Diet, Dessert and Dogs

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.

I must say, I never expected my little apple butter sauce to cause such a stir (no pun intended–oh, all right, pun intended).  It always amazes me which blog entries elicit a strong reaction while others, like Andy Garcia, might be on par with their (more popular) contemporaries, but for some reason still don’t garner the recognition I think they deserve.  I’m glad so many of you liked the idea of apple butter in a BBQ sauce on tempeh.  (And now the pressure’s on to create some other ostensibly innovative or creative recipe for my next blog entry. . . . collard cake? Turnip pasta? Eggplant cookies ?–oh, forgot, I actually did create that one).

Well, I’ve got nothing on the cutting board at the moment, so I’m afraid it will have to wait just a bit.

You see, I’ve been spending a lot of time at my computer recently, working on that pile of papers and online course work.  Mostly, I’ve been feeling frustrated because (a) the pile seems to be expanding of its own accord (sort of like my waistline); and (b) I’ve been spending less time focused on blogging as a result.  I’ve also been feeling a bit creeped out, as it happens, since our landlord is having the exterior of the house painted, and every time I glance toward the window to catch a thought or a glimpse of the sky outside, I’m confronted with a close-up of a man’s paint-splattered face, as if our window were a giant flat-screen TV right beside my desk. 

Well, a couple of days ago I was tagged for a meme by the lovely and talented Holler of Tinned Tomatoes.  As it turns out, I’ve already prepared and consumed my salad (twice!) for Holler and Lisa’s upcoming No Croutons Required Event; unfortunately, I haven’t yet had time to write the blog entry about it.  Instead, I decided to focus on some earlier blog photos to send Holler’s (and your) way.

The meme asks for your “top ten” blog photos.  As I mentioned in my comment to Holler, I had to laugh at that request.  As someone who knows nothing about photography and owns the cheapest camera possible (okay, a disposable might be cheaper), I never really focused that much on how I photograph the food; it’s only recently that I’ve begun to think, “hmmm, a better camera sure would make blogging easier.”  For now, a new camera will stay on the birthday wish-list.

I wondered how to select ten, when it was so hard to choose even one that I really liked. ”Do I choose the top ten in terms of page hits? Or the top ten in terms of aesthetic appeal?  Or should I emulate Johanna at Green Gourmet Giraffe, and choose the ten photos that meant the most to me?” I decided to go with Johanna, who always seems level headed and whose logic I like.  

And so, here goes:

10) Spiced Cauliflower Soup

I usually take photos of food close up, partly because I have an extremely small surface area of the kitchen table that attracts full sunlight, and partly because the rest of my kitchen usually looks like the post-cyclone scene in The Wizard of Oz  and I’d be mortified if it got into a photo (unless, of course, I decided to show it to you myself , as in this blog entry). The cauliflower soup photo was the first time I’d consciously attempted to “style” a shot, and the feedback about the photo was so positive, I will always have a soft spot for this one.

9) A Year, Anew

Poor quality photo from a neophyte blogger, but this pic of four of my champagne flutes on December 31, 2007 has sentimental value.  Ever since I moved into my first apartment as an adult, I’ve collected individual, unique champagne flutes, and many were received as gifts (in fact, one of the first gifts the HH ever gave me was a handcrafted pewter-stemmed flute). Each glass has its particular story or background, even if the story is, “I found this for 25 cents at a garage sale!”.  I’ve sampled champagne from each and every one of the 21 in my collection, and they are all my favorites. 

8) Butterscotch Mousse Pie

This photo is dear to my heart, both because the recipe is from the first cookbook I reviewed on this site, and also because the book itself was the prize for a contest I won. I loved the actual pie as well (hmm–should really make that one again), and I know that Nava liked the photo, so it means a lot to me.

7)  Mint Smoothie

In real life, the drink in this photo was a plain, dull, swamp-like olive green. . .not the most appetizing color for a food photo. But somehow, wrapping that napkin around the stem of the wine glass elevated the smoothie to something elegant and even romantic.  And since the taste of the drink was truly sensational, I was glad I could make it seem more appealing.

6) Tagine of Quinoa with Chickpeas, Olives and Prunes

I love this recipe.  This was a dish I re-vamped from an old recipe, one I found in a cookbook I’ve had forever.  The HH and I feasted on this tagine many times over the winter, and I was happy to see that readers liked it, too. When I look at this photo, I can almost see the rich, sweet-and-savory sauce and the multiple layers and flavors in the casserole.  Comfort in a bowl! 

5) Old Reliables: Salads You Can Count On

Strangely, though I’m not really a salad person, I love this photo.  And the salad isn’t even dressed in it!  But I think the simplicity of the veggies and the bright colors allow the purity and beauty of the fresh food to shine through.  When I know I should eat salad and don’t feel like it, I just look at this photo.

4) Chaser Photo: If Vodka is an Elsie, then Beer is a Chaser

This is my favorite photo of Chaser on the blog.  This photo of her as a pup was taken on a very hot day on our old deck, after the little tornado had leapt across the lawn, nipped at the water hose, chased balls, eaten some grass, growled at Elsie, shredded a rope toy, and tried to chew the plastic chair leg before her.  She finally stopped to take a break and pant a bit–and I snapped the photo. I think the impish nature is encapsulated in her lolling tongue, the mischievous glint in her eye, and the end of her collar askew.  Is she cute, or what?? 

3) Elsie Photo: This iz not a blg entree

This is my favorite photo of Elsie on the blog.  The HH and I still erupt into paroxysms of hysteria when we see this.  I was taking a break from blogging at the time, but Elsie simply couldn’t resist updating all of you.  Notice that she types with a mini dog biscuit at the ready, beside her left paw.  Really, she is such a remarkable dog!

2) French Toast Soufflé with Summer Berries

This was one of my favorite recipes I’ve made so far.  Besides the intense purples and pinks being so visually appealing, the soufflé itself was easy to make and came out delicious–light, fluffy, moist, sweet (but not too sweet), fruity, and all around irresistible.  I caught this photo after the HH and I had each enjoyed a huge serving and would have liked more.  

1) Avocado Mayonnaise

I think this recent photo is my favorite so far (if you exclude the dogs’ photos), mostly because of its simplicity. I love the contrast of the green on the red, the fact that there are basically only 2 colors in the photo, and that the grounds of pepper are actually sharply visible (my cheap camera performs, for once!). I also loved the taste and texture of the mayo, and it’s become a staple recipe in our house. In fact, it makes me want to go and have some right now.

After selecting the photos and reading through this entry, it suddenly struck me:  THERE ARE NO PHOTOS OF CHOCOLATE HERE!  Astonishing, truly.  It’s not that I no longer love chocolate or that it’s slipped from Number One Food Spot in my esteem.  No; it’s just that I haven’t been able to adequately capture its magical essence in any of my amateur photos.  Gives me something to shoot for in the next 200 or so blog entries. . .

I’m not going to tag anyone specific, but I will say that it was a fun challenge to come up with the selections, so if you’re interested, please share!

* [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.

[I thought it would be fun to run a little series over here at DDD: I'll profile one one of my favorite foods, or a food that I've recently discovered and enjoyed, over several days.  For this third entry, I'm focusing on Avocados. The series is presented on an occasional (and entirely arbitrary) basis, before I move on to the next lucky comestible. ]

Since today was the first Sunday following my Total Health course (and I promise–that’s the last time I’ll mention it!), I realized it was time to resume my regular Progress Tracker entries. 

It’s been nine whole weeks since I had a regular Sunday weigh-in, so this morning, I donned my sweats and and finally returned to the workout club (Well, hi again, Elderly Gentleman Who Always Wears Black Knee Socks! I’m back, Burly Guy Who Stares at Women’s Breasts Between Sets!  I actually missed you, Septuagenarian Couple with the Matching T-Shirts!).

After completing various stretches and weights, I performed the official post-course, ritual weigh in.  And the result?  After NINE WEEKS of eating healthfully and stepping up my exercise routine (literally–I’ve doubled the amount of walking I do each day since the osteopenia diagnosis), I lost. . . . are you ready for it?  Okay, here goes. . . . I lost. . . . FOUR POUNDS. 

Yep, four. Quatre. 4. Vier. Quattro. IV.  Tessera. FOUR!!!!  In nine weeks.

Lovely, no?  That’s just under half pound a week.  Okay, I suppose that’s not awful considering that the goal of the course was not to lose weight so much as to learn about healthy eating and to undergo an attitude adjustment in that area.  During the course, I consumed just as much (healthy) food as I wanted to and never deprived myself in any way (except during the cleanse week, obviously).  What this means is that I am now exactly back where I started when I began this blog–with 40 pounds to lose to reach my goal.  And while I do feel better since taking the course, that’s simply not acceptable.  Nope.

And so. . . I’ve decided to take up the challenge offered by Gizmar from Equal Opportunity Kitchen, who wrote in her recent comment: “Ok, I’m throwing down the gauntlet - I want to lose some weight - I challenge you to a slim down!!!”  Giz, you’re on! Ah, but how much weight?  And in what time period?  I will contact you so we can work out the details.  But for now, I’ve decided, it’s time to get serious! (Again).  Watch out, excess avoirdupois!  Take a hike, jiggly thighs! Run for the hills, cellulite!  I am  on a mission.

* Sigh. *

(Okay, end of weight rant.  We now return to this week’s regularly scheduled Lucky Comestible.)

One thing I realized while on my cleanse week is that I don’t eat nearly as many legumes as I should.  Sure, if you consider peanut butter and carob, I suppose there’s a regular intake, but in general, my diet is sorely lacking.

As a child, the only beans I was ever served were the canned variety.  Heinz Baked Beans made a quick and yummy dinner, just on their own.  (Of course, my mother bought the “in tomato sauce” flavor so she wouldn’t have to deal with that one pasty, white, slimy chunk of pork fat that always rose to the top of the can.  A few years ago, the HH and I took a course called Mini Med School at the University of Toronto. One evening, we were led down winding, clandestine hallways through an unmarked door into the actual anatomy lab, where we examined formaldehyde-infused hunks of human limbs, their outer layers peeled away to expose the muscles and bones underneath.  One thigh had a rectangular chunk of flesh carved out, the cutout placed neatly on the counter beside it like a rubber bathtub stopper.  Well, that little cube of pork fat looked just like the rectangular hunk of thigh. Good move, Mom.)

When I moved into my very first apartment the summer before my Master’s program began, my father’s housewarming gift to me was a smoked ham. (Not so strange if you consider that he owned a butcher shop–what else would he give me?).  With the help of my trusty Joy of Cooking, I ended up making split pea and ham soup (even then, I couldn’t stomach the idea of an entire piece of ham on its own).  I had just started dating my first true love a couple of weeks earlier (hey, Spaghetti Ears!  How’s tricks?) and he, along with his two room mates, kindly relieved me of any superfluous soup–which, as it turned out, was pretty much all of it.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy bean dishes, either.  It’s just that I never really think to make them.  In more recent years, I’ve amassed a fairly reliable roster of bean recipes that I use on a rotating basis.  There’s hummus, of course, but also sundried tomato hummus and roasted garlic hummus.  Oh, and I can’t forget white bean hummus or fava bean hummus or even no-bean hummus (which, come to think of it, doesn’t really belong in the “dishes with beans” category, does it?). The HH and I also enjoy lentil-spaghetti sauce about twice a year, as well as my version of Tuscan baked beans (with olive oil and sage) and a classic three-bean salad in the summertime. Other than that, though, it’s pretty much hummus all around.

Well, I decided it was time to create something new and interesting with legumes.  In keeping with the focus on avocado, I naturally gravitated toward the green legumes–or, more correctly, “legume”: lentils.  Besides being one of the quickest to cook (they’re done in only 25 minutes, with no soaking required), lentils also provide a substantial contribution to your daily mineral requirements. In addition, they’re extremely high in fiber (both soluble and insoluble, important for healthy cholesterol levels), and they’re known to help keep blood sugar levels steady. Oh, and they taste really good!

I seized the green theme and just ran with it (okay, I kind of “speed-walked” with it), throwing pistachios into the mix as well.  In these patties, the avocado acts as an egg substitute, while the nuts and beans work in tandem to provide a complete protein.  While they’re not overly “meaty” in texture (the outside is crispy while the inside remains soft), these burgers are great either baked or fried, and would probably make a tasty loaf as well.  Just for fun (and because I’m weird that way), I baked half the recipe and browned the other half in a frypan. I have to say that I actually preferred the baked version, which also held its shape better. 

These patties are a great way to subtly add more legumes to your diet. And if you happen to be watching your weight–well, as it turns out, they’re pretty low-cal, too (about 150 calories each patty).  Shall we start with these for dinner, Giz?

Lentil Pistachio Patties

These substantial patties offer a full-bodied flavor with a wonderful protein content, courtesy of the lentils and pistachios. The trio of avocado, olive oil, and pistachio adds richness and a healthy dose of  heart-healthy monounsaturated fats.

1/2 cup (60 g.) shelled natural pistachios

1 medium carrot, trimmed and cut into chunks

1 medium onion, peeled and cut into quarters

2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

2-1/4 (560 ml.) cups cooked green lentils (about 1 cup dry)

2 small ripe Hass avocados (300-320 g. unpeeled), peeled, pitted and cut into quarters

1/4 cup (60 ml.) ground flax seeds

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) extra virgin olive oil

1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) tamari soy sauce

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) ground coriander

1 tsp. (5 ml.) ground cumin

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) sea salt

2/3 cup (160 ml.) old-fashioned rolled oats (not instant)

If you’ll be baking the patties rather than frying them, preheat oven to 375F (190 C).  Line a baking sheet with parchment or spray with nonstick spray.

In the bowl of a food processor, whir the pistachios until coarsely chopped. Add the carrot, onion, garlic, and cooked lentils, and process until you have a fairly smooth purée.  Add the remaining ingredients except for oats and process to combine well.

Turn the mixture into a large bowl and stir in the oats. Allow to sit for 5 minutes.

If you’ll be frying the patties, preheat a nonstick frypan over medium heat. 

Scoop about 1/3 cup (80 ml.) of the mixture per patty. 

If frying: Place the patties in the frypan and flatten slightly.  Cook 4-6 minutes per side, until deep golden brown.  Gently remove to a platter or place in hamburger buns with desired toppings.

If baking:  Place the patties on the baking sheet and flatten slightly.  Bake in preheated oven 30-40 minutes, until deep golden brown.  If desired, flip the patties over about halfway through baking (though this isn’t absolutely necessary). 

Serving suggestions:  lettuce, tomato and hummus; sliced red onion, ketchup, and a sprinkling of nutritional yeast; or lettuce, chutney and mustard. 

Makes about 12 patties.  These may be stored tightly wrapped in the fridge up to 4 days (they firm up even more after the first day).  May be frozen up to 3 months.

Other posts in this series:

• Lucky Comestible III: The Perfect Guacamole
• Lucky Comestible III (2): Decadent Chocolate Pâté
• Lucky Comestible III (3): Mango Avocado Salad
• Lucky Comestible III (5): Tropical Lemon-Coconut Muffins
• Lucky Comestible III (6) Meets Flash in the Pan:  Avocado Mayonnaise

[I thought it would be fun to run a little series over here at DDD: I'll profile one one of my favorite foods, or a food that I've recently discovered and enjoyed, over several days.  For this third entry, I'm focusing on Avocados. The series is presented on an occasional (and entirely arbitrary) basis, before I move on to the next lucky comestible. ]

Some foods are just acquired tastes–sort of like scat, living in the suburbs, or Quentin Tarantino films.  I know that avocados work that way for many people, but that wasn’t my experience.  Like eggnog or chocolate, avocado was one food I knew intuitively that I’d like, even before that first buttery, golden slice ever slid across my tongue. 

In my teens, I used to walk to high school each day with my friend Phil.  We’d meet at her place (about halfway between my house and our school) where she’d usually invite me in for a breakfast bite. It was in her mother’s white and gold formica-clad kitchen that we learned to love coffee together (stage one:  1/2 cup coffee, 1/4 cup water, 1/4 cup cream and 5 sugars.  Stage two: 4/5 cup coffee, 1/5 cup cream, 1 teaspoon sugar.  Stage three: eliminate sugar.  Stage four: Congratulations; you’re hooked for the next 30 years, until that ulcer/heart condition/high blood pressure diagnosis, and then you go back to “no coffee”.)

While at Phil’s place after  school one day, her mother (who was born in Belgium, and was therefore very glamorous) introduced me to avocados.  The rough, gravelly exterior, greenish black skin and ovoid shape all seemed very exotic to this apple-and-banana gal.  But as soon as she cut the fruit open, removed the glossy pit, and proffered a halfmoon slice, I was forever hooked on the smooth, velvety texture and slightly nutty, slighty sweet flavor. 

(Apart from foodstuffs, Phil and I also learned to smoke cigarettes together, two giggly fifteen year-olds strolling round deserted parks after dinner, attempting to inhale, and–between fits of sputtering coughs–singing, “They. . . asked me how I knew. . . my true love was truuuuuue.  .  .“  But that’s another story).

To me, avocados are a nearly perfect food.  Technically a fruit (sometimes called the “alligator pear”), they are used more often as a vegetable, and almost always raw.  A few years ago, though, I read a magazine article about authentic Mexican cuisine. I found out that, in addition to being tossed into pretty much every salad or salsa, the avocado is also used sometimes in that country in cold soups and even cakes.  Wow, I thought, what a great idea!  With the extra healthy fats (and monounsaturates can stand up to low heat pretty well) as well as the fiber, avocados would make a terrific egg substitute in baking! 

So I started playing and came up with a few baked goods (and I promise to share later in the series) as well as a cold soup–perfect for summer (recipe to follow as well). If you feel like playing with avocado as an egg substitute, use it the way you would tofu (1/4 cup avocado purée = 1 egg).  Or simply add about 2 tablespoons puréed avocado to any baked good for added moistness. 

Whether your preference is the crinkly Haas or the smooth-skinned Fuerte variety, an avocado is ripe when it “gives” slightly to soft pressure with your thumb or finger (be sure to press at the top of the fruit to avoid bruising the flesh). Most avocados are sold before they’re ripe and require 2-5 days at room temperature before they’re ready to eat. 

Once ripe, however, they don’t last long–a day or two at most–before they reach the overripe, slightly fermented, stage (you know an avocado is past its prime if it starts to smell a bit like wine).  If you can’t consume them once ripe, they’ll keep another 2-3 days, unpeeled, in the refrigerator.  When I find myself with an overabundance of ripe avocadoes, I simply peel, purée, and freeze in one-cup containers for later use (frozen pulp is perfect for future dips and spreads, those baking experiments, or even added to pasta sauces later on).  Frozen avocado should keep up to five months.

Avocados are also incredibly healthful–they aren’t a staple of Mexican cuisine for nothing!  Brimming with heart-healthy monounsaturated oils, they are a good source of fiber, potassium (great to counteract high blood pressure) and vitamin K, essential for blood and (of particular interest to those of us with osteopenia) bone strength.  They also contain a good dose of lutein, an antioxidant found mostly in green leafy vegetables that’s been shown to contribute to eye health and even help reduce the effects of macular degeneration (a disease of the eyes in which central vision is slowly erased).

And today’s recipe?  Well, guacamole is one of those iconic foods that regularly makes an appearance at end-of-semester pub bashes, summer Bar B Qs, surprise birthday parties, or work pot lucks; I simply couldn’t do a series on avocados without including this classsic dip.

The first time I tried guacamole, I was at an end-of-semester party thrown by my friend Carol, a legendary hostess known for her ability to draw crowds of disparate personalities who, for the course of an evening (and often into the wee hours of the morning), all got along over beer, wine, and literary discourse.

Carol and her husband always included their two children (then aged 9 and 11) in every social activity, so the kids would meander quite comfortably among the professors and graduate students, stopping every now and again to chat with the bearded hippie sucking back a Becks or the the raven haired T.A. in the inappropriate tank top who was hitting on our Drama professor.  Completely unfazed, the children might stop for some corn chips and guacamole, then move on. Around 10:30 or 11:00, they’d wander upstairs to their bedrooms, where they’d doze entirely undisturbed by the din beneath them, like babies in the neonatal ward who can all sleep through their own wailing.

Carol’s guacamole that night was spectacular, and I knew I’d have to make it again.  I clipped this recipe from an old Chatelaine magazine from the 1990s, and I’ve never even tried another since.  I do realize that everyone and their hairstylist has a fabulous recipe for guacamole, but this really is the best one I’ve ever tasted.  The unusual step of rinsing the onion (which removes any pungency that might linger on the palate hours later), elevates this version to one of the all-time best recipes I’ve ever made. 

With its prominent use of cilantro, this is a great entry to Kalyn’s Weekend Herb Blogging event, this week hosted by Joanna at Joanna’s Food.

Oh, and there’s still time to enter the contest for a new cookbook–which might just contain a new recipe for guacamole!

The Perfect Guacamole

I used to think that guacamole required garlic to taste this delicious, but this recipe proved me wrong.  The contrast between the chunky tomato and smooth, rich avocado is stellar.  Add more cilantro if you’re a fan.

 1/4 cup (60 ml.) finely chopped white onion, rinsed in a sieve under cold water

1 medium ripe (but still firm) tomato, diced small

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) chopped fresh cilantro (or more, to taste)

2 tsp. (10 ml.) finely chopped jalapeno pepper, with seeds

1/2 tsp. sea salt

2 ripe Haas avocados, pitted and peeled

1-2 (15-30) ml. freshly squeezed lime juice, or more to taste

Combine onion, tomato, cilantro, jalapeno and salt in a small bowl.  In a large bowl, coarsely mash the avocado (a potato masher works well for this–you want a few chunks to remain). Add the onion mixture and lime juice and stir to mix well.  Serve immediately with tortilla chips or raw vegetables, if desired.  Or, just eat with a spoon. 

Can be made ahead, covered, and refrigerated up to 4 hours; press plastic wrap against the top of the guacamole before refrigerating, to minimize oxidation.  Makes about 2 cups (500 ml.).

 Other posts in this series:

• Lucky Comestible III (2): Decadent Chocolate Pâté
• Lucky Comestible III (3): Mango Avocado Salad
• Lucky Comestible III (4): Lentil Pistachio Patties
• Lucky Comestible III (5): Tropical Lemon-Coconut Muffins
• Lucky Comestible III (6) Meets Flash in the Pan:  Avocado Mayonnaise

*apologies to Geneen Roth

[Well, I really hadn't meant to write about my mother for two entries in a row.  Maybe it was all of your wonderful comments about yesterday's "mom story"; maybe it was an offshoot of Mother's Day earlier in the month; maybe I'm just feeling all mushy and sentimental after watching the over-the-top , tear-filled finale of American Idol last night. 

Or, maybe, it's Sarah's fault. Over at Homemade Experiences in the Kitchen, Sarah is hosting a blog event called "Tastes to Remember," that asks us to write about "those tastes and smells that immediately bring you back to your childhood."  Of course, my mother came to mind once again, this time for her baking (which, unlike her cooking, was quite exceptional).  So forgive the bathos. And here's my own little contribution to this week's sappy ending.]  

* * * * * * * * * *

In the house in which I grew up, food often spoke louder than the people. When my mother was too hurt, too angry, too stubborn or simply too out of touch with her own internal landscape to speak, the dishes she cooked were imbued with their own telegraphic properties. Food could be either a reward or a weapon, and, like each of those, was often withheld until the situation truly warranted its use.  

On schoolday mornings, I’d sometimes wake early and stumble into the kitchen before my father left for work (he was usually gone by 6:15, off to a 12-hour day at the butcher shop to kibbitz with customers, haul sides of beef, or trim stew meat just so before wrapping it expertly, as if swaddling a baby, in waxy brown paper). Squinting and still shielding my eyes from the electric light, I’d encounter my dad hunched over his breakfast at the kitchen table. I could always sense immediately whether or not some earlier argument between my parents had been resolved overnight.

Was he enjoying two soft-boiled eggs, an orange cut into eighths and his usual cup of black tea? That meant the air had cleared with the sunlit sky; equilibrium had been restored. If, instead, the plate proffered a lone slice of blackened toast, glistening with a hasty swipe of margarine; if the kettle was left boiling unattended (it was understood he’d have to go get his own), then I knew that tension had prevailed, and it would be at least one more day before détente was re-established.   

Food also conveyed silent, unspeakable messages of sorrow.  

When I was about six or seven, my mother acquired a recipe for “Potato Boats” from one of her Mah Jong friends, and they were quickly adopted as our staple Friday night dinner. Each week, Mom would cut the potatoes in half, scoop out the nubbly, steaming flesh and mash the innards with butter and milk before packing the mixture back into the empty shells, topping each with an orange haystack of grated Kraft cheese. The “boats” were then replaced in the oven and baked until the cheese oozed and bubbled, drooping over the potato edges to form charred rounds of ash on the baking sheet. We all loved the Friday suppers, and my sisters and I waited eagerly for them.  

Then my grandfather got sick.  As the only grandparent still alive when I was born, he’d been a fairly constant presence in our lives—living, in fact, right upstairs in the upper duplex of our house, with my aunt’s family. Diagnosed with liver cancer, Zaida was given little chance of recovery. Only two weeks after the diagnosis—on a Friday–he was admitted to hospital.   

That afternoon, my mother operated in a haze, her eyes perpetually wet, leaking silent rivulets down her cheeks. She moved aimlessly through the house like a fly caught in the window frame, shifting from one spot to the next as if the counter, the table, the cupboard, were each invisible barriers blocking her path, causing her to recoil and try again, over and over. She somehow still produced the requisite potato boats and salmon patties–I couldn’t understand why we were having them for lunch instead of dinner–and we ate in tense, confused silence.  The following Friday, we were served a different menu; she never attempted the potato boats again.  

On days when I arrived home from school and was greeted by the rich, eggy aroma as it sneaked out from under our front door, I’d race up the stairs in excited anticipation, knowing my mother would be in good spirits.  My sisters and I would sample the cake as soon as it was ready—only a tiny nibble was permitted—before allowing it to cool on the kitchen counter until my dad came home.   

When my mother placed a slice of this cake in front of my father, his face, no matter how tense or furrowed from the day’s work, would soften and a smile overtook him as he brandished his fork. He’d relish his little gift of generosity, savoring every morsel along with his cup of tea.  “Just like my grandmother used to make,” he’d murmur, grinning. Then my mother would retreat to the sink; as she passed the soapy dishcloth slowly over each bowl or plate, her face was limned with satisfaction. No words were required, as we all knew what she was feeling. 

So you see why I was determined to recreate that cake. I wanted to achieve a vegan version with the same harmony of cookie crust, tart, lemony filling and light, pillowy texture. It took several attempts, but I think I finally found a suitable rendition.  And while it may not quite do the original justice, but I’m still pretty happy with the outcome.  With its irregular lattice crust and home-made appeal, this cake does approximate the Farmer’s Cheesecake of my childhood.   

Tonight after dinner, I padded over to where the HH sat and, without uttering a sound, placed a big slice of the cake in front of him. At first he cut into it tentatively, sampling a tiny bite.  Then he dug in to the rest with gusto, and in an instant had already scraped the plate clean.   

I could tell from the smile on his face that he’d understood exactly what I meant.  

 Vegan Farmer’s Cheesecake

This is a great everyday cake, one you can easily mix up for a daily treat, but so delicious you’ll want to share it with friends.

Crust:

1/3 cup (85 g.) sunflower or other light-tasting oil

1/3 cup (100 g.) light agave nectar

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) plain or vanilla soymilk

1-1/4 tsp. (6.5 ml.) pure vanilla extract

1 heaping Tbsp. (15 ml.) organic cornstarch

1 scant cup (130 g.) whole spelt flour

3/4 c. (80 g.) barley flour

heaping 1/4 tsp. (2 g.) baking powder

heaping 1/4 tsp. (2 g.) baking soda

heaping 1/4 tsp. (2 g.) sea salt

Cheesecake Filling:

1 pkg. (350 g.) firm silken Japanese-style tofu packed in aspeptic package  (such as Mori-Nu)

1/2 cup (125 ml.) smooth cashew butter

grated rind of 1 lemon

1/2 cup (150 g.) light agave nectar

2 tsp. (10 ml.) fresh lemon juice

1/2 tsp. (2.5 ml.) pure lemon extract

1 tsp. (5 ml.) pure vanilla extract

pinch sea salt

Preheat oven to 350F (180C).  Grease an 8 x 8 inch pan (about 18 x 18 cm) or line with parchment.

Prepare crust: In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the oil, agave, soymilk and vanilla to emulsify. Sift the remaining ingredients over the mixture in the bowl and stir with a wooden spoon to combine into a soft dough (it will be slightly sticky, but firm enough to hold a shape). 

Remove about 1/3 of the dough and set aside.  Press the remaining dough evenly into the bottom of the pan with wet fingers or a silicon spatula (the spatula works well to avoid sticking).  Set aside.

Make the filling:

Combine the tofu and cashew butter in a food processor until well blended, scraping down sides to blend any bits of tofu.  Add the remaining ingredients and process until perfectly smooth and velvety (there should be no bits of tofu visible).

Pour the filling evenly over the crust in the pan.  To smooth the top, grab the pan on opposite sides with your hands and, keeping the bottom of the pan against the surface it’s on, quickly rotate it once to the left and then to the right.

Divide the remaining dough in half, then divide each half into 3 equal parts (you’ll have 6 balls of dough).  Pinching about 1/2 of each ball at a time, roll it between your palms to create a thin rope about 3/8″ (just under 1 cm.) thick. 

Starting at one corner and working diagonally across to the opposite corner of the pan, place ropes of dough next to each other in a straight line from one corner to the other (the dough doesn’t necessarily have to be rolled in a single rope that spans the whole distance across the pan–you can line up shorter pieces next to each other).  Next, place ropes of dough on either side of the first rope and parallel to it, so you end up with diagonal lines across the pan.  Continue until you have 5 lines in one direction across the pan (shorter lines toward the edges).

Repeat with ropes of dough in the opposite direction, crossing over the first ropes.  You should end up with a criss-cross pattern over the surface of the cheesecake.

Bake the cake in preheated oven for 30-40 minutes, until the filling appears firm and the edges of the dough are beginning to brown.  Cool completely, then refrigerate until cold (at least 2 hours) before slicing. Makes 9 large servings.

*Or, Mastering the Legacy of Mush and Goo

When I was a kid, my mother was a fairly conventional 1960s housewife (well, except for the Valium) whose cooking style, too, adhered to convention; she’d cook pretty much the same seven dinners every week, according to the day: Mondays were hamburgers and mashed potatoes.  Tuesdays were veal chops and green beans.  Wednesdays were franks and beans. Fridays were chicken soup or roast chicken (but this changed to salmon patties and twice-baked potatoes, after one of her Mah Jong friends clipped a recipe from Good Housekeeping and passed it along). 

Only on the very rare occasion did Mom diverge from the predetermined pattern, if she saw a particularly intriguing recipe in Chatelaine, perhaps, or if my aunt cooked something she tasted and really liked.  Then Mom would pick up the ingredients during that week’s grocery shopping, and we’d have something new for a change.

One week, she decided to tackle homemade lasagna.  Never mind that she had never made it before. Never mind that it was a multi-step, fairly complex process. Never mind that my aunt–the inspiration for this experiment–was a professional caterer and could make a lasagna with one hand tied behind her apron. My mother decided we were going to have lasagna, and, dammit, that’s what she made. 

Well, sort of. 

I returned home from school that day to a scene worthy of the set of Psycho:  kitchen walls splattered with thick, wayward splotches of red, the stovetop covered in equally abundant patches of tomato sauce that had spewed from a teeming pot of sauce; topless, half-emptied cartons of cottage cheese and grated mozzarella littered across every surface, and detritus of carrot shavings, onion peel, and celery stalks strewn over and beside the wooden cutting board. 

It did smell heavenly, though.  My sisters and I waited patiently, watching Happy Days reruns, as we dreamt of thick, saucy hunks of lasagna, the long, ruffled noodles padded with meat, cheese, and my mother’s own sauce. But any aspirations of heavenly hunks were quickly dashed when my mother cut in to the first piece. The noodles (having been parboiled according to package directions, before being layered with the sauce and cheese) had practically disintegrated in the casserole dish, leaving only a mass of mushy, oozing goo.  She didn’t attempt lasagna again for quite some time.

When I finally got my own apartment as an undergraduate, I was determined to conquer the fractious pasta.  I cooked up a huge batch of my favorite spaghetti sauce with ground beef, chopped celery, peppers and carrots, accented with oregano and lots of basil.  I had my cheeses (ricotta, mozzarella and parmesan) at the ready.  And, unlike my mother, I was savvy enough to take advantage of modern conveniences: I purchased pre-parboiled noodles, so that they could be laid, stiff and uncooked, right into the casserole dish with the sauce and cheeses.  I layered, I smoothed the top, I popped it into the oven, feeling pretty satisfied with myself.

About an hour later, I was drawn by the heavenly smell.  But any aspirations of success were quickly dashed when I cut into the first slice. . . which was a mass of mushy, oozing goo.  Needless to say, I had no desire to cook lasagna again for quite some time. 

One of the imperatives of my “Total Health” course is to eat more greens (and more on the course, below).  In searching the Internet for greens recipes, I came across the ubiquitous Potato and Kale Enchiladas on the Post Punk Kitchen discussion forum.  Now, I know it must seem lately that I’m shilling for Moskowitz & Romero (no, not the Las Vegas act; the vegan cookbook authors) given how many times I’ve mentioned their recipes on this blog recently.  But since kale is my favorite leafy green, and since the recipe was right in front of me, I decided to use it–sort of.  Having no tortillas in the house, I dug out a box of rice lasagna I’d bought on a whim months ago. Did I dare to try another lasagna experiment?  What the heck; I decided to live on the (stiff, ruffled) edge. 

Potatoes and noodles?  Yes, it’s an unconventional twist on that traditional dish. But I’m here to tell you, it worked.  Not only was the kale-potato filling hardy enough to support the layers of noodles, the lasagna itself complied and baked up perfectly; firm, cooked throughout, with neither mush nor goo anywhere in sight. It cut beautifully into semi-solid, clearly defined squares.  And the combination of potato, kale, tomato sauce and pumpkin seeds was a delightful, unusual and winning carnival of tastes.

This was a terrific dinner, one that would satisfy even the most avowed lasagna-lover.   The HH thoroughly enjoyed it (I believe his exact words were, “hmmmn, not so bad for vegetarian lasagna”), and The Girls were happy to help with the leftovers (”It may not be steak, but it was still good, Mum! And you might recall that we love kale.”) Next time you’re feeling adventurous in the kitchen, I recommend giving this this one a try.

And since I’ve finally made another pasta dish, I’m submitting this to Ruth at Once Upon a Feast, for the weekly Presto Pasta night roundup.

 Potato and Kale Lasagna (based on PPK recipe)

1 recipe Kale and Potato Enchillada filling

Lasagna noodles of your choice (I used rice lasagna)

About 3-4 cups of your favorite Arrabiata spaghetti sauce (such as this one)

About 1/4 cup (125 ml.) additional toasted pumpkin seeds, for garnish

Preheat oven to 375F (190C).  Lightly grease a large rectangular pan or lasagna pan. 

Prepare the kale and potato filling according to directions. Heat up your spicy tomato sauce. 

Spread about 1/3 of the sauce in the bottom of the pan; top with a layer of the lasagna noodles.  Top with half the kale-potato mixture and cover with another 1/3 of the sauce.  Repeat with noodles, kale-potato mixture and end with sauce.  Bake in preheated oven until warmed through and slightly crispy on top, 25-35 minutes.  During the last 5 minutes, sprinkle with remaining pumpkin seeds and return to oven to warm the seeds.

Allow to sit at room temperature 10-15 minutes before slicing (this helps the lasagna retain its shape when cut).  Makes about 8 servings.  May be frozen.

Total Health Coda:  You may have noticed that there was no update last Wednesday, as we missed our class that day.  The makeup was yesterday, followed by our regular class tonight.  Yesterday’s topic was Ayurvedic cooking, something I’ve always found fascinating but never knew much about. According to the dosha (body and personality type) test, I am almost perfectly split between the two opposites, Vata and Kapha.  In other words, I’m conflicted.  In other words, sort of a split personality.  Or, as the HH would say, I’m just a Libra. 

Years ago, I had the pleasure of teaching for three semesters at Toronto’s renowned Ontario College of Art and Design (affectionately known as OCAD–or, when I taught there back in the Paleolithic, pre-”Design” era, simply “OCA”).  I loved teaching at a place so much the antithesis of the college I’m now at, with its focus on technology, science and computers (not, as Jerry might say, that there’s anything wrong with that).

But as someone who’s drawn to art in all its iterations–and cake decorating, as we’ve seen in recent years, is also a bona fide art–and considering I find creativity in any form pretty much irresistible (at times to my detriment–to wit, three months with Rocker Guy*), I had a blast at OCA. 

The students I taught at OCA were often just as embellished as their canvases, some with tatoos adorning every exposed patch of flesh, others with rainbow-striped hair in asymetrical spikes; some with handcrafted jewelry dangling from neck, waist, or ankles, and others bedecked in outfits so bohemian they practically carried their own passports. The students were also eccentric in the way only artists can be eccentric, asking questions and writing essays that, precisely because they were “out there,” elicited my utmost affection.

During those years, I had the great fortune to meet Morris, a faculty member who took me under his wing and later became a dear friend. Sweet, erudite, and the very embodiment of integrity, Morris helped me navigate the otherworldy campus politics and academic wranglings that were about as intelligible to me as a Cubist landscape. And because he was also a vegetarian, Morris introduced me to one of my favorite vegetarian restaurants in the city–and one I haven’t been to since I left OCA. 

In the heart of Toronto’s downtown shopping strip, Le Commensal peeks unassumingly from the ground floor entrance of a towering office building.  Inside, this Montreal import offers a huge, buffet-style, culinary Disneyland for vegans.  Glass cases overflow with platters of every conceivable delectation from colorful, glistening salads to grain pilafs to an ever-shifting assortment of seitan stews, skewers, casseroles, or steaks.  And it attracts customers with all dietary preferences, not just the crunchy-granola set.

I can clearly remember one of the first lunches Morris and I shared there.  While he attempted to explain the concept of “artist’s statement” to me, I chowed on a plate of roasted eggplant, marinated mushrooms, salad, and a sizeable slice of something I’d never had before, Sweet Potato and Buckwheat Shepherd’s pie. The combination of meaty, nutty toasted buckwheat set against the smooth, sweet and creamy potato was a heavenly match.  And while I promptly forgot what an artist’s statement was (if I ever really knew it), that Shepherd’s pie, with its magical pattern of ochre potato and sepia buckwheat, was etched permanently in my memory.

Imagine my surprise when, a couple of weeks ago, I came across a recipe for Sweet Potato and Kasha Burgers while flipping through one of my favorite cookbooks, one of the first I bought when I started experimenting with vegetarian cuisine: Nettie’s Vegetarian Kitchen by Nettie Cronish.  The book contains one of my all-time favorite recipes, Almond-Curry Tofu Stir-Fry . In fact, I was so taken with that recipe once I discovered it that I proceeded to cook variations of the dish at least twice a week for the following six months or so (at which point the HH tersely informed me that he would never eat a single MORSEL of tofu EVER AGAIN, as long as he LIVED. Odd, since I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t have had the same reaction to, say, steak a couple of times a week for six months. . . but I digress.)

“Steak?  Did someone say ’steak’?  Ooooh, we haven’t had steak in ages. . . years, maybe. . . “

“Elsie, what’s steak?”

I couldn’t believe my luck: the recipe featured that elusive duo of sweet potato and buckwheat! I knew I had to try it.  And just what made this particular pattie so special, you ask? Well, it seems to me that in any duel between veggie burgers, you have your tofu-based on the North American side, and you have your nut-based on the UK/Antipodean side.  But Nettie’s burger–while still a realistic, objective representation of “burger”–featured neither of these.  The patties are based on the combination of grain and tuber, with a dash of almond butter as a binder.  I have to admit, I was initially doubtful and wondered if they’d hold together, but they worked beautifully.  Even the HH, with his skepticism for any non-meat proteins, enjoyed them immensely. 

“Mum, I’m quite sure I heard you say ’burger”! You know we’re always happy to help out with meat of any kind. . . Oh, Chaser, you’ll love burgers!  They’re sort of like steak.”

I served this hearty dish (substantial enough to eat sans buns) alongside a favorite recipe for spring salad. The interplay of colors on the plate struck me as so artistic, in fact, it made me immediately nostalgic for those artsy days back at OCA.   

Since these burgers were the cornerstone of a delectable vegetarian meal, I’m submitting this post to Eat the Right Stuff’s blog event, Vegetable, Beautiful Vegetables. 

* he of the black leather pants. . . of course.

Sweet Potato and Kasha Burgers

adapted from Nettie’s Vegetarian Kitchen

Surprisingly hearty and filling, these burgers are quite easy to throw together and offer a savory, almost smoky flavor.  Leftovers stored in the fridge will firm up even more overnight. I halved the recipe with no problems.

1-1/2 cups (375 ml.) dry buckwheat (kasha)

3 cups (750 ml.) water or vegetable broth [I used veg broth]

1 tsp. (5 ml.) sea salt, or 1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) if using vegetable broth above

1 large onion, finely chopped

4 Tbsp. (60 ml.) toasted sesame oil or extra virgin olive oil, divided

1 celery stalk, finely chopped

1 large carrot, grated

2 large sweet potatoes, cubed, steamed or boiled until tender [I actually baked mine] and mashed

1/4 cup (60 ml.) almond butter or tahini (sesame paste)

1/4 cup (60 ml.) chopped fresh basil

2 green onions, finely chopped

2 Tbsp. (30 ml.) tamari or soy sauce

Dry-roast the kasha in a heavy skillet over medum heat for 5 minutes, stirring often with a wooden spoon. Add 3 cups (750 ml.) water and salt; bring to boil over high heat.  Reduce heat; cover and cook over low heat until water is absorbed and kasha is tender, about 15 minutes.

Cook onion in 1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) oil over medium heat until softened. Add celery and carrot; cook for another 5 minutes until softened.  

Stir together kasha, vegetables (including sweet potato), almond butter, basil, greeen onions and soy sauce until combined.  Keeping hands moist, form into 8 large or 16 small patties.  Heat remaining 3 Tbsp. (45 ml.) oil in large frying pan over medium-high heat.  Cook burgers 5 minutes, turning once, until golden brown and crisp on the outside.  [Note:  I baked half and fried half of these, just to see how they'd hold up in the oven. They worked just fine with both cooking methods, though the baked burgers never acquired that crispy blackened exterior that the fried ones had. Still yummy, though!]

Well, seems I’m on a raw kick this week–here’s a second raw recipe in a row (and also a tongue-twister using “R” words!).  As promised, I’m going to offer the recipe for “Cultured Vegetables” from my Total Health course.  Every time I utter the name of this recipe, I can’t help thinking, “As opposed to what?  Crass, uncouth vegetables?” But my mind just works that way.

If you’ve ever enjoyed a side of tangy, crisp coleslaw or the zing that some juicy sauerkraut can add to a Reuben sandwich, you’ve already sampled cultured vegetables.  The term refers to veggies that have been allowed to ferment naturally, within their own juices, to help breed the natural bacteria within them. These are good bacteria, people–the same kind you eat in healthy, immune-enhancing yogurt with live probiotics.  In fact, naturally cultured veggies may contain even more of these healthful bacteria than the yogurt does.

The practice of making our own cultured veggies has waned over the past century (why bother when you can just grab a jar from the supermarket?), but the store-bought kind can’t compare. In contrast to the assembly-line, limp and almost matte coloring of prepared brands, the homemade variety retains a lovely sheen and a springy bite with an appealing ascerbic tang.  And while the all-natural brands manufactured using traditional methods (the ones that require refrigeration even before you open them) are just fine, their cost is often exorbitant, and they don’t always offer the same probiotic benefits or equivalent array of vitamins and minerals in the all-natural types.

When you chop or grate raw, organic cabbage, the probiotic bacteria already present  (”friendly bacteria” that naturally populate our intestines and aid in myriad bodily functions, from boosting our immune systems to enhancing digestion to producing Vitamin K) begin to multiply and feed off the natural sugars in the veggies, thereby fermenting them.  The result is the slightly soft , slightly crisp, naturally pickled condiment that is most commonly known as sauerkraut. In this case, however, the food is truly raw and provides all the benefits of raw enzymes and easy digestibility from a living food.

I’ve always loved sauerkraut.  I can still remember how, throughout my childhood, my mom would crack open a jar of Mrs. Whytes  in natural brine and just eat it out of the jar as a snack (she had some weird culinary proclivities, that mom of mine). Well, as she did with my love for Jack and Carly, my mother also nurtured my taste for sauerkraut, and I’ve been eating it ever since.  When I finally learned to make it myself last week, I was surprised at how simple the process really is.

A quick Googling of “Cultured Vegetables Recipe” elicited 188,000 hits, so there’s obviously no shortage of information available for those who’d like to give it a try.  At our course, we used a combination of red cabbage, white cabbage, carrot and daikon radish.  The method is crazy-simple:  chop or grate the veggies very fine; blend a bit of them with water to create a “brine”; combine both parts in a tightly-closed jar and let it sit on your kitchen counter for a week.  Refrigerate before opening (both to stop the fermentation process and to prevent too much air escaping when you finally open it), then spear with your fork and enjoy.  My own batch ended up infused with a rosy, springlike hue throughout, courtesy of the red cabbage; on the plate, the mixture evoked a girl’s best party dress, or a sprinkling of confetti at a baby shower.

Once made, the veggies can be used alone as an accompaniment to salads, burgers, or other main courses; as a snack on their own (my mom would have loved them); or, as my instructor suggested, tossed at the last minute over some sautéed greens to warm them up a bit.

Below is the recipe we used, taken directly from Donna Gates’s Body Ecology site.  While my instructor did provide a “culture starter,” it’s entirely unnecessary to the success of this dish.  You should also feel free to experiment with the proportions of different vegetables, as long as cabbage is the the main event. And once you’ve got a batch ready, the veggies will last several months. 

Raw Cultured Vegetables

[Aren't those colors purty?]

[From the website]: One important secret to making really delicious yet medicinal cultured veggies is to use freshly harvested, organic, well-cleaned vegetables. After washing the veggies, spin them dry. Clean equipment is essential. Scald everything you use in very hot water.

Version 1

3 heads green cabbage, shredded in a food processor

1 bunch kale, chopped by hand

(optional): 2 cups wakame ocean vegetables (measured after soaking), drained, spine removed, and chopped

1 Tbsp. dill seed

Version 2

3 heads green cabbage, shredded in a food processor

6 carrots, large, shredded in a food processor

3 inch piece ginger, peeled and chopped

6 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped

1. Combine all ingredients in a large bowl.
2. Remove several cups of this mixture and put into a blender.
3. Add enough filtered water to make a “brine” the consistency of a thick juice. Blend well and then add brine back into first mixture. Stir well.
4. Pack mixture down into a 1½ quart glass or stainless steel container. Use your fist, a wooden dowel, or a potato masher to pack veggies tightly.
5. Fill container almost full, but leave about 2 inches of room at the top for veggies to expand.
6. Roll up several cabbage leaves into a tight “log” and place them on top to fill the remaining 2 inch space. Clamp jar closed.
7. Let veggies sit at about a 70 degree room temperature for at least three days. A week is even better. Refrigerate to slow down fermentation. Enjoy!

Well, it’s been pretty hectic over here in the DDD household. For the past couple of days, I’ve been slogging away at course prep for a course that deals with diaries and personal journals.  (Did you know, for instance, that  the first online diary, or weblog –today known simply as “blog”–was begun in 1994?  Or that psychiatrists and psychologists often ask their patients to use free association or stream-of-consciousness in journals as a way to dredge up old, repressed conflicts or neuroses?)  Okay–enough work for now!  Time for a snack break. 

Ah, but what to eat?  Hmmm. . . .well, funny, but peanut butter popped into my head. Oh, yeah, baby–peanut butter!  I love it.  It’s creamy, it’s delicious, it’s full of–well, nuts. (Oh.  Hmmm. Is that a bad thing, that I just said “nuts”?  Really, I didn’t mean anything by it. . .sometimes, you know, a peanut is just a peanut.).  Peanut butter was one of my favorite foods in childhood.  (Not that I’m trying to re-live my childhood, or anything.) Of course, nowadays, peanut butter is quite often troublesome, potentially deadly, even–all those peanut allergies and sensitivities. . . which is quite sad, actually. All because we were fed too much of it when we were kids. And now we’re paying for it! Where’s the justice in that? I mean, HOW COULD MY MOTHER DO THAT TO ME? Oh, yes, it’s becoming all too clear: It’s all my mother’s fault!  I may never get over it. . . I think I’m getting a complex. . .   

Well, any Freudian issues aside, I must admit that I do remain a bit conflicted about the stuff.  Although I so enjoy the flavor of it, there’s really nothing elegant about peanut butter (on its own, anyway). For many of us, it’s simply a quick, cheap, and easy base for a meal, something we rely on when either time or funds are scarce; and it’s one of the first foods we eschew as soon as we can afford anything better.  And of course there’s the allergy thing, too.

Perhaps worse, peanuts sometimes harbor potentially deadly toxins. As you probably know, the peanut is actually a legume, not a nut; and its shell, being somewhat soft and porous, functions as a perfect hiding place for a variety of molds, foremost among them something called aflatoxin.  When I first read about this particularly virulent fungus and its affinity for peanuts, I stopped eating peanut products that same day. 

And while aflatoxins are generally found only in minute amounts in peanut products (their levels are monitored, ostensibly), they are, nevertheless,