Culinary Compulsion

In Search of A Good Loaf

2008-03-26T02:54:00.000-07:00

I'm going to say it now, but first, let me kiss my husband and kids goodbye, sprinkle a dash of anemic fish food on my beloved pets, Goldie #1 and Goldie #2, and take one last longing look at my comfortable and safe life before I am shackled up and taken away to a dark and secret place...I love bread.

Yep. Sometimes I go to the market and buy a fresh baguette. Nothing else. I bounce towards the cash register with the (hopefully still toasty) crusty delight tucked under my arm, a warm smile spreading across my face as its delicious aroma completes me, and people instantly open a path for me, their eyes bulging, their mouths wide open but speechless, completely aghast at my impertinence with the evils of carbohydrates. They anxiously await for the Carb Patrol to arrive and take me away.

No one has dragged me away in shackles, as of yet. Although I do get riddled with angry looks, this does nothing but increase the sultry pleasure I get from ingesting slices of crusty loaves slathered in, what else, butter.

It seems bread has become a favorite villain for many Americans. Armed with the latest shields of trend diets, Americans have denounced all things carb including, first and foremost, the quintessentially primal loaf of bread.

We all like to dream we can change the world, albeit one small step at a time. Some of us with more budget head off to remote parts of the world to help nourish lives in much need, others turn to the problems in our own backyards. Culinary wimps like myself dare to attack suburbia head on with the excessive purchasing of breads in the hopes that, after the shock wears off, people will start to notice the importance and deliciousness of this primal sustenance. It's a hard, thankless job, but someone has got to do it.

Simple Crusty Bread

(adapted by Nick Fox, New York Times Dining Section 11/27/07 from "Artisan Bread in Five Minutes A Day" (by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois))

1 1/2 tablespoons yeast

1 1/2 tablespoons Kosher salt

6 1/2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour, more for dusting dough

cornmeal

1. In a large bowl or plastic container, mix yeast and salt into 3 cups lukewarm water (about 100 degrees). Stir in flour, mixing until there are no dry patches. Dough will be quite loose.

Cover, but not with an airtight lid. Let dough rise at room temperature 2 hours (or up to 5 hours).

2. Bake at this point or refrigerate, covered, for as long as two weeks. When ready to bake, sprinkle a little flour on dough and cut off a grapefruit-size piece with serrated knife. Turn dough in hands to lightly stretch surface, creating a rounded top and a lumpy bottom. Put dough on pizza peel sprinkled with cornmeal, let rest 40 minutes. Repeat with remaining dough or refrigerate it.

3. Place broiler pan on bottom of oven. Place baking stone on middle rack and turn oven to 450 degrees; heat stone at that temperature for 20 minutes.

4. Dust dough with flour, slash top with serrated or very sharp knife three times. Slide onto stone. Pour one cup hot water into broiler pan and shut oven quickly to trap steam.

Bake until well browned, about 30 minutes. Cool completely.

Makes 4 loaves

Variation: If not using stone, stretch rounded dough into oval and place in a greased, nonstick loaf pan. Let rest 40 minutes if fresh, an extra hour if refrigerated. Heat oven to 450 degrees for 5 minutes. Place pan on middle rack.

Green Secret

2008-03-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

He had long curled up shoes and a tall hat with a Pilgrim's gold buckle on the front and even though he was forever drenched in cocoa, he had an odd smell of mothball, or dust, or mold. For years there was a little green man living in the bottom of my chocolate milk mug and this was how I imagined him. As a kid, my nightly ritual was pretty uneventful: bath time, pajama time, being tucked into bed and then read to. The closure to the day was topped with a frothy mug of chocolate milk. This surely seemed to be a treat: chocolate (albeit mixed with milk) is always a good thing. However, as rituals go, my sister and I soon caught on that this was the last step before the horrendous, curtain-dropping, impossible silence of lights-out darkness, and so, soon enough, the chocolate milk drinking slowed down to a turtle's pace.

My mother, no doubt on a light-hearted whim of ingenuity mixed with complete desperation, put an unforgettable spin to our chocolate milk drinking experience by making the event an unbelievably interesting one that demanded our complete and quick cooperation. One muggy, late night, after nestling next to us on our chocolate milk stained daisy sheets, mom absconded our impressionable six and seven-year old minds with the tale of The Little Green Man that lived at the bottom of our mug. She never explained how this little man could live at the bottom of my mug AND my sister's mug, but it was a detail that, at our tender age, we easily missed. If we drank the chocolate milk fast enough, we were promised the chance to catch a glimpse of him. (No explanation as to what would happen to him if we were slow drinkers.)

While I didn't grow up to be 5'11" (despite my countless prayers to Brooke Shields while clutching her image on the cover of Seventeen magazine and begging to be just like her), I am confident there isn't one calcium-deprived inch in my entire bone structure thanks to mom's tactic. Chocolate Milk Speed Drinking became my nightly obsession from then on. Armed with an unhealthy competitive edge, an infallibly wild imagination, and a total and unwavering trust in my mother (what was I thinking?) I became determined to meet this little man, and later, his family, for he must have a family, children, a village...something (remember the vivid imagination part).

Never once did the notion dawn on me that this could perhaps be false. I even had moments where I would swear, SWEAR, I had caught a glimpse of him: his finger, his foot, the top of his head, just barely speeding away to the bottom of my cinnamon-colored glazed mug with a chip on the handle.
"Saw him!" I would shout with the same glee and triumph aunt Zelda yelled BINGO.
"Where?" my sister and mom would chime in, my sister clearly aggravated by my apparent victory. And of course, as easily as I had spotted him he was once again gone, seeking refuge inside the murkiness of my nutrition. I know mom must have wondered how long the enthusiasm for all these near-misses would last, or at best, how many more paralyzing bouts of brain freeze from my chilled speed drinking I would tolerate. Luckily for her, I appeared resilient in the light of my daily disappointments, becoming more adamant and determined that in the next chocolate-drinking round I'd be fast enough.

You know the end of the story. I wasn't fast enough, in all sense of the word. I started to catch on and become suspicious at about age 28 (so I'm a slow learner), when my husband questioned my incessant and desperate consumption of dairy beverages. Even still, after the shock rubbed off, I still like to pretend I see him escape through the invisible trap door at the bottom of my mug. I just can't help myself. That tiny moment of hope and trust and delicious chocolate milk is one I am not so willing to give up.

This month another man in green is being celebrated. This one does have a name and an identity: he is St. Patrick and comes from the grand ole isle of Ireland. Being one-sixteenth Irish myself, I deem it a privilege to eat some tasty Irish grub in his honor. Of course, I'll have to skip the beer and wash it down with a cold, tall glass of chocolate milk instead. You never know who might be there at the bottom of it.

Warm Cabbage Salad with Bacon and Roquefort
(adapted from Sara Moulton, The Food Network)

A delightful treat, using two Irish favorites: cabbage and bacon!
This salad is flavorful and rich and can be served up as an appetizer or alongside a meal.

4 ounces thick-sliced bacon, cut crosswise into 1/2 inch pieces
freshly ground pepper
1/4 cup dry white wine
1 small shallot, finely minced
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons heavy cream
1 teaspoon Dijon-style mustard
salt, to taste
3 cups finely sliced green cabbage
3 cups finely sliced red cabbage
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1/2 cup crumbled Roquefort

In a large heavy skillet over moderate heat add the bacon pieces, generously season with ground pepper and cook until crisp. Transfer the cooked bacon to paper towels to drain and remove the skillet from the heat.

In a small saucepan combine the wine and shallots and simmer until reduced to a thick syrup. Whisk in the cream, mustard, salt, and pepper and continue to simmer until thickened slightly.

Heat the skillet with the bacon drippings over moderately high heat and cook the green cabbage, stirring, until it just begins to wilt, about 1 to 2 minutes.

Transfer the wilted cabbage to a bowl and cook the red cabbage in the remaining drippings in the same manner.

Return the wilted green cabbage to the skillet, add the vinegar and cook stirring, 1 minute.

Stir in cream mixture and cook stirring until cabbage is crisp-tender. Serve cabbage warm topped with the crumbled Roquefort and bacon.

Serves 4

When Love Is A Sandwich

2008-03-06T05:59:00.000-08:00

She was of such stunning beauty that even the women around her stopped to gaze, or so I am told. Sweat beads formed along her clavicle and teased their way down her thin yellow cotton dress, but I did not notice. Her windblown jet black hair refused to be held behind her ears and, I am told, slender, tan fingers insisted it do so, but I cannot confirm that either because I did not notice. Her eyes, encased by ridiculously long dark lashes held lookers captive with a warm moss green stare. But don't quote me on that please because I did not notice.

My male companion noticed, just as everyone else that walked into the tired, lonely store on a forgotten street of Florence many summers ago. It was a dusty, hot afternoon and our feet ached from hours of museum viewing and walking. We were young college graduates out experiencing the world taking a pause from enlightenment to grab a bite to eat, stumbling upon this moment I still remember vividly almost twenty years later.

The door had a bell attached to it to announce new arrivals. I remember the gruff voice of an older man, carrying a huge belly wrapped in a thin, white undershirt.

"Bienvenuti" he bellowed in Pavlovian synchrony to the bell. He must have been her father, I gather in hindsight, not because of genetic disposition, but rather in the way his body naturally turned in her direction at the arrival of newcomers, with his shoulders held high and what chest he had pushed out: a father used to worrying about a beautiful daughter, I presume.

The woman was behind the glass case, I did see that much, but whereas most people's gaze shot right through the food and to her, my eyes had found what they needed in the food. Rows upon rows of tidily wrapped surprises whose names I could not understand and whose parchment paper packages only revealed a glimpse of prosciutto, or egg, or arugula commanded my full attention.

"Beautiful girl" my companion whispered to me in stunned silence. Our relationship was such that we would openly and readily compare notes about those around us, regardless of their sex. It had become a sport of sorts, particularly on this trip through Italy, which is why my man's face smirked slightly in disappointment at my answer.

"Damn, look at those sandwiches!"

I pointed to one of the wrapped treasures and the woman's eyes brightened, she smiled and nodded ever so slightly. I didn't know what I had picked, but I knew by the sparkle in her eye and the way her body relaxed just a bit, that this was one of her favorites. My companion knew too. His shoulders slumped in resignation. I had just upped him one by connecting with this beautiful woman when he couldn't even muster a 'ciao'.

She gingerly placed my selection in a brown paper bag and handed it to me with the utmost care, as if entrusting me with a child of sorts, and then we were on our way; leaving the Italian beauty and her equally magnificent array of mysterious sandwiches. As we hit the pavement and headed towards the next church, I pulled the sandwich out form the bag and took a bite. It was sheer ecstasy in its simplicity: a wonderfully seasoned dark tuna sitting on a tidy bed of green beans marinated in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Thick slices of ripe red tomato added the final touch and the bread had the utmost perfect crunch. I understood the twinkle in her eye: this was the perfect sandwich.

I shared my meal with my mate and he too had to conclude this was worthy of pure distraction. Till this day, I don't remember where in Florence this tiny store was, or what the beautiful woman in the sundress was called (if I ever caught her name), but I do remember the sandwich and how it tasted the instant I bit into it and how it made me feel whole and loved and nourished all in one bite. I never wanted that sandwich to end.

Years later, I still try and recreate the same bite. I season my tuna, make my green beans and connect all the dots for that incredible moment. Maybe it was the sunny Florence afternoon, or the promise of a day filled with adventure and possibility, or maybe I did notice how beautiful that woman was after all. All I know is that , as good as the sandwich may be when I make it, it never tastes quite the same.

A Ciao Bella Sandwich

2 cans albacore tuna packed in olive oil (look for Italian tuna as specialty stores)

2 tablespoons yellow onion, minced

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 teaspoon fresh dill, chopped

1 teaspoon fresh chives, chopped

1/2 teaspoon hot sauce, preferably from Scotch Bonnet peppers (Jamaican or West Indies)

For the beans:

1/2 cup green beans, rinsed and cut into 1/2 inch pieces

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

1/2 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon sea salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

tomato slices

crusty bread (such as baguette)

Prepare the tuna by draining it and mixing with all the ingredients.

Prepare the beans:

steam or microwave for 2 minutes, until soft.

Combine all other ingredients and whisk vinaigrette. Add to beans while they are still hot.

Assemble sandwich by first placing the green beans, then tuna, then tomato.