Whole Potatoes with Carrot Greens and Rhubarb Slaw

23 February 2013.

Another Savory Reason to Eat Rhubarb: Whole Potatoes with Carrot Greens and Rhubarb Slaw.

With three stalks of rhubarb leftover from our Farmer's Market Expedition and the delicious Red Lentil & Rhubarb Soup already in our recent past, on Friday evening, it was time to come up with one more way to use rhubarb in a main-course way. With the snow again falling and the wind blowing, we were huddled in our living room with the curtains drawn, and we were in the mood for something warm -- in every sense of the word.

Somehow lacking my typical spark of enthusiasm for the task at hand, I asked tin what she wanted for dinner. "I could make potatoes..." I offered. -- Potatoes have become the punch line of every dinner since my warm salad night, so my mere suggestion of preparing them automatically sounded like a joke. But a week ago, we bought a whole kilogram of them, and if you think it should be a breeze for two vegans to eat through about two pounds of potatoes, you're underestimating the actual quantity of potatoes at stake.
I took six of them out of our dark pantry closet -- ours are rather small (they can be held in a closed fist), so it was about the equivalent of one medium-large baking potato per person. I washed them and put them -- whole -- into a pot of boiling water with a teaspoon of salt and allowed them to cook until they could be pierced with a fork -- about twenty minutes.

I really needed to use up that rhubarb, now one day short of a week old. While I could have made a side of steamed vegetables to accompany our potatoes, I imagined us cutting them open and, our eyes meeting their tender white flesh, we'd be wondering what sort of combination to put on our forks. Because I'm just going to tell it like it is -- potatoes tend to be a little dry, and if you're not planning to drench yours in sour cream, butter, cheese or chili, your meal is probably going to run the risk of being lackluster. As in the soup recipe, I decided to again use rhubarb's tendency to cook down into a stringy pulp to my advantage, this time to make a rhubarb slaw.

I decided to first create a sweet base of caramelized onions -- I thinly sliced one medium white onion (by chopping it into halves lengthwise, then into thin slices) and minced a clove of garlic. To add a punch of brightness, I added a diced red pepper (the red pepper will retain a tiny, subtle hint of spiciness but in general, the cooking process brings out the pepper's natural sugars). I cooked the onion, pepper, and garlic in a teaspoon of olive oil on medium-high until the onions had taken on a rich, dark color.
In the meantime, I washed and chopped my three stalks of rhubarb into large chunks -- about four cups. I added the rhubarb to the caramelized onions along with a cup of water, two tablespoons of fresh dill, two teaspoons of capers and a lot of fresh black pepper. I put the lid on it, stirring occasionally to encourage the rhubarb to break down into a pulp. This will happen pretty quickly -- within ten to fifteen minutes.

Finally, for a little bit of crunch, I decided to cook up the remaining carrot greens, also still leftover from our trip to the farmer's market. I washed and chopped three cups of carrot greens and put them into a pot with about a quarter cup of water and -- because I knew that its semi-sweet yet tangy flavor would play particularly well off of the rhubarb -- the zest of a small orange. When zesting a citrus fruit, especially oranges, I recommend firmly rolling the orange, pressing it between the heel of your hand and your kitchen counter. This will bring its flavorful and aromatic oils closer to the surface of the peel. I added a quarter teaspoon of salt and a little bit of black pepper and allowed them to simmer, covered, until the water had been completely absorbed -- about ten minutes.

I divided our dinner plates into halves, covering one half with carrot greens and the other with rhubarb slaw. I nestled three potatoes down the midline.
As our meal was, at this point, an entirely cooked one, I wanted to add one fresh element to top it all off. I chose to peel and dice two Jerusalem artichokes. If you've never seen these little creatures before, or aren't certain if you have, they closely resemble darkly-colored ginger roots. They are best eaten raw -- they contain lots of iron and potassium, are crispy like water chestnuts and have a fresh, sugary flavor which I would compare to a carrot. Although they're roots, like potatoes, Jerusalem artichokes store insulin rather than starch and are thus even sweeter, and are an excellent source of dietary fiber.
I sprinkled the potatoes with a tablespoon of fresh chives and offered up a couple of tablespoons of natural soy yoghurt to stand in for dairy-based sour cream.

Although, if I may say so myself, I think we always have pretty great meals, this particular rhubarb slaw was indeed so delicious that we couldn't resist licking our plates. We're hoping that we come across rhubarb again so that we can recreate this recipe A.S.A.P.

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The Nitty-Gritty.

Ingredients (for two servings):

six small white potatoes (approx. two medium-large baking potatoes)

one medium white onion

one clove of garlic

one red bell pepper

one teaspoon olive oil

four cups of chopped fresh rhubarb

two tablespoons fresh dill

two teaspoons capers

three cups chopped carrot greens

zest of one small orange

two Jerusalem artichokes

two tablespoons fresh chives

salt & fresh black pepper

natural soy yoghurt

Preparation:

1. Wash potatoes; cook in boiling water with a teaspoon of salt until fork-tender (about 20 minutes).

2. Combine finely sliced onion, minced garlic and diced red bell pepper in a medium-sized cooking pot and cook in one teaspoon of olive oil on medium-high heat until the onion has caramelized (about ten minutes). Add the rhubarb, chopped into bite-sized pieces, one cup of water, capers and dill, and salt & pepper to taste. Cover and simmer on low until the rhubarb breaks down into a pulp, stirring occasionally (about ten to fifteen minutes).

3. Wash and chop three cups of carrot greens. Add the zest of one small orange, a quarter teaspoon of salt, and pepper. Cover and simmer on low in a quarter cup of water until the water has been completely absorbed, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching.

4. To serve, cover one half of a dinner plate with the rhubarb slaw, and the other half with the carrot greens, creating a well in the center for the potatoes (three small potatoes per person). Top the potatoes with a tablespoon of fresh chives, and a peeled & diced Jerusalem artichoke (one per plate). Serve the potatoes with salt and fresh black pepper, and a dollop of natural soy yoghurt.

Pretty Plum Pastries

21 February 2013.

What's for Dessert? -- Pretty Plum Pastries.

Somehow welcoming a package of puff pastry back into my freezer has opened up the possibility for creating a whole slew of alliterative recipe titles. I'd like to promise that this is the last one, but I don't like to make promises that I can't keep.

On Thursday, tin and I decided to play it low-key for dinner. We'd just picked up a new loaf of bread, and with a few dollops of various spreads still kicking around in the refrigerator, we figured it was about time for another sandwiches-for-dinner night. But incase you haven't noticed, I take very seriously the daily task of putting good food on our table -- and it's not that my sandwich spreads weren't good enough, but after a week of eating them for lunch, they weren't going to be new or particularly exciting anymore. With two sheets of puff pastry leftover from my pot pie recipe the night before, I thought I'd make a little dessert.

I wanted to make fruit pockets -- warm, syrupy fresh fruit all wrapped up in a darling puff pastry shell. While I have given a lot of lectures about buying food in its proper season, on my trip to the market Thursday afternoon, I couldn't resist picking up a few plums. As I made my selection and put them on the scale, my heart ached a little at the mere thought of them being transported from so far away to be sold in my corner organic market just because I wanted to go crazy and eat plums in February instead of apples. Just this once, I promised myself -- and besides, tin and I were going to really, really appreciate them. I was going to prepare them with an extra dose of love.

And so there I stood in our kitchen, tenderly opening up three little plums and removing their hard seeds -- they were soft and ripe, sweet and juicy -- I tried to forgive myself for the tiny role I'd played that day in funding environmental pollution. I'd recently learned that only four percent of German groceries are organically grown and produced, which means that, in truth, in order for me to brag about how environmentally conscious and responsible I am when I make my purchasing decisions, I am reliant upon the customer before me to make a slightly-less environmentally-friendly decision: in order for me to fill my kitchen with apples from nearby Brandenburg, another customer has to purchase the grapes from Israel, because there aren't enough apples for all of us. The truth is that above all, first and foremost, I believe in chemical-free farming and at the end of the day, if pushed, I will support an organic farmer who practices sustainable agriculture in Argentina before a German farmer who sprays his crops with pesticides and farms his soil to dust -- even if it means that my produce from Argentina must be delivered overseas. These are not easy decisions, and they are certainly personal ones -- I urge you to think about them and to decide for yourself where you have to draw the line. What feels right to you?

When I think about the eating habits of modern society and the changes that I wish to see in the world, I see three problems, and I imagine three solutions.

1. First of all, I think of packaged and processed foods. In the New York Times last week, journalist Michael Moss published an extensive article entitled "The Extraordinary Science of Addictive Junk Food" (20 Feb. 2013) in which he went to great pains to explain, in detail, the addiction that (American) society has to added fats, sugar, and salt. He writes that today, one-third of all American adults are obese (not just overweight -- obese), and one-fifth of American children. Why? There are of course a whole host of reasons -- but while not entirely to blame, the American packaged food industry is largely at fault. Today, the average shopper can't even pick up a jar of spaghetti sauce without unknowingly purchasing a candy bar. But you can take matters into your own hands: whether you purchase a jar of spaghetti sauce or a pound of fresh tomatoes is ultimately up to you. My principle reason for adopting a vegan diet was to reconnect with my natural world and to eat real food. If I could change the world in just one way, I would put real, fresh food back onto people's tables.
2. Secondly, I think of modern farming practices. For the most part, the food we eat is grown on huge plots of land devoted to single crops, and the farmer's only interest is producing as much of that crop as possible. For example: take a crop of corn. Corn farmers might be some of the worst offenders of all time, as an overwhelming majority of the corn grown in the U.S. is itself essentially inedible -- hard and tasteless, this corn is grown for the express purpose of feeding livestock or making high-fructose corn syrup. Corn farmers grow nothing but corn as far as the eye can see. This corn crop has been genetically modified so that the rows can grow impossibly close together. The crop is fertilized with chemicals, and sprayed with pesticides. Although these fertilizers might appear to help the corn grow, over time, they decrease the potential productivity of the soil. The soil suffers -- it dries out, depleted of its minerals, and becomes infertile. The farmer moves on. -- Industrial Agriculture's tree-hugging little sister is Sustainable Agriculture. The sustainable movement promotes biodiversity and crop rotation, non-chemical pesticides, and using compost and manure as fertilizer.
3. And finally, we come to my plums -- We take for granted the fact that, in our modern world, nothing is out of season. In the dead of winter, if you want a pint of strawberries, all you have to do is go to the grocery store. I'll use myself as a guilty example: my plums had to come from somewhere, because they certainly aren't growing in snowy Berlin right now. The sign in my organic market said that they were grown in Argentina. There's a lot of water between Germany and Argentina, and somehow, those plums had to make that trek. My desire for plums in February required that I engage a fleet of potentially "dirty" things that aren't particularly environmentally friendly: foods that are transported across long distances require not only the aid of ships, planes/trains/automobiles, but often the aid of large transportable cooling systems -- all of which emit harmful greenhouse gases. The answer to this problem is the local food movement, which encourages consumers to purchase produce from farmers in their region. I've written only about the environmental benefits of local food, but there are also economic benefits, and local food plays a critical role in community-building (you can start your research by simply entering "Local Food" into Wikipedia).

I'll let that be enough for today. But suffice it to say, I draw a negotiable line between concerns two and three. For me, in a world still largely overwhelmed by industrial farms, I will always chose to support a farmer who practices sustainable agriculture over a local industrial farmer. So the short and sweet of this story is that I bought the plums from the organic farm in Argentina and I managed to live with myself.


Back to the pastries.
I sliced each plum first in half, then into bite-sized pieces, and put them into a small pot with a quarter cup of water and two tablespoons of raisins. I simmered them, stirring occasionally, until they'd broken down and formed a thick syrup -- about fifteen minutes. I added about a quarter teaspoon of freshly-grated nutmeg, stirred well, and turned off the heat.
As always, I'd allowed my two sheets of puff pastry to thaw for about ten minutes, such that they were soft and pliable. You'll notice that I didn't add any sugar per se to the cooked plums (although the raisins were certainly sweet). I intended to create a sort of dance between my tart and tangy plums versus my chosen sweet addition: in the center of each sheet of puff pastry, I first placed a teaspoon of marzipan. I've used marzipan before -- in my last puff pastry dessert -- and we've had this conversation about honeybees already. My marzipan has only two ingredients: honey and almonds. Yours should also contain only almonds and a sugary binder -- you're welcome to choose one with an agave base or raw cane sugar if you don't feel comfortable using honey. I topped the marzipan with three tablespoons of fruit filling, and another teaspoon of marzipan. At this point, you should have about four tablespoons of fruit filling left over in your pot. Put the lid on it and keep it warm.

I then pulled the four corners of the pastry dough together toward the center and pinched the seams together to form a closed square pocket. I brushed the tops with margarine and placed them on a lined baking sheet. I followed the instructions on my box of puff pastry, putting mine into a preheated oven at 350 degrees for about fifteen minutes, until the tops were golden brown and flaky.
When it was time for dessert, I ladled out a scoop of plum filling into the bottom of each bowl, placing the plum pastry on top in the center. I dusted the tops of each pastry with a tiny bit of powdered sugar, and added a spoonful of natural soy yoghurt -- you could use a coconut- or soy-based ice cream if you choose.

A nice spoonful of the cold, tangy yoghurt with tart plums, the smooth & sweet marzipan with the chewy-yet-flaky crust was almost like eating a homemade pie at my grandmother's house. They did have the same main ingredient, after all: love.

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The Nitty-Gritty.

Ingredients:

two sheets of vegan puff pastry dough

three plums (about 1.5 cups chopped)

¼ tsp fresh nutmeg

2 Tbsp raisins

4 tsp marzipan

vegan margarine

powdered sugar

soy yoghurt

Procedure:

1. Wash and chop three plums into bite-sized pieces (about 1.5 cups chopped). Add raisins, cover, and simmer in ¼ cup water, stirring occasionally, until plums have formed a thick syrup. Stir in ¼ tsp nutmeg and remove from heat.

2. Allow two sheets of puff pastry to thaw for about ten minutes, until soft and pliable. In the center of each sheet, place 1 tsp of marzipan. Top with 3 Tbsp of fruit filling, and another tsp of marzipan. You should have some filling leftover (about 4 Tbsp) -- keep warm.

3. Bring the corners of the puff pastry together -- pinch closed. Pinch along the seams to tightly seal the pastry, such that you create a closed square pocket. Smear the tops of each pastry with ½ tsp of vegan margarine.

4. Bake on a lined baking sheet for fifteen minutes in a 350 degree oven (or according to the instructions on your box of puff pastry), until pastries are golden brown and flaky.

5. To serve, place each baked pastry atop a serving of the remaining plum filling. Top the pastries with a dusting of powdered sugar, and a tablespoon of natural soy yoghurt (can be substituted with soy- or coconut-based ice cream).

(Inside-Out) Puff Pastry Pot Pie

20 February 2013

(Inside-Out) Puff Pastry Pot Pie.

On Wednesday, I went for a very long run. Honestly, I hadn't planned it that way, especially as I stood in our apartment putting on layer after layer (double gloves! double jackets! double pants!). It was snowing, and as a glasses-wearer, I was not looking forward to the way my lenses were definitely going to fog up, nor do I particularly enjoy temporarily rendering myself blind while turning my fingertips into mini-windshield wipers. I was pretty sure that after thirty minutes, I'd be warming my hands over the bathroom radiator.
But as it happened, somehow fully invigorated by the heavy snowflakes falling in spite of the clear blue sky overhead, I didn't make it back to my warm apartment for another two hours.
Although I enjoyed every mile, I must admit that about midway through, I started thinking about dinner. (This is a pretty regular phenomenon for me.) I wanted something with bread. And I wanted soup. But I didn't want to dip bread in soup -- no, that would be far too ordinary. By mile thirteen, I'd completely planned our dinner from start to finish: I was going to make a puff pastry pot pie.

I'd started fantasizing about the chicken pot pies of my childhood days -- the flaky crust, crunchy carrots, little cubed potatoes and the peas that, frankly, didn't actually taste like anything but added some lovely color to the dense, creamy soupy suspension that held it all together. And then there were the chewy chunks of chicken. (Hey, my teeth remember chicken, too.)

I like to keep puff pastry dough around in my freezer because there are few things that are faster -- or more versatile -- than taking out a couple of sheets -- essentially fool-proof, everything looks better wrapped in puff pastry. But at mile nine or so, I started to be concerned about portion size (you would, too). The "problem" with puff pastry, if you will, is that sets a certain limiting factor on the size of your overall end product. If you've ever gotten out a sheet of puff pastry thinking you're going to make stuffed croissants and ended up with a startling amount of filling leftover (not to mention the amount that somehow found that one little microscopic hole in the corner of your croissant and proceeded to leek out and burn onto your baking sheet), you're probably getting nervous, too -- I mean, how much filling could I possibly fit into one little pastry pocket?

Fear not.
I was going to make this pot pie "inside out."

Back within the four warm walls of my kitchen, I started making a filling. I'd decided that I wanted to mimic the tastes and textures of chicken pot pie, but using the fresh ingredients that I still had leftover from the Farmer's Market.
I began by cooking up two potatoes, cut into bite-sized cubes (with their skins intact), until they were fork-tender. While I waited, I diced one medium onion; I peeled and chopped two carrots into thin rounds, and cut about 100g of extra-firm tofu into bite-sized pieces. In place of the peas, I decided to add something with real flavor -- I very finely chopped a half cup of carrot greens. If you don't have carrot greens at your disposal, I would recommend fresh parsley, or a nice peppery arugula.

You'll want to allow the puff pastry a little bit of time to thaw out -- about ten minutes -- such that, albeit still freezing cold to the touch, it can be easily folded and otherwise manipulated. I went wild and got out four sheets.
Fix your eyes on the center of one sheet of puff pastry. This is your sweet spot. You want for most of your filling to end up right there. I began by putting down some carrot greens, then topping them with diced onions, a few bites of tofu, potatoes, and carrots. I aimed for the center of the pastry sheet and worked my way slowly out, leaving a 1.5" perimeter uncovered. I sprinkled in about a teaspoon of fresh parsley, a tiny pinch of salt and black pepper. I took a second piece of puff pastry and laid it over the first , covering the filling, and used the back of a fork to press the two pieces together around the edges to form a tightly-sealed pocket. -- I then repeated the process to make a second filled pastry pocket. I spread a thin layer of margarine over the tops of both pastries -- most puff pastry doughs are traditionally made with a healthy dose of butter, which doesn't mean that your vegan equivalent contains margarine -- adding a little bit will encourage the tops to brown, and add a little bit of flavor.

I sprinkled the tops of the pastries with fresh chives and put both pot pie pockets on a lined baking sheet in my oven, preheated to 375 degrees (check the instructions on your package of puff pastry) and baked for about 15 minutes -- until the tops were golden brown and flaky.

Notice that you have some filling leftover -- you'll want to add a clove of minced garlic and put it all into a small cooking pot along with about three cups of vegetable broth. Simmer for 15 minutes, while the pastries bake.

I served my pot pies by first dishing up a ladle-full of the soup, and placing the puff pastry pie in the middle. As you cut into the pastry, it will absorb the soup and soften into the oh-so-wonderful, soft, chewy -- yet flaky -- familiar texture of a really good pie crust.

As for my fears about portion size? By cooking up the soup and extra filling on the side, you can make much or as little as you want. These little inside-out pot pies were so awesome that they'll definitely be making a repeat appearance in the near future.
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The Nitty-Gritty.

Ingredients:

four sheets of puff pastry

two small white potatoes

one medium white onion

two small carrots

100g extra-firm tofu

½ cup carrot greens (substitute: fresh parsley or arugula)

salt & black pepper

2 tsp chives

vegan margarine

1 clove of garlic

3 cups vegetable broth


Procedure:

1. Wash and chop two small white potatoes into bite-sized pieces; boil with one teaspoon of salt until fork-tender (about 10 minutes).

2. Remove 4 sheets of vegan puff pastry from the freezer and allow to thaw until soft and pliable (about 10 minutes).

3. Finely dice the onion. Peel and chop carrots into thin rounds. Chop tofu into bite-sized pieces. Finely chop the carrot greens.

4. Aiming for the center of one sheet of pastry dough, arrange a few chunks of potato and tofu, carrots, onions, and greens, leaving a 1.5” perimeter uncovered. Cover this piece of pastry dough with a second, pinching the edges together with the back of a fork to form a filled, closed pocket. Smear with ¼ tsp of vegan margarine; top with fresh black pepper, a pinch of salt, and a teaspoon of fresh chives. Repeat step 4 to create a second filled pastry.

5. Place pastries on a lined baking sheet; bake in a 375 degree oven for 15 minutes (or according to the instructions on your box of puff pastry), until golden brown and flaky.

6. Combine the remaining tofu, potatoes, carrots, greens, and onions, along with one clove of minced garlic in three cups of vegetable broth -- simmer until carrots are soft.

7. To serve, ladle soup into bowls (about two ladles per serving); place puff pastry in the center of the bowl.

Red Lentil & Rhubarb Soup

19 February 2013.

Red Lentil & Rhubarb Soup.

Rhubarb isn't just for dessert.
Actually, it would be a shame to miss out on the unique flavor of unsweetened rhubarb. While the lentils provide some added substance to this simple soup, with only two main ingredients, this recipe definitely allows the rhubarb to be the feature presentation.

On our trip to the market, my eye was immediately drawn to the stunning ruby red stalks of rhubarb that seemed to be for sale at every stand. Although rhubarb typically enjoys a spring/summer harvest, it is grown all year round in greenhouse environments. These non-seasonal plants are just as tasty as their seasonal counterparts, and indeed, often have an even more brilliant, deep red hue. When selecting rhubarb, you should look for stalks that are very sturdy and with relatively consistent color (note that the base of the stalk is "whiter" than the main body, much like a stalk of celery).
When you get your rhubarb home and start to work with it, you might be disappointed to learn that the interior of the stalk is actually green. When cooked, a spring/summer rhubarb will give up much of its red color and tend toward a rosy pink -- your intense winter rhubarb, however, has a bit more to offer in the dye department.

I began this soup by dicing and sautéing two cloves of garlic and a small white onion in a teaspoon of olive oil. I added a pinch of salt and a lot of black pepper, and allowed the onions to cook, stirring frequently, until they had started to caramelize.
I wanted to ensure that this soup had a lot of body and thickness. If you've had a rhubarb pie, you'll remember that the texture of a rhubarb filling tends to be very thick and syrupy. This isn't a pastry chef's trick -- cooked rhubarb will cook down quickly into a pulp, a bit "stringy." If you imagine eating the pulp out of the bottom of a freshly-squeezed glass of orange juice, you'll get a rough idea of what it is like to eat a spoonful of cooked rhubarb. -- In and of itself, it's not exactly a soup, per se.

I decided to add lentils. Lentils are great to keep on hand, as there are few foods that are more versatile. I find that lentils are relatively low on the flavor spectrum, which I like to think of as an advantage -- and depending upon how aggressively you stir them while they cook, they can maintain their distinct little round profiles, or turn into a thick, stew-like purée. Of course, when selecting your lentils, you can control the extent of some of these variables. Red lentils are by far the softest and even when left undisturbed, they will tend to break down; as the color gets darker, the bean gets harder -- black lentils, even when stirred, resist the urge to crumble. Accordingly, the more your lentils break down, they more the more willing they are to mix and mingle with added flavors.
And so for this particular recipe, I chose to add red lentils. Using reds in combination with rhubarb would save me a step at the end of my soup prep, namely, the use of an immersion blender. I chopped about three cups of rhubarb into 1" chunks -- no need to go too crazy here (it will all cook down regardless of size -- but the smaller the pieces, the faster) -- and added them to the onions and garlic. I then added a 1.5 cups of uncooked red lentils and three cups of water. I brought everything to a boil, and reduced to a simmer, stirring frequently to encourage everything to soften and break down.

As I've mentioned before (in the tomato-coconut soup recipe), I'm not a huge fan of mono-textural soups. I like to catch a glimpse of something whole in the bowl. For this recipe, I chose to add a little bit of subtle sweetness by peeling and chopping three carrots into 1/4" thick rounds. I simply stirred them into the simmering soup and allowed them to soften.

While the soup is good on its own, I like to add a little "neutralizer" to the final presentation. If you only know rhubarb from sugary pies and crumbles, then you might be surprised to learn that rhubarb is actually itself quite tart (pun intended -- I've been waiting to use that one for days). Thus when you dish up your red lentil & rhubarb soup, I recommend adding two tablespoons of natural soy yoghurt or coconut milk, as you would a dollop of sour cream to a tomato soup. Top with fresh basil leaves and black pepper, and enjoy.
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The Nitty Gritty:

Ingredients (for two servings):

2 cloves of garlic

1 small white onion

1 tsp. of olive oil

1.5 cups of uncooked red lentils

3 cups of water

3 cups of chopped rhubarb

3 small carrots

salt & pepper

fresh basil leaves

2 Tbsp. natural soy yoghurt or coconut milk

Procedure (about thirty minutes):

1. Finely mince two cloves of garlic. Roughly dice one small white onion. Combine in a small nonstick pot with one teaspoon of olive oil. Cover and cook on medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until the onions have caramelized (about five to ten minutes).

2. Chop three cups of rhubarb into bite-sized chunks. Add to the pot of onions with three cups of water and a cup and a half of uncooked red lentils. Peel and slice carrots into thin rounds and add to the pot. Cover and simmer on low, stirring occasionally to encourage the lentils and rhubarb to soften and break down -- about twenty minutes.

3. For a chunkier soup, simply stir until rhubarb and lentils have reached a creamier consistency. For a smooth soup, purée with an immersion blender. Add salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.

4. Serve in bowls with a tablespoon of natural unflavored soy yoghurt or coconut milk for a sweeter flavor. Garnish with fresh basil leaves.

Two-Tone Stir-Fry

18 February 2013

Two-Tone Stir-Fry.

Following the epic hues of Sunday night's dinner, it seemed as though it might be a better idea to scale back my palette rather than striving for an equally colorful -- or more colorful -- presentation. Sometimes delicious things come in monotones... And no, I don't mean to reference the classic American "shades of beige" dinner. No, on Monday night, I balanced out a bright green leek with a color that's actually not a color at all. But before you raise a skeptical eyebrow, I'm here to tell you that there's a lot more to "white vegetables" than you would think.

This particular meal was to begin with two servings of leftover millet from the night before (about a cup cooked). Recalling that I'd cooked the grain in vegetable broth, I knew that it would be best paired with an oniony flavor. This worked out perfectly for me, because I also had half of a leek leftover from Saturday's lasagna. I allowed those two ingredients for inspiration, and built the rest of the meal around them.
A fried leek will provide a mild oniony flavor, but unlike an onion, when fried, will retain its crunch. As in the lasagna recipe, I cleaned my leek by slicing it open completely, lengthwise, and separating the nestled leaves out from one another under cool running water. The entirety of a leek is edible, from its white base to the tips of its dark green leaves. I'd already used the white portion in the lasagna, leaving me with the light-to-dark green portion at the top. I sliced the leaves, as I would an onion -- into strips, not a fine dice.

I then chose to enhance the flavor of the leek by adding its best friend/life partner to the equation -- a white onion. I chose a large one, which I chopped into pieces -- a little bit bigger than a dice. I added a clove of sliced garlic, and put everything into a skillet with a teaspoon of olive oil. (I find that millet tends to be a tad dry and thus, I planned to rely upon the oil to add a little bit of savory "moisture" to the end product.)

And then I checked in with my root bowl, where I found one lone black radish, just starting to soften a little. Tonight was going to be its night. I also took along two large parsley roots. If you happen to lay hands on a root vegetable that feels a little bit soft -- its skin has perhaps started to wrinkle a bit -- don't throw it away. Potatoes, beets, turnips, radishes, carrots -- all of your favorite roots will last a lot longer than you think. A soft root vegetable is still perfectly edible and, once cooked, is going to end up soft anyway. Storing your roots in a cool, dark, dry place is key to extending their shelf life.
I peeled both parsley roots and the black radish; I chopped the parsley roots into thin rounds (about 1/8" thick) and the radish into bite-sized pieces.

Perhaps you're wondering about the nutritional value of this relatively colorless meal (although, if you're looking into your skillet at that lovely green leek, you'll take that back). I genuinely assumed that onions were essentially water, of little more use than a mere flavoring particle -- no one ever talks about how good for you onions are. But they are. They're full of allyl sulfides and flavonoids which help to repair tissue damage (say, after a long workout), and to protect your heart and blood vessels against cholesterol. Their high sulfur content might help to strengthen bones and maintain bone density as you age. People who regularly eat onions have a lower risk of cancer. And in a day-to-day practical sense, onions also aid digestion. Leeks bring additional potassium and calcium to the table. Parsley roots and black radishes are full of fiber, too.

By now, my onions were starting to caramelize. I added the chopped vegetables along with a pinch of salt and a lot of freshly ground black pepper. I covered the skillet and allowed everything to cook on medium heat until the vegetables were just starting to get tender (about five minutes -- this is a matter of personal preference, so feel free to cook them a little longer if you wish). Rather than dirtying another pan -- I'm always a fan of cutting corners when it comes to clean-up -- I stirred the leftover millet (one cup cooked) directly into the vegetables.

Recognizing my own green-and-white color scheme and wanting to take it up to the next level, I added two teaspoons of capers to my final product and topped each serving of stir-fry with fresh basil leaves.
tin and I both wished that we could share smells over the internet, because you won't believe how incredible this stir-fry smelled until you make it yourself. -- And that's to say nothing of the taste, which certainly didn't disappoint. Sometimes the simplest meals really are the best.

Roasted Beets and Carrot Greens

17 February 2013.

A Menu Worth Sharing: Roasted Beets and Carrot Greens.

It's not often that we invite people over for dinner, so one might say that last Sunday was sort of a special occasion. A fairly low-pressure one -- our dinner guest was one of our dear friends, and it certainly wasn't our first meal together -- but nonetheless, I was determined to serve up something that was not only scrumptious, but, you know, also easy on the eyes.
What I know about our friend is that she loves beets as much as tin and I do -- so it was fortunate that on our trip to the farmer's market the day before, we'd found two massive beets. I decided to let one of these glorious specimens inspire the rest of our meal.

I wanted to avoid the classic "Chef at a Dinner Party" problem -- i.e., I didn't want to miss out on the great conversation while fretting over the meal preparations. So I fired up the oven. Using your oven will force you to prep everything ahead of time, and it will serve as the perfect warm holding place, allowing you to relax and enjoy your time with your guests.

It's rare to find three people who truly, deeply love beets -- wanting to let the beet take center stage, I chose my other flavor companions accordingly -- three carrots, an apple, and a white onion. First things first: peel everything (but the apple). I then took my sweet time and very precisely sliced the beet into 1/4"-thick slices. I did the same with the onion, trying to keep the rings intact. I sliced the carrots, as I have before, into sticks. As for the apple... I imagined layering the sliced beets, onions, and apples in a spectacular, rich tower of complementary colors. Fortunately, this was a possibility for me as I proudly had in my possession: an apple-corer. It's something that I, quite honestly, almost never use, but on these rare occasions, it's irreplaceable. I removed the core, and cut the apple into 1/4" rings.

I then set about arranging a baking sheet with three aluminum foil sections. If you recall, the last time I roasted beets, I pleaded with you not to peel them. Maybe you're already fretting about the possibility of these beauties drying out -- as you should be. But you can avoid this by creating an aluminum foil pouch for your beets. I allowed my beet pocket to take up approximately half of a 9"x13" baking sheet, arranging the beets in layers. I drizzled each layer lightly with olive oil, and added (to each layer) a sprinkle of salt, pepper, and a pinch of fresh dill. I sealed my pocket with another piece of aluminum foil, rolling the edges together.
One remaining quarter of the baking sheet is now to be the designated apple corner. Simply prepare a closed pocket for your apple slices -- no salt, no pepper, no dill, no oil -- just plain 'ole apples.
The final quarter of your baking sheet is for the carrots and onions. I put the carrots down first, cut-side-up, and layered the onions on top. I drizzled the onions with a bit of olive oil, added salt and pepper -- and left this section uncovered.
The whole thing went into my oven at 400 degrees for twenty minutes.

The next two elements of the meal will take approximately five minutes each and can be prepared right away and held warm. When preparing a vegan meal for friends, I like to make sure that I have a side of warm greens, and some sort of grain. For this particular meal, I let nature dictate which green would be the best.

While at the farmer's market, we came across a lovely bunch of orange carrots, with their greens intact. Over-the-moon excited, we took a bunch with the healthiest-looking greens. As we were walking away, another woman buying carrots allowed the carrot-salesman to remove the greens -- and throw them into a huge bowl of other discarded greens at his feet. Initially horrified, tin and I realized that this could work to our advantage. We asked for the greens, explaining that we liked to eat them. The carrot-salesman was skeptical, but allowed the two strange carrot-enthusiasts to take the compost off his hands.
As I'd already used carrots, I figured there was no better salad green for this meal than, indeed, the carrot greens themselves. To prep carrot greens, you'll want to wash them and remove some of the long, tough stem -- it's edible, but not necessarily the most pleasant thing the plant has to offer. I cut a few inches of the distance between the carrot-root and leaves proper and discarded it. The bits of stem interspersed between the leafy greens can be chopped into manageable pieces and will add a little extra crunchiness to the final dish.

I finely diced one clove of garlic and put it into a nonstick pot with about four cups of my chopped carrot greens. Like all greens, they will wilt and cook down to a minuscule shadow of their former selves. To my carrot greens, I added two cups of fresh parsley (roughly chopped). For a little bit of color, and because its sweetness is another great echo of the beet, I added a half cup of corn. Cook the greens briefly with the garlic -- after two minutes, add a tablespoon of water, cover, and simmer for five to ten minutes. Should you need to hold the greens warm, you can add water teaspoon-wise to ensure that they do not dry out and scorch.

Finally, I decided to use an under-appreciated grain: millet. A grain of millet is about twice the size of a grain of couscous, and is similarly round. It's essentially foreign to the grocery stores of the States (unless you're buying birdseed), which is a shame, because a serving of millet gives you a lot of bang for your buck: this power-grain boasts a slew of B-vitamins, lots of fiber, and iron. So if you happen to see it on your grocery store shelf, consider eating like a bird.
Millet is prepared, as rice and couscous, in a 1:2 ratio with water. I brought two cups of uncooked millet with four cups of vegetable broth to a boil for five minutes, reduced the heat, covered, and simmered for ten minutes. After ten minutes, you should turn off the heat and allow it to sit -- covered -- for another ten minutes. It will absorb any remaining liquid during that time without overcooking.

And now, it's all about the presentation. When we were ready for dinner, I devoted one quarter of the dinner plate to the millet, and another quarter to the warm salad. On the remaining half of the plate, I laid down three of the beet slices, topping with the sliced apples and onions. The carrots found a place toward the rim of the plate, nestled between the greens and the millet. The oil on the sliced beets and the juicy greens will provide enough "moisture" when eaten with the millet, which can tend to be (like couscous) a little bit dry.

That night, it was warm in our house -- and not only because we left the oven door open. We enjoyed our dinner with an ample serving of catch-up, and a glass (or two) of nice red wine.

Green Lasagna

16 February 2013.

Vegans Like "Comfort Food," Too: Green Lasagna.

On Saturday, tin and I decided that it was time to stop making excuses for not finding a Farmer's Market. We live in a big city full of eco-conscious eaters, and, feeling taunted by a photo of Berlin-renowned vegan chef Björn Moschinski riding his bicycle through a market, we decided that it was time to take a short Tram-venture (a mere fifteen minutes) to a huge nearby open-air farmer's market.

It was, admittedly, significantly colder there than in our local whole foods store. But the cold fingers and toes were well worth it, because we came away with some really beautiful, German-grown produce at a great price: like little red apples from nearby Brandenburg for 99 cents/kilo -- can't beat that.

 But by the time we made it home, we were really in the mood for a warm helping of comfort food. tin's suggestion? -- A green lasagna, made from our fresh purchases.

A good lasagna, in my opinion, has three critical components: chewy noodles, a thick, "cheesy" sauce, and a "flavor" layer. Most vegans make a traditional, tomato-based lasagna, substituting ground beef for sliced eggplant or mushrooms. Personally, I'm not a huge fan of eggplant lasagna. I think that there are lots of wonderful and creative uses for eggplant, but find that when sandwiched between layers of noodles and tomato sauce, not only does eggplant become unpleasantly slimy, but its subtle flavor is simply overwhelmed by the acidity of the tomatoes.
Instead, when beginning with a tomato base, I like to fill my lasagna with greens, and with vegetables that readily absorb flavor.
This particular lasagna began with two cloves of sliced garlic, sautéed in a teaspoon of olive oil along with a half of a large leek that we'd picked up at the market. Working with leeks, incase you've never done it before, requires first a good washing. Leeks grow in sandy soil, which they readily take with them on the trip from garden to kitchen. To clean up a leek, slice it open, lengthwise, down the middle, and separate the leaves from one another under cool running water (you'll notice that the leaves nestle inside of one another, like the rings of an onion, to form the characteristic thick, sturdy, stalk-like structure of the leek).
I didn't want to use the entire leek, so I chopped off the part I wanted and washed only that portion, leaving the rest on my counter for the next day (if you don't get it wet, you'll reduce the risk of mold growth/spoilage). Simply give the washed leek a nice chop. You don't have to make the pieces into miniatures.

To the leek and garlic, I added two cups of frozen spinach. I turned the heat down on low, covered the pot, and let the spinach thaw and warm up slowly -- you may need to add a tablespoon of water to the frozen spinach to prevent it from scorching.

In the meantime, I preheated the oven to 350 degrees and turned my attention to preparing the sauce component.
A traditional lasagna contains not only a layer of stringy, melted mozzarella cheese, but also a soft, crumbly ricotta also stirred into the sauce. Ricotta is a sort of double-agent in lasagna, bringing not only a signature "tang" but also, by virtue of being a dairy product, ricotta acts as a creamy "neutralizer" against the acidic tomatoes. Making a good vegan lasagna, in my opinion, means learning mimic those two important qualities.
Thus my sauce begins with two cups of tomato sauce. I use a pure, unflavored variety (100% tomatoes -- no added salt, etc.). I've already introduced you to the idea of using tofu as a cheese replacement -- and indeed, the same trick applies here. I super-finely chopped 200g of tofu until I had produced small, crumbled pieces. I stirred them directly into the tomato sauce in a cooking pot.
With the tofu, you've successfully copied the texture of ricotta -- now to reproduce its "tangy" flavor, I add a cup of natural soy yoghurt. Super creamy, and slightly sour, the yoghurt will keep your sauce nice and thick so that when it meets the other elements of your lasagna, it won't get too wet & watery -- there's nothing worse than a liquid-y lasagna that won't "set up." So if you don't have yoghurt, please don't use soy milk. You will end up with a runny mess. For flavor, we added a lot of fresh black pepper, and a tablespoon of finely chopped basil leaves.

Finally, you want to add a "meaty" element. If I try to imagine the textures of a classic lasagna recipe, I remember the mouth-feel of ground beef being primarily a "crumbly" one, with a sort of chewy quality. Reviewing our farmer's market loot, tin and I decided on cauliflower.
Now -- there's a trick to making sure that your cauliflower will end up boasting a ground-beef-like texture: rather than cutting it into florets, you're going to slice it.
For a 9"x13" baking dish, I needed half of a head of cauliflower. Thus I cut straight through the head (down toward the stem). I removed the stem and the leaves, and then, completely ignoring the boundaries of individual florets, I sliced my cauliflower into 1/4" slices. Try to keep the slices intact, and as large as possible. You'll want to mimic the sheets of lasagna noodles.

And now, assembly is a breeze. Begin by putting down a layer of lasagna noodles in the bottom of your baking dish. Next, ladle out the tomato sauce, spreading it evenly over the noodles. Next, lay down the sliced cauliflower. The order of the next two steps is a matter of personal preference: I chose to top my sliced cauliflower with the spinach-leek mixture, and to finish with another layer of noodles; traditionally, this would be reversed to better ensure that all of the noodles will be evenly cooked. However, I enjoy a nice "crispy" topping on my vegan lasagna, as the  pleasure of stringy melted cheese is one that I won't be able to reproduce. Thus I drizzle the noodles on top with olive oil, and add a sprinkle of salt and pepper. Whether the top layer of your lasagna is spinach or noodles, cover the baking dish with aluminum foil and bake for 30-35 minutes. This will create enough internal steam to cook the noodles on top to an "al dente" finish. At the end, I like to remove the aluminum foil and bake until the noodles on top start to brown, and the edges curl up (about five minutes). I find that this satisfies my desire for that feel-good crispy, bubbly browned layer of mozarella cheese that I remember from the lasagnas of my childhood.

Our green lasagna was sweet, yet savory, crunchy, chewy -- all of those heart-warming, comfort-food-feelings that one should associate with a lasagna. Best of all? -- we had leftovers for lunch the next day.

Marinated Tofu & Vegetables

15 February 2013.

The Return of the Pickle Rice: Marinated Tofu and Vegetables.

For regular readers, at first glance, this post might seem like a cheap ditto. But it's actually not, and in fact, if you made the first recipe, you've probably been eyeing the remainder of that jar of Black Bean Garlic sauce that I encouraged you to purchase, thinking: "Great, what the heck am I going to do with the rest of this stuff?"
Well. Let me help you with that.

The last time we used black bean garlic sauce, I told you to simply spoon it into the frying tofu and vegetables. Doing so produced a thick, dark and caramelized syrup that coated the surface of your tofu, such that when you actually bit into it, the inside was still white.
This time, by marinating the tofu, you'll create an end product that is completely infused with flavor -- it's going to be intense(ly awesome). And if you're still learning how to cook tofu, especially if you're having problems with your tofu drying out, this recipe will give you a bit of extra wiggle-room.

I chose to slice my tofu into large chunks -- larger-than-bite size, approximately the size of two bites. I did so not only for aesthetic reasons -- additionally, I knew that when I put a larger hunk of tofu in my skillet later, I'd reduce the likelihood of steaming out all of the marinade. For this particular recipe, I used a full 200 g for two servings.
In a medium-sized bowl (a soup bowl, an extra-large cereal bowl...) mix 4 tablespoons of the black bean garlic sauce with 1/2 to 1 cup of water. You'll want for the tofu pieces to be covered when you mix them into the marinade. Cover, and plan to let it stand for at least three hours. In this particular instance, "at least three" is not actually code for "up to twenty-four." If you put your tofu in the marinade before you go to work in the morning, you'll be okay come dinner time. Longer, though, and I'm betting your colleagues probably won't want to be anywhere near you the next day. No, but seriously, the flavor after twenty-four hours is more than even I find enjoyable, and I really love garlic.

If you're American, you'll shudder when you read this: I like to leave my marinating tofu out on the counter. Calm down. It's not "going to go bad." If you buy packaged tofu in the refrigerator section, your tofu has been pasteurized.* That said, if you buy yours in bulk (I seriously doubt that you do), it hasn't been, and in that instance, refrigeration is a bit more important. Anyway -- I would feel safe leaving mine on the counter for three hours. If you're leaving yours for the duration of your workday, go ahead and put it in the refrigerator.
*Should you ever happen to have leftover tofu -- i.e., when you have 200 g and use only 100 g in a recipe -- you can store the unused portion in an airtight container with enough clean water to cover it completely. You'll want to change the water every day -- you can do this for up to a week.

So why is the black bean garlic sauce making a repeat appearance? Well. The glorious occasion again came upon our household last Friday, when tin ate the last pickle out of a large glass, leaving behind a cup of "pickle juice" just begging to be consumed. Pleased to oblige, we got out our stash of white basmati rice and, again, prepared a pot of Pickle Rice. Though in the last recipe, we prepared our rice using only pickle juice, this time, I brought one cup of uncooked rice together with one cup of pickle juice and one cup of water to a boil, covered, and simmered until all of the liquid had been absorbed. Why half water/half pickle juice, you ask? "I thought you loved pickles!" -- Indeed, I do. If only because I had a mere cup of pickle juice at my disposal, I also knew that this time, there would be two strong flavors competing for center stage, and thus, I was okay with letting the pickle juice play the supporting role to the marinade.

I wanted to use relatively "sturdy" vegetables with semi-sweet flavor to bring out the slightly sugary overtones of the black beans, to round out the sharp vinegary flavor of the rice and the bite of the garlic. I still had leftover fresh parsley from the night before -- wanting to use it before it got limp, I consulted my root bowl for worthy teammates.
I couldn't have planned it better, for there in my pantry closet were not only purple carrots, but root parsley. Root parsley looks like a parsnip, but tastes primarily -- obviously -- like parsley. When cooked, though, root parsley, like the parsnip, becomes semi-sweet.

I peeled and chopped three purple carrots and two parsley roots. I put them a deep covered skillet along with the tofu and ALL of the marinade in the bowl. I allowed it to simmer until the vegetables were soft. Root parsley softens pretty quickly. I also chose to add two dried chili peppers for a bit of extra heat -- if you don't have dried chili peppers, you can use red pepper flakes.
The tofu is not going to look as "done" as it has in the past. In fact, it's going to look a little raw. That's because it will be. In fact, you likely had significantly less marinade in the bowl than you did when you started, and that's because the tofu absorbed it, becoming, in essence, "waterlogged." Your goal is to heat up the tofu but not to allow it to dry out -- thus, keep an eye on the moisture level in the skillet, and stir occasionally to make sure that none of the pieces of tofu spend too long in direct contact with the heat. If you notice that too much of the liquid is starting to disappear, simply add a little bit of water. You'll want to have a little bit of a "sauce" to ladle out over the rice.

When the rice is completely cooked, turn off the heat and add the finishing touches to the tofu -- I added a cup of peas and a cup of chopped fresh parsley. Add a generous amount of black pepper, stir, and allow to heat through (a minute or two).

I topped a serving of rice with the tofu and vegetables -- along with a cool beer, a drizzle of soy sauce was just the right finishing touch to this Chinese-inspired meal. And we didn't even have to tip the delivery guy.