Veganize it!

Posted on December 10, 2012 by Chelsea

I must admit to getting nervous. Counting this week’s offerings, I’m down to 8 Bittman selections, and just over 3 weeks in which to complete them all. If I face the honest fact that it’s unlikely I will attempt any of these concoctions during Christmas or the days that surround it, as family and I insist on old familiar dishes, reality tells me I in fact have just over 2 weeks left.

But I have a determined set to my jaw, sometimes, and I can feel it approaching. This must be done. It can be done. It may mean making soup for lunch from scratch sometimes, but as I’m learning, soup doesn’t have to be something that simmers all day long. It can be a quick meal.

It can be delicious, too. This week’s selection is proof positive.

“Thai Squash Soup: Simmer cubed winter squash, minced garlic, chili and ginger in coconut milk, plus stock or water to cover, until soft. Puree if you like. Just before serving, add chopped cilantro, lime juice and zest, and toasted chopped peanuts.”

This was a lunchtime experiment, because N., in one of his tragic shortcomings, doesn’t like coconut. At first I thought it was something I could break him of. I have, after all, in under a decade, convinced him to eat everything from sushi to quinoa to kale chips. He is, as an eater, unrecognizable as the man I met in college. But the coconut sensitivity is the food analogue to ESP. He can eat a granola bar with coconut oil hidden deep in the ingredient list and say “I’m not sure I like this.” If I don’t choose my sunscreen carefully and it happens to have that delightful coconut aroma that means it’s well and truly summer, N. tells me I smell funny. So a coconut milk based soup had to be consumed in his absence.

½ big butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into small cubes

1 13.5 oz. can coconut milk

½-1 cup water or vegetable stock

½ tsp red chili flakes

3-5 cloves garlic, minced

1-2 tsp ginger, minced

salt to taste

2-3 TB cilantro, roughly chopped

2-3 TB peanuts (if you have a nut allergy, consider using the butternut squash seeds instead), toasted and chopped. I used dry roasted peanuts for mine.

zest and juice of ½ a lime

Put the squash, chili, garlic, and ginger into a pot. Add the coconut milk and, if necessary to cover the chunks of squash, water or stock. Bring to a boil, then simmer over medium heat for 20-25 minutes, or until the squash is tender.

During this simmering process, don’t forsake your kitchen completely. Coconut milk boils over, just like regular milk. If you leave to, say, comb out your hair, do your makeup, and put a few things away, you might return to a stove swimming in chili infused coconut milk sludge sitting underneath your burners. One of which isn’t working anymore. Just saying…

Once the squash cubes are tender, you can choose to puree or not to puree. I, feeling lazy, took my potato masher to them and ended up with a slightly chunky, rough textured soup that I liked the look and feel of.

Top with garnishes and eat!

Alternative: I liked this, and the simmered squash had a nice, fresh flavor. But I missed the caramelized depth you get when you roast it. Were I making this again, I would roast the squash with olive oil and salt until it was tender.

While the squash roasted, I would add the spices to the coconut milk and simmer for 10-15 minutes. Then, when the squash was cooked and the milk was hot and flavorful, I would add the chunks of squash and proceed as above.

This bowl of soup was surprising. It awoke flavors of sweet, sour, spicy, and bitter. The squash was tender and freshly vegetal. The coconut milk added this incredible unctuous creaminess that felt round and thick against my tongue, but the squash itself and the lime flavor kept it light and fresh and delicate at the same time. The peanuts were the right crunch, and I surprised myself by finished an enormous bowl and feeling quite satisfied but not overly full.

The soup wouldn’t have been right without the lime juice. I’m learning, as I continue to cook, that acid is a seasoning just like salt or nutmeg. This new understanding, and a little bit of experimentation, saved the next dish from being muddy and boring.

“56. Cook lentils, thyme sprigs and chopped carrots in a pot with water to cover until tender; drain and remove thyme. Cook chopped onions in oil until soft; add chopped kale and allow to wilt. Add lentils, stir to combine and cook until kale is tender. Add chopped parsley.”

With the holiday season practically upon us, this seemed like a sobering, “healthy” dinner choice which would, against all the logical reasons for eating healthy, permit us to have cake for dessert.

1 cup lentils

12-15 baby carrots, quartered lengthwise, chopped into small rounded triangles

6 sprigs thyme

4 small whole cloves garlic

½ red onion, chopped

2 cups kale

2 TB parsley

sprinkle of red wine vinegar to taste

I put the lentils, carrots, thyme, and – in a flash of inspiration – garlic in a pot and added water according to the lentil package directions (depending upon what color lentils you use, you may need more or less water). I added a bit extra, since I realized the carrots might benefit from some bubbling too. I let them simmer for about 35 minutes, at which point the lentils were just barely still resistant between my teeth.

Never enthusiastic about using multiple pots, I dumped the lentil mixture into a strainer and then, with a bit of olive oil to lubricate the surface, sauteed the chopped onions in the same, now-empty pot. When they were just beginning to turn golden around the edges, I added the kale and a sprinkle of salt. Softening the onions and wilting the kale took about ten minutes.

After the kale had collapsed a bit, I dumped the lentil mixture back in, folded it gently in with the greenery, and let them stew over low heat until the kale was the texture I like. I tasted and felt the muddiness of the lentils and carrots: winter vegetables are wonderful, but sometimes the heaviness they impart is reminiscent of the dirt from which they were pulled. Lentils, though they aren’t root vegetables at all, tend to have a similar effect.

This was my inspiration point. Only a few drops of red wine vinegar pulled the flavors up out of the garden ditch they’d been wallowing in and made them interesting and individual again. Add the vinegar and chopped parsley at the last moment.

I mounded this on our plates and topped it with a tuna steak (I know, that’s not vegan. But the Bittman is, and that’s what matters here!). It would have been better with salmon – the more delicate meatiness would have contrasted nicely against the lentils and carrots. The tuna was almost too dense a pairing, calling back to the muddiness of the pre-vinegared dish. Lamb rubbed with harissa, or maybe even a grilled portobello or a big steak of tofu, pressed, dried, and rubbed with a marinade that involved roasted red peppers, are other potentially promising pairings.

* As the year draws to a close, I’m thinking a lot about friends I’m now physically far from. This title celebrates two of them: M. and Ph. Both became unintentional vegans due to food allergies, and M. is fond of exclaiming, of dishes she likes the sound of but cannot eat thanks to its animal product ingredients, “I’m going to try to veganize it!” So here you go, ladies: these are pre-veganized. And gluten-free. And yummy. What more could you ask for?!

Counting Down

Posted on October 21, 2012 by Chelsea

It’s interesting that as I left my 20s behind chronologically, I entered my 20s in this Bittman project. As of this moment, on this particular Sunday afternoon, I have 25 Bittman concoctions left to make, most of them soups and desserts. At a rate of two per week, I will finish by the end of this year. This means we’re getting toward some major milestones, some very big deals, some lasts on the list.

The first of this pair is one such last.

“34. Combine cooked bulgur with chopped or grated apple, minced orange rind, grated ginger and chopped parsley. Back in an oiled dish, use as stuffing or serve as a salad.”

This was the final remaining entry on the “Stuffings and Grains” list. We left it till last for no particular reason, but during a week in which a collection of Valencia oranges sat languishing in our fruit bowl, it seemed like the right thing to do.

I’ve been fairly good lately about writing down ingredient quantities as I add them, but for this entry I never even lifted a pen. It happens. I can own up to it. A week of non-stop grading, perhaps, made me leery of that inky instrument. Or maybe it was our relative rush: leave it to me to design a complex, glaze-bearing dinner on a night we needed to eat early. Some things must get sacrificed, and it turns out it’s not the glaze, it’s the notations.

Here are my approximations:

1 cup bulgur wheat

2 cups water, stock, or a combination of the two

1 large fuji apple, diced into small squares

2-3 TB finely minced orange rind

1 TB grated ginger (this is really easy to do when the ginger is frozen)

¼ cup chopped parsley

salt and pepper to taste

Cooking bulgur is very similar to cooking rice. I poured the wheat and the water into a pot and let it come to a boil before simmering for 15 minutes or so while I prepped my other ingredients.

After dicing the apple, grating the ginger, and chopping the parsley, I turned to the oranges. Since Bittman specified “rind” and not “zest,” I used a y-shaped potato peeler to remove long, brilliant segments of rind. I slid a sharp knife carefully between the rind and any white pith that got caught in the peeling, and then sliced into very thin strips, rotated them 90 degrees, and sliced again so I was left with tiny squares.

Before these happy bright piles all nestling on my cutting board got too comfortable, I tipped them into the pot of bulgur and carefully folded them in for even distribution with some salt and pepper to taste. The experience of the still-chilly ginger hitting the hot bulgur was sinus-clearingly intense, but lovely. An aroma-only aperitif.

With everyone incorporated, I dumped the pot’s contents into a greased baking dish and stowed it in a 350F oven for half an hour.

Orange and ginger suggested an Asian flavor profile, even though apples and parsley didn’t. I decided to work with the dominant elements, though, and so I paired the bulgur with salmon and spinach. The salmon would be rubbed with sesame seeds, powdered ginger, and orange rind bits before receiving a heavy sear and then an orange-juice glaze. The spinach would be sauteed with garlic chips and sesame oil.

As with all things, this didn’t happen exactly as imagined. It takes a long time, as it turns out, to simmer the juice of six oranges down into a thick glaze without burning their sugars. Similarly, it takes time and babysitting to ensure garlic chips that are crisp, not charred. And when you are trying to do all this on the same night as a homecoming football game you’ve promised to attend, certain shortcuts must be taken.

The salmon, while it seared beautifully, received not so much a glaze as a flood of boiled, ginger infused orange juice. Still, when this liquid hit the hot salmon pan, it did bubble down into something thick and rich (if a little darker than intended).

The spinach, rather than the crunchy, spicy accoutrements I intended, had to settle for a last-minute sprinkle of sesame seeds to keep it company.

Still, the meal was overwhelmingly successful. The salmon was outrageously delicious, and I’m going to have to make it again, writing down the procedure this time so I can share it with you. The orange sauce perfumed the fish and kept it moist and buttery and tender. Even though it was a bit darker than I’d planned for, the sauce took on caramel notes that seemed utterly intentional.

The bulgur was lovely. It was toasty and fluffy and well seasoned. The apple had cooked lightly as the dish baked, leaving it just softened but not without resistance. The orange rind was delightfully not overpowering, but gave a warm spiciness to the grain. It was good with the salmon, but would also be delicious with pork chops (playing on the traditional applesauce pairing) or, if you replaced the parsley with mint, a lovely side for leg of lamb.

In summary, a triumphant triumph: not only is the Stuffings category successfully completed, but it was completed with a success.

With the weather cooling (finally!) and the Soups category still looming largely untasted before me, I decided to try one to close out the week.

“21. Brown a little crumbled or sliced sausage in olive oil; a sprinkle of fennel seeds is good, too. Add chopped escarole, cooked white beans with their juice, and stock or water to cover. Simmer until the greens are tender and the beans are warmed through. Garnish with olive oil or Parmesan.”

I must admit I made some changes to these directions based on availability and personal taste. I don’t like fennel. It’s one of a very few spice flavors I just can’t take. Over-fennel-ed sausage – like the kind that appears on many chain pizza restaurant pies – just doesn’t appeal to me, and the idea of fennel seeds crunching between my teeth and filling a mouthful of soup with their anise awfulness made their addition out of the question.

As for the escarole, I could find none. I searched through mountains of salad greens at several local markets and this particular strain was resolutely absent. But I did find a really beautiful bunch of kale and decided it would be a satisfactory substitute.

So here’s what I ended up with:

8 oz. bulk sausage

1 big bunch kale (chopped, this was probably 6-8 cups)

3 cloves garlic (some spice to replace the abhorred fennel seemed appropriate)

1 15 oz. can white beans with their liquid

2 cups chicken broth

salt and pepper to taste

Eschewing olive oil, I squeezed the sausage into a pan and let it brown over medium heat, separating and crumbling it as it cooked with a flat-sided wooden spoon.

I rinsed, stemmed, and chopped the kale into manageable pieces, and when the sausage was cooked through, I tossed in the mountain of greens. No, that’s not true. I inserted handfuls carefully so they wouldn’t spill all over the stove, and ran out of room with only half my kale added. N. came into the kitchen when he heard me laughing hysterically, and stared in amazement at the mound of kale pieces sitting inches above the top of my pot. I had to press it down with my hand, compacting the frilled, tough leaves down toward the bottom of the pot. It always looks like too much. It’s always not. In the time it took me to mince the garlic, the kale had already begun to wilt and settle more comfortably into the confines of the pot.

When I could barely smell the garlic and the kale was level with the sides of the pot (as opposed to threatening to spill over them) I added the white beans, their juice, and barely two cups of low sodium chicken broth. One of the things I’ve discovered about myself is that when it comes to soups and salads, I like them to be full of, well, stuff. Lettuce with the odd crouton is no good. I want dried cranberries, and walnuts, and avocado, and gorgonzola. Thin, brothy soups don’t please me either. Give me big chunks of vegetables, or slurpable noodles, or rich shreds of meat. In the days when I’d indulge in the occasional Cup’o’noodle, I always drank the broth out first so I could concentrate on the important part: the just dripping mounds of noodles left behind.

So this soup, for true enjoyment, needed only enough broth to make its categorization accurate. A scant two cups and we were assured plenty of “stuff” in every spoonful.

While the soup simmered, I stretched, sliced, and sprinkle mozzarella onto some pre-made pizza dough. Twisted and snuggled on a baking sheet, these when into the oven to become bread sticks. Fifteen minutes later when they were sizzling and firm, the soup was done.

This is not a soup you want to let simmer for hours. The beans, especially if you are using canned like I did, will eventually become mealy and then disintegrate. The kale begins to lose its emerald brilliance after a while, and though it will still taste good, it won’t be as pleasing to consume. Simmer for fifteen to twenty minutes max.

Then you get to shave on some parmesan and eat it.

Neither of us was sure we would like this soup. But we shouldn’t have been so foolish. N. has placed the products of this project on a pass/fail system. This is what happens, I suspect, when you have two teachers in the family. He announces his verdicts after dinner, and he treats them as though Mr. Bittman has just submitted an exam or a paper assignment. “Bittman passes on this one,” he told me last night as we cleaned up. It wasn’t just his happiness at pairing his dinner with the first Jubelale of the season. He really did like the soup. And I think he was right. This was a fast, easy, delicious little warmer. Cooking the kale in the sausage grease gave it some additional flavor and took away that raw bitterness dark leafy greens can sometimes have. The beans got creamy and delicate, and the starch from their liquid thickened up the minimal broth I used. Even without the broth, these ingredients seem like a stellar combination that should be taken advantage of at many opportunities. Sautéed together, perhaps with the addition of chopped onion and maybe butternut squash or sweet potato, they could be a nice little hash. Wrapped in pastry with some thickened gravy, they could be a pot pie. Folded with some grated mozzarella and enclosed in pizza dough, they become a perfect calzone. And as the weather continues to cool (I hope, I hope, I hope), gravies and pot pies and warm cheesy casseroles are exactly what I want to pair my remaining Bittman dishes with.

It seems a bit stress-inducing to start with a countdown. It’s a looming certainty of what must be achieved. “That’s a lot,” N. said when I told him how many were left. But after tonight’s dinner, it will be 24. And by the end of next week, it will be 23. And by having you out there reading, it means I must achieve, yes, but it also means I’m promising something to you. Food. Words. Proof of my experiments. And stress-inducing or not, that’s a kind of accountability I like having.

25 to go…

Milestones. And Cake. And Salad.

Posted on September 23, 2012 by Chelsea

This September has been a big one for me. New home (okay, so we technically moved in July), new job (okay, so school started in August), and new decade! I’ve finally hit my 30s, and I like what I see so far (though admittedly I’ve only been stationed in this new world for two weeks).

Given my fanciful proclivities for putting food in my mouth, then, N. knows that my birthday must involve a restaurant in some form. Since we are only just beginning to explore our new culinary surroundings, this was a perfect opportunity to embark on our adventures. I started with Culver City which, delightfully, has a whole webpage devoted to its downtown restaurants, including (in most cases) links to each restaurant’s website. This was almost too much. I spent the better part of an evening cruising through online menus, imagining what kind of mood I might be in on the big day and what I might want to order and what, if the restaurant I ultimately chose should happen to be out of my top choice, I would order instead.

Based on menus and Yelp reviews, I decided on Fords Filling Station (FFS), whose upscale comfort food and wide range of offerings sounded promising. I tend to like mid-range restaurants: not too fancy, where a prix fixe menu or outstandingly high prices make me feel like a grubby graduate student out of place (I know, I’m not anymore. But it’s a hard habit to break in this new world of adulthood and employment), but not too casual either, where the food is sub-par or inconsistent and the wait staff makes no pretense of caring about our presence. A gastropub – a self-proclaimed innovative collection of food, decor, and atmosphere – seemed like the right fit.

FFS is a fun spot. It’s centrally located downtown, and the dining room is a big open space with a bar to one side, traditional tables, and long narrow two-tops where the couple sits on a bench next to one another looking out at the other diners, rather than across from each other. N. and I were seated at one of these bench seats, and it was fun to sit side by side for a change in a restaurant setting. Brick walls, big barrels, and warm colors make it inviting and, I thought, pretty unpretentious.

Our server, who was the perfect balance of informative and attentive, sold me on one of the night’s cocktail specials: citrus vodka, house made lemonade, and a little float of chambord. It was nice – punchy and bright and sweet-tart, but oddly similar to a Rennie’s Lemonade from our erstwhile happy hour hangout in Eugene, and therefore it felt drastically overpriced at $12.

We opted to share entrees so we could order a few things, and got a Cuban flatbread with smoked pork pieces, cilantro, mozzarella, and some kicky little red chilis; grilled asparagus blanketed in shaved parmesan,; and a flattened half chicken with amazing garlic mashed potatoes and succotash.

N. was most attracted to the chicken (as is often the case when we dine out), and here he was clearly right to be. Flattened, the bones were gone, the meat was compressed, flavorful, and intensely juicy, and the skin was crunchy and buttery and tender and perfectly unctuous. Because he is fonder of white meat, it was also a perfect dish for us to share, because N. left me the thigh, with its dark, meatiness pleasantly encased in a crisp layer of fatty crunch. Beside the chicken, the mashed potatoes swam in a sauce of garlic confit, which was rich and intense: the best gravy I’ve had in a long time.

The flatbread, which would have been just delightful on its own, paled a bit in comparison to this chicken. The crust was cracker-like in texture, and the pork pieces paired nicely with the pepper and cilantro, but together the dish was a little bit dry. It needed – perhaps – some herb oil drizzled over the top, or maybe 45 seconds less in the oven. Tasty, but not the star of the show by any means.

The asparagus was excellent: nicely flavorful and light, well cooked and, aside from the piece I dropped on myself (grace embodied, truly), a nice vegetal accompaniment to our meal.

Since I didn’t get any dessert that night (I was full but not overstuffed, and didn’t want to tempt myself by even glancing at a dessert menu), I was still longing for birthday cake a few days later. Fortunately for me A., who blogs from the other side of the world at Over and Under, had told me about Porto’s – a Cuban bakery in Burbank that turns out to be right on my route to and from work. I had to drive up to the school for a Friday meeting, and as I headed toward the freeway to come home, I decided to stop in and treat myself.

Inspired by the flatbread we’d shared at FFS, and because I thought it would be a good benchmark for a Cuban bakery, I got the Cubano. Then, because it was still my birthweek (I’m big on extending the celebration as long as seems rationally possible), I picked out two tiny cakes to share with N.: flourless chocolate, and tres leches.

The sandwich was good. Ham and pork packed tightly onto a fresh bakery roll with cheese, sharp mustard, and a pickle. A simple sandwich, but a delicious one.

My dessert selections, though, were fantastic. The tres leches was rich and light at once, not overly sweet but dripping with cream, like a well soaked angelfood cake topped with toasted marshmallow cream. The flourless chocolate selection was less cake than a giant chocolate truffle: impossibly rich solidified ganache inside a thin shell of cake-like crumb. N. was only able to eat two or three bites before declaring it too rich for his tummy. I had no such trouble, but did talk myself into enjoying only half at that sitting, and saving the other half for another night when chocolate felt mandatory.

Indulgent? Certainly. But (at least in the case of the desserts) at $2-3 each, a reasonable indulgence. Still, when one is a responsible adult (as I suppose some might now imagine me), one must temper such indulgences. In this case, that means salad.

80. Trim and coarsely chop chard (rainbow makes for a gorgeous salad) and combine with white beans and chopped scallions. Dressing is minced ginger, a suspicion of garlic, olive oil and cider vinegar.

I collected:

½ huge bunch red chard, thick stems removed

1 15 oz. can white kidney beans

5 green onions, finely sliced

1/2 inch knob of ginger

2 garlic cloves

1/4 tsp coarse salt

1/4 cup each cider vinegar and olive oil

1 TB honey

I tossed together the chard, beans, and green onions and set them aside in a big salad bowl. To make sure the ginger and garlic were fine enough, I minced them by hand, then sprinkled them with coarse salt and dragged the flat of my knife across them until they turned into a thick, aromatic paste. I scraped the paste into a glass measuring cup and whisked it up with cider vinegar and olive oil. A taste of this was a cheek puckering revelation, so I added a healthy squeeze of honey to make it less astringent.

Aside from spinach, raw bitter greens are not always N.’s cup of tea. Because I feared this might be the case with this combination, I decided to treat this more like a slaw than a salad. I combined the main ingredients early and doused them in dressing a good fifteen minutes before dinnertime. This would, I hoped, give the acidic dressing time to wilt the chard a bit, much like the vinegar in coleslaw dressing does for the cabbage.

It worked well. By the time we ate (grilled chicken breasts sauced with equal parts whole grain mustard and apricot jam), the chard had lost just a bit of its aggressive bite but its freshness was not compromised. The beans, sometimes bland customers, had soaked up a bit of flavor from the tangy bright dressing, and so while they were a steady, creamy counterpoint to the earthy-fresh chard, they weren’t at all boring. We were both surprised by how well we liked this simple little salad.

Success, then, and balance: excitement and indulgence followed and tempered by stability. If this is what the 30s are like, I’m ready. Bring it on. I’ll just be 30 forever.

Emptying the fridge: Annotated Almond White Bean Dip

Posted on August 19, 2012 by Chelsea

Yes, I know I’ve already moved. Yes, I know I’m now in a pattern of filling the fridge, not emptying it. But moving, like writing, is a process, and I have to catch you up. And that means talking about what I’ve done before I get into what I’m doing…

This recipe fruited during a hummus drought. I had evicted all garbanzos from my pantry – not from lack of desire, but from too much desire: hummus-hummus-all-the-time. And at first, facing the multiple cans of cannellini beans in the cupboard, I thought I might just whip up some hummus-with-white-beans. But beans, like chilis, seem to call for applications appropriate to their specific qualities. No one makes poblano salsa, for example. Jalapenos are needed. Tabasco sauce, to no surprise, can only truly be made with tabascos. So white beans, as adequately as they might suit, are just not destined for hummus. And really, when you’ve been scarfing down a batch a week, it might be time to try something different anyway.

So I faced off against the white beans and thought about accompaniments. Like most dips – hummus, pesto, artichoke (maybe?) – it would need a few players with whom to harmonize and energize. Acid. Herbs. Salt, of course. Maybe some spice. Maybe, given the circumstances, whatever I had lying around…

Out of rosemary, which seemed like a natural pairing (check the web: white beans and rosemary are easy, well established lovers), I did have some toasted, salted, rosemary-infused marcona almonds begging to be consumed. Almonds in bean dip? Why not? Pesto couldn’t operate without pine nuts, and walnuts whir excellently together with roasted red pepper. Lemon seemed too stringent, but an aging orange called me from the fruit basket. Like adding colors to an outfit, each ingredient meant slowly ruling out and pulling in other things. Orange and garlic don’t fit together well, at least not across my palate. So some other sharpness was needed, and I opted for cayenne pepper. Almonds and beans could be a bland marriage. Couples therapy recommends adding some spice.

What came out of the food processor on a tentative spatula dip was a smooth creamy whisper of something amazing. I’m not exaggerating. It was warm, it was earthy, it was perfumed and heated and comforting. As soon as we finished slathering this odd little puree all over crackers, and tortillas, and those amazing raisin rosemary crisps from Trader Joe’s (more on that in a bit…), we wanted more. So I made it again. And this time I wrote some things down and made some adjustments. And some more adjustments.

You may have noticed, if you read this page with any frequency, that with the necessary and understandable exception of buttercream, I am not big on repeating recipes. Most of what I post I have never made before and never made again. It’s a shot in the dark. It’s all experimentation. Love it or leave it. Or play with it yourself until it’s right for you. But guys, I’ve worked on this one. I’ve a real recipe to share that you can actually follow. I’ve forced myself to note and follow my own suggested quantities to make sure yours will emerge the same way (well, sometimes my hand slipped a bit, but I’ll have you know I scolded myself resolutely for that and I won’t do it again. This time).

So here it is, my perhaps overly-annotated almond and white bean dip. Some of the ingredient quantities are listed in ranges. I suggest you begin with the smaller quantity and increase as your taste buds request.

½ cup almonds, skinned and toasted. Marcona almonds are best but most expensive, so choose as your budget permits (this doesn’t mean you have to pay top price for pre-skinned almonds, though. To easily slip their coverings away, put your almonds in a bowl, pour boiling or near boiling water over them, and let them stew for 3-5 minutes. Drain, and when they are cool enough to handle, you should be able to pinch them into nudity in moments. Skinless, they are mild and meaty/fruity and ivory-pale, and you can then quickly toast them in a pan until they begin to brown and exude fragrant oil)

1 15oz. can of white beans (cannellini are creamiest, but great northern and unspecific “white beans”) will do just fine

3 TB fresh rosemary leaves (you can, if you wish, just strip them from their stems and toss them into the food processor. This may result in larger green snippets and a dip chunkier in texture than you want, so depending upon how obsessed with smoothness you are, you can mince the rosemary finely before adding it in)

2 tsp orange zest from one large orange

¼ – ½ cup juice from the same large orange (you could use orange juice from a container, but I think it just doesn’t taste as fresh or bright)

½ – 1 tsp salt, according to your taste *

Pinch cayenne pepper, or to taste *

A generous ½ cup fruity olive oil (I use extra virgin)

In a food processor, pulse almonds until only small chunks remain (texture should be like very coarse sand, but not yet broken down into butter).

Add all remaining ingredients except olive oil and pulse three or four times, until all ingredients are mixed but large clumps resist blending.

Drizzle in olive oil slowly through your food processor’s top spout. The mixture should whir together into a creamy and relatively homogenous spread. Continue to process until it reaches the texture you desire. Chunky and smooth are both fine by me. Taste, season if desired, and taste again. Chill for an hour or two to allow flavors to entwine, and bring to room temperature before serving.

* A note on seasoning: during the hour or two of chilling time, flavors will intensify. Salt, spice, and sharpness will become more pronounced after allowing the dip to sit. Therefore, it might be wise to minutely underseason the first time you make this. If it tastes a touch bland, it might not in a few hours. If it’s already pretty spicy, be aware it will get spicier as it sits. This is not a bad thing, but something of which to be aware.

Now you have your dip. Or spread. Or puree. Depends on how long you processed. But dips – and spreads – all on their own are incomplete. They need a vehicle. And in this case, with this dip, it needs just the right vehicle. It’s not garlic driven, it’s not overwhelmingly pungent. It hovers on the edge of savory. It could even, if you were feeling a deep need for warmth and comfort, take a drizzle of honey and still be delicious. It errs toward the sweeter side. A tortilla chip just won’t do. A pita chip leaves something to be desired.

A rosemary raisin crisp from Trader Joe’s makes it sing. And I was content with that. But then I looked at the ingredient list for these crisps and saw flax, millet, sunflower seeds… all, oddly, items in my pantry that needed using up.

So another project before perfection, which I will tell you about next week: the cracker soap-box derby. Recreating the perfect vehicle for my perfect spread.

Just peeking in…

Posted on August 2, 2012 by Chelsea

Hello friends. Is the world still the same place? I’ve been offline for a full week now, as part of my move from Oregon to California. I’m now settled somewhere in Los Angeles, my eyes startled by constant sun, my ears tender against the sounds of traffic, my taste buds clamoring to explore. I am working on a post – I’m tremendously behind, I know – and I have things to share with you like cobb salad with glazed bacon, and homemade crackers, and a recipe for rosemary and orange zested white bean dip I can’t stop thinking about. Oh, and the little wedding cake thing I made a few weekends ago…

But all that takes time. And there are still boxes everywhere I look. So just as a taster, to keep your appetites primed, here’s a glimpse or two of how my big project turned out:

Back with more soon…

"blackberry-eating in late September"

food, in so many words.

Category Archives: legumes