Diet, Dessert and Dogs

[Ooh, look at those widdy bits of black bean and sweet potato in there!  Who could resist?]

Even as I slog through my pile of assignments and tests, I’ve been sneaking in here to read everyone’s comments, with much gratitude.  Thanks so much for the “ooomph” I need to complete all this work, and your wonderful support!  You are THE BEST.

And since my willpower for staying away from the blog is about as good as my willpower for staying away from chocolate, here I am again–but only today, and then it’s back to the books.  Why am I popping in, you ask?

Well, since so many of you asked about these squares, it felt shameful to keep you waiting for a recipe that isn’t even mine!  Those Sweet Potato, Quinoa and Black Bean Bites that people are drooling over (and which I ate for breakfast the other day, heated up–divine!), are an easy-peasy adaptation of this recipe. 

I basically followed the recipe verbatim, though my version of breadcrumbs was a fresh piece of spelt sourdough bread ground up in the food processor (for gluten-free squares, use a piece of GF bread, or GF breadcrumbs).  I also used organic ketchup rather than tomato paste, fresh cilantro, and omitted the caraway seeds.  Other than that, I patted the mixture into a lightly greased 9 x 9 inch pan and let it bake until dry and firm on top.  Cooled it completely, then cut into little squares, which I placed gingerly on a baking sheet and re-heated until the outsides were a bit crispy.  Honestly, these are fantastic.

Now go enjoy some SPQandBB bites until I get back!

A bientôt,

xo Ricki

[I've decided to offer a mini-post every once in a while, for a dish that comes together incredibly quickly, or else is so easy to make that no recipe is required.  Here's today's "Flash in the Pan."]

[Non-salsa version]

Oooh. . . I’m feeling the crunch.  I wish I could say that’s the “crunch” of a lovely rice crisp-filled chocolate bar or the crunch of ice in a gin and tonic as I lounge by a pool, or even the crunch of my feet as they traverse a lovely woodsy trail with The Girls, but no; the crunch I am experiencing is the crunch of marking as the semester nears its end.  And now that we’ve reached this critical juncture in the term, I’m afraid I won’t be able to post as often as I’d like, at least for a couple of weeks.

I did discover that I’ve got quite a few photos from previous cooking adventures, however, patiently waiting for posts, so I’ll try to clear out some old files over the next while as I simultaneously clear out that pile of marking.

First up is a recipe I remembered while reading Katy’s post yesterday, about her first-ever tofu scramble. I realized I’ve got no fewer than 4 potential posts about various tofu dishes, as the quintessential bean is a regular in our household and I’m always trying out different recipes in a quest for variety and novelty. I’ll start you off with this super-easy Flash in the Pan recipe before moving on to other favorite scrambles in the next week or two.

Like so many of you, I am a big fan of Veganomicon.  One recipe in particular calls to me over and over, sort of like Casablanca or It’s A Wonderful Life:  no matter how many times I sample Isa and Terry’s Caesar salad, I’m always excited to see it again. In fact, I do believe I’ve never tasted a Caesar dressing quite as good as that one, vegan or otherwise. (”We’re pretty fond of it, too, Mum.  We just love that high-protein, high-fat combination of tofu and ground almonds!”)

Just a wee problem:  every time the HH and I whip up a batch of that dressing for our romaine lettuce, we end up with enough silky, garlicy coating for 10-12 servings.  But we are only two.  And yes, I eat Caesar for four days in a row–but still end up with half the dressing in a jar in the fridge.  So, what to do with the leftovers?

Last weekend, I had a little epiphany:  why not COOK IT??  Yes, my friends, I heated up a Caesar salad dressing.  And not only that; I also mixed it with salsa and crumbled tofu.  Yep, life sure is wacky in the DDD household!  (”You said it, Mum! But does this mean we get to lick dressing off your fingers now?”)

And you know what?  It was fantastic!  The combination of slightly spicy (I used a medium-hot salsa), creamy and pungent was to-die-for.  The raw garlic in the dressing is cooked a bit, thereby mitigating the usual bite when that particular bulb is eaten raw.  The dressing-salsa mixture was the perfect consistency–thick enough to smother and cling to the chunks of tofu, yet soft enough to remain a bit saucy. (And we’re all for saucy here at DDD).

The second time I tried it, we were actually all out of salsa, so I just used a chopped onion sautéed in a tad of olive oil, a (large) chopped tomato and a few sprinkles of tabasco, for a very similar effect.  I think I’m addicted to this stuff now (or, at least, for the next couple of weeks, before I move on to something else. . . not only wacky, but fickle, too. I guess that’s just what life is like during crunch time.).

Mex-Ital Tofu Scramble

[Salsa version]

If you’re in a hurry and happen to have leftover Caesar dressing in the fridge, this is a great scramble for breakfast or lunch.  People are particular about the tofu they use for scrambles–I like really firm, solid chunks, but if you prefer the water-packed kind, go for it.  This is lovely on a piece of spelt pita.

1 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

1 package extra-firm tofu (about 350 grams or 12 ounces), crumbled or cut in small cubes

leftover Caesar salad dressing (about 1/2 cup or 125 ml.)–I use the Veganomicon recipe

about 1/2 cup of your favorite salsa

1/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro (optional)

In a large frypan, heat the oil over medium heat.  Add the tofu and sauté just until the bits of tofu begin to dry out on the edges and perhaps start to brown a little.  Stir in the Caesar dressing and salsa and mix to blend well, coating all the tofu.  Reduce heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens just a bit and is heated through, 3-5 minutes.  Stir in cilantro if desired. Breakfast* is served! Makes 4 servings.

*or lunch, or dinner.

Recently, the HH and I spent a couple of evenings with my old friend Phil, first in Montreal and then again here in Toronto.  It was wonderful to see an old friend with whom I share so much history (we’ve known each other since we were both 15).  She’s supported me through high school angst, sweet sixteens, no date for the prom, moving away to attend university, my first real boyfriend, moving to Toronto to attend graduate school, my starter marriage, my traumatic divorce, my first house purchase, and finally, meeting the HH and “adopting” The Girls.  The list of events on her side to which I was witness is similar (minus the divorce and plus a couple of children).  And yet the strange thing is, when we get together, we rarely talk about the past.

It’s more than just deference to the two men in our lives (who weren’t around when we experienced the early Phil-and-Ricki escapades, and who only made each other’s acquaintance at the tail end of the 20th century). No, it’s just that life keeps changing, and we always seem to be facing new work dilemmas, self-identity crises, weight roadblocks, or relationship worries (the last not discussed with the guys present, of course).  So there’s no dearth of topics to keep us gabbing. 

This last visit, however, we did ease into some reminiscenses about our high school days.  I was kidding Phil about her teenaged quirks, and we replayed some of the times whiled away in her mother’s kitchen, sipping coffee and eating avocados.  And, of course, we couldn’t forget her mother’s cakes.

Mother Phil had two sweet specialties.  Well, I guess I’d characterize them as “two standards.” Actually, they were more like “two reliable standbys.” Okay; they were the only two desserts she knew how to make.  Still, they were both terrific and I never tired of tasting them.  The first was called “Pistachio Cake,” and it was, I later discovered (once she revealed the recipe after I’d moved away from home and had my own kitchen in which to bake) comprised of one box of yellow cake mix, a box of pistachio pudding mix, and some Hershey’s chocolate syrup.  The result was a bundt cake round and high and light as a drizzle in July, with a meandering brown swirl throughout.  As with most cake-mix cakes, the texture was impossibly airy and seemed so insubstantial as to require at least 3 servings before one felt even mildly appeased.  In our case, Phil and I could polish off half the cake ourselves before even having to pour a second cup of coffee. 

The other confection was a from-scratch affair that Mother Phil called, simply, “Date Cake.”  Brimming with chopped, softened dates and just a whisper of cocoa, the resulting deep brown batter transformed into a dessert that, on first impression, impersonated chocolate very nicely.  I’d always thought the cake was, indeed, a cocoa-based one until I was finally privy to the recipe and found that it contained only one tablespoon of the rich, dark powder.  The rest of the intense flavor came courtesy of moist, sweet dates.

As someone who’d never tasted a dried (or fresh, for that matter) date before this cake, I wasn’t prepared for the level of sweetness imparted by the dates.  Nowadays, I value dates for their natural sugar content (the highest in the fruit kingdom) and use date purée frequently, both for its added sweetness and moisture content.  But in those days, dates, like Mrs. Phil herself–a stunning, accented import from Belgium–were considered exotic.  I was jubilant the first time I attempted to recreate the cake on my own and it came out almost exactly as the original. 

As Phil and I reminisced, I began to wonder whether I could reproduce the cake still, given my inflexible dietary restrictions.  I dug up the recipe, which I’d scribbled hastily in pen across the faint turquoise lines of an old spiral notebook. The page is now torn along the spine and dotted with irregular, amoeba-like tea stains and little splotches of oil that render the paper transparent in spots. But the recipe appeared fairly straightforward and seemed to lend itself quite easily to adaptation.  And even with the sprinkling of chocolate chips over the top, it seemed like a fairly healthy indulgence. 

After a couple of attempts, I managed to reproduce something akin to the original.  This cake would make a perfect snack, moist but not too sweet, with the pièce de resistance in the topping: the crunch of golden toasted coconut contrasted with the crackly, caramelized Sucanat and soft, melty chocolate chips.  The HH pronounced this cake “Just like Duncan Hines!”–meant as a compliment, to be sure, but not an endorsement I’m sure I’d embrace.  As for me, the dessert transported me back to Phil’s high-school era kitchen and the original cake of my adolescence.  That memory alone is sweet enough for me.  

Mrs. K’s Date Cake–2008 Edition

This is the kind of cake you like to have on hand as an after-school snack, or when you’re feeling peckish mid-morning.  Baked in a square pan, it will keep, covered on the counter, for up to 4 days, longer if refrigerated (though bring to room temperature before indulging).

Cake:

heaping 1/2 cup (75 g.) finely chopped dried (unsweetened) dates

1 cup (250 ml.) boiling water

1/2 cup (125 ml.) Sucanat

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) finely ground flax seeds

1/4 cup (60 ml.) coconut milk, almond milk or soymilk

1/4 cup (60 ml.) sunflower or other light-tasting oil

2 tsp. (10 ml.) pure vanilla extract

1 cup + 2 Tbsp. (170 g.) light spelt flour

1 heaping Tbsp. (10 g.) dark cocoa powder

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) baking soda

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) baking powder

1/4 tsp. (1 ml.) sea salt

Topping:

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) Sucanat

1/4 cup (12 g.) unsweetened shredded coconut

1/2 cup ( g.) dairy-free dark chocolate chips

Make cake:  Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C).  Lightly grease an 8-inch (about 20 cm.) square pan, or line with parchment paper.

Place the dates in a medium bowl and pour the boiling water over them; stir briefly.  Add the sucanat, flax, milk, oil, and vanilla, and whisk to blend.  Allow to sit until room temperature, about 15 minutes.

In a large bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, and salt.  Pour the wet mixture over the dry and stir to blend.  Turn into the prepared pan and smooth the top.

Sprinkle the topping ingredients over the cake:  first, sprinkle the sucanat evenly over the surface of the batter.  Cover with a sprinkling of the coconut, and end with the chocolate chips.

Bake for 35-40 minutes, turning the pan once about halfway through to ensure even baking, until a tester inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean.  Allow to cool in the pan for at least 20 minutes before cutting (if you cut this while hot, the melty chips will stick to the knife and you’ll have a blob of goo instead of a piece of cake).  Makes 9 large or 12 medium-sized pieces.  May be frozen.

There are certain food combinations that strike one as just so naturally compatible, you couldn’t imagine them any other way. Consider the seminal chocolate and peanut butter, for instance: could there be a happier marriage of sweet, salty, creamy, smooth, and enticing? Or what about vodka and orange juice, or pancakes and maple syrup, or french fries and gravy, or macaroni and cheese, or apple and cinnamon or–I could go on.  On the other hand, it’s always gratifying to discover alternate matches that may seem bizarre at first glance, yet actually work once you give them a try (funny, why did the HH suddenly come to mind?)

When I was an undergraduate at the University of Windsor, my wacky room mate had a friend who ate her pizza with peanut butter where the tomato sauce should have been.  She swore it tasted great (I declined to sample a slice). During my childhood in Montreal, my friend Gemini II used to eat liver sandwiches with cream cheese (again, I believe I passed on that one).  The well-known duo of french fries and mayo always struck me as odd until I was served sweet potato fries with mayo at one of my favorite vegan restaurants  (which, of course, prompted me to head straight home and prepare spicy sweet potato fries with avocado mayonnaise, and now I’m hooked).  I’m sure you’ve got your own personal favorite fixings that, any disparaging comments aside, you adore nonetheless (and please feel free to ‘fess up in the comments section!).

Well, as some of you may recall, the HH and I have just a smidge of surplus mint around here this summer.  Yes, indeed, I’d venture to say that my garden is in mint condition!  I’ve been concocting as many beverages, appetizers, dips, entrées or desserts containing the stuff as my little hands can muster, and even thought I was doing pretty well until the other day when I stepped round the corner of our house and saw that those darned wanton herbs had been propagating over night–it appeared as if I’d used nary a leaf!

And so, by dint of mint, I was forced to come up with yet another recipe showcasing the stuff.  Which actually worked out perfectly, since Holler and Lisa’s No Croutons Required event this month requests a salad focusing on a favorite herb.  Well, if by “favorite,” they meant “so much that I could rip bagfuls from the yard and still have enough left to freshen the breath of the entire town of Gilroy, CA on July 25, 26 & 27th in the month of July”; or “so much that I will have to start using it as packing filler when I mail trunks of fine china or glassware across the Atlantic” or “so much that even the thought of mint makes me feel a bit queasy, which, as it turns out,  is actually okay, since mint helps to aid in proper digestion” or “so much that I will have to cook at least one dish with mint in it every single day for the forthcoming 11 months, until it sprouts up again next summer, just to use it up”–well, if that’s what they meant by “favorite herb,” then yes, mint is indeed my favorite, and definitely deserves to be featured in my submission to the event.  

I do enjoy a good fresh peach, but when I saw three of the fuzzy spheres nestled in our organic produce box a couple of weeks ago, I almost despaired.  A properly ripened peach is a wonderful thing, but there seems to be a terribly small window of maturity wherein peaches are at their apex of flavor and texture–firm, juicy and sweet-tart–before they quickly decline into dry, powdery mush. If not eaten precisely on the right day (sometimes the right hour), the peach becomes unappetizing at best, perhaps suitable for a sauce or baked good; at worst, it’s both tasteless and unpleasant, and destined for the compost bin.

Given the capricious nature of the downy stone fruits, I decided a salad would be the perfect context in which to combine it with other ingredients that could overshadow their potentially less-than-stellar consistency.  Mint was a given, of course, and for some reason, I felt that cucumbers would also suit the flavor palette.  The final addition was sweet corn kernels–partly because they just called, “pick me!” and partly because I thought the color would work well with all the other summer hues, which always elicit a desire in me for fresh fruits and veggies.

In the end, we both adored this random combination of ingredients and have now consumed it four times in the last 2 weeks.  The peaches are tart and luscious (and even the sub-par slices soak up the dressing and seem more juicy); the cucumber is cold, watery and mild; the corn is crisp and sweet; and the mint is pungent and peppery, all culminating in a perfect pastiche of color, flavor and texture.

It’s true, peaches, corn and mint may not have been born for each other; but their arranged marriage in this dish makes for one very harmonious union.  

Minted Peach and Corn Salad

This salad comes together quickly, resulting in a fresh, crisp, juicy, altogether irresistible side dish for almost any warm weather meal.  It’s best eaten right away, but will keep for a day in the refrigerator.

Dressing:

3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) rice wine vinegar

3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) extra virgin olive oil

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) agave nectar

juice of 1/2 large lime

1/4 tsp. sea salt, if desired

1/3 cup (80 ml.) chopped fresh mint leaves

Salad:

1.5 cups (375 ml.) corn kernels, fresh (steam lightly if desired) or frozen (defrost but don’t cook)

1 medium cucumber, peeled, seeded, cut in quarters lengthwise and sliced

3 large, ripe peaches, washed, pitted and cut into slices

1/3 cup (80 ml.) unsalted cashews, lightly toasted

In the bottom of a large salad bowl, combine all the dressing ingredients and whisk together.  Add the remaining ingredients, toss well, and serve.

After the HH and I had been dating for about four months and he’d already passed the “willing to tolerate my multiple quirks and neuroses” test, I decided it would be acceptable for him to finally meet my family and old friends in Montreal.  I cajoled coerced begged invited him to join me one weekend as I headed east.  We arranged to stay at the CFO’s place, to visit with the rest of the family, to attend a dinner party at my friend Babe’s, and to spend the remainder of our time sight-seeing; the plans were all set.

And then, during the drive across the highway, the HH contracted some bizarre, sci-fi worthy flu virus and ended up spending the entire visit in bed–febrile, congested, inflamed and sullying tissue after tissue with unsavory bodily fluids.  My relatives encountered a slightly dazed, highly medicated, Rudolph-nosed guy who didn’t make the greatest impression (he’s made up for it since). 

Ever since that sniffling début, it’s become somewhat of a running gag in our house:  whenever the HH and I travel to Montreal, one of us is inevitably sick (most recently, it was my turn; I suffered a wicked sinus headache for the first day, but recuperated by the second).  The only time we both felt fine, turned out the CFO was the one with a terrible cold, which she unwittingly passed on as a parting gift to me. Two days after returning to Toronto, I was felled once again. 

It may be a cliché to say that men are babies when it comes to having colds, that they whine and complain and moan, even as a woman suffering the same symptoms would simply drag herself from bed and get on with it. Well, not my HH.  As in most things, he and I are total opposites when it comes to illness:  if the HH gets sick, he retreats to bed, lies inert for about 48 hours, then emerges, like Ripley out of a stasis chamber, exactly as he was before.  (The first time this occurred, I was truly alarmed: I was certain the guy had croaked on me, as he literally slept for two days without even getting up to eat or drink).  I, on the other hand, am more likely stricken with a chronic, pervasive, low-grade, not-quite-debilitating-but-definitely-quite-annoying set of symptoms that lasts anywhere from four days to two months. I can function, but I’m miserable while I’m doing it.

One weekend a few weeks ago, Chaser had her first encounter with the HH’s unique form of healing.  After he crawled into bed, I closed the door, as usual, so Dad could sleep it off. The Girls were entirely thrown off their regular routine. They moped about outside the bedroom, looking rather–well, hang-dog.

Finally, around 5:00 PM, the door swung open and there he was–and vertical!  The Girls were ecstatic (”Does this mean we get to go to the trail now??”). Even as hope faded when the HH plunked himself in front of the TV, a dull patina of illness still coating his visage and a network of sheet-wrinkles, like tributaries on a map, spread across his face, those Girls still stuck by their Dad. 

I headed to the kitchen to whip up something hearty for the HH’s first meal back in civilization. Before I could even grab a spatula, however, there were The Girls at my feet, staring patiently.  Ah, yes, I’d forgotten that 5:00 PM is dog dinnertime. (”Right, Mum.  Food trumps sick owner. Sorry Dad, but you’re on your own.”)

As to the humans’ dinner, I decided on tempeh, a food I love but don’t eat often enough. Pairing a vague notion of BBQ season with a half-consumed jar of apple butter, I had my starting point. I realize there’s a plethora of BBQ recipes out there around this time of year, from the archetypal Wingz at Don’t Eat Off the Sidewalk to these recent lovelies at Happy Herbivore and another fairly recent version at Vegan Dad.  But I was determined to use that apple butter, so I just grabbed a few other items from the fridge and began to mix.  

The results were, after all, very pleasing.  The tempeh’s meaty texture works well with the slightly spicy, slightly sweet flavors of the sauce. If you like BBQ sauce with a kick, you’ll enjoy this dish.  Unfortunately for the HH, he missed out on that particular gustatory pleasure, as his nose was still too congested for him to really appreciate the taste.  Still, the high protein content of the tempeh worked well to help rebuild his stamina, and he was back to work the following day. 

But I think we’ll hold off on any more trips to Montreal–for a little while, at least.

Because of tempeh provides such a healthy source of protein, I’m submitting this to Sangeeth at Art of Cooking Indian Food for her Eat Healthy–Protein Rich event.

Sweet and Spicy BBQ Tempeh

These are slightly sweet, slightly gooey with a spicy kick.  I assume they’d be even better if actually cooked on a grill, but this baked version was equally tasty.

1 package (about 3/4 pound or 350 g.) tempeh, pre-steamed or ready to cook, cut into triangles

1/4 cup unsweetened apple butter

1/2 onion, grated very fine or pureed

2 Tbsp. pure maple syrup

4-6 drops Tabasco, or to taste

1 Tbsp. tamari or soy sauce

juice of 1/2 lime

Mix all ingredients except tempeh and blend well.  You’ll have a a fairly thick sauce.  Pour about half the sauce into the bottom of an 8 x 8 inch square greased pan.  Place tempeh triangles on the sauce to fit.  Spoon rest of sauce over top. Marinate at least one hour, turning tempeh over once.

Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C).  Bake the tempeh about 20 minutes, flip the triangles over and coat with as much sauce as you can (anything you don’t scoop up now will dry to the pan–beware!).  You can leave a fairly thick layer of sauce on top of each triangle.  Bake 20-30 more minutes, until the sauce has dried on top and begins to brown in places.  Remove from pan while still hot to avoid sticking.  Makes 2-3 servings.  Store leftovers in a covered container in the fridge for up to 3 days.

You know, there are days when I just marvel at how much my life has been enriched by joining the world of blogging. I’m amazed at how many positive experiences this little outlet for self-expression, culinary creativity and the occasional star-struck reference to my favorite soap opera has brought my way.

At the forefront, of course, is YOU–the readers and commenters.  What an inspiring group of compassionate, intelligent, witty and loyal people you are!  Thank you for coming back here on a regular basis; thank you for your thoughtful comments (I am, literally, thrilled every time I see one appear at the end of a blog entry–and they keep me coming back here, too); and thank you for your feedback and knowledgeable advice (I’m so excited to start cooking from my recently-acquired cookbooks, courtesy of your suggestions–yay Crescent Dragonwagon!).  Truly, a blog is a sorry, desolate place without its readers.

Along the way, I’ve also discovered many other blogs and bloggers, and what a revelation that has been. I was dumbfounded the other day when I realized there are now approximately 150 blogs on my Google Reader, and I seem to discover new and intriguing blogs every day (and I promise, they will all eventually make it to my blog roll).  Where were all these talented writers hiding before the advent of blogs?  Whether primarily for the recipes or mostly for the prose, I delight in reading every one and perk up each time Google informs me of a new post by a favorite blogger. Lately, I’ve been a bit remiss with my own comments on other blogs, but please know that I do read regularly and am enjoying all your posts!

Speaking of great bloggers, yesterday I had the unique pleasure of actually meeting another Toronto-area blogger, Giz from Equal Opportunity Kitchen .  As you’d expect from her posts, Giz is witty, sharp, and very, very funny. We chatted like two teenaged chums who meet up again at the 10-year high school reunion, gabbing and giggling and catching up on what we’ve been doing over the past decade.  In fact, our conversation flowed so smoothly and effortlessly that we were on our way out the door of the coffee shop before we realized we hadn’t even touched on the topic we’d ostensibly met to discuss–Giz’s “slimdown challenge” to me from a while back! Thanks, Giz, for a great start to my morning!

As many other bloggers have noted, blogging also forces enourages one to try out new recipes.  In her recent 100th post, VeggieGirl mentioned how each blog entry represents a new recipe (can it be that the HH and I have eaten 186 new dishes–not counting all those that don’t make it to the blog–since last October??).  And part of this impetus to cook novel food arrives in the form of blog events, another aspect of blogging that I thoroughly enjoy. 

These days, it seems there’s a new blog event posted almost daily; I sorely wish I could participate in all of them.  Unfortunately, my schedule at the moment prohibits too much experimentation in the kitchen.  It’s currently end of semester at the college and my marking, like all the ripe, luscious seasonal fruit, is at its peak.  I’ve got a stack of papers on my desk that just might trump the CN tower as the world’s tallest freestanding structure.  And while preparing foods for blog events is admittedly more colorful than marking essays (which involves only black and red, after all), it wouldn’t do to set aside the former for the latter (well, not too often, anyway).

Still, when I read about the Healthy Cooking: Eat Well, Live Well event hosted by Mansi at Fun and Food, I knew I had to submit something.  After all, isn’t the very raison d’être of this blog, more or less, “to create healthy, delicious foods”?  (That, and to provide The Girls a forum in which to air their observations and opinions, of course). 

(”Thanks, Mum, we appreciate that.  You know we HATE having our opinions squelched.”)

I thought about what to prepare, but my mind came up blank.  Then, while attempting to clear the non-marking clutter (eg., half-filled tea mug, empty water bottle, digital camera, sticky notes with recipe ideas, cookbooks previously used for blog entries, magazines previously used for blog inspiration, my checkbook, Bram Stoker’s Dracula [the novel, not the vampire], stray Chaser hairs, my journal, an anniversary card from the HH, and my calculator) off my desk the other night, I came across June’s issue of Cooking Light.  Where have I been living, under a rock or something? I mean, I’m aware there’s such as thing as zucchini bread, the moist and delectable quick loaf that’s a staple in many a baking household. I am also aware that your classic carrot cake is often studded with bits of juicy pineapple.  But zucchini and pineapple?  Together? It just never occurred to me.  Yet there it was, staring at me from the pages of Cooking Light.

The funny thing is, the magazine’s recipe was a “lightened-up” version of an older, original recipe, that contained 3 eggs, 1 cup oil, and 2 cups sugar.  The Cooking Light version cut back to 2 eggs (plus an additional 1/2 cup chemicals made to taste like eggs), 2/3 cup oil and 2 cups (2 CUPS!!) white sugar.  Granted, the recipe yields 2 loaves, but still–an entire cup per loaf?  Seemed a bit excessive to me.

And so, I decided to lighten the already-lightened version.  (Is that sort of like asking Michael Jackson to bleach his skin?)  Seemed to me I could accomplish a fine job of it by reducing the oil even more, and most definitely by reducing the sugar and replacing it with natural sweeteners instead.  My recent avocado kick provided yet another brilliant twist.  My ratiocination went something like this: zucchini is green.  Avocado is green.  Why not add some more green to the green, and use avocado purée instead of egg in this recipe?  Along with the Omega-3’s in the flax seeds, the avocado provides a good dose of monounsaturated fats to the batter, allowing me to reduce the oil even further. And so, my own idiosyncratic variation of zucchini-pineapple loaf was born.

The bread is fragrant with cinnamon, sweet with pineapple and soft, melting bits of chopped dates throughout.  The zucchini contributes a certain depth of flavor and even more moisture–in fact, this bread treads the very limits of moistness; any more moist, and it might not qualify as a solid.  The flavors meld and intensify once the bread is cooled and rested, so it’s even more tasty the morning after it’s made.  And like blogging, it will enrich your day with a healthy dose of sweetness and discovery.

Zucchini and Pineapple Mini Loaves

A healthy, hearty version of a heavier standard, this bread mixes up easily and is a great recipe for using up leftover zucchini, pineapple, or overripe avocado.  

5 ounces (150 g.) finely grated zucchini (fresh or previously frozen)

1/4 cup (60 ml.) avocado purée (fresh or previously frozen)

1/2 cup (100-120 g.) very well-drained crushed pineapple (drain first and then measure) 

1/2 cup (90 g.) Sucanat (unrefined brown sugar)

1/4 cup (60 ml.) pure maple syrup

2 Tbsp. (15 g.) finely ground flax seed

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) sunflower or other light-tasting oil

1/2 tsp. (5 ml.) apple cider vinegar

1 tsp. (5 ml.) pure vanilla extract

generous 1/4 cup (35-40 g.) chopped dried dates

3/4 cup plus 2 Tbsp. (125-130 g.) light spelt flour

3/4 cup (90 g.) whole barley flour

1 tsp. (5 ml.) baking powder

1 tsp. (5 ml.) baking soda

2 tsp. (10 ml.) cinnamon

1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) sea salt

Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C).  Lightly grease 8 mini-loaf pans or muffin cups, or line with paper liners.

In a medium bowl, combine the zucchini, avocado, pineapple, Sucanat, maple syrup, flax, apple cider vinegar, vanilla and chopped dates.  Stir to mix well and set aside while you prepare the dry ingredients, or at least 2 minutes.

In a large bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt.  Stir or whisk to distribute the leaveners and cinnamon throughout.

Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and stir just to blend (don’t worry if a few dry spots remain here and there).  Using a 1/3 cup measuring cup or large ice cream scoop, fill each tin about 3/4 full. 

Bake for 15 minutes, then rotate pan and bake another 10-15 minutes, until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean.  Allow to cool in pan for about 5 minutes before removing to a cooling rack.  Makes 8 loaves or muffins.  Store in airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 5 days (these taste even better the 2nd day). May be frozen.

To me, summer means potato salad season. And coleslaw season, and watermelon season, and ice cream season, and gin and tonic season. . . but primarily, potato salad season.  So, quick: when you think of potato salad, what type do you think of?

Well, there are the “smooth and creamy potato salad” people.  There are the “tangy, vinegary potato salad” people.  There are the “small cubed potatoes potato salad” people and the “big, honkin’ chunks of potato potato salad” people.  There are the “grilled potatoes potato salad” people. And there are even the “radishes and potatoes potato salad ” people (an iteration I’d never encountered before this summer).

And moi?  I like ‘em all.  The HH is a huge fan of potatoes in any form, prepared using any cooking method and dressed with any and all toppings or seasonings (unfortunately, his sole requirement is that they be plated alongside a piece of animal protein). 

(”And Mum, don’t forget the ‘canine potato salad people’. . . oh, actually, we’ll just take that piece of animal protein instead.”)

Since I adore leafy green vegetables and have also been trying to incorporate more of them into my diet lately, I’m eternally scouting out recipes that make use of greens in novel and interesting ways.  A few nights ago I remembered this old favorite that we haven’t eaten in a couple of years at least. The recipe is from a book I found over a decade ago, in the remainder bin at a local bookstore. Called, simply, The Greens Book, it’s a slender volume offering a multitude of esoteric recipes with a handful of more accessible ones (of which this salad is one).  Mostly, I’ve used the book as a reference source when I want to identify some mysterious or previously unencountered green that’s crossed my path (sometimes literally), as it also provides sharp and stunning photographs of each type of leaf. 

I’ve proclaimed my affection for raw dandelion greens in an earlier post; this salad uses barely-wilted stems and leaves and pairs them with cooked, still-warm potato chunks and a lemony, garlicky, olive-oil dressing.  It’s quick, easy, and perfect as an accompaniment to a Bar B Q buffet or as a main course if served alongside another salad.  Because the flavors are so pronounced, this dish can easily liven up a humble or mildly flavored main course.

Although they’re not technically herbs, dandelions do grow in my very own backyard, so I’m submitting this recipe to Kalyn’s Weekend Herb Blogging event, started at Kalyn’s Kitchen and this week hosted by Simona at Briciole.

Warm Dandelion and Potato Salad

from The Greens Book by Susan Belsinger and Carolyn Dille

Cooked on the stovetop in no time at all, this salad won’t overheat the house on a hot summer’s evening.  Though it’s great served warm, this is also wonderful at room temperature.

1/2 pound (225 g.) dandelion greens, picked over, washed, and dried

1-1/2 pounds (675 g.) red-skinned potatotes

1/3 cup (80 ml.) extra virgin olive oil

zest from one lemon

3 garlic cloves, pressed or minced

salt and freshly ground pepper

juice from one large lemon (about 1/4 cup–60 ml.)

generous 1/4 cup (60 ml.)–we use more like 1/3 cup or 80 ml.–pitted and sliced kalamata olives (or use whole if you can’t find pitted)

Remove dandelion leaves from stems and tear or chop into large bite-sized pieces. Cut the stems into pieces about 3/4 inch (2 cm.) long.

Scrub the potatoes. Slice into 1/8 inch (3 mm) thick slices, or, if they’re small, just cut in half. Place in pot, cover with water, and bring to boil.  Cook 10-12 minutes, until just fork-tender. Drain and keep warm.

Mix the olive oil, lemon zest, and garlic in a small bowl.  Place about 2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) of the mixture, including some bits of garlic, in a sauté pan. Heat over medium heat and add the dandelion stems.  Cook and stir for 4 minutes.  Add the greens and stir for one minute longer. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. The stems should be cooked but still crispy, and the greens should be barely wilted.

Transfer the dandelion ixture to a bolw and cover with the hot potatoes.  Add the lemon juice and rest of the oil mixture, and toss well.  Add the olives and toss again. Taste for seasoning and serve.   Makes 6 servings as a side dish or 4 as a main course.

* [or Concasse, if you prefer the more conventional term. . . but I just loved the word "tracklement" ever since I read it on Lucy's blog, and besides, "Tomato Tracklement" is just so much more alliterative.]

Last weekend was our Canada Day holiday, and this year I learned an important lesson.  No, it wasn’t “Canada is 141 years old” (even though it was).  Uh-uh, it wasn’t “Canada is a vast and picturesque, multicultural and welcoming country in which to live” (I already knew that one).  Nope, not even ”Although Canada is a vast and picturesque, multicultural and welcoming country in which to live, a summer full of rain really sucks–almost as much as a typical Canadian winter.” And finally, nay, it also wasn’t “The Girls are still scared of fireworks” (really, talk about stating the obvious). 

No, dear readers, the all-important lesson I learned this past weekend was simply this:

Never (and I mean never) attempt to drive across the province at the beginning of a long July 1st weekend.

Elementary, you say?  Well, for some reason, the HH and I, despite 10 years of trekking from Toronto to Montreal and back on a regular basis, have never traveled that particular stretch of the 401 on the long Canada Day weekend.  This year, with my dad turning 87, we decided it was a necessity.  

Big mistake.

BIG.

The 500-kilometre (about 315 mile) drive usually takes us between 4.5 and 6 hours, depending on (A) time of departure; (B) weather conditions; (C) who’s driving; (D) number of rest stops; and (E) traffic.  This past weekend, our multiple-choice answer was overwhelmingly, “E,” or really, more like, “EEEEEeeeeee!!!”  To be precise, eight hours’ worth of “E.”

As we slid out of the city and onto the highway, I sensed a barely perceptible increase in the volume of vehicles on the road.  Then, within about five minutes, it became painfully clear: everyone and their canines were heading off to the cottage for the long weekend.  And us?  No cottage; no canines (The Girls were happily ensconced at the doggie daycare for the weekend); and no discernible movement on the roads.  I’d completely forgotten our route included a short span of terrain known as ”cottage country” (also known, as the Barenaked Ladies recently reminded us in song, as “Peterborough and the Kawarthas“).  And there we were, the HH and I, motionless amid all the eager, impatient, fidgety and perspiring boaters, gardeners, waterskiers and Barbeque-ers, our wheels moving barely a quarter turn every 10 minutes or so.

Even if we could afford one, I doubt we would actually buy a cottage (and this has nothing to do with the fact that the HH is a role model for ”don’t do it yourself-ers”).  Still, I do treasure memories of spending summers at various country houses when I was a kid.  My parents couldn’t afford a cottage, either, but in those days, rentals were abundant and reasonably priced, and didn’t require reservations a year in advance (one summer, in fact, I clearly remember my parents discussing the possibility of escaping the city on the very evening school let out; by the following afternoon, I’d tossed my report card in the closet, pulled my collection of comic books out instead, and we were on the road toward our temporary summer home).

In those days, my parents rented a house through July and August.  They’d pack up the family (my two sisters, our cocker spaniel, Sweeney, and I) in the back of my dad’s station wagon-cum-butcher shop delivery van, and off we went to our rudimenatry cabin in the woods, sans modern amenities or TV. Along with the other husbands, my father helped us settle in the first weekend, then headed back to the city (and his store) during the week, while the rest of us hung around with the moms and kids until the men returned each Friday evening. For five days a week, the wives managed to keep things running smoothly, demonstrating both independence and resourcefulness; yet every Friday, they mysteriously reverted to squeaky voices, soft entreaties and deference, much as early feminists must have done when their soldier-husbands returned from the front.  

In the intervals free from paternal presence, we children would run barefoot along the roadside, plucking thick, flat blades of crabgrass to grip securely between tightly pressed thumbs, then huffing and blowing our makeshift whistles, our postures in supplication to nature.  We’d seek out the other kids whose parents rented homes around the same lake, for day-long games of hide-and-seek, for building sand forts at the lakeside, or for throwing sticks to Sweeney and the other dogs (who, bored with our weak attempts at “fetch,” would lope off and sleep under porches, squirrel-hunt in the woods, or, toward evening, launch a stealth attack on the hotdogs piled on plates beside the Bar-B-Q’s).

By the end of the season, we’d worn ourselves out with outdoor games, our limbs buff and bronzed in variegated strips of earthtone after two months of shifting sleeve lengths.  All the books I’d brought were read and forgotten; I’d colored and drawn and written in my journal about my adventures; my younger sister and I had picked countless plastic sandbuckets full of wild blueberries from the hill at the end of town; and we were, finally, ready to go home.

One of my fondest memories is the drive back south, passing field after field of farmers’ corn as it just approached ripeness.  The long, elegant leaves swished and swayed in the breeze like our own welcoming committee, a troupe of Hawaiian dancers greeting tourists as they disembark from the plane.  By the time school resumed, we were eating fresh cobs of corn with our dinners, juice trailing down our chins and our cheeks flecked with wayward bits of yellow like reverse freckles on our tanned faces.

I reminisced about that incomparable corn as I contemplated Pancakes on Parade, the event hosted by Susan of The Well Seasoned Cook.  I had already decided (though I love sweet pancakes and make them whenever there’s an excuse) that I wanted to do something savory for this event.  Corn cakes are a long-time favorite, and they seemed the perfect choice.  And while there’s nothing quite like a plump, fresh cob of grilled or steamed corn, juicy and sweet and eaten with the same enthusiasm usually reserved for long-absent lovers, sometimes it’s just impossible to acquire the fresh kind.   That’s when frozen, or even canned (heresy!) come in handy.

The crêpes are based on a recipe I created a few years ago for a brunch event.  This time, however, I decided to pair them with a sweet and tart tomato concasse, and the combination improved the overall effect considerably.  The tracklement cooks up really quickly, in just the right amount of time to serve alongside the crêpes.  Savor these right away, or wrap up for later consumption–they’d make a great snack if you ever find yourself stuck on the highway for eight hours or so.

Corn Crêpes with Quick Tomato Tracklement

A savory pancake with occasional bursts of sweetness in juicy corn kernels, these are great with the accompanying tomato concasse for brunch or light dinner. Or use with other savory spreads such as hummus or avocado mayonnaise.

3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) sunflower or other light-tasting oil

1 c. (240 ml.) unsweetened soy milk or almond milk

1 tsp. (10 ml.) apple cider vinegar

1/2 cup (120 ml.) corn kernels, freshly cooked, frozen or canned (drained)

1/2 cup (120 ml.) water, vegetable broth or liquid from canned corn

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) finely ground flax seeds

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) agave nectar

3/4 c. (105 g.) light spelt flour

3/4 tsp. (7.5 ml.) baking powder

1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) baking soda

1/4 tsp. (1. 5 ml.) sea salt

1 tsp. (10 ml.) dried dill weed or 1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) fresh dill, chopped

1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) smoked paprika

In a medium bowl, combine the oil, soymilk, vinegar, corn kernels, water, flax seeds, and agave nectar. Mix well and set aside while you prepare the dry ingredients, or at least 2 minutes.

In a large bowl, sift th flour, baking powder, soda, and salt.  Add the dill and paprika and mix well. 

Pour the wet mixture over the dry and stir just to blend (a few small lumps may remain here and there; this is as it should be.  The batter will be thin).

Heat a small nonstick or cast iron frypan over medium heat.  Using about 1/2 cup (120 ml.) batter per crepe, fill the pan and tilt if necessary to coat the bottom of the pan evenly. Allow 4-5 minutes before flipping the crepe (it is ready to turn when bubbles appear and pop on the top surface, creating little “craters,” and the edge of the crepe looks dry).  Cook briefly on the second side, only enough to dry the surface, about one minute.

Keep cooked crepes warm while you continue with the rest of the batter. Serve immediately.  Makes about 6 large or 20 small crepes.

Tomato Tracklement

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) extra virgin olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/2 onion, chopped

4 plum tomatoes, skinned and chopped fine

1 tsp. (5 ml.) dried basil or 1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) fresh, finely chopped

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) red wine vinegar

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) sucanat or unrefined sugar

1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper

1/8 tsp. sea salt

In a small saucepan, heat the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the onion and garlic and sauté until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes.  Add the basil and cook for one more minute.  Add remaining ingredients and continue to cook over medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until most of the liquid has evaporated and the condiment is thick and almost smooth, 10-15 minutes.  Serve warm or at room temperature over corn crepes, bread or crackers.  Makes about 3/4 cup.

[Red plums, white(ish) cake, blue(ish) other plums--Happy 4th of July!]

Our recent visit to Montreal last week, like most of our road trips, involved a hamper of food to stave off starvation en route.  As is my wont, the night before travelling, I basically ransack the kitchen and tote along anything that’s hardy enough to last the voyage. The list of provisions usually includes any leftovers from the previous two days, a stash of homebaked scones/muffins/bread, a container of homemade trail mix and any transportable fresh fruits or vegetables that would otherwise transform themselves into unrecognizable mush, green fuzz, or oozing fermentation if left to their own devices while we’re away.

Well, since Fridays mark our regular organic box delivery, and since we departed on a Saturday morning, there was plenty of produce to accompany us.  We returned the following Monday to a near-empty refrigerator.  I was poking around for a snack that evening when I first noticed it:  a plain brown paper bag propped on the counter, its wrinkled top curled under in a makeshift closure.  Feeling fairly certain that the HH hadn’t ordered something untoward off the Internet (or at the least, that he wouldn’t leave it on the counter in plain view if he had), I headed over to peek inside.  And then, with a pang of remorse, I remembered:  it was the bag of fresh plums from our organic box!

I’d completely forgotten the shiny, plump and purple spheres before we’d left, and they had started to wither a bit inside the paper bag (which, as you know, actually encourages fruit to ripen faster). They appeared to be nearing the end of any period of natural firmness left in them (sort of like Madonna’s face these days). What to do?

I could no longer eat them raw, but I was darned if I would toss them, either.  Our first plums of the season–I knew I just HAD to find a good use for them!  Besides, neither the HH nor I are huge plum fans, so we most likely wouldn’t have consumed them all in any case.  I figured I could make jam, but that seemed like a cop-out.  I could dehydrate them and convert them into prunes (the better for my recent diagnosis), but I’d just bought a 500-gram bag of the things the week before. 

I thought about it for a moment.  Then, as I tend to do when faced with most quandaries in my life, I opted for my usual course of action:  bake something.

I was sure I’d seen a recipe on one of the blogs I regularly frequent (the list now tops 150–must update that blogroll!), but when I did a Food Blog Search, I couldn’t find it again (though Dorie Greenspan’s version made several appearances). I had some extra cornmeal in the cupboard from another recipe I’d made (more on that in a later post), so decided to combine the two and form a hybrid of sweet cornmeal muffins and plum cake. 

I was very pleased with the final appearance of the experiment, sort of like a coffee cake studded with mounds of gorgeous, glossy purple and garnet fruit-gems.  Well, the cake looked pretty, but how did it taste?

I cut a huge hunk of the still-warm confection for the HH and trotted outside, where he sat, dogs panting at his feet on our patio, reading the outdated newspaper we’d forgotten to cancel before the trip.  

“Whoa, I can’t eat all that!” he wailed when he saw the size of the slice. “That’s way too much for me.”

“Don’t worry, that’s fine,” I acknowledged, “I’ll share it with you.  Just let me go inside and get my book.”

 I headed back inside to retrieve my latest read, Shopgirl by Steve Martin (Steve, man! There’s a reason for all those creative writing class clichés.  “Show, don’t tell. Show, don’t tell.” Did you miss the intro lecture or something?). By the time I returned to the yard, the HH’s plate was empty.   All that remained of the cake was a subtle smudge of pink juice and a few errant crumbs, the only evidence that the plate had ever held anything at all.

“Where’s the cake?”  I asked.  He shrugged a little, looking positively sheepish.

“It was so good, I just ate the whole thing,” he said.    

Now, how could I possibly balk at that?  Even as I headed back in a second time to rustle up my own slice, I was smiling. And I felt no regret whatsoever about forgetting those plums at home, after all.

Since Sia over at Monsoon Spice is asking for breakfast dishes with fruit for Weekend Breakfast Blogging (the event originated by Nandita at Saffron Trail), I’m sending this off to her.  (And I can assure you, this makes a wonderful breakfast!). 

Rustic Plum-Topped Cornmeal Breakfast Cake

Neither too sweet nor too delicate, this cake is perfect for breakfast or brunch as well as a summertime dessert.  If you prefer muffins, simply chop the plums after removing the pits and fold into the batter before spooning into muffin tins instead of the flan pan (and bake for slightly less time).

Cake:

1-3/4 cups (245 g.) light spelt flour

3/4 cup (135 g.)  cornmeal (preferably organic)

1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) sea salt

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) baking powder

1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) baking soda

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) finely ground flax seeds

finely grated zest of one small orange

juice of one small orange plus enough soymilk to equal 3/4 cup  (180 ml.)

1/3 cup (80 ml.) agave nectar

1/4 cup (60 ml.) organic sunflower or other light-tasting oil

10-12 small fresh, ripe purple or red plums (not the European prune variety), cut in half and pitted

Glaze:

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) extra agave nectar mixed with 1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) water, optional

Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C).  Lightly grease a flan pan or 9-inch (about 20 cm.) springform pan.

Cut each plum in half and remove the pit.  Place skin down on a plate or cutting board.

In a medium bowl, mix the flax, juice and soymilk mixture, zest, agave nectar and oil.  Whisk to blend and set aside while you measure the dry ingredients, or at least 2 minutes.

In a large bowl, sift the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Pour the wet mixture over the dry and mix to combine.  Turn the mixture into the prepared pan.

Arrange the plum halves skin side down over the surface of the batter in a decorative arrangement.  Press the plums into the batter slightly.

Bake for 25 minutes, then glaze the top if desired (prepare the glaze while cake is baking).  Return the cake to the oven for another 10 minutes or so, until the top is golden and cake part tests done when a toothpick or sharp knife is inserted into it.  Serve warm or at room temperature.  Makes 10 servings.

*No, we haven’t hired servants, silly! I’m talking about bread.

Well, last night the HH and I returned from a pre-Canada Day junket to Montreal, where, along with the CFO and the Nurse and her husband, we took my dad out to dinner for his (you may wish to sit down) eighty-seventh birthday.  Eighty seven!  Much like George Burns when it comes to longevity (and, come to think of it, humor as well), my dad is one of those people who’s always eaten well and exercised daily (now, why wasn’t I lucky enough to inherit that body-care ethic?).  All that, and he also looks great for his age, sporting a full head of hair (his own, I might note). 

It was a lovely, albeit short, visit, with a brunch stop at one of my favorite Montreal restaurants, Aux Vivres, where the HH and I enjoyed smoothies, a “Plat Complet” (tofu scramble, tempeh bacon, salad, sweet potato wedges, and home-baked cornbread) and some amazing banana-chocolate pie to cap it all off.   In dire need of a walk after all the grub, we squeezed in some alone time to take in a few beats at the Montreal Jazz Festival, then meandered along rue Sainte-Catherine for some window shopping. After dinner with friends that involved much chatter and clinking of wine glasses, we headed back to Toronto yesterday morning and arrived home in good time (only 5 hours!).

Because of my peculiar dietary restrictions in recent years, I’ve learned when traveling to always tote along a cooler of food whenever I venture into unknown culinary territory.  This time, we lugged a veritable feast with us: leftover salad, bread, scones, and fruits from the previous week.  And with bar fridges now standard in most hotel rooms, I was able to keep the stash relatively fresh until departure time, so we could once again partake of the cooler’s bounty on our way home.  The best of which was Olive and Sundried Tomato Bread–baked by yours truly!

Now, many of you know that I have a dread fear of baking bread. Not only because I was diagnosed with candidiasis years ago and had to forgo the stuff (along with anything else that contained yeast, living or dead) for two full years. Not only because baking with yeast is an art as well as a craft, for which it sometimes takes years of practise to develop a true “feel” (as much as I like the idea of a machine, that isn’t “real” homemade bread to me). Not only because I was privileged to grow up in a house where we never once were served the soft styrofoam that is Wonder Bread; with an immigrant father and a Russian-descended mother, we had the real, peasant-stock, brown-as-clay, authentic stuff: dense, dark, moist and infused with with rye, molasses, and seeds. And (perhaps most especially), because my sole attempt at baking bread from scratch resulted in a loaf the top of which was so flat and heavy, it could have been called the Australopithecus of breads. 

So you see, there’s a good reason why I’m a tad bread-bashful. But this past weekend, we savored the remnants of a loaf I’d baked the previous week–a loaf which was already number two in a series. I may not have overcome my yeast phobia just yet, but in the meantime, I’ve discovered an alternative that does a mean impersonation and is, in my opinion, maybe even better tasting.  The recipe is a little less intimidating than yeast-based breads, and a little more foolproof. 

Its secret ingredient?  Beer! (Besides, it’s Canada Day today, and beer is just so. . . Canadian).

I’ve never been much of a beer drinker (unless you count that one starry-eyed lunch at the local pub with my mentor, when I naively attempted to keep pace with his more practised consumption. . . 13 beers later, I lost track of the number, but I do remember some fairly maudlin entries in my journal that evening).  I have, however, been familiar with the concept of beer bread for quite some time. I first learned about this delicacy from the CFO way back in the 1980s, when she read about it in Bon Appétit magazine and immediately proceeded to bake a basic beer-based loaf (which she should have sold along with seashells down by the seashore, but that would have been one too many tongue-twisters in the same sentence).

I don’t know its origin, but beer bread is definitely considered a classic in the recipe canon by now. Since I use spelt in most of my baking, however, I decided to alter the generic version just a tad. Spelt is both more hearty and more heavy than regular all purpose flour, so I included some other full-bodied additions for more gustatory dimension to the bread, tossing in some chopped olives and sundried tomatoes, then sprinkling the top with rosemary. For the second incarnation, I added dried basil right into the batter instead.

And how did it turn out? As it happened, my friend the Eternal Optimist joined us for dinner that night, before she and I headed off to a movie (Sex and the City, finally; yes, the audience was entirely female, yes, I thoroughly enjoyed it, and yes, I’m revealing my advanced age by admitting this). Along with a dinner of lentil-pistachio patties, raw kale salad, and spicy sweet potato “fries“, I served up some freshly baked olive and sundried tomato bread. Well, the EO couldn’t stop raving about it!  With a moist, yeasty interior studded with salty, briny olives and chewy tomato, the bread provides a perfect balance between rustic and au courant.  Though I’m not much of a sandwich lover, I could happily subsist on this bread alone. 

With its dead-easy method and incredible final product, this loaf has eradicated my fear of bread baking.  At the same time, however, it’s also eliminated any need to venture into yeast-based varieties. . . I’d be happy to consume just beer bread for the rest of my days.  And even though I still have no desire to drink the stuff, each time I pour a bottleful into my bread batter, I feel just a little more patriotic.    

Happy Canada Day, all.  And to our American cousins, both literal and figurative–hope you all have a wonderful July 4th holiday! 

Beer Bread with Olives and Sundried Tomatoes

This is a bread with substance, one that will fill your belly and satisfy your taste buds at the same time. Because spelt flour can dry out quickly, I stored this in a plastic bag in the fridge.  If you don’t consume the bread within about 4 days, wrap the rest and freeze it for later.

 1-1/2 cups light spelt flour

1 cup whole spelt flour

2/3 cups whole barley flour

2 Tbsp. baking powder

3/4 tsp. sea salt

2 Tbsp. fresh chopped basil or 1 tsp. dried; or other herbs of choice

2 Tbsp. agave nectar

1/2 cup olives, pitted and chopped (I used a combination of black and pimento-stuffed)

1/3 cup sundried tomatoes, soaked for 5 minutes in hot water, drained and chopped

1 bottle (12 oz.) beer (use one you’d be willing to drink; beer may be the quintessential Canadian beverage, but I used Corona for this bread–it’s what the HH had in the house)

1 Tbsp. melted coconut butter or olive oil, optional

Preheat oven to 325F.  Lightly grease a loaf pan or line with parchment.

In a large bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, and salt.  Stir in the herbs and set aside.

In a small bowl, mix together the agave nectar, olives, and tomatoes and stir just to coat.  Pour the beer directly onto the flour mixture in the bowl, add the olive mixture, and then stir just to blend.  Do not overmix (it’s okay if tiny lumps of flour remain here and there).  The batter will be thick.

Turn the mixture into the pan and smooth to even the top.  Sprinkle with more herbs if desired.

Bake in preheated oven 35 minutes, then turn the loaf a quarter turn and continue to bake for 15-25 more minutes, until top is dark golden and a tester inserted in the middle of the loaf comes out clean.  If desired, before turning the pan and continuing to bake, brush with melted coconut butter or olive oil.

Cool at least 10 minutes before removing to a rack pan and slicing.  The bread can be eated warm, but will be a bit sticky when sliced.  This is great warm or at room temperature.  Makes one loaf.  May be frozen.