Second verse, same as the first

I am, once again, letting the weather determine what I eat.

For regular readers, this will hardly seem like ground-breaking news but it cannot go without mention. I look outside to see green all around me, but as I make my way downstairs I notice that the house is still cool in the mornings. The hours progress and the winds pick up just a bit, rustling the newly-opened leaves on the trees and sending delicate blossoms flying in late-spring’s version of a blizzard. The last few days have held the threat of an imminent downpour; ubiquitous greyness encouraging one to curl up their shoulders and head back inside before the rain comes.

Therein lies my problem. I am surrounded by the lush promise of the season, but am wholly dampened by, well, the dampness. Back in February it was easy; snow and cold and ice meant braises and stews and full-on roasts with gravies and sauces and all manner of lovely starchy side-dishes. Comfort came by the ladleful as we hunkered down to watch the white wonderland of weather outside. Fast-forward to May when we are starting to spend our evenings outside again, and a piled-high plate of mashed potatoes and gravy (though delicious) seems just as inappropriate as a down-filled parka.

So what to do to when faced with these misty, blustery, but-still-very-springlike sort of days?

Our inclination has been to steal from the Asian pantry, snatching up inspiration here and there to come up with a combination of flavours that best suit our needs; a touch of chili heat to bolster the valiant efforts of the cloud-locked sun, some tender-crisp vegetables that seem fitting for the season and just a bit of slippery, slurpy noodles or sticky rice to sustain us in combat against the evening’s chill. Miles away from anything remotely authentic, to be sure, but the end by far justifies the improvisational means.

Sticky soy glazed salmon
The glaze is the particular draw of this dish; hot, sweet and salty, it hits every taste bud with full force. I frequently make extra to drizzle over whatever vegetables, noodles or rice I am serving alongside.

Ingredients
5 tablespoons soy sauce
2 garlic cloves, grated
1 teaspoon grated ginger
1 1/2 lbs. (650 g) wild salmon filet, skinned
1 tablespoon sweet Thai chili sauce
1 teaspoon oyster sauce
1 teaspoon brown sugar
1 tablespoons water
Approximately 1 tablespoon canola or other neutral oil

In a shallow dish, combine 3 tablespoons of the soy sauce, the garlic and ginger. Set aside. Cut salmon into strips across the width of the filet, between 1 1/2"-2" wide. Place the salmon, face down, into the marinade and let stand for about 15 minutes, turning once.

Meanwhile, in a small bowl, combine the remaining soy sauce, sweet Thai chili sauce, oyster sauce, brown sugar and water. Stir well to dissolve the sugar. Set aside.

Heat a large skillet over medium high heat. When thoroughly hot, add enough oil to barely slick the surface of the pan. Using a paper towel, blot the salmon dry of any marinade; you do not want the garlic and ginger to scorch in the pan. Place the salmon presentation side down into the hot oil, careful of any splatters. Cook for about 1-2 minutes per side (depending on the thickness of the fish) or until cooked to your liking. Remove the salmon from the pan and set aside, turning the heat down to medium low.

Once the pan has cooled a bit, deglaze with the soy mixture. Stir frequently, scraping up any bits of fish and pan juices that may stick to the bottom. Cook until reduced into a thick sauce, about the consistency of maple syrup (it will continue to thicken as it cools). Spoon or brush the glaze over the salmon and serve.

Serves 4.

Notes

• In the spirit of full disclosure, I had meant to include some of the glaze drizzled over the presentation. However, a certain little boy had his eye on this plateful of food and so I made him up a serving and the reserved glaze was gobbled up rather greedily. In fact, many of my shots have fidgety little digits making their way into the edge of frame.
• If your salmon filet is a centre cut, you may want to cut the strips thicker for easier handling.
• These greens make a wonderful accompaniment along with a spoonful of the aforementioned sticky rice.
• A note on fish and pregnancy, and general food safety for those with compromised immune systems. While salmon is an excellent source of protein and Omega-3 fatty acids beneficial to the healthy development of the brain, there is a bit of controversy concerning farm-raised salmon and levels of mercury ingested by pregnant women. As such, wild salmon purchased from a reputable fishmonger is by far preferred. While I do enjoy my salmon on the rarer side when I am not eating for two, anyone pregnant, nursing, elderly, very young or who has an otherwise-weakened immune system should always cook salmon (and all meats) to well-done.

Rites of spring

Around this time two years ago, I was coming up with various uses for peas. Before that, I was all about asparagus. While the grass outside is only showing the barest shades of hopeful green, days of sun and warm breezes have put a definite sense of spring in my step. It is fitting then that this year I am embracing the warmth of recent days by serving both green vegetables.

This simple side can be served warm or at room temperature, offering up sweet and tender-crisp veggies tossed with a vinaigrette that can be called nothing short of enthusiastically herby. Served alongside a seared salmon filet this would make a lovely light supper for these glorious early days of the season.

Spring vegetables with green goddess pesto
While not wholly traditional pesto ingredients, the name refers mostly to the texture of the vinaigrette. The combination was inspired by the original Green Goddess Dressing.

Ingredients
2 shallots, cut in quarters OR 3 green onions, roughly chopped
2 garlic cloves
1/3 cup fresh flat leaf parsley
2/3 cup mixed fresh herbs; whatever combination of chervil, dill, tarragon, lemon thyme and basil you prefer
1-2 anchovy filets, rinsed if salt packed
Zest and juice from half a lemon
About 1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil (see note)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 pound asparagus, trimmed, cut into approximately 1 1/2" pieces, blanched
2 cups frozen or fresh petit pois, blanched

To make the vinaigrette; place the shallots, garlic, herbs, lemon zest, juice and anchovies into a blender or small food processor. Pulse to reduce the contents to a coarse purée. With the motor running, drizzle in the oil in slowly, scraping the sides down as needed. Season to taste.

In a medium sauté pan over medium-low heat, gently cook the pesto. Stir constantly for about 2 minutes, or until the edge (raw flavours) of the garlic and shallot are mellowed slightly. Toss through the blanched vegetables until just warmed through. Taste again for seasoning. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Serves 4-6.

Note:
• The olive oil measurement is only a guide, adjust the amount to best suit your textural preference.
• If you do not mind the pungency of raw garlic and shallots, cooking the pesto can be skipped.
• For this, and many other similar preparations, I prefer to use an immersion blender and a container only slightly wider than the blender head (like a mason jar); this way, the ingredients are well chopped and fully blended.

Early influences

Growing up, my best friend was right next door. It was one of those friendships where sleepovers were weekly, staying over for dinner was almost daily, and company was constant. We were lucky enough to live on a street where everyone knew everybody, where children ran freely from yard to yard wreaking havoc and laughter. It was a great place to live, with pool parties and backyard barbecues crowned with sparklers at the end.

Beyond the fun we had, my most vivid memory of these childhood friendships was the food. I think of those barbecues and I can taste the juice of sticky sweet watermelons, I think of strawberries picked from the bushes in the backyard, and of fingers stained a myriad of rainbow colours from Fun Dip.

But most of all I think about the kitchens - ours and the one next door. While our house was filled with the flavours of India and England, theirs was bursting with those of Italy. So as much as my Grandmother's shepherd's pie and my Mother's chicken curry figure largely in my remembrance of childhood, so do jars and jars of pickled red peppers, tender veal cutlets, and handmade breads for the holidays. The alchemy of homemade wine was a mystery to us. I was fascinated by the yearly ritual, and the enormous glass carafes that would take up residence in the basement. Oh goodness, and Nutella - that wonderful dark chocolate and hazelnut spread that is nothing short of ambrosia to a 6 year old.

As kids, we ate all meals at home, walking home from school at lunchtime. As far as I can recall, the business of meals was simply part of the daily ritual. I never had the impression that it was a bother, or that it was a chore (though it must have been, sometimes).

I cannot help but think that it was this assumption of good, fresh food that has shaped how I cook today. Even when tired or frustrated, it is not often that I am too tired to cook. I may be vexed about my day, but I am not vexed about the food. Sure, it may sometimes be simple, but the process of preparing food is integral to the routine of my day; I feel I have forgotten something without it.

I am thankful for those early influences, and that food and philosophy are remembered fondly - and often. As with most of us, I am sure, pasta has endured as a comfort food in our household. In its preparation, I sometimes stop to remember those meals from years ago, hoping I can come close to those tastes.

While this vegetable bolognese is far from traditional, and nothing I had as a child, it still brings me that sense of comforting nostalgia. Slowly stirred aromatic vegetables cooked until deeply flavoured and tender, then served with hot pasta and a snowfall of Paremsan - how memorable is that?

Vegetarian bolognese
My version was a combination of recipes; as I did not write down quantities as I cooked, I thought it best to simply provide the same guides I used. If anyone would like specifics, please feel free to contact me.

Sources:

• Pappardelle with vegetable bolognese from Epicurious
• Rigatoni with vegetable bolognese from Giada de Laurentiis

Specific changes and notes:

• Added 1/2 a large eggplant and 1 medium zucchini to the vegetables called for. As I prefer my mushrooms and eggplant to be well caramelized and golden, I cooked them separately from the rest first, then added them to the soffritto as per the recipe.
• 6 oil packed sundried tomatoes were puréed and added along with the tomato paste.
• The wine was replaced with vegetable broth and a splash of red wine vinegar.
• The photograph featured does not include marscarpone, as I intended to freeze a portion; the dairy is added just before serving, and I do believe the sauce needs a bit of richness at the finish. Full fat cream cheese can be used if mascarpone is unavailable.
• This sauce is particularly nice when thinned with a bit of pasta cooking water, then tossed through with your favourite medium tube pasta and chunks of fresh mozzarella.

Unto the breach

As a child of the 1980s, I have a deep affection for that era of roller skate - the ones with four wheels and the bright red, eraser-like stopper attached to the toe. I spent many an hour touring the neighbourhood in my skates, confident as can be.

Flash forward 20 years later and you can imagine my trepidation when my dear Sean strapped brand new rollerblades on me and assumed I would be steady on my feet. Facing the downhill slope of a rather steep hill, little did he expect the athletic debacle that would follow.

To make a long story short, I ricocheted off of a fence once or twice on my way down. Since then if faced with the slightest of declines, I am happy to veer off the road, sit myself down in the grass and watch the world roll by.

In this case I am all too happy to indulge my cowardice.

But one arena in which I have rarely shown fear has been the kitchen. Whether it was youthful exuberance or sheer naive ego, I would be hard pressed to remember a recipe that I have shied away from due to lack of experience. I will either place my confidence in quality of the recipe or in my own common sense, and then pray for the best.

That is not to say that errors have not been made; I could tell stories of some spectacular culinary failures that culminated in me laughing and crying all at once, as I reached for the phone to order takeout. But for whatever reason, these catastrophes have never fazed me. A simple shrug of the shoulder later, a wipe down of the counters and I am usually ready to tackle my next attempt.

It was with this touch of hubris that I made my first soufflé. Not smart enough to heed the many horror stories of fallen hopes, I happily whipped, folded and baked my way to airy perfection. Maybe it was assuredness that was the secret of my success. Maybe it was my assumption that all will be well was what made it so. Since that triumph, I have never looked back; both savoury and sweet offerings have graced our table. I have fallen in love with soufflés, with their luscious eggy density and slightly tender belly.

This corn and cheddar version has been a favourite since first taste. With a subtle background heat playing off of the sweetness of fresh corn, it is a wonderful balance of flavours for a light summer supper. The procedure is surprisingly simple and forgiving; stir the roux patiently, do not overwhip your egg whites, fold the batter gently. Bake until set without peeking in the oven, and your bravery will be rewarded with awe at the table. Who needs a greater ego-boost than that?

Sweet corn and white cheddar soufflé, with herbs and chili

Ingredients
Kernels from 2 ears of fresh corn
1 medium onion or 2 large shallots, cut into small dice
1 small red chili, finely minced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 tablespoons butter, plus more for greasing the ramekins
2 tablespoons plus 1/3 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese, separated
3 tablespoons all purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
3/4 cup milk
3 eggs, separated
1/2 cup grated aged white cheddar
1 teaspoon chopped parsley
2 teaspoons chopped basil
1 tablespoon chopped cilantro (coriander)

Preheat oven 375°F (190°C). Lightly grease four 3/4 cup capacity ramekins with butter, then coat with Parmesan.

In a sauté pan over medium heat, melt one tablespoon of the butter. Add the corn, onion and chili and cook, stirring, until the corn is tender and the onion is translucent. Remove the vegetables to a small bowl and set aside to cool.

In the same pan over medium low heat, melt the remaining butter. Whisk in the flour, cayenne and nutmeg, then cook this mixture for about 2 minutes. Slowly add the milk, whisking constantly to combine. Continue to cook, for about 3 minutes, until the sauce is thick and smooth. Turn off the heat, whisk in egg yolks, cheddar, remaining Parmesan and herbs. Stir in the corn and vegetable mixture. Set aside.

In the bowl of a stand mixer with the whisk attachment, or with a hand mixer, beat the egg whites to stiff (but not dry) peaks. Using a spatula, fold one third of the egg whites into the soufflé base. Continue to fold each third in, only until just combined.

Divide the soufflé batter among the four prepared ramekins. Sprinkle with additional finely grated cheddar or Parmesan, if desired.

Gently place ramekins into a roasting pan or large casserole dish. Fill the pan with water from a recently-boiled kettle, until it comes halfway up the sides of the ramekins. Bake in the preheated oven for 20 minutes, until crowned and golden.

Serve immediately, makes 4.

Notes:

• For a more impressive crown to your soufflé, rather than one that will just coyly peek over the edge of the dish as seen here, use a slightly smaller ramekin.
• When folding in the egg whites, I usually let a few streaks of white to remain for my first two additions as I know those will dissipate with the last addition. This allowance will prevent you from overworking the batter and deflating the volume.

Take me outside

I have come to embrace the fact that I'm a creature of habit. As such, I revel in my Pavlovian-impulse to make a beeline for a patio once the warm weather hits. In my mind, there is little better than some nibbles and sips under the sun during those muggy months of summertime. Conversation flows as evenings give way to starry nights that stretch on endlessly.

The only drawback to this tendency is that I only associate the al fresco lifestyle with restaurant dining. Save for a few backyard barbecues and poolside afternoons, I rarely eat outside at home - or at least, until recently.

It was most likely that coffee one morning, enjoyed on the back patio, that made me realize how much a simple change in environment altered the feel of the meal. All of a sudden, my morning cup seemed more of a treat than a ritual. It was as if I was on holiday, as my pace turned leisurely and I began to take notice of the trees above me and the birds all around.

Since then, we've been having our meals outdoors at every chance. Not just those meals prepared outside, but even those made in the kitchen are piled up onto a trays and taken to the patio, the deck or even to the porch step. Somehow, these meals feel an event; inherently festive as we all come together under a canopy of leaves.

Fitting for our verdant surroundings, this salad is full of vibrant colours and tastes. The red onion loses much of its harsh edge in a quick pickle of fragrant puckery vinegar, while jammy sundried tomatoes add another acidic but sweet note. They tumble together with meaty chickpeas and salty feta in a garlic vinaigrette, blanketed by a green shower of herbs. Twangy, sweet, creamy and satisfying, this is the sort of salad that is meant to be put in the middle of the table, allowing everyone to dive in.

Chickpea salad with sundried tomatoes, feta and a fistful of herbs
My own recipe. The fistful of herbs is literal; I head outside to our herb boxes and pick whatever needs pruning or strikes my fancy. Once I have a fistful, I know I have enough. One caveat, I have small hands.

Ingredients
1/4 large red onion, sliced wafer thin
2 tablespoons (30 ml) red wine vinegar
Salt
6 tablespoons (90 ml) olive oil
A good pinch, about 1/8 teaspoon, red chili flakes (optional)
1-2 cloves garlic, sliced wafer thin
8 sundried tomatoes, julienned
2 cups (500 ml) chickpeas (garbanzo beans)
1 teaspoon (15 ml) English mustard
Freshly ground black pepper
Approximately 1/2 cup (125 ml) of mixed herbs; examples include parsely, lemon thyme, coriander/cilantro, basil, oregano and mint
5 ounces (150 g) goats milk feta cheese

In a small bowl, douse the red onion with the vinegar. Sprinkle over a good pinch of salt, then use your fingers to squish the mixture a bit - this will work the salt into the onions and expedite the breaking down of their acrid bite. Set aside.

In medium saucepan over medium-low heat, warm the olive oil, garlic and red chili flakes. If there is any sizzle at all, turn the heat to low. Once the oil is fragrant and the garlic turns translucent, turn off the heat. Add the sundried tomatoes and chickpeas at this point, allowing them to steep as the oil comes to room temperature. This step of bathing the chickpeas in the warm oil is wholly optional, but I feel it imparts more flavour into the beans.

Once the oil has cooled, remove the tomatoes and chickpeas from the saucepan and put them into a large bowl (keep the oil, set it aside). Do the same with the onions, adding them to the salad but reserving the vinegar.

In that vinegar bowl, whisk in the mustard, salt and pepper. Whisking constantly, slowly drizzle in the steeped olive oil. Once the vinaigrette is emulsified and thick, coarsely chop the herbs and add to the bowl. Pour this dressing over the chickpeas and tomatoes. Toss to combine.

Crumble over the feta, then fold gently to distribute. Check for seasoning. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours for the flavours to combine. Can be served cold or at room temperature.

Serves 4-6.

Notes:

• Canned chickpeas are a convenient pantry staple, but dried beans (soaked, then cooked) will result in a better texture and are my preference.
• To make this a heartier meal, add chunks of grilled steak or chicken when combining the chickpeas and onions.
• Toss through some handfuls of arugula or other greens, then pile the salad onto slices of grilled bread for an appetizer.
• I have been toying with the idea of buzzing this salad in the food processor (with additional olive oil or maybe yogurt as needed) to make a spread. I'll report back on that - but if anyone tries it first, let me know.

The start remains the same

It has only been in the last few years that my father started to foray into the kitchen (save for our childhood favourite of his French toast fingers). But since then, he has taken on the majority of culinary duties, exploring and expanding his repertoire of specialities to include his Thanksgiving turkey roulade, his mahogany-hued beef and broccoli stir fry, and his fabulously decadent caramel custard. But none of these can come close in fame to his true calling card; Indian food.

The French may have their mirepoix (onion, celery, carrot), and Creole cuisine may boast its trinity (onion, celery, green pepper), but in my father's pan there is but one triumvirate - onion, ginger and garlic.

In fact, it is the frequent refrain when I call to ask him for recipes; "start with onion, ginger, garlic ...." As soon as the three hit the heat the scent immediately brings me back to thoughts of my parents home. Slowly cooking on the stove, this fragrant tangle forms the basis of much of the Indian menu; the backbone flavour of many dishes, both meat based and vegetarian.

This succulent spread of sweet blackened eggplant and barely-caramelized onions is lifted by handfuls of grassy cilantro and spiky rings of green chili. Simple to make yet boundlessly versatile, it can be served as a vegetable offering in an Indian meal, combined with spiced ground meat (keema) for something more substantial, mixed with thick yogurt and topped with ground toasted cumin for a dip, or simply spread on griddled flatbread for a quick snack.



My father's eggplant spread
His own recipe

Ingredients
Canola oil or other neutral oil
1 medium eggplant (aubergine)
1 large onion, cut lengthways then into thin half moons
2 teaspoons ginger, grated (see note)
3 cloves garlic, grated
1 small green chili, sliced finely
1/2 cup cilantro leaves, coarsely chopped
salt to taste

Use a few drops of canola oil to lightly grease the skin of the eggplant. Over the dying coals of a charcoal fire, place the whole eggplant on the grill. Cook, turning occasionally, until the eggplant has shrivelled and blackened. The flesh should yield easily to pressure, and most of its moisture will have cooked away. Do not panic if the skin splits while cooking, this is perfectly fine. Remove from the heat and set the eggplant aside to cool.

In a medium saucepan, heat about 2 tablespoons of oil over medium-low heat. Add the onions, ginger and garlic. Cook, stirring often, for about 10-15 minutes or until the onions are translucent and the garlic is sweet. Add the green chili and cilantro, cooking for 5 minutes more.

Using a spoon or your fingers, peel away the skin from the eggplant. Scoop the flesh into the pan with the aromatics, breaking it up and stirring to combine. Season lightly with salt. Increase the heat to medium and cook the eggplant for 10 more minutes, or until it begins to slightly darken in colour and any residual moisture has dissipated. Check for seasoning and serve.

Makes about 1 cup.

Notes:
• My parents store their ginger in the freezer; it keeps forever it seems and can be easily grated while frozen. The measurement in this recipe is using frozen ginger, and may vary if using fresh.
• Carefully remove the seeds and ribs (white pithy veins) from the green chili for those prefer less heat.

Today's topic is roasted onions; discuss.

By all accounts I enjoy a good chat. It has always been that way; in fact, I do believe that somewhere I have an old progress report bearing the following glowing review: “Tara is a chatterbox. Sometimes distracts others.”

A distraction indeed; between instant messaging, e-mail and the telephone, rarely does a day go by without a good gab with a friend or family member.

Whatever the topic - sensational shoes, starlet shenanigans or all things sparkly - these chats are our chance to not only catch up, but also forget about the distance that is sometimes between us. Time differences and schedule conflicts fall away and all we are left with is common ground and usually a good laugh.

It was such a discussion that inspired our Sunday night this week. Across an ocean and over e-mail, a dear friend and I were considering an all- too-important issue; what to feed our grumbling bellies. Lucky for me, the hours separating us worked to my advantage - while I was still searching for supper ideas, Michèle’s was already tucked in the oven. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I decided I would follow her lead and recreate her menu on this side of the Atlantic.

To serve alongside our matching roasts Michèle had found a truly delicious-sounding recipe for roasted red onions over at Epicurious.com. She assured me that hers smelled fantastic roasting away. However, as I was already eager to use the pretty little yellow onions my father had given me, I suggested the substitution.

Looking ahead to the inevitable roast beef sandwich lunches, I wanted a final dish closer to a marmalade relish than a simple vegetable side, so I asked her opinion of adding some honey and swapping out the vinegar. The consultation continued; the minutiae of our preparations were covered from roast beef internal temperatures to ovens, from green beans to brussels sprouts and the questionable need for potatoes.

In the end, after countless messages back and forth, my family and I sat down to a meal that I did not feel I had prepared alone. I had made it with a friend.

And what was one of my first thoughts this morning? Talking to that friend to compare notes.

Oh Mrs. Kline, if only you knew - I have not improved in the least in all these years since Kindergarten. Thank goodness for that.



Jammy roasted onions
My own creation, of sorts. Inspired by Epicurious, adapted from collaborative conversations with Michèle. Makes a wonderful accompaniment to grilled or roasted meats and poultry; with the velvety sweetness of the onions offset by the resonant twang of balsamic.

Shown above in a sandwich of toasted ciabatta, rare roast beef, field greens and a homemade horseradish aïoli similar to Ina Garten’s horseradish sauce.

2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
5 sprigs fresh thyme
1 spring fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon honey
About 1 1/2 pounds (700 g) small onions
8-10 cloves garlic, peeled but left whole
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
salt
pepper

Preheat oven to 450ºF (230ºC).

In a small saucepan, combine butter, olive oil and herbs. Warm slowly over low heat. Once the butter has completely melted and the herbs are fragrant, remove from the heat and stir in honey. Allow to cool.

Trim the roots of the onions, but leave intact; peel and slice into quarters lengthways.

In a roasting dish, toss the onions, garlic and herb oil mixture. Once well coated, drizzle over balsamic vinegar, season with salt and pepper, and toss again.

Cover with aluminum foil and roast in the middle position of the preheated oven. Every 20 minutes, peel back foil and turn onions with a broad spatula. After one hour, reduce oven temperature to 300ºF (150ºC). Roast for an additional 30-45 minutes, until done to your liking.

Makes about 1 1/2 cups.

Serve warm or at room temperature. Will keep for about a week, refrigerated in a sealed container.

Notes:
• Shallots or cipollini onions can also be used; in this case, cut in half or leave whole.
• Use a roasting pan that just fits the onions and garlic in a single layer; too big of a pan and the balsamic and honey will burn, too small of a pan and the vegetables will steam rather than roast.
• For a sweeter, darker version, substitute an equal amount of dark brown sugar for the honey.
• For fans of strong flavours, these onions can be used to top crostini. Add Cambozola and broil for an over-the-top snack.

How we eat

I am a person who spends far too much time thinking about food.

Though this tendency could most likely be attributed to my simple greed, which I will not deny, I am also intrigued by the way that we relate to our food. I know I have said it before, and admired those who have said it more eloquently, but I am still fascinated by the way food can not only be a source of nutrition but also such a part of the way we live our lives.

Our meals can be a creative expression, a link to the past or an exploration of possibility. Or, we can eat to satiate the need to fuel the body.

I have been eavesdropping on an ongoing conversation regarding the place for shortcuts, take out and convenience food in the kitchen. The discussion touches upon the ever-increasing popularity of certain network television personalities and their accompanying “semi-homemade” philosophies.

Without taking a particular side of the table so to speak, I did stop to consider the food my family eats on a daily basis; outside of the grand food holidays and events, simply Monday to Friday sort of fare.

I have always eaten reasonably well. Lucky to have the luxury of a childhood in a family of cooks, convenience food and take out was the exception rather than the rule. In my early adulthood, I tried to get my 8-10 servings of vegetables per day, even if they were sometimes interspersed with a pint and burger at the local pub.

It was when I became pregnant that I really felt the impact of the food choices I made. I was suddenly responsible for more than just me and my waistline. With each bite, I realized what I was eating was what would sustain my child. What would help him develop, help him grow strong and nurture him before I could even hold him in my arms.

As you may well imagine, heavily-processed foods, caffeine, additives, nitrates and the like where not on the menu.

With Benjamin’s birth, a part of my Mummyhood has come to include the role of family nutritionist and meal provider. I know that I am the one that is, in large part, shaping the way he views food. The way he views how food is made. The way he views food as part of his life - as energy or as something more.

It is that something more that I think about most. I think about how somewhere along the way society developed this love-hate relationship with food. We love indulgence, yet hate the consequences; we move from extremes of decadence to extremes of denial.

In our day-to-day food is frequently regarded as an inconvenience; something that takes time from all the more important things that we have scheduled for ourselves.

I can only speak for myself. I can only say what works for me. I have chosen to make good food a priority. Not simply the act of eating, though I do believe in taking the time to eat as a family whenever possible, but also the act of shopping, preparing and discussing food. Nutrition, tradition, why we eat what we eat when we eat it - all of these are topics I hope to share with my son as I share them with my dear Sean now.

I want Benjamin to realize that sometimes things are worth effort or time, and that the proof is truly in the pudding. I hope he sees the beauty in a balanced life.

I will admit that there are frozen pizzas in my freezer. I will also admit that there are a stack of take out menus in a drawer somewhere. But I will also point out the recipe books, pots and pans and utensils that fill our cupboards.

I do not scorn convenience. Cooking may not be for everyone. But I will rally against the notion that cooking is nothing more than a chore. There is beauty in the process of making food, even when at its most basic. There is a poetry in it that tells you “this is worthwhile.”

I made this pasta as a quick dinner when my dear Sean was working late. Inspired by a love for spaghettti alla carbonara, all the elements of the original are here. Salty pork punctuating a tangle of creamy, egg-blanketed pasta. I have added chicken stock to the sauce for a fresher version suited for early spring. The mix of asaparagus and mushrooms also seem fitting for the season, and the crisped prosciutto is tender, yet still toothsome, among the pappardelle.

It should have taken about 10 minutes to come together, but again, priorities came into play. I stopped prepping once because of a potential altercation between Benjamin and Miss Billie the Cat (priority). I continued when Benjamin chose to dump his toys across the floor (not a priority). I paused again to kiss my husband hello (priority). Then I finished making dinner.

Far from Rockwellian, but we did manage for the three of us to end up around the dinner table; all eating the same meal, at the same time.

I, for one, felt truly nourished.

Creamy mushroom and asparagus pappardelle
Lighter than a traditional carbonara, but still retaining its charm, this pasta is a quick and satisfying weeknight meal.

Ingredients

4 slices prosciutto
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 shallots, thinly sliced
150 g trimmed and cut asparagus spears
250 g cremini or brown mushrooms, cut into halves or quarters depending on size
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
175 g pappardelle
30 g grated parmesan cheese
Generous teaspoon thyme leaves
2 large eggs
1/3 cup mixture of chicken stock and cream, whatever ratio suits your taste

Cook the prosciutto under a preheated broiler for about 3 minutes, until crisp and lightly golden. Set aside.

In a frying pan over medium high heat, sauté shallots in the olive oil for about a minute, or until beginning to turn translucent. Add mushrooms and asparagus, season sparingly with salt and pepper and cook for 6 minutes or until the vegetables are tender. Reduce the heat to low.

Meanwhile, cook pappardelle in a large pot of salted boiling water until just under al dente, or slightly less than package instructions. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup of the cooking water. Add the pappardelle to the vegetable mixture, turning to combine. The pasta will darken as it absorbs the olive oil and juices from the vegetables. Crumble in prosciutto. Turn off heat.

Whisk together parmesan cheese, eggs, thyme leaves, cream and chicken stock in a small bowl.

Working quickly, add the egg mixture to the pappardelle and toss to coat. Continue to stir until the eggs are cooked and slightly thickened; the sauce will thoroughly cling to the noodles. Add the reserved pasta water as necessary until the desired consistency is achieved. Season with additional pepper.

Best eaten immediately. Serves 2 rather generously, or 3 when feeding one adult male with a hearty appetite, one adult female with a medium appetite and one greedy little toddler.

Notes:
• I used a ratio of about 3 parts stock to 1 part 10% cream. Use whatever amounts, and butterfat content cream, that suits you.
• Baby spinach can also be substituted for the asparagus. If you are lucky enough to come across fresh morels, they would be fantastic here.

Speaking of ...

Sometimes I just get on a kick; I will become obsessed with an ingredient or dish, and eat nothing but variations on a theme. Last year at this time I was all about asparagus. This year, it seems my seasonal love affair is with peas. Since we’re already on the subject, I thought I would present another new favorite recipe for these little darlings.

Pea and ricotta crostini
Fresh with the brightness of lemon and rich with the supple texture of ricotta, these crostini are great as an hors d'oeuvre or starter. Alternatively, serve them as a garnish with a spring minestrone or other broth-based soup.

Ingredients
1 cup petit pois/peas (defrosted if frozen)
3 tablespoons ricotta cheese
Lemon zest (see note)
1-2 teaspoons olive oil
Salt and pepper

To serve
Toasted slices of baguette
Parmesan shavings or shards

In a small pot of boiling salted water, blanch the peas. Cook until tender, approximately 1 to 2 minutes (depending on their size). Once cooked, remove peas to a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking process and set their colour.

In a mortar and pestle, or a small food processor, mash the peas to form a coarse paste. Stir in the ricotta and lemon zest and enough olive oil to reach the desired consistency. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

To serve, mound purée onto slices of freshly toasted baguette and garnish with parmesan cheese.
Makes about 1/2 cup of purée.

Notes:
• I use just a few grates of lemon zest - about 1/8 of a teaspoon or so. It is really to taste, so trust your own judgement. Alternatively you can use a squeeze of lemon juice instead.
• This purée can also be tossed with cooked pasta for a quick supper. In this case, I would add some chopped parsley, whole watercress or torn arugula and additional cheese, with olive oil to loosen.

Playing groundhog

I do not care what the calendar says. As far as I am concerned, the new year does not start until a good time after February 2nd - usually not until sometime towards the end of March. Truly, how can one feel that they are beginning anew when the world is still trapped under a blanket of snow?

I am a person wholly affected by my surroundings. As I have alluded to before I tend to have strong reactions to changes in the weather. And, like most I’m sure, I tend to eat in response to what’s going on outside my window.

With the grey days of early spring just settling upon us, I find myself eagerly awaiting the bourgeoning brightness of April and May. I have been keeping a steely eye on our neighbour’s lawn and our green grocer’s inventory to see the return of a green palette - in shades of grass, asparagus and pea shoots.

Sadly, I am a bit ahead of Mother Nature, who is still enjoying the last vestiges of her beauty sleep. Today dawned cloudy and cold, with a crisp, howling wind to greet us. It seemed somehow fitting that I turned to my freezer for comfort as I spied a bag of frozen petit pois (small, sweet peas). Even though my landscape is still drab and monochromatic, at least my bowl is filled with the promise of the months to come.

My apologies to any readers outside the Northern Hemisphere for this weather-centric post. Happy autumn to you all!

Spring Pea Soup
This creamy, yet fresh tasting soup is delicious served either hot or chilled. While I wanted a pure, unadulterated pea taste in this soup, herbs would be a natural partner. A few sprigs of mint, chives or flat-leafed parsley could be added while puréeing.

Ingredients
1 teaspoon olive oil
1 teaspoon butter
2 shallots, finely minced
3/4 cup vegetable or chicken stock (low sodium if store bought)
1 1/4 cups petit pois (if frozen, defrosted)
1/4 teaspoon lemon juice/sherry vinegar
Salt and pepper to taste

In a small saucepan over medium low heat, melt the butter into the olive oil. When foaming has subsided, add the shallots. Season with salt and sweat the shallots until translucent, about 2 minutes.

Add the stock and bring to a boil. Add the petit pois and cook until bright green and just tender. This depends on their size, but should only take a few moments.

Using an upright or immersion blender, purée the soup until very smooth. If using the upright blender, be careful about blending hot liquids - you might want to allow it to cool before attempting. Or, undo the centre of the lid to vent out the steam, covering the hole with a kitchen towel.

Add the lemon juice and cream (if using), season with salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle with additional olive oil for garnish, if desired.

Serves 2 for a light lunch with a salad, or one who's feeling hungry.

Notes:
• You can play with the aromatics in this recipe. Leeks would be a fine substitution for the shallots.
• Added at the end, a dash of cream or an additional dab of butter to this soup adds a wonderful richness to the finish.

From the produce section, with love

When my brother and I were growing up, I do not remember having an option when it came to vegetables. Wait, I should clarify. It was not that there was a lack of variety in the vegetables placed before us, it was that we were never really given the option of trying them or not – we just did. We ate everything.

I’ll admit my Mother may be the better resource on this, but I do not remember there ever being a vegetable my brother or I would simply not eat (sure, there were ones that were not favourites). I recall being aghast when watching television and witnessing kid surreptitiously hide some Brussels sprouts in a napkin.

The thought had never dawned on me – I mean, why would anyone not want to eat a Brussels sprout? It was a completely foreign concept to my 7-year-old brain. Admittedly, our cocker spaniel did love corn, so he would have probably appreciated any scraps had we been willing to part with them.

We were lucky to be exposed to a wide array of vegetables, from a young age. We happily gobbled up steamed broccoli, curried cauliflower, peas in our aloo (potato) subsi, okra, spinach, beans of all sort, along with pulses and lentils. We even knew the three sides to one of our favourites — a vegetable that could be an aubergine when my grandmother was cooking, then transform itself into eggplant parmigiana at our neighbour’s house, and still be called baigan and brinjal when my Mom or Dad made Indian food.

My love for vegetables has carried me to adulthood, as I’ve expanded my repertoire to include new preparations and cooking methods. Nothing is better come springtime than roasted asparagus, more welcomed in summer than marinated salads, or more comforting in winter than braised leeks served alongside grilled meats.

S, on the other hand has not always been keen on our leafy and tuberous friends. Up until a few years ago, I could not even convince him that the noble onion was something that should pass his lips now and again. Luckily for me, a sojourn in some far-off lands opened up his culinary horizons and he is now my willing taste-tester. Though I’ll admit, I’ve not yet heard him say he ‘craved’ a vegetable – but I’m sure we’re on our way.

The many-named eggplant has been a perennial favourite, so when it came to deciding on what to make this past weekend, it was the obvious choice. Roasted in the oven, then used to top crunchy layers of puff pastry and a silky, rich filling of onions and herbed chèvre, the flavours were pronouncedly fall and the balance of textures exactly what I was looking for.

I sent one of these tarts to my parents this week; I hope they consider it a small thank you for all those years of ‘forcing’ me to eat my vegetables.

Roasted eggplant tart, with caramelized onions and chèvre

1 large globe eggplant
1 sheet puff pastry, thawed as per package instructions
2 small onions, halved and then sliced finely
100 g (3 oz) chèvre, softened and divided
100 g (3 oz) cream cheese, softened
2 tablespoons mixed fresh herbs (or more to taste), I used chives, parsley and thyme
5-10 cloves garlic, roasted and crushed into a paste
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Olive oil

Preheat oven to 425º F (220º C).

Slice eggplant into 1/2" rounds. Toss with olive oil, salt and pepper. Place in a single layer on a baking sheet and roast for 12 minutes. Turn the slices and roast for another 12 minutes, until lightly golden and soft. Alternatively, you can sauté the slices over medium heat. Set aside.

Reduce oven temperature to 400ºF (200º C).

On a floured surface, roll out the puff pastry to16”by 10”, trim any edges to form a neat rectangle. With a paring knife, score a 1” border around the edge of the pastry. Place on baking sheet. Prick (dock) the interior of the rectangle all over with a fork, to prevent excessive rising. Bake for 15 minutes, or until an even pale golden brown. Depending on your oven, you may need to rotate the pan halfway through the baking. Set aside on rack to cool (do not remove from baking sheet).

Meanwhile in a small saucepan with a tight-fitting lid, sauté the onions along with 1 teaspoon of salt. After the onions have become translucent cover and continue to cook, stirring frequently, for 15 minutes or until caramelized. Remove from heat, uncover and allow to cool.

In a small bowl, blend together half the chèvre, all the cream cheese and the herbs. Depending on the type used, you may need to loosen the mixture with a teaspoon of olive oil. You are looking for a lightly whipped, spreadable consistency. Season with salt and pepper, and set aside.

Being careful not to crush the pastry, spread the garlic paste over the crust. Top with the cheese mixture, followed by the caramelized onions. Arrange roasted eggplant over the onions and top with the reserved chèvre. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil, if desired.

Bake for 10 minutes, or until cheese starts to brown and the eggplant is warmed through. Can be eaten warm or at room temperature.

Serves 4.

Notes:
• For the ruffled effect shown with the puff pastry, I used a removable-bottomed tart pan with a fluted edge.
• Lemon zest and/or juice are welcome additions to the herbed cheese mixture.
• Any roasted vegetable would be excellent with this combination; tomatoes, zucchini or mushrooms are all suitable.
• Omit the chèvre and substitute an equal amount of a blue cheese for the filling.

We all have our quirks

As much as I espouse an easygoing approach to all things food related and try to promote creativity and substitutions whenever possible, I have to admit this tendency does not carry over to all aspects of my lifestyle – or even to all my views on things culinary. In fact, there are certain things about which I’m downright pernickety.

For instance, I adore having the right tool for a job. Even though I know that there are a million and one ways to zest a lemon, having the proper tool suited for the end result is a joy. A good chef's knife is your best friend. A well-shaped olive wood spoon makes stirring risotto a pleasure. The same holds true for servingware - you must admit that your gorgeous soba noodle soup is all the more stunning when served in a bowl shaped for optimal slurping. We have shelves in our basement devoted to my inability to say no to the “perfect” vessel.

I am a sucker for organization. Send me to a kitchen store, a craft store or even a stationer; I will happily troll the aisles for containers and caddies, labels and all things compartmentalized. I’ve actually spent time imaging all the things I could organize if I had the proper space and resources – oh how gorgeous my closets could be. I have even been known to have a moment of excitement over a new size of Tupperware. I can’t help it; it’s an obsession.

These two compulsions bring me to the granddaddy of them all — my love of lists. S has had to come to accept and respect my incessant hording of tiny slips of paper, each covered in cryptic notes and itemized records that usually only make sense to me. Maybe this harkens back to my childhood need to overachieve (gold stars were like ambrosia to me), but going through an orderly list and checking off items as they are completed gives me an incomparable sense of accomplishment.

I have lists for everything; for grocery lists, for errands, for Christmas presents, for correspondence, for books to read or topics to research … even the margins of my day planner are not safe from my scribbles.

I could go on, but I’m starting to scare myself.

As of late, I’ve been thinking about two lists in particular. One I’ve had for years, and is added to rather frequently. This list contains names like The French Laundry and Babbo, Fat Duck and El Bulli … and items referring to Chubby Hubby’s dear wife S and her gorgeous dumplings, finding the perfect baguette, and most recently an entry devoted to the idea of convincing Melissa and Clement that a macaron tasting tour of Paris with Michèle is exceedingly necessary. This list chronicles my food fantasies – dishes I want to try, places I long to visit and people I would adore the opportunity to meet.

The second list is much more tailored to my own little kitchen. This one details 50 or so items that make up my running tally of dishes I believe I should attempt to make at least once in my life, or recipes to master. Some are dishes I consider classics, while others are ones that have piqued my interest. Examples include:

8. Bake a quintessential yellow cake with chocolate frosting – think of what Wally and the Beave would have had with a cold glass of milk after school.
17. Make puff pastry and croissant dough from scratch.
21. Perfect my roast chicken recipe.
35. Invite Mom and Dad over for an Indian meal that knocks their socks off.
46. Make French fries at home, and decide once and for all where I stand on the “skinny frites vs. fat chips debate.”

This weekend I decided that #46 was due to be checked off my list. Not only would I tackle an age-old question of taste, but I would also continue my quest to conquer my innate fear of deep-frying. With a Saturday stretching before me, and an eager panel of tasters, I julienned and soaked, dried and fried (doubly, of course) and produced two batches of fries for their highly-scientific consideration. In the left corner, we have what I consider to be an example of the skinny frites tradition, destined for garlicky aiöli. In the other corner, we have the fat chip contender, the perfect partner to deep fried fish and the proper vehicle for gravy and cheese curds for Poutine.

After deliberation, the panel had two votes for skinny and one undecided. Both S and his dear father favoured the more assertively crispy fry, while I was still torn. I appreciated the snap of the exterior of the skinny fry, but could not totally discount the comfort of the baked-potato-reminiscent floury-ness of the chip style.

Each has its place at my table. I may be compulsive, but I can’t seem to play favourites. So #46 remains, but I still think these deserve a gold star.

Definitive fries
I use a hybrid of tips, taken mostly from Tony Bourdain’s Les Halles Cookbook and Alton Brown’s I’m Just Here for the Food. Both employ a double-fry method; first poaching the potatoes at a lower heat, then frying a second time at a higher heat to ensure a crispy exterior. The draining station detailed is that of Alton Brown – it keeps oil droplets from collecting on the grates of the draining rack and helps to prevent soggy fries.

4 large baking potatoes, russets are good
Oil for frying
Salt

For the skinny fries, peel the potatoes (if desired) and cut each one lengthwise into slices 1/3 inch thick. Cut the slices lengthwise into sticks 1/3 inch thick. For the fat chips, prepare as above but slice the potatoes into 1/2 batons. Soak the potatoes in bowls of ice water for at least 30 minutes (as long as overnight) to release the excess starch.

In a deep fat fryer or a heavy bottomed pot, preheat 3 inches of oil (or follow manufacturer’s recommendations) to 300ºF.

Rinse potatoes in a few courses of clean water. Drain, then lay them out on a kitchen towel or paper towel and pat dry. Removing excess moisture at this stage will help reduce the oil from splattering when the potatoes hit the fat.

Assemble your draining station. Take a baking rack and invert it so that the legs are pointing upwards. Place this on top of a few layers of newsprint.

Fry the potatoes, in small batches until translucent and just starting to turn pale gold (approximately 6-8 minutes for the skinny fries, 8-10 for the thick ones). Do not overload the oil, or the temperature will drop too quickly and the potatoes will be uneven. Cooking times will depend on the size of batch and how well you can maintain the oil temperature. Using a spider, basket or tongs remove the first batch to the draining rack. Proceed with remaining potatoes until done. Allow to stand for at least 10 minutes, or up to 2 hours.

When ready to serve, raise the heat of the oil to 375ºF.

Again working in batches, fry the potatoes until golden and crisp, about 2-3 minutes for the skinny and 3-4 for the thick. Remove to the draining rack (lined with fresh paper) for a moment to cool then transfer to a large bowl. Season liberally with salt and toss the fries to evenly coat. Serve immediately.

Serves 4, generously.

Notes:
• Vegetable oil is standard for frying, but peanut oil is preferred and duck fat is sublime.
• A good sprinkling of Maldon salt was all the adornment we needed, but smoked paprika, finely minced garlic and parsley or cumin and turmeric all make great seasonings.
• The aiöli from Laura Washburn makes a perfect accompaniment.

The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day ... that turned into a week

Title with thanks to Judith Viorst.

Monday started out with me slipping in a mud puddle. Tuesday introduced impossible deadlines to be met – and was a day that did not seem to have enough hours in it. Wednesday, well, I forget Wednesday, I’m sure it happened but I have no recollection of it. I think it was so traumatic that I blocked it from my memory.Thursday brought misunderstandings of seemingly endless proportions. And now it is Friday, and it’s raining outside.

As you may guess, I’m in a bit of a mood.

It is times like these, when I am feeling overwhelmed, that I transform from a usually capable person into a somewhat dramatic, hopeless mess. And it is times like these that the smallest of favours are the grandest of gifts.

These adorable little tomatoes for example, a co-worker brought them to me from her garden – she is a kind and thoughtful lady who never thinks twice when given the opportunity to do something for another. Perfectly ripened, almost candy-like in their sweetness and utterly photogenic, I have had the pleasure of enjoying three miniature little harvests of tomatoes, my morning brightened by a little bag of these babies waiting on my desk in the morning.

Or this lovely green dish, a gift from my dear S in apology for setting fire to one of my roasting dishes (long story involving preheating the oven without remembering that he’d hidden dirty dishes in there earlier). Smooth and sleek with its feminine fluted edge, I love the weight and feel of the ceramic — and the colour is so utterly of him (as you may have noticed, I have a fondness for white serving ware).

So things may not be as dire as they seem. Last night, I surveyed the kitchen and came across some gorgeously crusty Calabrese bread, some herbs and my darling tomatoes. Remembering a recent sunny afternoon at the Taste of the Danforth food festival in Toronto, with the company of great friends and laughter all around, I was inspired to recreate the fabulously fresh bruschetta we’d had at Il Fornello.

The first bite of crusty bread, tangy soft cheese and luscious tomatoes, and I’d banished the gloom. Such a simple pleasure, coupled with a quiet evening, had a wonderfully restorative effect. I slept soundly, and woke this morning with a renewed sense of enthusiasm to face the work ahead.

That’s when I noticed the rain clouds.

Bruschetta with tomato salad and chèvre
Bruschetta, from the Italian bruscare (to roast over coals) technically refers only to the grilled bread. My apologies that I have not included amounts here, instead just the ingredients. But truly, when in a mood like the one I’ve been in, the last thing one wants is to stress over measuring spoons. Use the proportions that best suit your palate. This is supposed to be a dish that exemplifies the “path of least resistance” – the quickest way to pleasure with minimal effort.

Ingredients

Tomatoes, grape or cherry halved, or your favourite large variety cut into manageable bites
Red onion, finely minced
Garlic, finely minced or microplaned (optional)
Basil, in fine strips (chiffonade)
Parsley, finely minced
Salt and pepper
Red wine vinegar (optional)
Olive oil
Slices of Calabrese bread, or any other crusty bread you like
Garlic (left whole)
Chèvre

Preheat broiler.

Combine tomatoes, onion, garlic and herbs in a bowl. Season to taste with salt and pepper and a scant splash of red wine vinegar. Pour over a good-quality olive oil, mixing gently to combine. Allow to sit at room temperature while you prepare the bruschetta.

Under a hot broiler, toast bread on one side until golden brown. Turn and toast the second side until just starting to turn colour. Remove from oven and, working quickly, rub the cut side of the whole garlic clove all over the lightly toasted side. Top with crumbled chèvre, and return to the broiler until the cheese is starting to melt.

Serve topped with tomato salad and a final drizzle of olive oil.

Notes:
• This recipe can be done on a barbeque, grilling the bread first over medium high heat. To melt the cheese, turn the grill down to medium heat and close the lid, checking after 2-3 minutes.

Reviewing The Best

As promised, this is my first installment in my spotlight on five books from my recipe collection. I'll devote three entries to each book.

I came across the television show The Best when flicking by a BBC Canada preview one long weekend. Starring Ben O’Donoghue, Paul Merrett and Silvana Franco, the premise of the show was simple – two separate theme ingredients/meals would be set up as a challenge for each episode. The three would then prepare and present their interpretation to a cloistered group of judges. Some examples were; the best sweet summer tart, the best lamb lunch, and the best simple sandwich.

Though this may sound rather like an episode of Iron Chef – The Best could not be further from the Kitchen Stadium of Chairman Kaga. The hosts, two classically trained chefs (O’Donoghue and Merrett) and one experienced cook and food stylist (Franco), worked together with an easy competitive camaraderie. Each took on the duties of sous chef for the others, and there was frequent tasting and joking along the way.

It was the charm of the series that made me seek out the cookbook by the same name – which has fast become one of my favourite books for inspiration. The three authors, with their diverse backgrounds and influences, support and encourage my somewhat schizophrenic interests in cooking.

Merrett’s Perfect Cheese Soufflé and sublime Watercress and Mushroom Soup appeal to the part of me that likes a bit of fuss over a meal. His recipes can be a bit labour (and time) intensive, but the results are nothing short of show stopping.

O’Donoghue, proud of his Australian roots and classically trained, tempts me with fresh ingredients presented in laid-back style. His Summer Berry Compote and Braised Tuna Salad epitomize his philosophy on food – elegant yet gutsily straightforward, uncompromising in its quality.

Franco is a woman after my own heart. An accomplished food writer and stylist who has worked with the likes of Ainsley Hariott, she has not let acclaim change her views on food. Simplicity itself, relying on cupboard staples and no-nonsense preparations, dishes like her Chinese Style Barbecue Pork and Goat’s Cheese and Cranberry Toast offer immediate satisfaction.

The first recipe I’ve chosen to highlight is Ben’s Tomato and Herb Spaghetti from “The Best Quick Pasta Supper” episode. I love the combination of the velvety robust sauce against the herbaceous crunch of the pan gritata (toasted breadcrumbs) – all slurped up with perfectly cooked spaghetti. In the midst of summer I will admit that I sometimes substitute the canned tomatoes with peeled fresh ones, whenever I find myself in possession of some just about to pass their prime.

Ben’s Tomato and Herb Spaghetti
The Best by Paul Merrett, Silvana Franco and Ben O'Donoghue.

For the pan gritata:
4 tablespoons roughly chopped thyme leaves
4 tablespoons roughly chopped parsley
2 tablespoons roughly chopped majoram
1 small dried-out or day-old chibatta, made into rough crumbs
8 tablespoons sunflower (or other neutral) oil

For the tomato sauce:
1 garlic clove, crushed
3 tablespoons olive oil
800 g jar of San Marzzano plum tomatoes, or 2 x 400 g cans of plum tomatoes in their own juice, drained
1-2 bird’s eye chilies
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) pack best-quality durum wheat dried spaghetti
1 garlic clove, chopped
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

To make the pan gritata, first process the herbs in a food processor. Empty into a bowl, add the ciabatta crumbs and blend together using your hands.

Heat the sunflower oil in a frying pan and shallow-fry the herbs and breadcrumb mixture for 3-4 minutes, until crunchy. Drain on kitchen paper.

Make the tomato sauce by gently frying the garlic in 2 tablespoons of the olive oil for 30 seconds, until sticky. Add the tomatoes and chilies and cook for 30 minutes over a very low heat until broken down and the tartness has gone from the tomatoes.

Meanwhile, cook the pasta until al dente (according to the packet instructions) and drain. In a large frying pan, heat the remaining olive oil and add the chopped garlic. Toss through the cooked spaghetti. Then serve the spaghetti in a bowl with the tomato sauce surrounding it and season with salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. Sprinkle the pan gritata all over and serve.

Serves 4.

Notes
• In the case of the dish in the photograph, I happened to have fresh, finely crushed breadcrumbs around from another recipe. I opted to use them instead of the ciabatta, and tossed some through with the cooked pasta. For your first time making the recipe, I recommend using the ciabatta as instructed – the coarser texture adds another dimension to the dish.
• I choose to season the sauce with salt and pepper while it is cooking, rather than at the end.
• When I use fresh tomatoes, I reduce the cooking time for the sauce to about 15 minutes, as I like to preserve a bit of the freshness of the tomatoes.
• Although not mentioned in the recipe, I find that a bit of freshly grated Parmesan never hurt anyone.

Ode to a gourd, Cucurbita pepo

The zucchini (courgette) is sort of the wallflower cousin to the cucumber. Cucumbers are snappy, juicy and crisp when fresh; a cool addition to salads and sandwiches, or perfect with a sprinkling of salt and pepper. All the while, the zucchini stands by; plainer when munched on raw, mild-mannered and unassuming — but the one with greater potential, in my opinion.

Zucchini is best when it’s given a little extra attention. It’s the shy one of the family, but once you coax out its mystery, it opens up a world of possibility. Sure, I love a great dill or sweet pickle, but give me roasted zucchini any day. Cucumber bread? Yuck. Zucchini loaf? Heaven.

I love zucchini for its sweet creaminess, especially when offset by a spritz of citrus or a drizzle of good balsamic. High in potassium and vitamins A and C, zucchini are a staple on my grill and a frequent snack, fresh out of the fridge. They add body to soups and stews in the fall, compliment heavy roasts in the winter and light sautés through the warmer months. Truly this gourd is a powerhouse in the kitchen.

Usually relegated to the supporting cast, these little fritters are bundles of zucchini-goodness. Brightened by lemon zest, a fistful of herbs and spikes of red chilli, I adore them as a side to any grilled meat or as a tasty nibble all on their own.

Zucchini fritters
My amalgamation of recipes from Nigella Lawson, Martha Stewart and our own Domestic Goddess.

1 pound zucchini (about 2 medium)
Zest of one lemon (approximately 1 tablespoon)
1 small shallot, minced
1 small red chilli, minced
2 tablespoons finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
2 tablespoons finely chopped cilantro
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 eggs, lightly beaten
Vegetable oil, for frying

Using a box grater or the grating attachment on a food processor, grate the zucchini. Place zucchini in a thin layer on a kitchen (or paper) towel. Cover with another towel, and leave to dry for approximately 30 minutes.

In a bowl, combine all the remaining ingredients, except for the beaten egg. While stirring, add the egg slowly and thoroughly combine. Gently fold in the dried zucchini.

Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil in a large frying pan over medium high heat. When the oil is hot, but not smoking, drop heaped tablespoons of the batter into the oil, flattening them slightly with the back of a spatula. Cook for about 2-3 minutes per side, or until golden brown and crisp. You can also tell when they are cooked by pressing slightly on the surface – the fritter should feel like a cooked pancake; firm but with a bit of spring.

Repeat until all the batter is used. Keep warm in a low oven, or serve at room temperature garnished with lemons and a scattering of fresh parsley.

Makes about 12.

Notes
• I usually use a tiny ice cream scoop to portion the batter.
• These are lovely served hot with a dollop of sour cream or sweet chilli sauce.

In good company

I must admit, I’m feeling a bit burnt out.

Since the aforementioned conference ended Saturday afternoon, I’ve been in a waking-comatose state. It seems a few days of information-laden presentations, politicking, and incessant schedules, all topped off by being away from one’s own bed, takes a toll.

Truthfully, it made me a tad bit batty. In all seriousness, since my return I’ve done nothing of note. I’ve pottered around the house, did a bit of cooking, some cleaning and organizing, but no major projects, nothing truly productive, and I couldn’t be happier.

Being away made me realize how much I love my home and my city. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all of that, but I hadn’t realized how much I identify myself with my surroundings until this little sojourn. I am truly a homebody, and happy to admit it. While I love travel, I long for home.

Chubby Hubby has been asking the foods we’d travel the world for – and I could immediately volunteer a list of dishes. A slice of pizza from Lachine Arena Pizza in Lachine, the sweet potato and blue cheese fritters (no longer on the menu) at the Raincity Grill in Vancouver, the gravlax from Le Sélect in Toronto or a thali meal at Dasaprakash Hotel in Ooty.

With so much great food writing around, there is also an ever-lengthening list of places I would travel to try the food – places I’ve never been, and those to be revisited, with the hopes of following up on the fabulous food recommendations I read daily. In addition, there are specific home cooks for whom I would travel the globe, just to taste their creations (I’m ready to head to Heidelberg, Michele).

However, there are also meals I would come home for; anything cooked by members of my family, the roast beef sandwiches from our local German delicatessen, the homemade burgers from our “regular” pub, the ginger salad dressing from the sushi place in the city I grew up in … I could go on for days. These are the dishes I obsess over when I’m away – nothing tastes as good, nothing could satiate that yearning, but being home.

Case in point, my single-mindedness entertained a colleague at the conference – she, by the way, is a great girl and one of the nicest people I’ve met in our industry. One evening, on the way to dinner, I spontaneously started babbling about asparagus soup.

Not just any asparagus soup, but specifically the asparagus soup that was currently sitting in my freezer back home. I hadn't wanted to leave the asparagus in my fridge for the duration of my trip, and since I'd made this realization long after dinner, I made a batch of soup and froze it.

For the entire elevator ride I was detailing this soup, extolling its texture, its freshness, its absolute green colour; I was in a state. At dinner, fate would have it that there was asparagus soup on the menu. Yet, I eschewed the idea of ordering it, lest it taint (or overshadow) my thoughts of my soup at home. Clearly I was fixated. Luckily, my colleague found it more amusing than manic.

As you can assume, it was one of the first things I crammed into my greedy little mouth upon arriving back home. Next time, I’ll just bring a thermos.

Roasted asparagus soup
Inspired by a recipe by Roland Passot of La Folie on Epicurious, but it seems to be no longer available - this is my version..

Ingredients
1 lb. asparagus
Approximately 2 teaspoons olive oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
2-3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 shallots, minced
3/4 cup table (18%) cream
1 1/4 cup chicken stock
2 cups firmly packed chopped spinach (or one package frozen, chopped spinach, defrosted)

Preheat oven to 230°C (450°F).

Snap off ends of spears at natural breaking point, discard. On a rimmed baking sheet, toss asparagus with olive oil, salt and pepper. Roast in oven for about 6-8 minutes, until the asparagus starts to turn a bright green. Shake the pan to turn the asparagus, roast for another 4 minutes or so. The asparagus should be just starting to blister in places. When cool enough to handle, chop the asparagus into 2 inch lengths.

In a saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. When the butter just begins to foam, add the shallots and sauté until translucent and softened. Add the chopped asparagus and cook, stirring occasionally, for about five minutes. Stir in the cream and stock, and bring to a boil. Cook for 5 minutes. Stir in chopped spinach, cook for 2 minutes more.

Transfer to the soup to a blender (working in batches if necessary), and purée until smooth. For a velvety texture, pass the soup through a fine-meshed sieve or chinois. You may skip this step if you’d like. Adjust seasonings to taste.

Serves two generously, can be served hot or cold.

Notes
• Instead of roasting, you could simply blanch the asparagus before sautéing.
• I've also made this soup with 1 cup 18% and 1 cup stock, just because the store sells the cream in 250ml/1 cup containers. This soup can be made with heavy cream instead, if you want a more luxurious version. When I want a “lighter” version, I substitute 1/4 cup of 2% milk and use only 1/2 cup of the 18% cream.
• If you use the frozen spinach, the soup will have a much more pronounced spinach flavour.
•This soup is lovely with a variety of garnishes — some options include; a seared scallop, crab, sautéed wild mushrooms with balsamic, chili oil drizzled popcorn (trust me), or use the same ingredients as in the panini to make a crostini to float on top.

Goat’s cheese and prosciuitto panini
My own creation, but really, it’s a grilled cheese sandwich.

Ingredients
2 slices prosciutto
1 teaspoon butter
1 teaspoon olive oil
4 thick slices of baguette, or your favourite bread
4 ounces herbed chèvre
Handful of baby greens

In a dry pan over medium heat, fry prosciutto until starting to crisp. Remove from pan, and drain on paper towels.

In the same pan, melt butter and olive oil.

Spread the chèvre over two slices of bread, top with prosciutto. Place remaining slices of bread on top. Grill sandwich in pan, pressing down with either a panini weight or with back of spatula. Cook for approximately 4 minutes on each side, or until bread is toasted and the chèvre is beginning to soften. Remove from heat, drain on paper towels if there is excess oil.

Open sandwiches and tuck in greens. Makes two.