Kitchen Kat

I fell in love with crepes on a cold, late December evening in Paris.  Famished as well as jet-lagged, I roamed the 1st arrondissement in search of something warm, filling and quick to eat.  On a sex shop-lined street near our rented apartment on Rue Saint Denise Impasse I spotted a stout, middle-aged man standing on a street corner, cooking paper thin pancakes on an oversized, portable hot plate.  After flipping them once, he filled his crepes with fresh, sliced bananas, the chocolate-hazelnut spread Nutella, strawberry preserves or a combination of the three.  He then rolled up the griddle cakes, sprinkled them with granulated sugar, wrapped them in sheets of waxed paper and handed them out to the hungry.

Mesmerized by the honeyed fragrance and simple artfulness of his creations, I slid into line and awaited my turn for a confiture d’fraise, or strawberry jam, crepe.  In less than five minutes I had in my hand a warm, otherworldly meal.  Tender to the tooth and with a delicate sweet touch, they were like nothing I had ever eaten.     

Prior to this night I had consumed many crepes.  Yet, they had tasted nothing like these.  Thicker and with a decidedly floury flavor, the ones that my friends and I had made resembled traditional pancakes.

The next morning I returned to the crepe stand for breakfast – basically, the same as my dinner but this time consumed at nine in the morning.  I continued this pattern throughout my stay and on subsequent trips to the country.  Quick and delicious, this treat became the epitome of French fast food for me.

Back home I scoured the East Coast for a creperie that could recreate this delicacy.  My neighborhood on Manhattan’s Upper West Side failed me.  Too crispy.  Too sparsely filled.  Too upscale or nouveau cuisine.  Just too darned expensive. 

Disillusioned, I tinkered around with some existing recipes and came up with my own version.  While they don’t surpass those luscious French originals, these crepes rank a close second.  I use a minimal amount of batter swirled out evenly on a heated, lightly buttered crepe pan.  After cooking both sides, I slather them Nutella or strawberry jam, fold them into triangles, and enjoy!

Unfilled crepes can be made several hours in advance and refrigerated.  Simply lay the first crepe on a plate then place a sheet of waxed paper over top of it.  Lay the next crepe on top of the paper, cover it with a sheet of waxed paper and repeat.  After the last crepe has been placed, cover the plate with plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator.  The crepes can be re-heated in the crepe pan – roughly 20 seconds on each side – or served cold. 

Sweet Crepes
Makes 10 8-inch crepes

Ingredients:
1 cup all purpose flour, sifted
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
pinch of salt
2 eggs, at room temperature
1 ½ cups skim milk, at room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled
butter for greasing crepe pan
granulated sugar, optional garnish
honey, optional garnish

Sift the flour, sugar and salt into a bowl.   

In a separate bowl whisk together the eggs, milk, vanilla and butter.  Combine the liquids with the flour and whisk these ingredients together until most of the lumps have been removed.  Refrigerate the batter for at least 1 hour.  Strain out lumps, if necessary, before using.

Using an 8-inch crepe pan or low-sided frying pan, heat the pan then add a dab of butter.  Coat the entire surface of the pan with the melted butter.

Holding the pan off the flame, pour about 2 to 3 tablespoons of batter onto the pan.  Swirl the batter so that the entire surface is evenly coated with batter.

Cook for 2 to 3 minutes or until the bottom is light brown and the top has set.  Using either a spatula or your fingers, flip the crepe over and allow the other side to cook for 1 minute.

Place the crepe on plate and spoon jam, Nutella or fresh fruit into the center.  Fold the crepe in half then into a triangle.  Sprinkle sugar or drizzle honey over the top and serve. 

Tags: Food Musings by Kitchen Kat
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Meatballs.  Vodka.  Pickled herring.  Lox.  Not the best of Sweden’s cuisine but what came to my friends’ minds when invited for ”a night of Swedish delights. ”  Quirky and authentic were what they had learned to expect when dining with me.    

In recent years this daring group has endured countless recipe testing sessions, including “Dessert Night Number One” with its soupy lime-and-mint granita and “An Evening of Three Tajines.”  On that cold winter night my tajine-testing friends were transported to sunny, sandy Morocco. Zeye Mayel’s “Nass Marrakech” blared from the stereo.  Hot mint tea spilled out of tall, silver teapots and into painted, filigreed glasses.  A red, silk blanket, purchased at a souk in the seaside town of Essaouira, covered the dining room table.

Lined up on the green Formica kitchen counter were tagines of chicken, preserved lemons and olives, charmoula-covered cod and chickpeas and root vegetables.   Prior to setting foot in my house, not one person had seen, much less heard of, these clay, conical-lidded pots.  Yet, this bold quintet — Connie, Sharon, Mike, John and my husband Sean — dug into these unusual foods without any hesitation. 

 

Recipe testing defies all rules of entertaining.  Usually, when you invite people over for dinner, you serve tried and true dishes.  Not so with this activity.  I offer up an assortment of odd meals, most of which have been conjured up only days or hours beforehand.  Many are based upon something that I ate 20 years ago in a friend’s kitchen, at a European sidewalk cafe or from a roadside stand. 

Typically these meals have an international, often Mediterranean flavor.  A few feature unheard of ingredients – charmoula, lingonberries, ramps and haloumi cheese.   (As another nod to my recipe testers, many have grown up in East Coast suburbs where dumplings invariably contain apples and the cheese steak is king.  No wonder a few raise their eyebrows at an evening of chilled foods such as ajo blanco, the Spanish garlic-almond-bread soup.)  

Get past the strange ingredients and you still have to deal with the utter failure of a recipe or two.  At September 2007’s “Feast of Fungus” I made a last-minute addition to the menu.  Spinach-stuffed portobello mushrooms had been part of my culinary repertoire for close to a decade.  Marinated in garlic, thyme, lemon juice, and olive oil and topped with spinach, chopped tomatoes and fontina cheese, they had never failed to please.  That night, however, I was in a hurry.  As a result, I knocked over the marinade and had to add more liquids to the mix.  Guessing at the amounts, I poured in a little olive oil and a splash of concentrated, organic lemon juice.   Marinade fixed, I assumed.   

One bite and our mouths puckered.  So much for that splash of lemon juice.  What once was an earthy entree had become a piquant, lemon-saturated disaster. 

 

Want a little danger, a little drama in the kitchen?  Try forgetting to remove your frying pan from the heat before deglazing it with vodka.  Not only did I catch the pan on fire but also did I cause the kitchen cabinets go up in flames.  Did I mention that these were new cabinets or that we were about to put our house up for sale?  You never hear about Nigella Lawson doing something as dangerous or absent-minded as this.

Craving blood or burned flesh?  Consider the night where, once again, I was in a rush, trying to roast two tarragon-infused chickens before we all fell asleep at the dinner table.  After removing one of the racks – preheated to 400 degrees Fahrenheit — from the oven and placing it on top of the stove, I then lowered the roasting pan so that it was closer to the heat source.  Rising up, I lurched forward, bumping my forehead against, yep, the searing hot oven rack.  Applications of a bag of frozen peas followed by baggies of ice cubes could not spare me from a blistered, two-days-before Thanksgiving bruise.  

Perhaps this is why my brave buddies continue to sign on for these recipe testing and international cuisine-themed nights.  Dinner and drama, all for free.   Then again, it might just be the chance to sample the world’s cuisines. 

Moroccan Tagine of Cod, Potatoes, Green Peppers, Tomatoes and Olives
Serves 6
This tagine can be made with red snapper, monkfish or any other firm, white fish and is seasoned with the Moroccan spice-and-herb mixture, charmoula. 

Ingredients for the charmoula:
6 cloves garlic, peeled and quartered
1 ½ teaspoon crushed chili pepper
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon paprika
generous handful of cilantro, washed and stems removed
handful of parsley, washed and stems removed
juice of 1 ½ lemons
2 ½ tablespoons olive oil
ground black pepper to taste

Using a food processor, pulse all the ingredients together until they have formed a paste.  Alternately, you can use a mortar and pestle and combine the garlic with the chili and black pepper, cumin, paprika, cilantro and parsley.  Add the oil and lemon juice at the end. 

Ingredients for the tagine:
3 pounds of cod, trimmed and cut into small chunks
charmoula (see above)
4 tablespoons olive oil
3 large potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced
2 green bell peppers, seeded and cut into strips
1 pint cherry tomatoes
5 cloves garlic, peeled and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons tomato paste
¾ cup water
handful of kalamata olives
salt and pepper to taste

Place the chucks of fish onto a large platter.   Spread the charmoula over the fish, cover, and refrigerate for an hour.

Heat the olive oil in the tagine then add the potatoes, stirring frequently so that they don’t stick or burn.  Cook on medium heat until softened – roughly 10 minutes – then add the peppers.  Cover and cook for another 5 minutes, frequently checking the vegetables. 

Mix together the tomato paste with warm water.  Pour the mixture over the potatoes and peppers.  Add the cherry tomatoes, cover, and cook for another 10 minutes.

Lay the chunks of cod on top of the vegetables.  Add any remaining charmoula and the salt and pepper to the pot.  If the sauce appears too reduced, pour in water as needed. 

Cover and cook the stew for approximately 15 minutes or until the fish appears done.  Add the kalamata olives.  Simmer for another 3-5 minutes then serve.

Spanish Ajo Blanco
Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients:
7 ¼ ounces blanched almonds
4 cloves of garlic, skins removed
1 slice of stale, white bread, crusts removed
½ teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 ¼ cups ice water
1 teaspoon sherry vinegar
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground white pepper
handful of green grapes, cut in half lengthwise
dash of paprika
Place the almonds, garlic, bread, salt and olive oil in a blender or food processor and process until ingredients are finely chopped. 

Leaving the food processor or blender running, slowly add the ice water.  If the soup appears too thick, add more water as needed.  The ultimate consistency should be creamy but not thin or runny.

Add the sherry vinegar and white pepper to the soup and pulse a few times.

Pour into a container or soup tureen and refrigerate until chilled. 

Ladle the ajo blanco into bowls and delicately place several halved grapes and a sprinkle of paprika on top of each soup.  Serve immediately.    

 

Tags: Food Musings by Kitchen Kat
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Long before I wrote about food, I cooked it.  Not in a pull-down-a-weekly-paycheck sense but as in stand-over-a-cutting-board-covered-with-minced-shallots-feeling-remarkably-at-peace-with-the-world way.  For years cooking has served as an escape from the trials of everyday life.  Consumed by the tribulations of ill family member?  Stressed out over a looming deadline?   Worried about upcoming exams?   Pick up an onion and start chopping.

I am both calmed and rewarded by the strike of the knife blade as it bears down on my wood cutting board, the sizzle of white onions as they carmelize in a hot, olive oil-coated saute pan.   Nothing — not yoga, walking, hiking, biking, reading, stroking a beloved pet or “drinking like a mad eejit” – can surpass the tranquility derived from working in a kitchen.

My fondness for cooking is not intuitive.  My mother had been a serviceable but unenthusiastic cook.  Her standard repertoire included many delightful dishes — beef stroganoff, braciola, chicken cacciatore, French onion soup –none of which she relished making or eating.  To her, cooking was a chore, an onus taken on at marriage and borne until death.     

Her lack of culinary ardor extended to my education.  When asked to teach me how to poach an egg or bake a chicken, she invariably responded with this memorable mantra, “Once you learn how to do it, you’ll always be stuck in the kitchen.  Best you don’t learn how to cook.”     

While she abhored home cooking, both she and my father adored eating out.  Savvy diners, they approached restaurant food with a critic’s eye.  Waiters were beckoned.  Entrees were praised or criticized.  I spent countless evenings wishing that I could slide beneath the linen-draped table as my mother sent her charred filet mignon back to the kitchen or my father requested a fresh veg to replace his limpid green beans.   Embarrassment aside, I learned much about what constitutes passable versus gourmet cuisine.   

About 10 years ago I developed a serious interest in cooking.  The impetus, in part, was yet another cancer diagnosis in my family.  The disease’s prevalence made me consider not only genetics but also the environment and what we had been putting into our bodies.  Out went the prepared foods, the canned soups, frozen dinners and taco kits.  In came organic produce, fresh herbs, free-range chickens and healthful cookbooks.  I poured over such weighty tomes as “The Joy of Cooking,” Nigella Lawson’s “How to Eat” and Deborah Madison’s ”Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone” and religiously followed their recipes.   

The more time I spent in the kitchen, the more I realized how pleasurable and gratifying cooking could be.  With some guidance and a bit of confidence, I might just rise above family history. 

Enter the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York.  Deemed the United States’ preeminent culinary school, the CIA offers day-long ”food enthusiast” classes throughout the year.  These hands-on courses cater to non-professionals and cover such useful topics as knife skills, making sauces and baking breads.  

One look at my Band Aid-covered fingers told me exactly which course to take.  Knife skills would be my first class at the CIA.  In it I learned how to break down a whole chicken, debone a fish, slice salmon and trim rib meat.  I also discovered how to mince vegetables quickly and efficiently.  Most importantly, I found out how to hold my 10″ chef’s knife so that I wouldn’t slice my fingers and unintentionally add a splash of color to my dinners.  

The 6-hour session transformed me from a blood-letting menace to a slicing and dicing machine.  It also gave me an unshakable addiction to the adult education program at the CIA.  The next course that I would take, Country French Suppers, only fed my fixation. 

 

Potato Leek Soup
Serves 4 to 6

Based upon a recipe from Lynne Gigliotti’s Country French Suppers class at the CIA.
 
Ingredients:
6 ounces leeks, cleaned and diced
2 tablespoons butter
1 pound Idaho or Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and diced
4 cups chicken stock
splash of heavy cream
salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter in small stockpot. Add leeks and sweat until transparent.
        
Add potatoes and cook for 5 more minutes.
        
Add chicken stock and bring to boil. Skim then reduce heat and simmer for about 30 minutes or until potatoes are tender.
        
Season with salt and pepper then pour into blender and puree.
        
Return to stockpot. Check seasoning and add splash of cream. Stir then serve.
       

 

  

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