving only a dried web of brown membrane -- it is a lovely work of nature. If the expert approves of this harvest, I will see what I can do with it in the kitchen.

Offal is Not Awful

In the interest of responsible eating -- a subject I wrote about before -- I have been trying to introduce more animal parts into my culinary repertoire. And so, more offal have been creeping into my diet. The slow adoption has more to do with limited availability -- most butcher counters focus only on popular meats such as chicken breast, pork chops, ground beef, etc. -- and my inexperience with cooking animal parts that too often end up in the trash.

However, chicken livers can be found even at the most under-stocked grocery chains. And having made chicken pâté before, using a recipe called "Faux Gras" (a cheaper, more ethical alternative to foie gras), I am comfortable cooking livers.

The dish I present here is my own recipe. The inspiration stems from a case of misidentification. Many months ago, I decided to explore a new area of Toronto on my day off. I found myself in Liberty Village: a compact but developing area where shiny new condos are sprouting up and posh shops have set up camp. Part of the draw was the knowledge that acclaimed chef, Marc Thuet, had opened a bistro called Atelier Thuet in this neighborhood. It was a luxurious treat to have a lazy late lunch there with a beautiful glass of Sauvigon Blanc while everyone else was at work.

I ordered an open-faced sandwich served with a liver stew on marvelous slices of bread from Thuet's own bakery. When the plate arrived, I thought I saw lemon slices in the stew. This was an unexpected accompaniment to liver and the idea delighted me. Only after taking my first bite did I realize it was actually a greenish-yellow tomato that merely looked like stewed lemon. Thuet's dish was unquestionably brilliant, but my desire for lemon would not go away.

And so, here is my own chicken liver stew, as I had originally imagined it:

• Drain, rinse and trim around 200g (or a cup) of chicken livers. Try to get rid of the stringy sinew that connects the lobes and any excess fat. The sinew becomes gritty and tough to chew when the livers are cooked. Coarsely chop the livers into small pieces -- how small is up to your own personal preference.
  
• Finely mince 3 cloves of garlic (more if you want). Heat oil in a pot and add the garlic.
  
• Slice a small yellow onion into thin strips. Add them to the pot and sweat until translucent.
• Add the chopped livers to the pot and cook until most of the pink/purple has turned brown. It's best to under-cook them slightly, as they will be subjected to heat for a while longer.
• Pour just enough chicken broth/stock into the pot to cover the mixture, around 1-2 cups. Bring to a gentle boil then lower the heat down to a simmer.
  
• Add 1-2 Tbsp of tomato paste. Use ketchup if you prefer a sweeter stew.
• Add your choice of mushrooms. I like oyster mushrooms for this dish because the texture matches the texture of liver.
• Grate the rind of half a lemon and add it to the pot.
  
• Depending on how acidic you want the stew to be, add 6-10 thin slices of lemon.
  
• Add a sprig or two of fresh thyme. Rosemary also works well. If you have herbes de Provence, then by all means, add half-a-teaspoon of it to the pot. It doesn't matter too much what you use, as long as you stick with herbs that are commonly used in French cuisine.
  
• Pour in 1-2 Tbsp of brandy or Marsala. This is optional, but it adds depth to the flavor.
• In a small bowl, measure out 1-2 Tbsp of corn starch. Make a slurry in the bowl by adding some of the liquid from the stew and whisking it until there are no powdery lumps. This doesn't take a lot of liquid -- use just enough to moisten the corn starch without drowning it. Add the slurry to the pot.
  
• Once the stew has thickened to the desired consistency, season it with salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Serve the stew with some bread, rice or pasta. Garnish with some capers and grate Parmesan on top.

Chicken livers are an excellent source of iron as well as Vitamin A, B-12 and C. Vitamin B-12 has been associated with memory, mental function and moods: a deficiency can lead to depression and symptoms similar to Alzheimer's. Vitamin C is beneficial for the nervous system and has been proven as a good antioxidant.

Comforting Roasts

There's much to love about roasts. Meat cooking slowly in the oven is an alluring promise waiting to be kept. The sizzling, crackling sound of the meat's juices sweating from the flesh and caramelizing on the skin is a soundtrack to an ambitious kitchen production. The crusty, browned edges urge me to call dibs on the end pieces.

Preparation of the roast builds a relationship between you and the animal you are cooking. If it's poultry I'm roasting, I enjoy washing the bird, plucking fragments of feathers from the skin, patting it dry, moving or snapping joints, and poking around under the skin to slide in aromatics and marinades. As I've acquired some skills from skillful people, I've come to love the mechanics of butchering meat. Knowing the anatomy of an animal and working a knife between flesh, sinew, fat, bone and skin makes for elegant roasts. Trussing the meat looks like bondage using kitchen twine, but I think of it like wrapping a present to be unraveled later.

A few nights ago, I got to my neighborhood butcher too close to closing time. He didn't have much left in his display case that looked fresh, save for a pork loin. I brought it home, trimmed chunks of fat but still left some behind for flavor, trussed it into a cylinder of even thickness, and rubbed it with some lemon gremolata (similar to the gremolata I had used on lamb chops for Thanksgiving dinner). After searing it quickly on a skillet, I stabbed holes all over the roast and pushed in springs of fresh rosemary. The pork was placed on a bed of sliced baby zucchini and chopped tomatoes in a roasting pan. Juices left behind in the skillet were drizzled over the vegetables. Everything was roasted in the oven at 400°F for an hour. During that hour, the scent of rosemary filled my house.

The result looked like a roasted porcupine due to the blackened herbs protruding from the meat. The jus of the pork had been soaked up by the zucchini which were moist yet golden and crispy. Slicing the roast revealed tender meat inside. Served on rice, the meat and vegetables were hearty and flavorful. The charred rosemary contributed a crunchy, savory component. I'm pretty sure it would be delicious in a hot sandwich as well.

Guava Butter

According to the Wiki entry for fruit preserves, a recipe that calls for heating fruit, mashing it through a sieve, then cooking the pulp with sugar until it thickens, is called a fruit butter. I've been prancing around for days telling people that I made jam.

So now I stand corrected: I made fresh guava butter.

My magical neighborhood grocery had fresh guava fruit so I snatched it up without knowing what I was supposed to do with it. Anyone who knows me knows that this isn't the first time I bought an ingredient I had no clue how to cook.

I've had guava juice many times and guava-scented soaps. Being a huge fan of anything citrus, the lemony aroma of the guava fruit has always been appealing to me. However, I had never eaten the fruit itself.

Some quick Googling told me that the skin is edible but bitter, that the skin is loaded with pectin (a gelling agent commonly used and required in preserves), and that the seeds should be avoided. Latin and West Indian cuisines use guava jam quite a bit. It wouldn't surprise me if there are many others who do the same.

Passing the boiled (whole) fruit through a sieve was a tedious exercise but it was a simple way to remove the seeds and break down the skins. Once the sugar and some extra pectin were added, the resulting mash took no time to thicken over low heat. Chilling them in the fridge allowed them to thicken some more.

I prefer a touch of tartness over sweetness, so I was conservative with the sugar. The resulting guava butter on toast is a bright way to start my day.

Feast on Film

As I await the ground-shaking results of the U.S. elections -- it's looking very promising already -- my mind has drifted to thoughts of food in film. No, there is no logical association there. My mind is simply full of food and film pretty much all the time.

I'm not sure how much interest this topic will generate since my earlier posting on food in music elicited no comment. However, this is my blog, so what the hell.

I can only think of six films that embody the passion and sensory thrills of cooking. Until the day someone invents smell-o-vision TVs and cinemas, movies are dependent on visual and auditory stimuli to convey smells, textures and flavors. My six pix picks not only make my mouth water, but they fill me with a desire to run into the kitchen and start cooking a feast.

The indie movie, "Big Night" (1996), co-directed by actors Stanley Tucci and Campbell Scott, is one of the most charming, joyous celebrations of food. The title refers to a climactic banquet that is supposed to save a tiny Italian restaurant from bankruptcy. The aptly named brothers -- Primo and Secondo -- are the proprietors of the establishment. Although both of them cook, Secondo knows very well that Primo is the one blessed with talent and he will go to any lengths to defend his brother's gift. The third act of the film is the big night itself: the ambitious and over-the-top dinner prepared with every ounce of zeal and desperation that the brothers can muster. I won't spoil the ending for anyone who has yet to see it -- go see it, you fool! -- but the quiet final scene with nary a word uttered for five minutes is one of the most deeply poignant endings in cinema.

Here is but a snippet from the grand banquet in "Big Night":



"Babette's Feast" (1987) from Denmark also centers on a sumptuous meal. However, this feast is a gesture of immeasurable gratitude for a humble but extraordinary act of kindness. In a small, remote village in 19th century Denmark, a pastor and his two beautiful daughters spread their faith. Out of a sense of duty to their father, the daughters forsake their hearts' desires and opt for a pious life by his side. Decades later, long after their father has passed, the aging sisters are sought out by a French woman fleeing the post-revolutionary bloodshed in the streets of Paris. The stranger, Babette, offers to be their housekeeper, even without pay -- anything for asylum. And so, Babette serves the sisters dutifully for fourteen years until, one day, she receives notice that she has won a lottery in Paris. Babette offers to cook a feast for the sisters and the late pastor's followers, presumably before returning to France. What transpires is a stirring, unforgettable meal for all, seasoned with a twist from Babette. In the last scene she utters, "an artist is never poor": an eloquent statement of conviction that cooking is truly an art.

On the polar opposite of the spectrum, you have "Tampopo" (1985). This is a zany collage of vignettes about food peppered across a silly central plot about a ramen shop trying to concoct the ultimate noodle. Through the comedy emerges a theme about how food permeates every corner of our existence, from a mother's breast to the last meal, in class divisions and domestic order, in public and in the bedroom. It's hard to single out the funniest scene from the movie. There's the side-splitting French restaurant scene in which director Juzo Itami pokes fun at the fronts old Japanese farts will put on in order to hide their ignorance and save face. Less funny, but more mouth-watering is the scene in which a homeless man with obvious culinary talent shows our heroine's son how to make the perfect omurice, i.e. omelette + rice. But I will be remiss if I don't post the opening clip in which noodle-eating is discussed with Zen-like earnestness:



Also from Asia, Ang Lee's "Eat Drink Man Woman" (1994) swings in yet another direction. Food here becomes a symbol of love and family. Master chef Chu is widowed and has three adult daughters. With age, Chu has begun to lose his sense of taste as well as his hold on his daughters. The weekly ritual of cooking an elaborate dinner for his family falls apart as the daughters run off to pursue their own lives. That the unlikeliest daughter becomes the one to pick up the torch and displays the same culinary gift is a touching affirmation of the bond between father and daughter. The stunning opening scene in which Chef Chu prepares one of his Sunday dinners took over a week to shoot. You can see why:



It goes without saying that "Ratatouille" (2007) has won my heart. I've mentioned it before and here I'm mentioning it again. The film has its flaws, but the primary theme of "anyone can cook" is a lovely one. I won't bother describing it here because it has received such tremendous exposure in the Western world. However, I will single out the speech by Anton Ego near the end of the movie. Ego is the acid-tongued restaurant critic who can make or break a chef's career. When his haughty arrogance crumbles at the discovery of Remy, the rat chef, it leads him to this powerful soul-searching narrative:



I won't lie to you. That speech makes me cry every time.

Last but not least, "The Scent of Green Papaya" (1993) deserves honorable mention. It's not a foodie movie, per se, but its slow, lingering moments revolving around food are imbued with a sensuality that is hard to describe with words. Film critic Roger Ebert called it "a poem for the eyes". There is little to it in terms of story, but it's like watching a moving painting with moments of exquisite beauty and poetry. Mui, a little Vietnamese servant girl, is at the heart of the film. She glows with an innate goodness and purity. She is not naive, but she dislays no judgement -- only curiosity and affection -- for everything and everyone around her. She grows up and falls in love, which pretty much sums up the "plot". Plot doesn't matter when you can drink in the details in scenes such as this one:

Champions of Breakfast

"All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast." --John Gunther--

I have never been a morning person. I’m the type of individual who hits the snooze button several times before crawling out of bed on a work day. If left to my own devices on a weekend, I can easily sleep until noon (yes, sometimes later). I resent getting up so much that I ignore people and snarl if spoken to before I’ve digested my coffee. If required to communicate, I will be incoherent and likely come across as neurologically damaged.

But I love breakfast.

It should be clarified that I don’t enjoy breakfast in the morning. I skipped breakfast during my academic years until I learned that this habit would slow down my metabolism and make me rounder than I already was. Today, I still have no appetite in the a.m. but I will choke down a crumpet or slice of toast before heading off to work, if only to curb the mid-morning stomach growls.

Yet the idea of having eggs and toast for supper or sourdough blueberry pancakes at 3 a.m. gives me the warm and fuzzies. “All Day Breakfast” is one of my favorite phrases in the English language. Even though I am a confirmed night owl, I recognize and appreciate the fact that breakfast dishes are intended to wake you up and fuel your brain and body for the challenging day (or night) ahead.

Imagine my glee when I spotted the October issue of Saveur magazine – its theme was breakfast. Most fascinating to me is the series of essays and pictorials on breakfasts around the world. Some things are universal: breads, pastries, eggs, potatoes, drink staples like fruit juices, teas and coffee, and breakfast meats (predominantly pork) seem to turn up everywhere in one form or other. However, Laotians start their day with a steaming bowl of khao soi, a rice noodle soup topped with spicy pork. Mexico is the home of chilaquiles, a piquant dish consisting of fried tortillas, salsa, herbs and shredded meat. Seafood like raw fish and fish paste make their way into the breakfast dishes of Singapore.

Whenever I eat out for breakfast or brunch, I tend to choose dishes that I wouldn't normally make for myself at home. That includes freshly made waffles, pancakes, steak & eggs, giant fruit platters, elaborate omelettes, and the king of breakfast egg dishes: Eggs Benedict. Once in a blue moon, on a lazy weekend morning, I like to pull all the stops and make a lavish brunch for one.

And so, I recently tackled the Eggs Benedict. Two weekends in a row, in fact. The first time was when my parents came to visit over Thanksgiving weekend. I had baby spinach and Berkshire pork belly on hand, so those went into the dish along with the English muffins and poached eggs. My hollandaise sauce on that occasion was a disaster: I had forgotten to buy butter in advance, so the only substitute I came up with was margarine. This should serve as a reminder that sometimes ingredients are chosen for legitimate reasons and therefore foolish to replace. Without the necessary fat, my sauce turned into a vinaigrette. (Only after the fact did it occur to me that mayonnaise -- which I had -- would have worked well in place of butter.)

The disappointment over the sauce made me want to do it again the following weekend. This time, I used Canadian bacon for the meat. I had no spinach left so there were no greens except a side of pan-fried asparagus drizzled with balsamic vinegar and butter. Finally, the hollandaise became a beautiful creamy yellow thanks to the magic of butter.

Poaching eggs is as satisfying to me as meditation. Jacques Pepin and "The New Kitchen Science" have taught me that the keys to perfectly poaching eggs are to:

• use a generous amount of water in the pot,
• add roughly 1/4 to 1/2 cup of white vinegar to the water (more if boiling in a giant pot),
• swirl the gently boiling water with a spoon before slipping in one egg at a time,
• cook the eggs only a couple of minutes if you like the yolks runny, and
  
• dunk the cooked eggs briefly in cold water, then drain them on paper towels.

I love that moment when you cut into a poached egg and the bright yolk starts oozing out, forcing you to swab at it with scraps of bread.

R for Responsible

To love something, you have to understand it. You cannot be a foodie without a profound appreciation for how food is grown or raised, what was done to it before transportation, where it came from, and what myriad of factors made it possible for it to reach your table.

Journalist and author, Michael Pollan, has written two best-selling treatises on our complicated relationship with the things we eat: "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and "In Defense of Food". He has articulated the guilt, confusion and desires that direct our diet in Western society. We suddenly find ourselves trapped in a situation where "what's for dinner?" becomes a minefield of ethical, socio-economic and biochemical issues.

Organic, pesticide-free, free-run, free-range, gluten-free, lactose-free, peanut-free, trans-fat free, monounsaturated fats, non-fat, low sodium, low carb, low cholesterol, omega-3, vitamin-enriched, calcium-enriched, unbleached, baked instead of fried, vegetarian instead of carnivore, vegan instead of vegetarian, heirloom or hybrid, processed or fresh, wild or farmed, local or imported, and on and on and on it goes.

The innocence of a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white toast is long gone. The peanut spread could potentially kill someone with nut allergies. If the peanut butter isn't organic, then it may have been made with "bad" fats to keep the natural oils from separating. The jelly might have been made from fruit that was exposed to pesticides and sweetened with white refined sugar. The white bread was made from bleached flour. Blackened edges of the toast may introduce carcinogens into your system. The fuel expended to truck the jelly from a factory across the border may have contributed to global warming and skyrocketing gas prices. If you're not killing yourself with your dietary choices, then you're killing the planet.

Foodies are to blame for certain excesses and practices that are questionable, at best. They have a taste for exotic ingredients like pink Himalayan salt that need to be shipped at great expense from far-flung places. They help drive up food prices by insisting on consuming at the same rate, regardless of whether resources are scarce or plentiful. The lust for foie gras perpetuates the controversial practice of gavage -- the force-feeding of ducks and geese to fatten up their livers -- which has been described as "harmless", "cruel" and everything in between. To produce a pound of the pricey and much-revered saffron, 50,000 to 75,000 saffron crocus flowers need to be harvested; yet its role in cuisine is only to impart color and aroma to dishes -- its taste is nothing to write home about.

I conveniently switched to the third-person "they" in the last paragraph, but I am in fact a member of this epicurean clique. I eat meat. Foie gras is absolutely delicious. There are four types of salt in my pantry, and not one of them is the cheap, iodized kind. I allow myself to splurge on exceptional cuts of meat from time to time. Gorgeous olive oils imported from Italy make my eyes sparkle.

Sometimes all this extravagance and preciousness seems all for naught. Once, I ventured to buy a fragment of the extremely rare white truffle from Pusateri's to make a white and black truffle risotto dish for friends. The store manager was obliged to personally escort me and my truffle -- gently nestled on a bed of tissue paper in a box -- to the cash. The gum-popping cashier was impressed by the drama, but had never heard of my little "diamond of the kitchen" (quoting Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin). I explained that it was revered for its intense aroma and offered her a whiff. I might as well have farted in her face.

The risotto was elaborately prepared over days and the final result was to die for, if I may say so myself. Can I justify it? I'm not sure. But I would do it again.

For one thing, the fussiness and endless appetites of foodies create the demand for organic, sustainable, local farming. Produce tastes better when grown without the tampering of synthetic chemicals. Shorter distances between farms and customers make it possible to deliver food that is still vibrantly fresh while leaving a smaller energy footprint. Meat is more tender and nutritious when it comes from a happy animal that has been scampering around in the sun and fattened up on a good quality diet. Eggs that come from free-run chickens are bigger, and when you crack'em, the yolk is bright, firm and bulging with goodness.

Nose-to-tail eating is the practice of using every last piece of an animal slaughtered for consumption. This is a practical, ancient approach that dates back to our hunter-gatherer days, but it had fallen out of favor in modern times with the Chicken McNugget crowd. Celebrated chef Fergus Henderson of the St. John Restaurant in London, chef Martin Picard of Restaurant Au Pied de Cochon in Montreal, and writer/farmer/activist Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall of the River Cottage in Dorset are just some of the high profile gastronomes who have been re-introducing the world to all the other edible animal parts like ears, tails, feet, tripe, sweetbreads, and cheeks. These movers and shakers have a healthy respect for all creatures that makes them loathe to let the sacrifice of an animal go to waste.

In the end, I think what matters is to always have an awareness of what you are eating. The title of William S. Burrough's novel, "Naked Lunch", refers to "a frozen moment when everyone sees what is at the end of every fork". That frozen moment should last a lifetime.

H for Hunger

On Oct 27th, I attended Henry Rollins' spoken word show -- the Toronto stop of his Recountdown 2008 Tour. I've had the privilege of hearing him speak numerous times, both live and in recordings. Witnessing his evolution as an orator and as a human being over the last two decades has been stirring and awe-inspiring. Rollins' self-deprecating sense of humor and storytelling ability have won him many fans, but it is his tireless and sometimes manic social activism that has garnered him respect.

In his performance, Rollins discussed his recent involvement with "H for Hunger", a furious one-man rant/documentary that rails against world hunger and all its contributing forces. It is an English-language remake of "F Comme Faim" starring French actor, Dominique Pinon. Naturally, Rollins was cast as the angry mouthpiece; he also helped finance the project. The film has not yet been released, but I believe it is on the festival circuit now and will hopefully hit your local cinema soon.

Talking about hunger and famine is likely to be unsettling in a blog that celebrates food. First and foremost, eating is a survival mechanism, and it is only when people have the luxury of being picky about their next meal can we begin to talk about cuisine and gourmet dining. There's no difference between foie gras and Spam to someone who is starving to death.

However disturbing the subject is, it can't be ignored. Chronic hunger is omnipresent and caused by a variety of factors. Poverty, of course, is an immediate contributor. Overpopulation in a region ravaged by drought or a disaster leads to a regional shortage of food supplies. Warfare and military policies in certain countries have had a debilitating impact on food distribution and general living conditions. It's important to remember that hunger exists not only in the Third World but in the First World as well.

The treatment of acute malnutrition is not as simple as handing out sandwiches. When the human body has been severely deprived, it has great difficulty processing regular food. The restoration of nutrition needs to occur gradually and gently through therapeutic feeding. Treatment begins with a nutrient-enriched milk then moves on to a specially formulated porridge. These foods are designed to encourage rapid weight gain without taxing the atrophied digestive system.

What is it like, that moment when food is finally delivered to a mouth in desperate need? There's a story from the Japanese film, "After Life" which comes to mind: a World War II veteran recalls his capture by American soldiers after his platoon is decimated. There was not much point to it, given that he was already on the verge of death from disease and starvation. Out of pity, his captors offered him some rice seasoned lightly with salt. The intense deliciousness of the rice at that moment is the one memory above all others that the veteran chooses to take with him to the after life, where he will spend an eternity reliving it.

The value of food to the hungry is evident, but the power of food to nurture and comfort goes far beyond hunger. So, is it obvious or surprising that the most passionate of foodies are among the most active advocates of hunger relief programs?

The United Nations' World Food Programme (WFP) -- which provided support to the "H for Hunger" project -- challenged top chefs around the world last year to raise global awareness by incorporating corn soya blend (CSB) in stunning gourmet creations. CSB is a cheap, vitamin-enriched substance reminiscent of gruel that humanitarian aid workers distribute to disaster-stricken, war-ravaged regions. Much to WFP's astonishment, chefs signed up in droves. Heinz Beck, the executive chef of La Pergola restaurant in Rome (rated two Michelin stars), participated in the challenge and had this to say:

“For us chefs, it’s important to recognize that there are many people who are not able to afford to pay for even bad food... It’s not just a responsibility that we recognize world hunger, it is a duty as propagators of culinary art that we make sure even our most discerning clientele are aware of the problem of famine.”

Restaurants Against Hunger (RAH) is a coalition of UK chefs, restauranteurs, food critics, food writers, and others in the food services industry who have banded together to raise funds for Action Against Hunger UK (AAH UK), a non-profit humanitarian organization with the mission to combat hunger and famine.

RAH has innovative means of raising money. For example, member chefs can designate a dish from their respective menus to collect the proceeds from its sale on behalf of AAH. On October 19th, RAH hosted a fundraiser called Too Many Critics: notable food critics prepared a five-course banquet for a dining hall full of distinguished chefs. Hand-decorated plates by Heston Blumenthal, Gordon Ramsay and Fergus Henderson (gasp! gasp! and gasp! a veritable trifecta of culinary awesomeness, in my opinion) were auctioned off that evening to raise a stunning £2,800 (that's almost $5,500 CAD, folks).

Good food is the nectar of life and it should be a fundamental right for everybody to have it within their grasp. If the cookbook ever gets published and does reasonably well, I think the proceeds should go to one of these programs where they do so much amazing humanitarian work. Better keep at it, then!

Playing With Food for Halloween

This year's Halloween will be the first one I'll be spending at a home to call my own. I considered turning off all the lights and either hiding out in the back of the house or making plans to go out in order to avoid marauding, candy-intoxicated kids.

However, I've been trying to connect with my anti-social neighbors since moving in. Given that almost every household on the street has kids, it seems opportune to stay home and chat with the costumed children and their parents as I hand out the treats.

To do this, I need to put a hint outside the house to indicate that my place is open for business. Dollar stores are abundant with cheap decorations (already on sale since Labor Day). Yet I abhor the idea of cluttering my closets with useless junk afterwards, especially since I've been trying so hard these last few years to streamline my possessions.

And so, I came to the ambitious conclusion that I would carve a pumpkin. I didn't want to do a boring Jack O'Lantern with triangle eyes, nose and chunky block teeth. For a while I was hung up on the idea of carving the creepy dead boy from "The Grudge" (or 呪怨) since it's Japanese and definitely eerie. But if you've never seen the movie, I suppose a sullen-looking kid on a pumpkin won't make any sense.

After much deliberation, I finally opted to carve Jack Torrance from Stanley Kubrick's "The Shining". The scene in which Jack (played by Jack Nicholson) tears through the bathroom door with an axe and maniacally growls, "Heeere's Johnny!", is iconic. For those of us old enough to have seen the movie, it is definitely more scary than any mummy, goblin or witch.

It took around 6 hours to carve, using sculpting tools. I was worried that it wasn't going to turn out right because it doesn't look the same without a light inside the pumpkin. However, I think the results were successful... what do you think?

Creeping Doubts

Whenever I'm writing, there always comes a time when I start to wonder why I bother at all. Like the saying goes, if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it... Or if a blog or book has no readers, does it, should it exist?

The Inimitable Pepin

The TV program "At The Table With..." on the Food Network recently featured chef Jacques Pepin. It didn't tell me anything I didn't already know about him, having read his delightful autobiography, "The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen", and watched his cooking shows on PBS for close to two decades. But it echoed all the admiration and appreciation I have for the man, in the heartfelt testimonials from family, friends, colleagues and fans. I'm Joe Schmoe on the culinary map, but the top chefs of the world are as awed as I am by Pepin's mastery of the kitchen and -- more importantly -- his humility and eagerness to teach anyone who wants to learn how to cook.

I've always had the good fortune of being surrounded by people who cook exceptionally well, but (with all due respect to you guys) I have to say that Jacques Pepin is my biggest culinary influence. I've always had a roly poly frame so of course I've always been fond of eating, yet it is Pepin who made me want to be in the kitchen, making the things I like to eat.

The vast scope of his career should be humbling to anyone. Unlike the hot shot chefs of today whose career doesn't even begin until he or she enters a culinary school in early adulthood (and graduates in a mere 4-6 years of formal training), Pepin has been working in kitchens since 1947 at the age of 12.

It should be pointed out that the commercial kitchens of that era make Gordon Ramsay's Hell's Kitchen look like kindergarten. Pepin spent his teens working up the hierarchy of the old school brigade system, starting as an assistant, commis, then chef de partie in every single station (including saucier, rotisseur, entremetier, and so on), before moving on to sous chef then finally chef de cuisine. He would have to single-handedly peel hundreds of potatoes or artichokes for each dinner service, night after night, and learned classic French recipes through osmosis because none of the recipes were written down for him. He eventually became the chef for various heads of state and worked the top restaurants in France.

Is it any wonder that he can deftly debone an entire bird in under 30 seconds (all the while talking to his audience)? Or finely minces a garlic clove to a paste with a knife in the blink of an eye? Or manually whisks egg whites into stiff peaks for a meringue faster than an electric mixer? Watch how beautifully and effortlessly he segments a whole chicken into seven pieces for cooking.

His technical prowess aside, the real reason why the public loves Jacques Pepin is his ability to make cooking accessible and the complete lack of egotism in the way he teaches. In a curious twist of fate, it was a near-fatal car accident that sidelined his grueling restaurant career and began his television career as a teacher. Pepin himself considers this a blessing in disguise: it gave him a heightened appreciation for life and the ability to reach millions with his message that anyone can cook (the theme shared by the film, "Ratatouille").

And teach, he does. Most of the culinary tips and tricks I know have come from Pepin. Even if he explains it only once, he has the ability to make it stick in your brain. I learned how to cook a hard-boiled egg without the green sheath of sulphur forming around the yolk. I learned how to chop onions without my eyes tearing up. I learned how to debone a salmon steak and turn it into a neat round of flesh ready for cooking. He was the first person to show me how to deglaze a roasting pan and not let anything go to waste in a recipe. Even the importance of tying an apron in front of you was something I picked up from him.

I owe him my deepest gratitude for all that he has given. His lessons will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Green Infatuation

The last time I wrote about tomatoes, I mentioned that I've always wanted to try Fried Green Tomatoes. Of course, many people are familiar with either Fannie Flagg's book, "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe" or its tear-jerking movie adaptation. Both are responsible for bringing worldwide awareness of the eponymous dish.

Some Googling confirmed for me that the recipe does indeed call for green, unripe tomatoes rather than the tomatillo fruit. In northern climates such as ours, green tomatoes are ready for harvesting in October -- right now! -- but in the south where this recipe originated, green tomatoes are available year round.

Imagine my excitement when I found Ontario green tomatoes at the neighborhood grocery. I ran home and made some batter right away, mixing flour, finely ground cornmeal, salt, pepper and milk (lactose free, in case you were wondering). Tomato slices were dredged through the batter and fried for a few minutes on each side in a skillet with oil.

It was love at first bite. I've never tasted anything like it before. The green tomato by itself is crispy and tart, like a green apple. But when softened by the heat and enveloped in the sweet batter -- the sweetness coming from the cornmeal and milk -- the residual tartness blooms into something more delicate, more mellow. My instinct was to season it with a modest sprinkling of salt.

I also found myself wishing I had some sour cream, crème fraîche or something cool and alkaline to complement the tomato. As it turns out, the Juliette, GA cafe where the movie was filmed is now calling itself the "Whistle Stop Cafe" and serves its own version of fried green tomatoes with a selection of dips.

For as long as green tomatoes are around this season, I'd love to keep making this dish. There's room for experimentation with the batter and accompanying condiments. Dredging the slices in egg then in a dry mixture could yield a crisper, less oily exterior. Japanese panko would make it more like a tempura batter. Using more cornmeal would make the batter more crunchy. Herbs and spices in the batter would be fun too. Stay tuned.