Into the spice cabinet

Not too long after we ate the pigs’ feet, Ben called me from work and in a serious voice said: “I have a question for you.”

Several possibilities raced through my mind right then (Had I made that charge to the credit card? Could I sweep the lotto tickets from the sidewalk? Would I live on the boat with him for a year?), before the word detox left his mouth. He was inviting me to join him in a meat-free month.

“Sure,” I said, somewhat relieved. “I can do that.”

“And booze.”

“Uh. Okay”

And so we embarked on our healthful journey that night, with a plate of whole-wheat farfalle, tossed with kale pesto and chickpeas. There were additional vegetables, bright and vitamin-packed, filling out the plate. And beside it all a nice crisp glass…of water.
 
I suppose if you don't rein it in a bit after the holidays, your habits catch up with you sooner or later, in some form or another. And for both of us, winter's porcine delights and our nightly glass(es) of red wine had added up to a little extra fatigue, a bit more difficulty waking up in the morning, and a touch of all-around crankiness. Though weight gain was not the problem, we needed to lighten it up. 

 
Cooking vegetarian every night? A piece of cake–since I once went 10 years without eating meat. At the end of that period, I had concluded that forgoing meat altogether, long-term, was not the best thing for my constitution (I had zero energy by year 10), but I'm still a lover of vegetables and legumes, and we do enjoy meatless fare on a regular basis.

But gradually, lately, something had happened. Over the years, through cooking school and restaurants and writing about food and enjoying it, I had begun to take for granted the amount of meat in my diet. I had convinced myself that I was eating in a balanced and responsible way, because all of our meat comes from small, humane, sustainable farms, and I don’t order sketchy meat in restaurants (though I'm not this much of a pain when we go out). Weekly pork is a given in our house, because we subscribe to a fantastic pig share upstate. The problem, paradoxically, was that responsibly-raised meat had became too available. So much so that I hadn't noticed that the balance had tipped, and that I was eating more meat than I needed to–especially as we were trying to keep warm through this brutal winter. That is, until Ben called us out on it.


As for the booze part of it, I feared that going without wine would be far more painful than the meat part. Wine is my poison of choice, a must with great food, and as many parents know, a fantastic gear-switcher after a trying day with the kids. Wine, too, I had begun to take for granted. But climbing on the wagon wasn't as hard as I thought, once I got over the weird feeling of not having a glass in hand in certain situations (restaurants and parties, really). We attended a wildly celebratory occasion dead sober and found ourselves entertained by the antics of those who weren't: friends imitating their one-year-olds, lobbing frozen blueberries into each other's champagne, revealing their craziest dreams featuring Keith Richards. A good time was had by all, and we felt superhumanly alert the next morning. 

So thank you, Ben, for getting this rolling. Since we first switched gears (it has been about a month), we just recently started adding alcohol and meat back into our diets–in moderation. I really don't crave meat, and I'm fine restricting alcohol to weekends and occasional weeknights out; when I do have a glass, it's a choice, not a reflex. This change also makes sense for Spring, of which there are definite signs around here!

An added gift of this shift has been a necessary boost in creativity, and a renewed intimacy with the spice cabinet. I realized that somewhere along the line, pork had become my default seasoning: you know how effortlessly a little sautéed bacon here, a ham hock there can add smoke, and savoriness to a dish. If you're eating vegetarian food all the time and your palate craves big flavors like mine does, you may have to use a little more alchemy.

Over the past month I've reached for cookbooks I hadn't opened in years, like Julie Sahni's Classic Indian Cooking. This is a wonderful, timeless handbook of Indian recipes and techniques–and, incidentally, taking one of her cooking courses is on my bucket list. I had remembered, from somewhere, her recipe for Buttered Black Beans (Kali Dal), creamy and spicy and delicious, and I wanted to adapt it to the inky black beluga lentils I had in my cupboard.

Her recipe calls for black gram beans and literally a few kidney beans and long soaking and cooking times. Because beluga lentils are so tiny (similar to green French lentilles du Puy) and you want them to retain their delicate, caviar-like bite, there is no soaking and less than half the cooking time. Make no mistake: this is a rich dish. It's the kind of dish, if you're an herbivore, that you might want to trot out once and a while to remind yourself that, yes, veg fare can be racy and decadent. The tadka is a bit of gilding on the lily; though I love the nutty-sweetness of the browned cumin seeds and onions, I couldn't bring myself to add the cream (I noted it as optional). In fact, you can dial back the amounts of butter or cream in the dish and it will still win you over. It works as a soup or a side, as a main course or part of a big Indian vegetarian meal. Enjoy with basmati rice, with some naan, and a heaping plate of vegetables alongside, if it's virtue you seek.

Beluga Lentil Dal

Serves at least 8 
Adapted from Julie Sahni's Classic Indian Cooking

Ingredients for cooking lentils:

• 2 1/4 cups beluga lentils, rinsed
• 4 cups water
• 1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped
• 3 TBS finely chopped ginger root
• 1 1/2 cups tomato puree (canned works well)
• 1 1/2 cups plain yogurt
• 1 tsp ground cardamom
• 2 TBS ground coriander seed
• 2 tsp cayenne pepper (add more if you like more heat)
• 1 1/2 TBS kosher salt
• 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter

For Tadka: 

• 8 TBS ghee or vegetable oil
• 1 TBS whole cumin seeds
• 1 medium yellow onion, finely minced
• Optional: 1 cup heavy cream
• 1/2 cup firmly packed, chopped cilantro leaves

Instructions:
Put lentils in a deep, heavy-bottomed pot and add water. Bring to a boil and immediately add all the other ingredients for cooking lentils. Bring to a boil once again, then immediately lower to the barest simmer–you don't want the lentils to crack or burst. Simmer on lowest heat, partially covered, for 1 1/2 hours, occasionally stirring gently. If you think the liquid is getting too low, add a little water. Taste: they should be firm and whole but not undercooked. You may also add a bit more salt or spice at this point. 


To make tadka, heat the ghee or oil over medium-high heat, in a skillet. When it is hot, add the cumin seeds and fry until dark brown (about 10 seconds), then add the onions. Lower the heat a little bit, and fry them until they're softened and golden brown. Stir them during cooking, so they don't burn. Pour the entire contents of the frying pan over the lentil mixture (which should be simmering at this point), add the cilantro leaves and cream (if using), and stir to mix thoroughly. Simmer until heated through. Check for salt, and serve.

The odd couple

I have a feeling this one’s not going to be a crowd-pleaser–I’ll just get that out of the way right now. But because I foreshadowed the recipe here, and because my brother-in-law Toby insisted, and because, in general, this blog is an honest account of the food that successfully passes through my kitchen…I just had to.

It’s a pheasant and pig’s trotter pie. Yes, pig’s trotter–as in hoof. If you are a hunter, or you’re into nose-to-tail eating, or you’re just naturally curious, you may want to give it a whirl. It’s delicious–really, it is. If you’re vegetarian or kosher-keeping or faint of heart, you may want to click away now.

Fergus Henderson’s cookbook, The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating, has graced my collection for a while now, and I had the pleasure of trying this particular dish in his London restaurant, St. John, over Sunday lunch–and I highly recommend that experience if you’re in London. My English mother-in-law split it with me (‘atta girl, Pauline!). The one we enjoyed contained a marrow bone, which was lovely, but which I left out. In the name of moderation, I also forwent the suet crust that appears in the cookbook and instead used pre-made puff pastry dough; Dufour makes by far the best one I know.

First, the pheasants. The craziest thing is, I swore at the end of that blog entry that I would make the recipe as soon as someone sent some pheasants my way. When was that likely to happen? The very day I posted, Ben was on his way up to Connecticut to fetch our ski gear for the trip that never happened, and to check in on some painting in progress. The fantastic painter we work with, who is named Rock, has done several projects for us over the years, and it is because of him that the Blue House is no longer the grey house. In terms of the world’s top likeable people, he’s up there. He’s also an outdoorsman, and he knows we like to cook. Last summer he left us a stash of apple wood, hacked by his own hands, for us to use in our smoker.

On that particular December day, Ben chatted with him for a bit, and then drove off to run some errands, leaving our dog in the house with Rock. When he returned, Rock and the dog were gone, and on the kitchen table was a note:
 
Wet paint, so I put the pup in the guest house. He’s a cute little shit. Pheasants in the freezer.

Rock had shot the pheasants on a recent hunting excursion and had thought of us. When Ben returned to Brooklyn he handed me the note and the pheasants and the story–but he had not yet read my post about the pheasant and trotter pie and of course, nor had Rock. Seriously, I got chills! But most of all, I took this serendipitous alignment of events as a sign that I had to make the recipe, and soon.

As for the trotters, that part of the equation required a mere call to the Meat Hook in Williamsburg to line up. The Meat Hook is one of my most favorite places, powered by loud rock and an affable new generation of meatsters. They bring in the animals whole, from humane, sustainable local sources, so I can always count on them to supply any cut I need–but even everyday items like their coarse-ground beef (grass-fed), are life-changing. I get great advice from the butchers there when I’m wading into unfamiliar territory, but best of all, they don’t blink an eye when asked for something like trotters or tail or the skin left on. None of the concerned looks and “you sure you don’t want that trimmed off, sweetie?” I get from the old-timers in our neighborhood (whom I still frequent, by the way). Instead, what I got, from Sara the girl butcher, was: “Great–what’re you making? I’ll pick out the least hairy ones for you.”

But the recipe’s casual instructions could not have prepared me for the work of dealing with piggy feet. I have picked crabs. I could break down a chicken or fillet a fish blindfolded. Organs don’t faze me. I’ve got a stomach of steel, but it was tested that day by the sensory experience of plunging my hands into warm trotters. The recipe says simply to “pick the flesh and skin from the bones,” but the flesh in a trotter, aside from one or two little bits, is not what we typically think of as meat. In fact, it’s mainly skin and gelatinous fat. That’s what melts so silkily into the pie, once you break it apart, and what makes the whole thing so unctuous. I evolved a method: basically, I tried not to peer too carefully into the confusing bundle of parts, tried not to think too much, and just went by feel. Anything bony or gristly got pulled out and discarded, and anything yielding got shredded up to put into the pie. The recipe does note that you should do this while the trotters are still warm, and you must heed that advice, because as they cool–which they will unless you work lightning-fast–the natural gelatin begins setting and sticking to anything it touches.

That adventure out of the way, the whole thing came together beautifully. The coupling of main ingredients, bizarre at first glance, is actually brilliant–since anyone who has ever cooked pheasant knows how difficult it is to avoid a cardboardy texture. Gently bathed in trotter essence, the game birds can reach their full potential. As Mr. Henderson so eloquently describes: “This is a most rich and steadying pie.” And it was. We enjoyed it with Cara and Toby, my sister- and brother-in-law, in Vermont this past weekend, and its steadying properties were indeed the thing for a night of howling wind, which threatened to rip the house we’d rented apart at the seams, early rising kids, and ice skiing the next day.

Pheasant and Pig’s Trotter Pie  

Adapted from Fergus Henderson’s The Whole Beast  
Feeds 6

Filling  

• 3 pig’s trotters, outer hoof and hair removed (skin on) 
  
• A bundle of fresh herbs (I used parsley and thyme but would add sage) tied with kitchen string  
• 1 head of garlic, skin on  
• 2 bay leaves  
• 10 black peppercorns  
• 2 stalks of celery, chopped  
• 2 red onions, peeled and halved  
• 2 carrots, chopped  
• 1 bottle of red wine, such as an inexpensive Rhone  
• 1 ¾ quarts chicken stock  
• ½ lb. pancetta or unsmoked streaky bacon, cut into chunks (you can use up to 1 lb., which is what the recipe calls for)  
• 2 pheasants, split in half at the spine and breast bone (you can use kitchen shears) kept on the bone, and sprinkled with salt and ground pepper  
• 3 medium onions, peeled and sliced

This is best made the day before, as Mr. Henderson says, “to find itself.” Put the trotters in a pot with herbs, garlic, bay leaves, peppercorns, celery, red onions, and carrots. Cover with wine and chicken stock, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook for 3 hours, until the trotters are cooked and very tender. Remove the trotters from the pot, then strain the stock and set aside. While the trotters are warm, pick the flesh and skin from bones and discard bones. As you remove flesh, tear it into small pieces with your fingers and add these pieces back into the strained stock.

Preheat oven to 425˚F. Heat a large skillet and put the pancetta or bacon in. Cook, stirring, for about 5-10 minutes until some of the fat renders and the pieces brown slightly. Remove to a deep roasting pan. Brown the pheasants on all sides in the remaining fat, then move them into the pan with the bacon. Sweat the onions in the same skillet for a few minutes until they begin to turn translucent, and add them to the roasting pan, along with the trotter flesh and stock, and cover with aluminum foil. Put this in the oven for 15 minutes, then reduce oven temperature to 350˚ and cook for another 30 minutes. Remove, check the seasoning, and allow to cool in the stock.

When cool, remove the pheasant and pull the meat off the bones, keeping pieces relatively large but not unwieldy. Often, people find the leg meat of pheasants too tough to eat, but I found many useable bits, since they were braised in magic trotter stock. Discard any pieces that seem too sinewy, along with bones and other inedible parts. Put the pheasant meat back into the stock and store in the refrigerator overnight.

Pastry  

• 1 package good-quality puff pastry  
• 1 egg yolk, beaten, for glaze

Preheat oven to 375˚. Thaw puff pastry at room temperature if it is the frozen variety. Place meat mixture in a pie dish (if it’s shallow you will need two), ½ inch or so below the rim. If there appears to be a lot of liquid, hold some back; it will be congealed when cold but will melt when heated up, and you don’t want it to bubble over the sides. Cover pie dish(es) with pastry, crimping and trimming to fit around the edges. Cut a small hole in the center of dough, brush with egg yolk, then place in oven for about 40 minutes, or until crust is golden brown and puffed, and you can see filling bubbling through the hole in the middle. Serve immediately. We enjoyed it with roasted potatoes, and Brussels sprouts sautéed with bacon.

Granola

I don't have any extra-special Valentine's Day post this year. Although I treated my loved ones with the utmost kindness yesterday, I wasn't in the kitchen whipping up heart-shaped sugar cookies or champagne truffles or pink macaron lollipops–so I have nothing along those lines to offer. You can blame it all on my Mom, who each February 14th handed us a ritual card or a store-bought sweet–but let it be known this was but a Hallmark Holiday, and she would never pretend otherwise. Thus disabused, I now tend to follow her ways when it comes to Valentine's Day: ever-so-slightly observant but not devout.

So, what I'm here to talk about is granola. Not too romantic, I know–the name itself doesn't quite have the musical ring of éclair or meringue or millefeuille. But this treat I'm offering is honest and fortifying and crisp. My friend Tara shared it with me after her cousin, Kristen, put her on to it. This recipe is like an edible game of "telephone" that evolves a little with each round (Tara added coconut oil and flax seeds; I threw in maple syrup and chopped, dried apricots). Pass it along...I'm sure it'll change again before it's all over.

This also happens to be the first granola I ever made, and now I ask myself why I waited so long: granola's not cheap in stores around here, and there is nothing worse than paying $8 for a quart of stale, hyper-sweet oats. Making your own big batch every week or two and stashing it in mason jars just makes sense. After you stock your cabinets and measure out the ingredients, all you have to do is mix and bake and attend a bit–virtually no technique or skill whatsoever is required. What I like about this recipe is the super-nuttiness and the mellow, just-right sweetness supplied by honey and maple syrup. And, there's just the right amount of coconut. Normally, I avoid coconut in baking altogether, because the aroma tends to stir up bad teenage memories of overzealous tanning sessions and a dalliance with Malibu rum that ended badly. But this may be the recipe that changed my mind, since the coconut flavor translates to a subtle warmth and adds an extra measure of crispness.

Just a couple of notes: if you use dried fruit, make sure to add it afterward–I made the mistake of baking the apricots in with the rest, and they hardened into acrid little nuggets. Also, be sure to stir the granola around occasionally as it bakes, so that the nuts and grains brown evenly.

Kristen & Tara’s Granola
Ingredients: 

• 1 cup rolled oats (not “quick oats”)
• 1/2 cup Scottish Oatmeal, a.k.a. quick steel-cut oats (I use Bob's Red Mill)
• 1 cup sliced almonds
• 1 cup walnuts, lightly chopped
• 1/4 cup pumpkin seeds, (pepitas)
• 1 TBS shredded coconut (unsweetened)
• 3 heaping TBS ground flax seeds

*** 

• 2 TBS honey
• 2 TBS maple syrup
• 2 TBS grape seed oil (you can also try canola, sunflower, or olive)
• 1 TBS coconut oil or coconut butter, melted
• 1 TBS vanilla
• ½ cup dried fruit, chopped (I used unsulphured apricots and would also suggest chopped dates, or whole cranberries or raisins)

Instructions:
Preheat oven to 325˚. Mix together dry ingredients (except for fruit) in a large bowl. Whisk together liquid ingredients in a medium bowl, then drizzle over dry ones, mixing to coat evenly. Spread onto a tray lined with silpat or parchment, and put in medium rack of oven. Bake for 20-30 minutes (depending on your oven), stirring every 10 minutes or so to redistribute browner “edge” pieces with less cooked “middle” pieces, until beginning to turn golden brown. If you’re using dried fruit, stir it in when you remove tray from the oven. Cool—granola will crisp as it cools down–and store in an air-tight container. This recipe makes about a quart and change.