The Big Time

My college roommate, bless his heart, more than once made the comment that I was a very atypical college student. While he delighted in Bud Light, Jack's Pizza, and Star Wars (again, bless his heart), I would lean towards Earl Grey, homemade bread, and Julia Child Netflix DVDs. I will be the first to tell you that the steam on our apartment windows were from nothing other than cooking. Recently, I've been able to justify my unorthodox behavior. The many single-nights I spent in college cooking have paid off and I can now say that I somewhat successfully feed more than myself.

Sure, nothing puts off writing an essay like watching your yeast bread puff up like a balloon on the counter. But, I was unknowingly undergoing a self-education of other sorts.

Just as entire evenings spent in the library preparing for an exam can make you feel armed and ready, unexpected and unanticipated questions are surely to come up, no matter how much you prepare. So it's been for me in the kitchen, as well. I've got a meat-eater nipping at my heels these days, and 'Meat Cookery 101' was a course I completely neglected to explore. The following explanation is no excuse, but may explain why.



As a young girl growing up in my parents' grocery store I remember watching my father grind meat for the 'Big Ron' Burgers they sold in their cafe, which was adjacent to the store. These pink, wormy threads of beef squealed out of the grinder at an amazing rate. My dad took pleasure in this ritual activity. And maybe for the pinch-sized bite of raw beef he rewarded himself with afterwards. A meat-lover to the extreme, if a steak was completely cooked through, it was as good as leather to him. This man has standards when it comes to meat. To this day, when Friday night rolls along, he's cooking his own steak - by choice. So, I was never in the habit to even think about preparing meat.

Then there was that crazy summer spent at an organic vegetable farm (where this thing all started) that amplified my knowledge in vegetables, squeezing out any area in my skillet-shaped brain to learn about meat. (Now my boyfriend is paying the price.) He's even gone to bed hungry the first few times I attempted red meat. That, in my mind, is the worst thing a gal could do to her boyfriend. Especially, ESPECIALLY, if she is a crazy-foodie. So, for both our sakes, I've attempted to embark on what I call 'Big Time' cooking.

We've all heard it said, 'The 3rd time's a charm.' Well this charm came to us in the form of a little red French pot filled to the brim with piping hot beef stew. And, boy, was she a welcomed presence. It's a coming-of-age story in the kitchen, and now that essays and term papers are done - I'm onto conquering beef stew.

It's the big time.



Here's my recent take on the classic beef stew - a la Nigella Lawson. If you've got her book How to Eat and turn to page 100, you'll notice I've left some things out. Mostly due to the lack of their presence in the kitchen. I'm sure they'd be lovely to throw in the mix. She suggests not mentioning the anchovies to a crowd and that even anchovy haters are known to love this stew. Also, those shapely matchstick sized pieces and finely sliced celery stalks were nowhere to be found in my stew. They were equally-sized rough chops. Precision has its place, but not in stew.

Nigella suggests a horseradish-yogurt sauce to go with this. But I suggest an arugula salad wrapped in a thin dijon cream blanket, to go alongside. There's something about a stew's rich color that needs to be withheld.

Additionally, I only have a 2 3/4 quart Le Creuset pot for making stew (I know, this needs to change soon, especially since another mouth will be slurping from its bounty), so I halved this recipe. I advise, DO NOT DO THIS. Yes, everything turned out perfectly, but the few bowlfuls we got were an absolute tease. Go whole-hog (or cow!) on this one.



Beef Stew with Anchovies and Thyme
'How to Eat' Nigella Lawson

Ingredients
3 Tbs olive oil, plus more, if needed
3.5 lbs beef stew meat, cut into chunky strips about 1.5 by 2.5 inches
1 large onion, halved lengthwise and finely sliced
5 cloves garlic, minced
3 medium carrots, peeled and cut in fat matchstick-sized pieces
4 inner stalks celery, finely sliced
6 anchovy fillets, well drained and minced
2 Tbs dried thyme or 1.5 Tbs fresh
2 cups robust red wine
1.25 cups beef stock
2 heaping Tbs all-purpose flour
1 Tbs tomato paste
Freshly milled black pepper
Salt, if necessary


Instructions
Preheat the oven to 300 degrees F. Put a casserole on the stove with oil. Heat and then brown the meat briskly in batches; do not overcrowd the casserole or the meat will steam rather than sear. Remove the meat to a plate and then, first adding more oil if necessary, toss in the vegetables, anchovies, and thyme. Cook, turning frequently, on medium heat for about 10 minutes or until the mixture is beginning to soften. While this is going on, heat the wine and stock in a saucepan and remove when it reaches boiling point.

Return the beef to the pan and then stir in the flour. After a couple of minutes or so, pour in the wine mixture and stir well, then stir in the tomato paste and add some pepper. Taste and add salt, if you want.

Put on a lid and then cook in the preheated oven for 3 hours. Remove, cool, and then keep in the fridge until needed. I tend to reheat in the casserole on the stove. Serves 6-8.

Coming Clean

Welcome back to the kitchen. Look what's waiting for you, I baked some bread. But here's the kicker - it's boxed. I hope you're not offended. Those who know me know I'm of the 'from scratch' bunch, but I'm coming clean. I. Made. Boxed. Bread. And I like it. No, make that 'love it.' And I have IKEA to thank.

 

Alright, let's back up  because at this point everything about the previous paragraph sounds crazy, I know. Almost as crazy as Donald Trump putting advertisements for his golf properties in his daughter Ivanka's wedding invitations. Or as crazy as putting cream in coffee when drinking it with food. (I prefer it black with food and creamed without food.) Some things just don't belong. 

But stay a while. Let me explain. Unlike real estate ads in wedding invites, there is a time and place for boxed bread. And we need to get a few things straight. I did not buy the bread pre-baked in a box. It did involve the oven. This milk carton-like box contained a dry mix of rye flour, barley, and other wholesome goodness that I mixed warm water with, slid into a loaf pan, let rise, and baked before losing patience and nibbling on the first steamy slice. 

You're probably still not convinced, especially since it looks like a cranky grandpa up there, sitting all craggly and coarse. Just know there are a few outsides forces that brought me to this bread. During our stay in Canada, my Danish photographer friend, Mette, first suggested the bread as a way to save time, evade preservatives common in bagged grocery store bread, sidestep stale or too-chewy bakery bread, and to invite the presence of the warm aroma only bread can give off. Sometimes the second best thing will suffice. 

Additionally, the mystery man, not being so pleased with American bread, is on the never-ending hunt for bread that tastes like home. This bread, and its grainy goodness, seemed like a good candidate. And I knew it was a success when his request to have a nibble of my leftover goat cheese, basil, and tomato sandwich turned into three giant bites. We've got a winner, folks.

Since this bread leaves me recipe-less, I want to share with you another recent culinary obsession. (If we can even can consider that bread a culinary art.) Cider roasted parsnips - it cures any 'oh-my-god-it's-dark-at-4:30' blues that Seattle tries to pour on us. This recipe was a solution for the nagging cider that remained in the fridge. 

One late fall evening found me at the grocery store gathering goods for a cake baking session, where I was going to be assisted by some hard cider to cool me down from the heat of the oven as I diligently creamed, sifted, and combined. The cider found its way into my cart and stood proudly alongside the eggs and butter. (I know that's where I'd want to be.) Since I'm not big on boozy drinks - the cider remained untouched for quite some time thereafter. That is, until the parsnips rolled in the door. It provided the perfect bath for these sweet roots to soak their fibers in the heat of the oven. I was almost jealous.

(And if you still think boxed bread makes me crazy, I'm not the only one.)

Cider Roasted Parsnips

Of course you can use other cooking liquids - white wine, chicken stock, beer, etc. But then you can't call them cider roasted parsnips. Nothing else quite has the same ring. And no water, please - no water. Save that for baths, not food.  

Ingredients
4 medium sized parsnips - washed and peeled (if desired)
3/4 cup hard cider - or enough to have 1/2 inch of liquid at the bottom of pan
1 Tbs olive oil -  this is a matter of preference, add more or use less at will
salt and pepper, to taste


Instructions
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Cube or slice parsnips to desired shape and size. (The smaller the resulting pieces, the shorter the cooking time will be.) Place parsnips in a baking dish deep enough to contain the liquid. Drizzle olive oil, sprinkle salt and pepper, and toss to coat. Place pan in the oven and let roast for 20 minutes. Then quickly spoon the parsnips around so the dry pieces can taste the cider and the drunken ones can dry off. Roast further until the pieces are at your desired texture. Again, these cooking times will depend on the size of your cut and, additionally, the strength of your oven.

 

One More Time

Most obviously, things have gotten a bit less food-centric around here. (That promise to Ty for a recipe two posts ago? It still remains unfulfilled.) My food obsession has been tamed by the need to soak in all that is to be discovered in this new city of mine. And so, cozy up for one more post about this city, and then we'll return to the kitchen. After all, the rainy season is upon us - where is there a better place to be? For now, let me gush about Seattle - one more time.



Clicking through the archive of one of my favorite food blogs (did I mention it's rainy season?), I came across a post titled 'Good, Better, Wonderful.' The post was a trio of the blog author's recent blog-worthy highlights. Since I know, for sure, that her chocolate cake turns out marvelously (I think the staff at Minnesota Monthly will also attest to that), I knew the post idea was sure to please. So onward we go: 'The Good, The Best, The Wonderful of Seattle'




1. The normalcy of online dating. Without the cultural support of it, I wouldn't have this Eastern European around, re-teaching me Russian, explaining the stock market, and dutifully forking in my culinary experiments. And I wouldn't be meeting him for lunch at Microsoft this afternoon. Seattlites know what they want, and they go for it. Had he not come along, the bleak job market and present rainy season would probably have seen me back to Minnesota after a one year post-graduation experimental 'trip' to Seattle. (So if you have doubts, go ahead, it's not weird!)

2. Pets and cars - two things I've noticed Seattlites take very seriously. Nowhere else have I seen 'Doggie Spas' on the corner of a street, or dogs with a larger variety of sweaters than me. Dogs have their own food stores and parks, and next thing you know they'll be able to vote! Concerning the cars, there's a very disproportionate amount of Subaru Foresters here. That said, the remaining vehicles fall under one of two categories: they're either of the a) rusty old Volvo - sort or the b) I just got promoted at Boeing or Microsoft -sort (think: red BMW convertible). But the rusty Volvo driver is just as passionate about his decision as the red BMW driver is. They don't take these things lightly.

3. Views at places like Kerry Park, where the pictures above were taken after a post-Sunday-roadtrip-to-Ikea-picnic that involved a turkey sandwich (amped up with strong mustard and fresh thyme), a neglected apple, leftover Halloween candy, and, his favorite -  nuts. (Who knew we'd have room despite all those Swedish Meatballs?) Kerry Park alone brings you the downtown Seattle skyline, Mt. Rainier, West Seattle, Elliot Bay, and Bainbridge Island. For me, it's like walking through the produce aisle at a (good) grocery store, where I find myself marveling at the various mounds of proud vegetables. They know they've got it.

So does Seattle.

Hello, Canada.

Among the many opportunities my time at Featherstone gave me was the chance to meet a talented Minneapolis food photographer, Mette Nielsen. You may remember reading about last year’s Squashfest at the farm– the weeklong squash picking extravaganza that brought various volunteers and farmworkers together. I can personally attest to the power of those connections through my sustained friendship with Mette, who I met there.



After hearing I moved on to the Pacific Northwest, Mette soon told me that her and a friend, food stylist Robin Krause, were using up some frequent flyer miles to travel to British Columbia, and kindly invited me along. How could I resist? After some time in Vancouver, they were going to a tiny island off of Vancouver Island, one which goes by the name of Salt Spring Island. The hour long drive from tip to bottom of the island will show you it’s filled to the brim with farmers and artists.

Michael Ableman, author of ‘Fields of Plenty’, owns and operates Foxglove Farm, the place where the cottage we stayed in was located. After snaking through the country roads we approached the gate to the property. Passing multiple farm houses whose chimneys were billowing with smoke, we eventually came to our cabin, where a basketful of produce was waiting for us, demanding to be cooked. We had no problem complying.

After adventuring throughout the island (visiting dairy farms, the bread bakers house, a goat farm, etc.) we often found ourselves cozying-up in the cabin, knitting, listening to the wood crackle in the fireplace, writing, taking baths, cooking, drinking tea. It was there I discovered the power of Epsom salt and smoked oysters, not together, of course. The taste of the smoked oysters blew my brains, and I never felt more relaxed than after that Epsom salt bath.



Featherstone was my first and only direct experience with an organic vegetable farm before this trip. Not having anything to compare it to, the visit to Foxglove gave me a meter to which I could compare Featherstone. And the conclusion I came to was the same conclusion I’ve come to regarding the Midwest and Pacific Northwest cultures: When it comes to the essence of living, everybody is the same, everywhere- all having insecurities, ambition, and a need for love. Featherstone and Foxglove are no different in that their goal is very humble, yet very ambitious – to feed real food to real people. The employees of both farms have very curious minds, and have traveled far to learn about farming or to be part of a close-knit community. Each farm has their unique challenges, whose farmers have come up with even more unique solutions to tackle them.

Time spent at Foxglove also reaffirmed what Featherstone had shown me, that a place is defined by its people. More than any logo, photograph, or advertisement, the character of both Featherstone and Foxglove is defined by the farmer, the employees, the consumers, and the farm-friends. It’s people that breathe life into a place, it doesn’t become alive by itself.



And the same could be said for our little cottage in the woods, on a remote farm, on a remote island. The warmth within the walls were barely from the wood burning stove. It was from these two women, who put up with questions of mine such as, “What do you wish you would have known at the age of 22?” and taught me how to make a bowl of granola and yogurt look appealing.

Foxglove and Featherstone - two experiences that have brought me to different parts of the world and showed me the exact same things. People, not things, enrich life. And a farm is about making people more alive.

A New Season

I love Seattle. I really do. But I've got a confession to make, as painful as it is to say: I like the Eastside, too. (It's a cluster of wealthy neighborhoods that is separated from Seattle by Lake Washington. Think of the Eastside as Seattle's hipper, more refined younger brother. Seattle wears Birkenstocks and drinks black coffee; the Eastside wears Jimmy Choos and sips lattes.) To Midwestern readers, this may not seem like much of a statement. But it's akin to liking Edina after living in Seward for so long. Yes, I know. How can this be?

As a few readers may know, I haven't come over here willingly. It's been for a very special person: him. Maybe you've noticed a dangling hand that's been showing up around here lately (below with beer, further below with ice cream, and many weeks ago in a picnic photo)? Yup, him. Since I've been hard to reach as of late, here is a full update about the entrance of this long-legged, witty European that wiggled his way into my life.



No names yet, but a bit about him. He's a 26-year-old software engineer from Belarus. He has worked both in Russia and Norway and now works for a very large software company, which is headquartered here. You are probably using its products as you read this. As many of my past friends know, I'm a bit on the choosy side when it comes to men. So why him?

Glad you asked. For starters, he puts up with movies like 'You've Got Mail' and 'PS I Love You'. When we are walking he stops me at intersections with his hand for safety, like my mother would do in the car when she would brake too fast, making sure I don't go through the windshield. He locks the door behind him when he leaves and I'm still inside. He smells like a man. He gives me the middle bites of sandwiches, you know, the bites with all the innards, AND leaves me the last delicious bottom bite of the waffle cone. He never neglects to hang my jacket up in the closet for me.

He gets excited about things like fresh air, clean sheets, and 60-Minutes interviews. He likes Tchaikovsky as much as Metallica. His hands are well kept. He helps with dishes and listens patiently as I gush about things like parsnips and squash. He doesn't like drinking water out of plastic bottles. And my father will be happy to hear that he's requested more meat at meals on more than one occasion.

To say we've had many interesting experiences would be an understatement. We snaked along the historic Highway 101 to Long Beach for my birthday, where we drove on the beach and hiked on a sandy trail, which was followed by numerous games of air hockey at a local arcade. Another road trip (this time on Highway 2) brought us to Leavenworth's Oktoberfest, where we were found stuffing ourselves with bratwursts and drinking dark beer (see pic above), all the while listening to a band from Munich play in their lederhosens. (We even managed to fit in some Maple Nut ice cream.)



A weekend trip to Bainbridge Island found us at a vineyard for a wine tasting and chatting with the farmer, Gerard. We had lunch at the Streamliner Diner where we split a gargantuan omelet and breakfast burrito while sitting elbow to elbow at the bar-like tables in front of the kitchen cooks, watching them heap mounds of potatoes on the stove, wiping the sweat off their foreheads with their forearms, yelling out ticket numbers. Visiting a pumpkin patch was also thrown into the mix of this Bainbridge Island trip. After listening to me beg for a squash like a kid in a toy store, he managed to leave squash-free, but I will say that not even a week later he devoured a sweet dumpling squash I roasted for dinner. (That's when I knew he was a keeper. A girl must have standards. )

After a visit to Snoqualmie Falls we feasted on a platter of Trader Joe's sushi in the parking lot and picked wild blackberries before heading to Alki Beach in West Seattle, where we got French pastries at the award winning Cafe Nouvelle. Our most recent journey found us at a Korean BBQ. I must say, culinary-wise, we've already been around the globe. And you'd think we'd be rolling around at 200 lbs by now, but we manage to walk it off during our strolls. When we're not feasting or exploring, we are entertained at home by such things as this.

Our American and European cultural exchanges are nothing but interesting. They go a little something like this: I explain to him what a B.L.T. is, and he tells me about the excitement of playing Monopoly after the Soviet Union fell on itself.

You could call this thing luck; you could call it a coincidence. All I can say is that I'm simply happy that it is. Things change when you really look. It's a new season for both of us, and I've never seen a more beautiful change in seasons than here. More delicious stories to come...



Cheers!

(And, Ty, I promise you a recipe next time.)

Wide Open

After an 'egg on toast' hiatus for a while, I came back to a constant in my life - daily granola. It's one of those things you take comfort in knowing will be around no matter what, like your own pillow you lugged with you halfway across the country. I was going to ramble on today about the wonders of granola ....



but then my birthday had to happen. And so it set the bar way high for bliss. Granola soon became second-rate, thanks to a combination of the following:

-a sleepy, foggy drive to Long Beach, WA
-walking along the beach, watching people ride horses and flying kites, not at the same time of course
-driving on the beach (it's actually normal)
-hiking barefoot on a sandy trail at Leadbetter State Park
-a big ice cream cone
-road games
-taking pictures
-blowing leftover wedding bubbles found in my purse
-playing air hockey at the local arcade
-a visit to Oysterville, WA
-passing by Ocean Spray cranberry bogs
-road side pit-stop eating nectarines
-clam chowder and fried prawns
-post-trip tea at home, and listening to this music artist
and laying on the carpet out of utter exhaustion!




Granola could never top that day. Us West Coasters are so lucky to be so close to such a vast body of water, which I'm convinced does something to the spirit. The ocean's light growl is just as magical as its sight. And the sense of openness brings me back to the flat, wide open farmland of the Midwest. How lucky can a girl be?

Here's to a wide open 22nd year of life....

Still Warm

There are a few things that must be noted about Seattle: 75% of the men look like Jesus, every neighborhood feels only they are the 'true' Seattle, and the locals aren't all that adventurous. I recently met one young, seemingly involved man who has never been to the library. They like to stick to their block. Bikers wear spandex and some tuck their socks into their pants. Some bikers put milk crates on the back in an effort to notch up their 'hardcore' meter. Mountain men and crazed bicyclists aside, it's not all grit and Gortex around here.

There are many great, great things Seattle has shown me. You'll never find a more detail-orientated ice cream shop than Molly Moon's where the menu offers things such as honey lavender and balsamic strawberry. You can easily see the Space Needle from a peaceful stroll around Greenlake. You can lay on a blanket with a sandwich, an iPod, 4 magazines, for hours in a park without anybody batting an eye, and you only need to travel 2 blocks to find things like wasabi powder and anchovy paste. And chocolate chip cookies are just as ubiquitous as in the Midwest. Maybe even more so.

It's a shame, really, that I've gone this long without sharing any recipe. I've eaten so well here. SO well. Prawns with chili aoili, seared duck breasts, rhubarb soup, salted caramel ice cream, caprese salads to no end, coffee cake at Ladro, nicoise salads at Presse, meat-filled buns at the market, endless bites of French food at the Boat Street Cafe, and tomato soup at Dahlia - to name a few. My own efforts have churned out some tasty results also - dried tomato and leek tart, goujeres, granola, peroshkis, Julia Child's tomato soup, roasted vegetables, baked salmon, mayonnaise, and cookies - can't forget the cookies. You'd think I'd be 200 lbs out here.



As a nod back to the Midwest I decided to bake a recent batch. Being true to my new city, I couldn't resist throwing some oatmeal into the mix. The hearty wholeness this ingredient adds is an essential part in this cookie's 'everyday-ness', I've come to believe. Without it, the cookie is a shameful indulgence. Oatmeal blankets the other ingredients and offers warmth that would be lacking without it. These cookies were made as 'Back to School' cookies for some nieces and nephews in Iowa. I gave some to a friend who claimed it was 'the best cookie he's ever tasted.' Although this was a flattering stretch, these cookies do have a balance thing going for it - a trace of elegance from fine shreds of coconut, an appropriate amount of chocolate, and the warm depth of the oatmeal.

Here's the recipe, and Seattle - I'm still warm to you.


Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Coconut Cookies
from allrecipes.com

Ingredients

1 cup butter, softened
1 1/4 cups packed brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
2 eggs
2 tablespoons milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt (optional)
3 cups rolled oats
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
1 cup shredded coconut

Instructions

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C).

In a large bowl, cream together the butter, brown sugar and white sugar until smooth. Beat in the eggs one at a time, then stir in the milk and vanilla. Combine the flour, baking soda and salt; stir into the sugar mixture until well blended. Stir in the oats, chocolate chips. walnuts and coconut until evenly distributed. Drop by rounded tablespoons onto ungreased cookie sheet.

Bake 10 to 12 minutes in the preheated oven for a chewy cookie or 14 minutes for a firmer cookie.

Cool for 1 minute on the cookie sheet and then remove to wire rack. Cool completely and then store in tightly sealed container.

And I've got one MAJOR kitchen update ... I'm now in possession of my very own KitchenAid stand mixer! More stories to come ....