Black Gold

In cuisine as in fashion, everything old eventually becomes new again. While platform shoes and mullets are probably best left in the past, black garlic is an ancient Asian food that has suddenly become all the rage across North America in the last two years.

Fermentation at high heat turns ordinary garlic bulbs into gift-wrapped packages of soft, sweet, black cloves. The acrid intensity of raw garlic is replaced by a soothing flavor that evokes hints of molasses, soy sauce and faint mushroomy notes. Perhaps my description fails to do it justice. Let me just add that I had a strong (happy) vocal reaction to the taste even though I was alone in the kitchen at the time!

The brand I bought was of the Toronto based Just a Pinch variety. Their black garlic comes in a small foil pouch -- the size of a packet of cat treats. There were two whole bulbs inside, just waiting to be peeled.

The confluence of several recent developments led to my first recipe invention involving black garlic. First, on the occasion of my birthday, Lynn and a group of wonderful friends treated me to a fantastic dinner at Torito Tapas Bar. One of the dishes we ordered was a richly flavorful and comforting stew of juicy chorizo and potatoes in a red sauce that tasted of red bell peppers and paprika (which is readily used in a lot of Spanish cuisine). The potato and sauce combination is called patatas brabas or patatas bravas. The smokiness of paprika in both the chorizo and the sauce triggers my taste buds like in a Pavlovian dog.

Second, I stumbled across some Portuguese chourico spiced with my favorite piri piri hot sauce at my normally disappointing neighborhood supermarket. I thought perhaps chourico was a relative of the chorizo, so I decided to give it a shot. (Read the informative essay by food writer David Leite on the battle for supremacy between chourico and chorizo.)

Third, I found the black garlic at the upscale Longo's near my work.

Fourth, a friend who recently returned from a trip across various African countries brought me some pure palm oil.

Fifth, I got into a hunger-inducing discussion with my brother about gourmetizing our beloved street meat, the humble hot dog. I envisioned some kind of chili dog made with black garlic and something crunchy and fried sprinkled on top of it, like fried onion or fried potato bits.

Thus, my concept for the following recipe was born:

Chourico Black Garlic Ragout with Potato Galettes

For the Ragout
1-2 pats of butter
1 medium onion, thinly sliced
2 links of chourico (or chorizo), diced
1 whole can (796 ml) of San Marzano tomatoes, crushed
4-5 cloves of black garlic, chopped or minced
1 bay leaf

For the Galettes
1 medium potato (I used a white potato here)
3-4 tsp oil (this is where the palm oil came into play)

1. Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Melt the butter.
2. Sweat the onion in the butter until translucent or even lightly browned.
3. Add the sausage to the pan and heat through for a minute or two.
4. Pour in the crushed tomatoes and their juices.
5. Add the black garlic and bay leaf and allow to simmer for 15-20 minutes.
6. While the ragout is cooking, coarsely grate the potato.
7. Heat half of the oil in a non-stick pan over medium-high heat.
8. For each galette, pinch a generous amount of the shredded potato and drop it onto the hot pan. Press down with a spatula and lightly shape it so that it is flat and roughly the size of a regular cookie. When it feels like each galette is holding its shape, flip it over until the potato has fried to a golden brown (or orange-brown in the case of the palm oil). You can probably fry a few at a time, depending on the size of your pan. If the pan seems dry between batches, add the rest of the oil.
9. When firm and crispy, remove the galettes from the pan and drain them on paper towels.
10. To serve, spoon out the ragout into a bowl. Place one or two galettes on top.

Next on the menu: I have to try out the recipe for Baked Banans with Black Garlic!

Dream of Tartar

I have a long, unfortunate history of being trapped next door to neighbors from hell. There were the party animals who left their dog abandoned at home all night long, whimpering and barking. The neurotic woman who didn't believe in curtains or blinds, complained about outside lights that prevented her from sleeping and paraded around her apartment in an ill-fitting bathing suit. The vain cougar who walked from morning to night in stiletto heels on the hardwood floors above my head then had screaming matches at 2am with her boy toys. The young, slacker couple who blasted their stereo for hours on end. The twitchy psycho who banged on his ceiling (my floor) when I dropped a sheet of paper (it was literally just a sheet of paper, folks).

So imagine my complete and utter surprise when I woke up early one snowbound morning to find my front steps and sidewalk already plowed away. The elderly gentleman who rents the basement apartment next door had done it voluntarily while also clearing our shared driveway with a shovel and snow-blower. When I thanked him, he said, "why shovel my side just for five minutes when I can do the whole thing? Anyway, I need the exercise." I hadn't told him that my previous neighbor, also blessed with a snow-blower, didn't once offer to help me even on those blizzardy days when I was out for over an hour-and-a-half with my lo-tech shovel.

Wanting to show him my gratitude, I put together a care package of organic teas, fair-trade coffee (since I wasn't sure if he was a tea or coffee drinker) and a batch of home-made scones [see photo #1]. I used a recipe from that saucy diva of scrumptious food, Nigella Lawson. Her ingredient list for "Lily's Scones" reads like a recipe for baking soda biscuits [see photo #2] except for the generous inclusion of cream of tartar.

I've long wondered what the blimey cream of tartar is or does and why we don't use more of it. For one thing, it's misleadingly in powdered form despite its name. And "tartar" refers neither to the ethnic Tartars spread across Russia, nor the ugly buildup of dental plaque on neglected teeth. In fact, cream of tartar comes from the acid salt that crystallizes and encrusts the insides of wine casks as the juice of grapes are left to ferment. The ancients called the crusty purple stuff tartar or tartre (a reference to "encrustation" or "deposit"). When it is purified, the result becomes a white, acidic powder called potassium bitartrate. The powder allegedly keeps forever -- even if it has hardened into chunks, it can be broken apart and used in recipes.

Baking powder as we know it is simply a mixture of cream of tartar (an acid) and baking soda (an alkali). As remembered from high school chemistry class, an acid combined with a base creates a neutralizing chemical reaction that yields a metal, salt and water. In baking, this causes dough to bubble and leaven. Which is why we use baking powder in a lot of cakes and breads.

The acidity of cream of tartar is also used to stabilize whipped egg whites and add volume; it's used in candy-making to prevent caramelizing sugar from crystallizing; and it helps boiled vegetables keep their color.

So now, behold again the difference between the scones made with a touch of baking soda and lots of cream of tartar vs. the baking soda biscuits using only baking soda. They're both equally easy to make and tasty. However, you can see chemistry clearly at work here: the scones are much puffier than the biscuits: lighter, creamy soft yet still spongy (not doughy). It encourages me to try more baking projects with cream of tartar.

Btw, a single batch yielded more than two dozen scones so I shipped some off to my parents and kept a few for myself. This is simple bakery at its best.

Tastes Like Chicken Pt. 2

My fascination with foods that look different but taste exactly the same continues with the glorious summer squash. More precisely, it's called the pattypan squash. Pattypans look like the mutant lovechild of citrus and zucchini squished into a mini-tart mold. And they taste just like zucchini.

I had some recently at the Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar, served with some ridiculously juicy pork sausages. I fell in love with their shape (I'm already a fan of zucchini so it follows that I was already in love with their taste). To my delight, the farmer's market had some in yellow and green.

My favorite thing about the yellow pattypan is that nub of green at the tip, plus when you slice into them, they have a faint tinge of green amidst the yellow flesh. It's such a gorgeous color that I wish I could wear it. As you can see, even one of my cats was drawn them as I tried to take a picture.

Also like a zucchini, they don't lose their color when you cook them. Through the heat, they keep their lemon/lime brightness as the bitterness softens and becomes more mellow.

Garlic seemed like a perfect complement. And the color made me want to include some lime juice. I had some fresh kale on hand (from the garden of my occasional co-contributor, Lynn). Everything just fell into place and the end result was the salad below.

Pretty Pattypan Salad
Serves 4

1 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp olive oil
4 cloves garlic (more if you're a garlic fiend like I am), minced
1 quart pattypan squashes, halved or quartered if very large
6-8 large kale leaves, coarsely chopped
lime wedges
salt and pepper to taste

1. Heat the butter and oil over medium heat in a large skillet.
2. Sweat the minced garlic until just starting to brown.
3. Add the pattypans and kale. Sauté until softened and lightly seared.
4. Squeeze some lime juice over the salad and season with salt and pepper to taste.
   

Tastes Like Chicken

I'm a little flustered to learn that it has been over 3 weeks since my last post and just over 3 months before my unofficial deadline for publication. It's not a "real" deadline because I don't have any publishers banging on my door to get it done. I just know what an incorrigible procrastinator I am without a fire lit under my ass.

So it's time to get back to work. Or play... Cooking and photographing for this blog really doesn't feel like work. Despite the fact that I was far too busy, ill or distracted to post anything in weeks, it doesn't mean I haven't been messing about in the kitchen. If anything, I'm daunted by the sheer volume of pictures and recipes that are now backlogged.

One of my favorite photos is probably this one: rainbow radishes purchased from the local farmer's market. They look like gumballs or jawbreakers. They're just begging to be mixed with other colors and eaten raw (boiling them would drain them of their sprightly color and rob them of their fresh crunch).

Of course they don't taste like candy. If anything, they taste exactly like the regular radishes that most people carve up to use as garnishes. It tastes the same... it "tastes like chicken", which is the generic thing people say when describing most meats.

Some of you pragmatic people may be wondering why anyone would bother growing or eating rainbow radishes. Why spend an extra few pennies to buy something that tastes exactly the same as boring ol' red radishes?

My answers to that are (1) inspiration and (2) fun. It's not often that radishes get the star treatment in a dish, but looking at these orbs of color, I knew a radish salad was in order.

Better yet, the farmer's market was selling the bunch with the leaves and stems still attached. I honestly don't understand why anybody chops off the stems of most vegetables. Asians eat pretty much the entire plant, from root to leafy tip. In some cases the stems and greens are even tastier than the vegetable.

Whole (Rainbow) Radish Salad
Serves 2

a handful of radishes (about ½ cup or less), thinly sliced with leaves washed separately
2 oranges, segmented and the remaining membrane reserved
4 Tbsp good quality olive oil
a handful of crumbled blue cheese
salt to taste

1. Lightly stir fry the radish leaves for a minute or two until wilted but not turned to mush.
2. Toss the radish slices, radish leaves, and orange segments together in a bowl.
3. Squeeze out the orange juice from the reserved membrane.
   
4. Whisk together no more than 2 Tbsp of the orange juice and olive oil then drizzle over the salad.
5. Sprinkle the crumbled cheese and salt on top, then serve.

Note: I would add chopped cilantro if available, or perhaps replace the blue cheese with some goat cheese. Adding ½ tsp of Dijon mustard to the dressing would add an interesting complexity to the flavors.

This recipe is quite spare so if you have ideas for more ingredients, let me know!

Favorites: Apricots

Summer brings a glorious bounty of fresh fruit. I thoroughly enjoy all of them, but I have a particular affinity for stone fruit, or drupes. Perhaps their scarcity in the colder months increases their cachet. Canadian winters, after all, are longer than all other seasons combined. White peaches appeal to me, with their soft perfume, sensual textures and delicate sweetness -- it's no accident that many writers make lusty associations with that fruit. The same goes for cherries, mangoes, nectarines and plums.

Hence, I am not saying that I enjoy apricots more than all of those fruits. But from a cooking standpoint, I think the apricot offers a versatility that I don't think is matched by its peers within the same genus of plants. Apart from tarts, jams and other typical applications of fruit, the apricot gets used in complex mains such as soups, stews and stuffed meats (the Sweet and Sour Stuffed Chicken recipe, for example). And it seems to cross multiple cultural boundaries, turning up in cuisines ranging from Finnish to Persian.

Apricots transform beautifully in the oven or on the grill. Some of its tartness goes away. The sight of its caramelized edges and dripping juices makes me salivate.

I recently put apricot halves under the broiler (I know, I know, I need to get with the program and get me a badass BBQ grill). I glazed the fruit with some gorgeous white wine jelly that a friend recently gave me. Any other light-colored jam, jelly or marmalade would have worked just as well. While still warm, I piled some of those glazed, roasted apricots over a bowl of good quality vanilla ice cream. Like a hot fudge sundae, it was ok, if not desirable, to have some of the ice cream melt from the heat of the toppings. Yum.

My ultimate goal for cooking with apricots is to find or invent the ultimate recipe for the pastry you see on the left. Au Pain Doré calls it the Abricotine, likely named after the Swiss apricot liqueur of the same name. Not long ago, I found another version of it in a kosher grocery. It is probably my most favorite dessert pastry in the world. The beauty of it is in the pristine presentation of the apricot halves -- shiny with glaze, made to look like raw egg yolks. There is an eggy custard at the bottom. The pastry needs to be light and flaky. A lot of mediocre bakeries allow them to get soggy from the fillings, which is a big no-no. If you have a great recipe for it, please share!

Favorites: Colombien Supremo Brun

There are probably more varieties of coffee beans than there are hairs on a cat, but I think I can confidently say that my favorite brew is the Colombien Supremo Brun from La Pâtisserie de Gascogne in Montreal.

The Gascogne shops look like French bistros, in keeping with their tradition of importing classic French delicacies to the discriminating connoisseurs of Montreal. They have a good selection of breads, extravagant cakes and pastries, gourmet frozen meals, preserves, candies, chocolates, as well as the fine selection of coffees.

Ohhh the coffees. They are all pretty damned good, but the Colombien Supremo Brun is smooth like a Barry White album. It's mild, so it's not meant for those groggy mornings when you need a jolt of caffeine to slap you awake. But on a slow weekend morning, it is a rich indulgence to breathe in the faintly sweet, almost chocolatey aromas and enjoy the silky beverage with a shot of milk.

Favorites: Apple Mustard

As I've written before, I can't resist a farmer's market. It has an energy and color that stirs my culinary imagination.

My first market visit of the season led me to the Brantview Farms stall. The farm (or I should say "orchard"), located in St. George, Ontario, specializes in a wide variety of beautifully grown apples and apple products. A friend pointed out their English Style Apple Mustard.

It was love at first taste. There is a nice hit of spicy, tangy, and sweet flavors. It is firm, but not overpowering. I've had it as a dip with pretzel sticks and pepperettes, I've used it in sandwiches, I've had it with pork sausages... It's only been two weeks but I am already halfway through the jar. Most mustard containers take me a long time to finish. I have a feeling I'll be back at the market for more.

The good-humored Brantview folks will be at Nathan Phillips Square every Wednesday from June until Thanksgiving. Their other market appearances around Ontario are posted online.

Sprouting with Joy

I love sprouts. They add a wonderful crunch and herbaceous character to salads, soups, sandwiches, stir fries and on and on. Yet North American supermarkets tend to stock only two kinds: the mung bean sprout commonly found in fast food stir fries, and the grassy alfalfa. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll find pea sprouts at a high end grocery. It's frustrating to read Japanese cooking magazines which feature recipes that incorporate a wide range of sprouts, very few of which I can buy here.

So it was a delight to stumble across a dozen or so (safe) sprouting bean varieties sold in pouches at a health food store. The instructions seemed easy enough. I picked up a packet of Mumm's daikon seeds for my first sprouting attempt.

All I needed was a wide-rimmed jar and some mesh netting fastened to the jar opening with some elastic bands. A teaspoon of seeds were put in. They were soaked for a few hours. Then they were rinsed and drained twice a day, using the mesh as a sieve. In less than a week, I had long, stringy daikon sprouts filling up most of the jar.

Although I expected it, it was still a bit of a surprise that the sprout had so much of the daikon flavor, even in the plant's infancy. I suppose the essence of a thing will usually be present from birth.

I need to get a bigger jar.

Foodie 101

This is the 101st blog post here at "Cooking a Book". In the spirit of the site's thirst for exploration and experimentation, I've decided to write about my latest discovery: flat rice.

Depending on which culture or region you consult, it's called rice flakes, flattened rice, beaten rice, Aval/Avval (Malayalam), Poha/Pauwa (Hindi), Atukulu (Telugu), and so on. Whatever you call it, it is popular across India, Bangladesh, and apparently Vietnam -- the packet of sweet green flat rice I purchased at my local Chinese grocery was a Vietnamese import. I had no idea what it was; I just liked the look of it, so I bought it.

Flat rice is essentially rice grain that has been de-husked and flattened into flakes. All recipes that I've seen for it start by soaking the flakes in liquid, usually water or milk. It can then be boiled (which turns it into a gooey mush that can be molded into dumplings, or made into a porridge/soup) or fried along with other ingredients. Flat rice is also apparently a highly digestible form of grain and frequently recommended as a means of combating dysentery -- when you're traveling through India, for instance, and have trouble adjusting to the local food and water. It is also lower in carbs than regular rice, so dieters take note.

Just for fun, I threw a handful of these flakes into my rice cooker along with my generic calrose rice. I was expecting to see plump green grains speckled across the white rice, but instead I was surprised to find dissolved green spots on the calrose, as if someone had dribbled green food coloring onto white rice. It's easy to see how flat rice can be used to make doughy dumplings when soaked in enough liquid.

I can't wait to fry up a batch and see how it turns out. Stay tuned.

Easy Lemon Daikon

I'm one of those people who likes fresh, raw radishes of every kind. Some find the peppery taste too overpowering, which is understandable. That's why I've been messing around with cooked radishes.

Sometimes I will boil radishes (and other root vegetables) in a soup or broth. But the weather in Canada is finally starting to warm up and the idea of slurping a steaming bowl of soup is about as appealing now as wearing a parka in a Bikram Yoga class.

So I simply cut my fresh daikon crosswise into rounds and seared them on a pan of well-heated sesame oil until browned. The rounds were quartered. A sprinkling of freshly squeezed lemon juice (yuzu would have been ideal), fleur de sel, ground pepper, and chopped green onions finished the side dish. It was delicious with a bowl of jasmine rice.

Frying or roasting has a way of sweetening root vegetables as well as softening them. I like how the daikon rounds browned, creating a wheel-like pattern that nicely contrasts the soft, white interior. The citrus gives it a teeny shot of vibrancy. I was thinking of rolling the rounds in cornmeal next time to increase the exterior crunch.

What's Up, Wasabi

I was in the mood for a simple, cool salad using hard-boiled eggs. All I had in my crisper to accompany it were green onions and tomatoes. So it was up to the dressing to "dress up" the meal. A straightforward vinaigrette would have been ok, but I wanted something creamy to complement the eggs. Yet it needed to be astringent to go with the tomatoes.

Limes and a tube of wasabi paste came to mind. That's how this Creamy Wasabi Lime Dressing came to be:

• 1/4 to 1/2 tsp wasabi paste, to taste
• 1 heaping Tbsp of mayonnaise (regular or light)
• grated rind of 1 lime
• juice of 1/2 a lime (less if you don't like it too tart)

Whisk everything together until smooth. Drizzle over salad.

I Phyllo Good

Yesterday, Lynn made a delicious cherry strudel enveloped in the flaky, light delight that is phyllo pastry. While happily noshing on it, I suddenly realized that I never posted the phyllo pie dish that I made last month. There was a moment of panic this morning when I couldn't locate the photos right away, but here it is.

The inspiration for it was Kibbeh pie, which is a spiced meat dish in Levantine cuisine. You'll find different versions of Kibbeh per region, e.g. Syrian Kibbeh is quite different from Lebanese Kibbeh.

One Saturday, as I was preparing a grocery list for my weekly shopping run, I had the TV on PBS and saw a Ground Beef Pie recipe on Martha Stewart's "Everyday Food". In the space of mere minutes, I saw one of the chefs prepare a phyllo-wrapped beef pie reminiscent of Kibbeh. I didn't take notes but had a rough idea of what the ingredients were as I stepped out of the house.

However, I decided to give it my own spin by incorporating everything that I wanted to taste in a beef pie:

• a few tablespoons of olive oil
• 1 medium-sized onion, finely diced
  
• garlic, minced (I used a lot, but that's not necessary if it's not to your liking)
• 1/2 cup of sliced almonds
  
• 500-600g of ground beef (I prefer medium ground; lean/extra lean lacks fat, hence is too dry)
• 1 796ml can of whole tomatoes, well-drained and diced (if you can find San Marzano tomatoes, even better)
• 1 200ml can of sliced black olives
• 1 796ml can of red kidney beans, rinsed and drained thoroughly
• 2 cups of sliced baby eggplants, salted for about 10 min to draw out moisture then rinsed and drained thoroughly (any eggplant would do, but I prefer these sweeter-tasting babies)
• around 1 Tbsp of ground cinnamon
• 1 heaping tsp of allspice
• a handful of chopped, fresh cilantro
  
• salt and pepper, to taste

Very simply, I heated the first 4 ingredients in a large pot until the onions became translucent, but not browned. Then I heated the beef through until the redness was gone. After that, I added one ingredient at a time and stirred until well-incorporated. I covered the pot and let it cook until the eggplant softened. The mixture was drained and removed from heat to cool down.

While the filling cooled off, I prepared the phyllo. It was a very fast and simple process of layering phyllo sheets in a haphazard manner -- not neatly stacked -- in order to create a rough, circular shape with a wide circumference. Each sheet was brushed with olive oil before setting down the next sheet. Working quickly to prevent the pastry from drying out, I layered 8 sheets. The pastry was gently eased into a greased springform pan with parchment cut to fit the bottom (also greased). The excess pastry was allowed to hang over the edge of the pan. Phyllo is very forgiving, so it didn't matter that there were a few tears here and there. I had the option to use a pie plate, but I like a deep-dish pie to have straight, vertical sides.

To the cooled filling, I added one egg as a binding agent. The "Everyday Food" recipe calls for 5 eggs, but I didn't want my pie to be too custardy. Besides, I wanted to save my few remaining eggs for other recipes -- yes, I'm cheap that way. Then the filling was spooned into the pastry. The hanging edges of the phyllo sheets were folded over the filling in a rough manner so that the top of the pie was completely covered by pastry. I personally like the look of messy, twisted, wrinkled phyllo, but you can make it as neat as you want.

After brushing the top crust with olive oil, the pie was baked at 400°F for 20-30 min until the crust was golden, dry and crisp.

The beauty of phyllo is that, once baked, it doesn't turn soggy very easily. The pie crust stayed crunchy even after spending a week in the fridge and facing multiple turns in the microwave. Its endurance as a leftover food makes phyllo, and this recipe, a good candidate for the cookbook. You'll be seeing more phyllo recipes in the coming weeks, I'm sure.

Whole Food

It's not easy for a city-dweller -- especially a single person -- to find, let alone cook, a whole animal. We only get access to fragments of the animal: chicken breasts, sliced bacon, lamb chops, or fish fillets neatly packaged in styrofoam and plastic wrap.

So when the opportunity arises to cook something from end-to-end, it turns an ordinary repast into something momentous.

Oddly enough, my friendly local butcher has a respectable fish counter beside his display of pork ribs, steaks and chicken feet. The colorful rows of yellow-tail snapper nestled on crushed ice caught my eye. The flesh was bright and their fishy frowns were leavened by clear, shiny eyes. As the butcher scaled and cleaned my snapper, he asked if I already picked out my wine to go with it.

As is often the case, I didn't have a recipe in mind when I did my groceries. Furthermore, I've never cooked this fish before. I Googled for recipes, even contemplated salt crust roasting like my Mom would, but ultimately decided to let the fish cook au naturel. The Food Network's "The Wild Gourmets" may have influenced me: if roasting a fish on a stick over a camp fire is perfectly adequate for a great meal, then why fuss with stuffings or marinades?

I did dress up the fish after baking it in the oven (around 30 min. at 400°F). I fought off the cats pawing at my legs while carefully removing the flesh in large pieces from the pinbones. I put two generous dollops of home-made ketchup on a plate, nestled the fish on top, then added bocconcini (fresh mozzarella) pearls and cherry tomato halves. I drizzled lemon-infused olive oil and balsamic vinegar, then finished the dish with dried basil, salt and pepper. It was a nice, light meal.

Note: I can't rave enough about the merits of making your own ketchup. Not to knock commercial brands like Heinz (which is a reliably good product and a classic mainstay of diners and burger joints), but home-made catsup is intensely flavorful in a way you might not expect. A small spoonful of this stuff is all you need to give your burger the sweet/acidic punch it needs to complement the fatty goodness of the beef. I made my batch using Michael Smith's recipe in "Chef at Home".

Seeing Red

My approach to buying produce is to look around and pick up the first color or shape that appeals to me. It sometimes leads me to buy things I've never tried before, or things I know how to prepare in only one or two ways. These limitations aren't a deterrent -- they incite me to play with my food.

Red chard is one of those foods that I like looking at, but have limited experience with. I've boiled and stir-fried chard, and that's about it.

On a lark, I put it on a pizza. I used ready-made puff pastry as the crust, sprinkled grated cheddar and Romano cheese as a base, seeded and chopped some Roma tomatoes, then buried it all under a mound of freshly chopped red chard. I drizzled some lemon-infused olive oil, ground some salt and pepper, then baked it in the oven at 425°F for about 20 min.

Baking dried up the chard, shriveling them into dark green and red curls. The bitter taste of fresh chard was turned soft by the heat. The purple-red stems that drew me in the first place looked great with the roasted tomatoes and the golden, cheesy crust. Red chard is definitely something I'd like to experiment with some more.

Aubergine Cuisine

I am a huge fan of aubergines/eggplants. Roasted and mashed with tahini and garlic, it makes a killer baba ghanouj. Seasoned with Indian spices and deep-fried in ghee, it becomes a delicious eggplant sabji/sabzi/subji/subzi. However, I think the tomato is eggplant's soulmate. Moussaka exemplifies this perfect pairing. I recently made this dish for a pot-luck (which I sadly couldn't attend because of a cold).

I had always thought of moussaka as a Greek dish, having grown up in the company of staunch Greeks like Georgia, my enduring friend since the second grade. (Georgia is also responsible for acclimating me to heavy doses of garlic -- if a recipe calls for one clove, I'll use four -- and making me exceptionally picky about those staples of Greek cuisine, souvlaki, tzatziki and olive oil.) Wikipedia tells me otherwise: musaqqaʿa is an Arabic word that refers to a cooked and cooled salad consisting of eggplant and tomato. Bulgarian, Bosnian, Serbian, Romanian, Turkish and other cuisines have similar versions of moussaka. Clearly, other cultures also agreed that eggplant and tomato was a good match.

The Greek variety is basically composed of three layers: a bottom layer made of eggplant slices, a middle layer made with ground meat (usually lamb; I used beef here), tomatoes, onions and garlic, and a top layer that is essentially a béchamel sauce (sometimes topped or mixed with grated cheese). The casserole is baked until the top becomes golden brown. It's hearty and healthy.

Trial and Error

Master chefs have the uncanny ability to taste a new recipe idea in their minds before they even lay a hand on a skillet. It's an enviable talent, especially considering how much food ends up in the compost bin when my "experiments" go awry.

For the past month, I've been developing a recipe that features pumpkin. My messing about in the kitchen led to a couple of interesting but slightly peculiar flavors before finally yielding success.

First, what worked: oven-braised ginger pumpkin. It involves thin slices of pumpkin, parsnips and yellow onion braised in diet ginger ale with a sprinkling of raisins. It is left in a 425°F oven to cook very slowly for over two hours, or until the edges start to brown and most of the liquid is gone.

The idea of braising it in pop came from chef Patricia Yeo -- the modest yet astonishing genius I first saw on Iron Chef America, battling Masaharu Morimoto. I came across an article in which Yeo admitted that her secret for savory sweet braised beef shins is Coca Cola. While she's certainly not the first person to cook with a carbonated beverage, it drew my mind to ginger ale.

Ginger ale isn't nearly as popular as cola, but I've always been a fan of its muted sweetness and natural ginger flavors (yes, it really is made with ginger). Braising with it concentrates the taste and lets the aromas bloom. I guarantee you that the smell alone will make you salivate.

Now for the screw-ups: my first attempt began with a can of pumpkin puree, and that was my first mistake. The canned stuff will save you time but it's as bland as baby food and thick as gruel. I added some cilantro, chicken stock, fat free sour cream and barley. It was actually pretty good up to this point except for the texture. And then I had the bright idea of adding some garam masala (I'll have more to say about that spice blend in another post). In theory, I thought it would work because the hint of nutmeg seemed like a good match for pumpkin. But again, it all came back to the odd taste of the canned pumpkin which clashed somehow with the spices.

My next attempt began with the braising of fresh pumpkin in ginger ale. However, I was still thinking of making a soup at this stage, so the pumpkin and leftover liquid all went into a pot with stock and barley. My mistake was to use regular ginger ale instead of the diet variety, which made the soup noxiously sweet. Perhaps I could have omitted the braising liquid from the soup. In any event, I tried to compensate for the cloying sweetness by adding more ingredients. I added some milk, which didn't do much. Then, thinking of Asian soups that involve fish sauce for some saltiness, I poured in a couple of teaspoons -- I figured salty would counteract sweet. Don't ever do that. It was utterly revolting.

The soup could have worked if it hadn't been so sugary to begin with. However, I prefer the braised pumpkin on its own. I happened to be sipping some full-bodied red wine while cooking it and the pairing was solid. Lamb or steak with couscous would make a great accompaniment. It just took a couple of kitchen disasters to get to this point.

Top of the Shop

Lynn, my fabulous friend and sporadic co-contributor here, was the one who introduced me to ras el hanout among many other gourmet treasures. It is a beautifully aromatic spice blend used across the Middle East and North Africa. In Arabic, it reportedly means "top of the shop" or "head of the shop" -- a reference to the fact that the blend is composed of a spice trader's very best merchandise. Given that explanation, it's not surprising that what goes into that blend varies depending on where you buy it. For some sellers, it's a trade secret.

The only common denominators that I've been able to find are cinnamon, cloves, and mace and/or nutmeg. The recipes I've seen also add combinations of coriander seeds, cumin seeds, fenugreek, fennel seeds, mustard seeds, Damascan rose petals or rosebuds, ginger, turmeric, salt, black pepper, white pepper, cayenne, allspice, aniseed, orrisroot, lavender, galingale, cardamom pods, etc. Having never even heard of some of these seasonings, you can see why it's easier to just buy the blend instead of making it.

Whatever the mix, ras el hanout imparts a deeply complex fragrance and flavor to dishes that call for it. My favorite application so far is to use it in a marinade/rub for roast chicken. I've also collected recipes that use it in vegetable pie, couscous with roasted vegetables, and even a spiced fruit cake.

Recently, I discovered how astonishingly well ras el hanout works with chicken livers. I've talked before about my newfound enjoyment of offal, and while "liver & onions" is a respectable pub dish, it has never been as exciting as ras el hanout, liver & onions. Making it couldn't be simpler: fry up some onions, add chopped livers, sprinkle some ras el hanout, and cook until the liver reaches a safe internal temperature of 70°C for at least 2-3 minutes. (The livers shouldn't be bloody in the centre.) I served it with some rice and a dollop of sour cream to counteract the spiciness.

Reconciling with Swine

Apologies for the dearth of posts this month. I haven't stopped cooking. If anything, I've been immersed in it -- nothing like a downturn in the economy to motivate someone to cook instead of getting take-out. I just haven't had the time (and frankly, the discipline) to sit down and write about any of it. It's time to start making amends.

One of the best and worst things about dining out in Spain when I was there was the abundance of pork. The variety of pork preparations was staggering: roasted, smoked, salt cured, dry cured, fried, grilled, or braised chops, loins, sausages, hams, back fat, pork belly, and on and on. It was all awesome but it didn't take long for me to start yearning for chicken fingers and a Big Mac. A full-on pork ban took effect in my kitchen when I got back. You can have too much of a good thing.

Two months later, a link of dry cured chorizo reunited me with Spanish pork. That day, I was frozen and sore from shoveling the infernal Canadian snow and ached for some belly-warming stew. I had read in a Japanese cooking magazine that Asturians cook a smoky stew with Iberian bacon (tocino), white beans and generous amounts of sweet smoked Spanish paprika (pimentón). The photo of it has always made me salivate. I didn't have any tocino on hand but I knew that Spanish chorizo is often seasoned with pimentón which imparts a deep red color to the sausage. Between my chorizo, my little ceramic jar of pimentón and can of white beans, I had what I needed to concoct my own stew.

I caramelized a generous amount of sliced shallots and minced garlic in a pot with a bit of oil. When soft, I added a heaping spoonful of pimentón to impart some color. Slices of chorizo were thrown in, and after a couple of minutes, a can of white beans was emptied into the pot.

I could have stopped there but I was seized by the impulse to make this stew even redder than it already was. I had oven-roasted and peeled some red bell peppers the day before; those got chopped and mixed in. Then I did a sudden about-face and wanted a contrasting color, so I tossed in some chopped okra.

One thing about okra: it imparts a silky texture to stews. I'd like to take credit for finding that adjective for cooked okra, but I stole it from Toronto chef Roger Mooking. He featured okra in an episode (EP 1015) of his Food Network program, Everyday Exotic. Mooking kept referring to the ingredient as his "obedient ingredient" and saucily described its texture as "silky" as he demonstrated his recipe for Okra Chili. I've long been a fan of okra because its texture resembles that of natto, my most favorite food of all. Sadly, I had always described them as being "gooey" or "slimy" -- a depiction that often elicited "eww" in response. "Silky" is distinctly better.

Smoky, silky, warm and filling... I present to you my chorizo okra stew.

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.

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.