"Hey, guess what I did?"
"Um... something stupid?"
Disappointed pause.
"How did you guess?"
So... do you remember yesterday? The day I was going to spend all day baking, when there was nothing I had to do but buy groceries, tidy up a bit and bake up a storm?
Well, somehow I didn't start until 3:30.
I know! I don't know how I managed it, either! Well... my alarm went off at 6 (oh yes, I had big goals) and I thought about getting up. Really I did! And... then I didn't.
And then when I did, I had to make a grocery list. And I didn't really want to, so I put it off. And I read through the french bread essay again (can't call it a recipe -- no recipe should ever be that long) and decided, alas, that I was not brave enough on that particular morning.
So it was 11 by the time William finally talked me into making a real list. And then I had to go shopping, and stop by the library, and since I wasn't making french bread I had to find another recipe, so I wandered happily around the cooking aisle 'til I found The Bread Bible. And then I came home, at lunch, put away the food... started reading the bread bible... kept reading the bread bible...
I didn't end up putting anything in the oven until 9 p.m. Pretty pathetic, huh?
The bread turned out okay, though -- basic hearth bread, from The Bible. The crust scared me with how dark it was, but it was fine. I think, though, that I'll take a break from the artisan breads and work on basic sandwich breads for a while -- the cinnamon-raisin bread that I made was definitely the best I've done so far, and it was distinctly non-artisan.
I also baked cookies. Sigh.
Sigh, sigh, sigh. I baked these cookies -- they came with multiple recommendations, so I trusted them, even if the recipe did come from Martha Stewart. I glanced over the recipe, thought, "well, this looks easy enough!" and dove right in.
Speaking of which, I used Dove chocolates -- with my coupons, it was cheaper than buying even the cheapest baking chocolate. I melted half the bag, and chopped the other half. In the process, I got way more sappy advice than I've really ever wanted. "Smile... everyone will wonder what you've been up to." "Be mischievous." "Listen to your heartbeat and dance."
I placed the chocolate for melting in my double boiler and watched the steam do its wonderful, wonderful work. I love my double boiler so incredibly much -- but that's a story for another day. Because right now, we should all be focusing on the fact that it was only chocolate that I put into that gleaming thing of beauty, despite the fact that the recipe clearly states, "melt the chocolate WITH THE BUTTER."
I actually got all the way to the end of the recipe, and was breaking off bits of the dough and putting them on the cookie sheet, before it occurred to me. "Wow," I thought. "This is the thickest cookie dough I've ever worked with." Literally -- breaking pieces off.
Sudden pause. Mental revisiting of all the ingredients. "Does it really not call for any butter?"
I kind of wanted to just try it cooking it as it was, and seeing how it worked -- an experiment! But there was a whole bag of delicious chocolate in there, and if it came out dreadful, it would have been so tragic... and besides, it was the BUTTER that I left out, not something silly and minor like, well, anything else! What would cookies be without butter? It would be like a day without sunshine, or a life without love, or ice cream with the fat and sugar taken out. Blasphemy!
So, I melted a stick of butter and poured it over my bowlful of thick, stubborn, fudgy dough.
Have you ever tried to add butter at the END of a cookie recipe? It's freaking hard! I ended up kneading that cookie dough in the bowl -- it was the only thing that seemed to work. And the result was distinctly greasy.
I cooked them anyway, and they turned out okay. Pretty good, even, mostly because of how much chocolate there was... but I think they could have been better.
oh well. Live and learn.
(p.s. -- Paula Deen really did)
Saturday, March 22, 2008
at least I didn't drink it
Friday, March 21, 2008
somebody should study this
I'm usually pretty hard on myself. Not ripping-my-hair-out, weeping-at-my-inadequacies hard on myself, but I do have high standards. "Good enough" is only good enough if it's four in the morning and I haven't slept in 24 hours -- that's throw-in-the-towel time. Any other time of day, good enough is a problem that needs to be solved.
So it comes as no surprise to me that I am never satisfied with anything I cook. First of all, I have been cooking for all of 6 months. I'm not so presumptious as to believe that I could put on an apron, read a few books, and BOOM, be a kitchen master. In fact, I plan on spending the rest of my life learning how to make food, getting better and better and better. I'm a beginner. I'm clueless. I was expecting a lot of mediocre meals at first, and since I'll never be satisfied with mediocre, I was expecting to not be satisfied. I was prepared.
I enjoy my food. I get excited about my food. I want to make a disclaimer right now: everything that I gush about, everything that I declare absolutely delicious and amazing, everything I'm really proud of? It's not great yet. It needs work. It isn't perfect. I'm not satisfied with it -- but I that doesn't mean I'm not happy.
I remember a few hours in my existentialism course where we discussed whether happiness was to be found through accepting what you have, or through striving to make it better. I think the answer is somewhere in between. My happiest times are when I'm working to improve something, when I experience "flow," when I'm totally immersed in fixing a problem or making good things better. The key is to not make the goal your source of happiness, but the process. There's always room for improvement, so if you need to reach perfection to be happy, you are screwed -- but if you just want to work towards perfection, then you'll always have something to do.
The point is, I judge my food harshly. When I make food that's pretty good, I am delighted with myself, but not with it -- I'm making mental notes (the green peppers are a little overcooked, flavor just a bit off, maybe a little chewier, needs more spice, burnt on that corner, too much sauce, different vegetables) so that next time I can make it better. When I cook food that doesn't turn out, I declare it to be the atrocious trash it is -- no ego-fluffing -- and move on with my life. I know that I have an awfully long way to go, and I'm okay with that. I'm harsh -- but not TOO harsh.
But now... now I am questioning this. Am I too harsh? There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I have a pretty accurate assessment of the foods that I liked, which is almost always, "Pretty good. Could be much better." It's my 'atrocious' foods that have me wondering.
Here's why. Last night, I cooked garbanzo beans and sweet potatoes curried in coconut milk. I knew that I could just use any of my curry pastes, and it would be pretty good -- I can make a decent curry. But I decided to see what it would be like with a different combination of spices, so I heated lots of cumin seeds, ginger and garlic, and used that, curry powder and red pepper as my flavoring. I also read some recipes that suggested cooking the sweet potatoes in the microwave, so I did that with the potatoes and carrots. (I don't think I'll do it again -- stovetop is just easier for me.)
I sat down for dinner and took my first bite, and felt like standing up and throwing the pot into the trash. It was DREADFUL. First of all, the sweet potatoes and carrots were undercooked, hardcore. Worse than that, though, the whole flavor was off. It wasn't spicy enough, it wasn't complex enough, it wasn't interesting, but it also wasn't subdued enough to let the natural flavor of the sweet potato and coconut milk to shine. I sighed, and mentally moved on. It was a dud. What can you do? I simmered what was left for a while, so at least the leftovers wouldn't be undercooked, but was not looking forward to having to eat them again.
And yet... I stabbed my fork into my lunch today, a heaping bowl of sweet potato curry, took my first bite and -- and I was totally surprised! It was overcooked this time (I overdid the simmering, whoops!), but it tasted... fine! It certainly wasn't anything spectacular, but I wouldn't have been ashamed to serve it to somebody else -- and that's pretty much my standard for acceptability right now. (William doesn't count. Eating mediocre food, if that's what I wind up with, is part of the deal.)
It was spicy! The sweetness of the coconut milk pretty perfectly matched the spiciness, and the other spices really did round it out to an overall nice flavor. The sweet potatoes were flavorful, and they totally matched everything else in the dish... there weren't any fireworks, it could have used more spices, it still would have been better if I'd used curry paste, it needed some more flavorful rice (probably brown) and, of course, the vegetables were too soft, but... but I enjoyed it.
Crazy!
And then -- this is crazy! -- remember the grapefruit stir-fry I mentioned? The one that wasn't very good? Well, I'm eating it right now. And I have changed my mind. You probably should try adding grapefruit to your stir-fry. Not by itself -- the recipe I used had pineapple juice, soy sauce and corn starch as the base for the sauce, and pretty much equal parts pineapple chunks and grapefruit. And it's pretty good.
The pineapple is sweet, the grapefruit is bitter-tart, and they match really well. It was a decent stir-fry to begin with -- the vegetables were the right amount of done, which is the most important thing, in my mind -- and you know what? I don't think that it would have been better without the grapefruit. I think it does add a little something. I think -- I think it's okay.
Are my leftovers really improving in the fridge? Maybe a little -- but I don't think that would be enough to change my mind so drastically.
Here, then, is my explanation: When I eat my dinner, I have just finished spending, one to two hours deciding what to cook, thinking about what to cook, and chopping sauteing simmering stirring tasting spicing so on and so forth. I have put a lot of thought and effort into my food. With each new ingredient, I think about what it will add to the dish, I add spices very carefully and with thought, I surround myself with the smells and sounds and general delights of the kitchen. I build anticipation. I spend two whole hours looking forward to eating that food.
And I sit down, and of course it doesn't meet my expectations! With naturally high standards and two freaking hours of build-up, it would be crazy if it could. So the letdown, the disappointment, makes me lay an even more vindictive judgment down on my food. "I like it," William says, and I glare at him. "Well, you shouldn't. It's not any good," I huff.
But maybe it is. Not really good, but at least a little bit good. And when it's leftovers, once I've gained some distance from it, once I can judge it like somebody else cooked it, I can appreciate that.
This is Camila's theory explaining the phenomenon of greater enjoyment of leftovers. Does this happen to anybody else? I'll devise a theory and write up a paper.
The obvious conclusion -- that I should always have a day between when I cook food and when I eat it. Straight from the stovetop to the tupperware, that's the solution.
(Or maybe I should just chill out? Dunno.)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
afternoon tea
So perhaps I have mentioned how much I love afternoon tea. No? Well, let me fix that. I really, really love afternoon tea. Do you know why? Because afternoon tea is one of the best ideas ever.
Because, let's face it, 7 hours is a long time between meals. I eat breakfast at 7 and lunch at noon and life is good. But then it's 7 again and time to cook dinner and I am starving, which always serves as an incentive for shortcutting and skipping steps and settling for mediocre food. And if I had my way, I would never eat mediocre food again. Hey, I can dream.
The point is, afternoon tea is 1) well-timed, 2) delicious, 3) adorable, and 4) oh so civilized. I adore it. I wish I had cucumber sandwiches today, but lacking that, here was my afternoon tea:
I know. I peeled my grapefruit and separated the slices and arranged my plate all pretty. I know. I have way too much time. In my defense, we aren't building this Saturday, and since 80% of my job is scheduling things for Saturday... well, I wasn't very busy.
Isn't it cute? It was delicious. It made me happy. I was warm all the way down to my toes and my tongue was delighted and I sipped my stolen green tea with the deepest satisfaction. (Yes. It was somebody else's tea and I stole it. But -- I keep forgetting to bring my own into the office! But -- it's been in the cabinet for ages! But -- but -- I've brought everybody cookies so many times that I think it evens out. Yes? Yes.)
It needed some carby goodness -- little sandwiches or crackers or cookies or mini muffins or cakelets or tartlets or scones, or oh my goodness, now I am starting to think about it. But I worked with what I had.
Incidentally, last night I tried a new recipe -- grapefruit stir fry. A word of advice? Don't put grapefruit in your stir-fry.
It wasn't dreadful, quite. It just... wasn't very good. At all. Without the grapefruit, it would have been a little boring, but better. William hated it -- of course, he can't stand grapefruit, which I totally forgot about, I swear, until after I'd started cooking!
So we have a milk crate full of grapefruit that I guess I'll have to find something else to do with. Main course options are slim, so fruit salads and grapefruit juice it is, I guess. And roasted grapefruit. I'll try that, too.
Heck, I'll try anything. I read that you can grow a grapefruit in its own skin. I want to try that, too.
Also: I have ordered yeast. I bought a pound of yeast online from King Arthur's Flour because I just could not bear to pay $8.50 for a little four-ounce bottle. So I paid $12 to have a pound shipped to me.
And now I am worried about it. You see, the round table baking folks did a cruel, cruel thing. They let me track my shipment. Normally, I order things online and then forget about them (I do things like that) and then it is like a delightful surprise when it arrives.
but now? Now I am checking it online every few hours, and saying things like, "West Virginia? West Virginia? What do you MEAN it's still in West Virginia??" and, "it's been in that sortation center for 8 HOURS already, hurry up! Come on! What's the holdup?"
And that's just silly.
You know what's sillier? It's not going to be here by tomorrow, I can tell. Because it just left West Virginia at 9:36 a.m. It's not happening. But I have a whole day off tomorrow, and I have PLANS. I have plans for BAKING.
I am going to make french bread. And cookies. And maybe little cakes. And hot cross buns. And a pie.
And I won't really make all of them, but I WANT to. And I definitely am baking bread. But without yeast? No can do! So I am going to suck it up and buy a hideously overpriced little packet of yeast.
To tide me over 'til my ship(ment) comes in.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
indulgences
I am frugal in my food-shopping. frugalicious, even. So you have to understand that I don't usually buy things because I want them. I buy bananas for 33 cents a pound, pick the cheapest kind of apples, don't buy berries or melons or pineapples or kiwis even if they look delicious.
But this week, I made an exception. A one-dollar splurge. At Lee Lee's, I bought a single Manila mango, even though it was about three times as expensive as the apples. (Shh... don't tell my budget!) I had vague plans of cutting it up and making a fruit salad to share that night, but never did get around to it. Never did get around to sharing.
Today, I ate that mango. I ate it all by myself, my little not-frugal slip, after my super-frugal soup and bread and water. I didn't share at all. I didn't worry about stretching it or maximizing it at all, except that I did pick off every scrap of flesh from the stone because, oh god, it was so delicious. It was mine, all mine, no matter what it cost because life's not long enough to count pennies and let mangoes sit stacked to the sky and uneaten. It was all mine, and I loved it.
Best damn mango ever. The flesh was sweet, tender, it was perfectly ripe -- smooth and soft, without that roughness on the tongue that most mangoes have. I've had my share of Mexican mangoes since we've been here -- they're popular to bring and share at lunch break -- but this was a different mango all together. None of the fiber, the bite, the stringiness -- smaller, sweeter, more perfect. It made my entire day. It just about made my year.
God. I can't even express how amazing it was for me, huddled up in my little gray cubicle holding this gleaming golden secret to my chest. William called to report that he had locked the keys in the van. "That's cool," I said. "I am having a really excellent mango right now." He said that I could take the bus to Guadalupe and unlock the van and drive to Andrew's, or drive home and they'd drive from Andrew's home, or take the bus home and they'd meet me there and drive to Guadalupe with my keys, or -- "Sure, whatever you think would be best," I said. "It's all good. Have I mentioned how amazing this mango is?"
I love mangoes. I love mangoes so, so much. The flavor, some strange child of sweet and tart that's all it's own, the tender bite of them, the softness under their skin, their lovely colors, the smell... everything. And that mango was so sublime, so damn perfect... Just thinking about it is making me happy all over again.
I like to fancy, sometimes, that it's a bit of my heritage shining through -- that little Filipino slice of me letting itself out as I revel, absolutely rejoice, in the juice dripping between my fingers and down my chin, in the smooth slice of my knife through its skin and the slight rasp as it scrapes along the stone, in the perfect little squares spreading out as I flip the skin into itself. There must be a little brown Camila inside me wiggling her fingers in the tropical humus, picking sweet ripe mangoes straight from the tree and huddling up in her little green island, holding a gleaming golden secret to her chest. It's the only explanation for this unholy passion, I like to tell myself.
I think that can't quite be true, because last time I checked, my sister didn't like mangoes... but maybe she missed that gene. I don't know. I can't express this to you. That little indulgence of mine, those twenty minutes biting off slick cubes of fruit, brought me so much joy that it just isn't fair. It just isn't fair that I got to be that happy all by myself, without sharing it with you. I'm sorry. Next time, I will try to share my mango.
However, that will be next time. Today, I am just going to say that my day was pretty much perfect. Because I had the best mango ever, and it was all mine.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
link-o-rama
Gnocchi with thyme vinaigrette and lemon-cashew cream at vegan yum yum
I think I'd avoid the eggless gnocchi route, since this post suggests it is more finicky, but I do like the idea of the simple, complementary sauces. If I manage to make pasta myself, the pasta will be the STAR of the meal, so I'll need not-overpowering sauces. At least the first time, while I'm still all proud of myself.
Monkey bread at the knead for bread
Monkey Bread! What a great invention. I think I linked to a monkey bread post last time, too... whatever. Let's all celebrate the joy that is monkey bread.
Apple bundt cake at cafe chocolada
Add to the list of things I need: a bundt pan. Incidentally, I had a fantastic apple muffin this morning. I bet this would be like that... but better.
Red curry at cookbook catchall
Oh, just look at that picture... what a beautiful photo! I usually make green curry, but I really should branch out. Whatever. I don't care about the recipe that much. It's the photography that really caught my eye. Damn.
Espresso chocolate chunk cookies at eggs on sunday
If you love me, you will make me these cookies. Or let me make them for us to savor together. Click! Click, I say! More beautiful pictures and a recipe that is definitely going to be sticking around. Mmmf.
Tiramisushi at dessert first
These seem... strange. Not something I would want to make or even, really, eat -- but they certainly are creative. All the same, I think some things just don't really need to be messed with. Tiramisu is pretty damn perfect as it is. Why try to merge it with sushi?
Strawberries with balsamic vinegar at cheap healthy good
Such a strange idea.. I have got to try this. That's all there is to it.
Blackberry hand pies at gourmet girl
Blackberry hand pies. Hand pies? Like little miniature calzones, apparently -- one-handed, one-person, and, I'm willing to bet, entirely delicious. We have established through experimentation that a whole pie is too darn big for just William and myself -- we actually have half a pie in the house right now, left over from pi day, and I worry that we won't get through it before it goes bad. William has such a fondness for pies, and they are so simply delicious, that I hate to not make them... little bitty pies are pretty much the best compromise ever. And these look fantastic.
Homesick Texan has a lovely post about her grandfather's special pancakes -- very touching.
Orangette writes about her time in Paris -- and shares, among many other things, a chocolate granola recipe!
Pasta with cauliflower, walnuts and feta at smitten kitchen
I don't like cauliflower... but damned if this doesn't sound good!
And th-th-that's all for today, folks.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Bollyfood
My dearest darlingest mother came into town last night, and I invited over a couple of friends (do you like how I say that like I have more than two friends out here? Hint: I don't.) And I made Indian food!
It was almost a disaster. But more importantly, it wasn't a disaster. Let's all look on the bright side!
Why was it so nearly catastrophic? Well, I didn't decide what I was going to make until about 3 p.m., and we hadn't gone grocery shopping for the week, so we had to do that first. Since it's just not cool to take your mom to freaking Fry's or something when she's kind enough to visit you and she lives all the way across the country and you haven't seen her in months, we went to Lee Lee's instead. Because Lee Lee's isn't just a store -- it is a destination.
If you are ever in Phoenix, you should pay a visit to Lee Lee's Oriental Supermart, at the corner of Dobson and Warner in Chandler. It is pretty much my culinary Mecca. Even my mother, who is a great cook who has lived all over the world and shopped in all kinds of places, said that she had never seen anything like it. Lee Lee's -- the biggest little ethnic shop you've ever seen.
In Lee Lee's, they have aisles designated: Soy Sauce and Fish Sauces, Pakistan, India, Korea, Thailand, The Philippine, Holland Food, Rice Cookers, China, Vietnam, Beers, Caribbean, Cookies and Biscuits. They don't discriminate: is your food of choice from Britain, or Greece, or Sri Lanka? No matter. You'll find your preferred import here. I believe I have failed to express how huge this place is. It's really freaking big.
Meat is in the back, a long butcher's station with busy men in white coats carrying giant cleavers and answering your questions in broken English. Rice is in the front, between the checkout stations and the door, stacked 5 feet high on wooden pallets, 10- and 25- and 50-pound bags of more varieties of rice than I knew existed.
Produce is dirt cheap -- apples for 39 cents a pound, when I have to search to find it for under a dollar elsewhere -- Indian Eggplant, Thai Eggplant, eggplants from all sorts of different countries, all different shapes and sizes and colors... 15 varieties of cabbage, with bok choy the only one I recognize, 5 kinds of bananas and plantains, fresh ginger in a massive pile and scoop-it-yourself bean sprouts crisp and fresh. Fresh herbs, a third of the price and three times the quality I have managed to find anywhere else. From potatoes, sweet potatoes and onions to yucca root, tamarind and edamame... I could go on.
The point is, they have almost everything. I was disappointed this Saturday by a lack of flour and yeast, but that was really it. There were lots of kinds of flour I didn't recognize at all, but I just wanted a huge sack of plain white, and a small bag of wheat. No can do, kiddo. But aside from those Western staples, they really do have everything I could ever want. And an amazing number of things I could never, ever want -- did I mention that their selection of imported foods is really incredible? I truly think they should advertise themselves as a tourist destination -- wandering around for an hour, laughing and being amazed by the diversity of things people eat, and finishing off by buying a snack food that will push your culinary boundaries -- really, I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon.
I digress. We went to Lee Lee's and then it was 5 and my mother had to leave by 7. And I decided to make naan and samosas and dal and curried vegetables and garbanzo beans and rice pilaf and tamarind chutney and raita and mango lassis. I had an hour, and four burners.
As you can imagine, that didn't work so well. Fortunately, my mom and Steph were around to help me out, so I managed to pull off everything except for the lassis (easiest of all, kind of ironic, but by the time I should have started them I was just worn out). It was a lot of hectic-ness and mess-making and shuffling of pots and catching things on fire and setting off TWO different fire alarms -- I didn't even know we had two fire alarms! -- and we ended up eating off a flour-covered table, because there just wasn't TIME to clean it off.
Next time I have an Indian feast, I am planning ahead. I am starting the day before, and making things in advance, and it's all going to go very smoothly and we're going to be very civilized and we will eat off a tablecloth and I will be able to talk to my guests instead of running around like a chicken with my head cut off.
The food? Oh, the food was fine. It's just the preparation of it that was a nightmare. Well, that and the mess. It was such a nightmare. I wish I could plan ahead, I wish I was more organized, I wish I didn't set off fire alarms every time I try to cook, why can't I cut things without getting them all over the floor? Really! It just seems downright unreasonable.
The food? Right. The food. The dal didn't turn out to be dal -- I was all ready to start pureeing it when I decided that I was really just too busy, and they were just going to be lentils, okay? Okay. They were all right, I guess, if you like lentils. They would have been better if I'd gone the full mile and made them into real dal, but I didn't. So sue me! I don't even like lentils! (They were also really unappetizing-looking. So I won't make you look at them.) Anyway, nobody complained, so they weren't a failure... just dull and uninspired.
The samosas were pretty good. Everybody liked them, at any rate. I had to make some of them without onions for the picky-faces, but I think even those turned out okay. They were the right combinations of crispy and tender, flavorful even if they weren't quite spicy enough... pretty darn good.
Steph and Dolores did a good job shaping them, didn't they? I don't think I should even say that I made these. I made the dough and the filling, but the true credit should go to the people who rolled out the dough, shaped and filled the samosas, and deep-fried them. Thanks, ladies!
These are all pictures of leftovers, by the way. I didn't have time to breathe when they were fresh, let alone take pictures. These actually look a little bland in the pictures... more paprika and pepper needed, methinks.
William ate so many of these he made himself sick. That's not a particularly unusual occurance, so I guess it doesn't count as a terribly high compliment, but when he's rolling around clutching his stomach I have to either feel complimented or guilty... and guess what I usually choose.
The rice pilaf was pretty great. I've actually made this before, from a recipe in The New Vegetarian Epicure, and it's been tasty every time. Definitely good enough to eat by itself. I left out the onions and used raisins instead of currants, leaving a recipe somewhat like this (adapted from The New Vegetarian Epicure)
1 T oil
1 clove garlic, finely diced
1 T ginger, finely diced
1 T cumin seed
1/2 t red cayenne pepper, or 1 t curry powder, or somthing like that. I don't quite remember.
1 cup rice
1 cup vegetable broth
1 cup water
1/4 cup raisins
1 2-inch cinnamon stick, broken into small pieces
Salt.
Sauté the garlic, ginger and cumin seed in your oil of choice until it smells delicious. Add the spices, then the rice, and stir until the rice is well coated. Add the broth and water, and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat and add the raisins, cinnamon stick and salt. Stir well, then cover and simmer that sucker for 25 minutes. Let sit for another 5 minutes, or until the rest of dinner is done. Lift lid. Fluff. Enhale. Enjoy.
The cinnamon sticks soften up and aren't obnoxious to eat at all. They add a bit of texture, but aren't noticably crunchy or stick-like or overpowering... thank goodness.
The tamarind chutney became a tamarind dipping sauce. I was trying to reduce it, but then I got distracted and it boiled over, and then I needed that burner, so I just renamed it, took it off the heat and served it like it was. It had a nice flavor, anyway, and I'm sure it would have been a great chutney if I'd had 2 more burners and an extra thirty minutes.
The raita was my standard yogurt sauce -- cucumber, cilantro, yogurt, lime juice, coriander. It was the only dish that didn't, at some point, make me feel like hyperventilating.
The naan were pretty good -- I'd never made them before, so it was certainly fun. I'd also never made a bread that called for yogurt, so that was new and interesting. The cooking method was different, too -- I followed the New Vegetarian Epicure recipe that called for cooking them on a hot griddle 'til they were brown on the top and had puffy bubbles, then transferring them to the oven. Straight onto the rack, broil at 500 degrees until just browned on top, too -- serve.
I did manage to burn about half of them, and get melted, burnt plastic on more of them than I'd like to admit... but let's not talk about that. Let's focus on the fact that they were recognizably naan. At this point in my baking career, "recognizable" is pretty much what I am going for. "Identifiable" is pretty good, too. And these were both, as well as being pliable and rippable and fun.
Next time, I will make garlic naan. And maybe it will be both recognizable and really good. That would be awesome.
Finally, the curried vegetables and garbanzo beans, which I actually really liked. A success! Stop the presses! I think one of my favorite things about them is how colorful they are... green, red, orange, white, yellow, the brown curry paste... and they get the Andrew-the-nutritionist "Healthy" stamp of approval! Even better!
Best of all, they were stupid-easy to make. I love things that are stupid-easy... should I not say "stupid-easy?" I feel like it might offend somebody, somehow. The other day, I called myself dyslexic and then thought, "what if somebody listening right now actually is dyslexic, or knows somebody who is, and they're really offended?" I felt dreadfully guilty and apologetic for a while, even though nobody had reacted at all. Then, the next day, I transposed two numbers in a phone number for the 15th time and did it again... oh well.
Camila's Stupid-easy (and not at all authentic) Curried Vegetables and Garbanzo Beans
1 T oil
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
1 half-inch piece of fresh ginger, finely diced
(1 large onion, diced... I couldn't use it last night, but I bet it would be even BETTER with onions.)
1 generous tablespoon of your favorite curry paste
2 carrots, diced
Half a green bell pepper, diced
Half a red bell pepper, diced
2 zucchini/squash, diced
(You know what else would probably be good? Sweet potato, boiled 'til not quite tender and diced... yeah!)
1 can garbanzo beans, undrained.
Sauté the garlic, ginger and onions in the oil until the onions are getting translucent, or until the garlic and ginger smell awesome if you aren't using onions. Add the curry paste -- I used some tasty stuff bought at Lee Lee's, of course -- and stir around until everything is coated in yumminess. Add the carrots, and sauté for another couple of minutes. Add the bell pepper and squash, and continue to cook until the squash is just barely tender. Dump in the garbanzo beans, including the liquid, and stir well. Keep over medium heat until the garbanzos are heated through, then serve. Accept enthusiastic praise: say, "Yes, it was very difficult -- took me all day, in fact -- but that's okay, because you're worth it!"
It was so fast, so yummy... definitely a keeper. Serve it over plain white rice with some raisins and yogurt on top, and you've pretty much got the meal that took me an hour and a half of panicking to make. Wow. That's pretty depressing.
Ah well. The samosas were worth the effort, and the naan was a fun adventure. I do wish I'd made the lassis, though... they are just so delicious.
That was our Indian feastlet. Bollyfood... get it? Speaking of which, I will now leave you with my two favorite Indian things. My apologies to the grand country of India for choosing such silly things to represent it -- I respect you. Really I do.
With the utmost respect to the subcontinent, then, I offer you: No Life Without Wife (from Bride and Prejudice -- rent it!) and the Dancing Bollywood Condoms, which defy description.
You are welcome.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
failures
man. this is hard.
Last night I made tomato, corn and garbanzo bean soup. It was... not good. It had a peculiar and very unpleasant flavor to it. I also made irish soda bread, but messed up the recipe by leaving out the oats. Can you say oops?
William's comment: "Weeeell, the garbanzo beans are good. And the bread is delicious!" (It wasn't. It is okay, but it is not delicious.)
As for the soup, I blame the stuff from the cans. I kept it simple and quick, grabbing and adapting a random quick soup recipe from Joy of Cooking. I sauteed onions and garlic, then added condensed tomato soup, milk, cream-style corn and garbanzo beans. Why did I have tomato soup? Annie bought it. Why did I have cream-style corn? Well, it was on sale. What can I say.
So my theory is that the soup, having unpleasantries like corn syrup and too much salt, and the corn, having corn starch and other seemingly unnecessary ingredients, introduced a not-delicious-ness to the soup. Because I know there was nothing wrong with the onions, garlic, and garbanzo beans, and the only spices I added were a little bit of curry powder. I really don't know how even I could mess that up so badly. The wrongness lay somewhere in a strange sweetness... yeah. I've thought about it. I blame the tomato soup. Unfair of me? Perhaps. But there you go.
Wow. It was really not good, though. Ugh. I don't want to talk about it.
All the same, it seemed like it might have been trying for something positive. I might try the same thing again, except making my own tomato soup and using frozen, un-creamed, un-canned, un-additivized corn. Additivized. That's right. Anyway. Maybe I'll try again a long time from now, when this trauma is gone from my memory.
Tonight? Tonight I made tempura. I was going to make beer-battered vegetables, but the beer I grabbed from Andrew's house turned out to be barbecue sauce. In a seemingly-unopened beer bottle. WTF? I called him to complain, and he just shrugged it off and said he can't explain his roommates. Whatever.
So I ended up making tempura with water instead, and it was profoundly uninspiring. Squash, zucchini, onions and tofu, deep-fried and pretty much tasteless. Also: not crunchy. Is tempura supposed to be crunchy? I don't know. I can't remember ever having it. I sort of expected it to be, but it was almost limp, instead. And did I mention flavorless? I put curry powder and ginger in the batter, but believe me. You couldn't tell.
And I tried to make a dipping sauce, using soy sauce, red crushed peppers, lime juice, honey... I was doing okay until I added some vinegar. Have I mentioned that I don't know what the hell I'm doing? It was DREADFUL. I had to stop and start over again -- soy sauce, red crushed peppers, lime juice, STOP. It was uninspiring, too, but at least it wasn't dreadful. (And we are apparently out of fresh ginger, or I would have used that -- I couldn't find it in the fridge).
In short? NOT a success.
William's comment: "Well, it's better than last night's dinner."
It makes me want to cry. Well, not really. It makes me want to throw my hands up in despair and look angrily at something. Also? I have a splatter burn on my forehead. I hope it doesn't turn into an angry red mark. I have three zits that are just starting to go away. Come on. Cut me some slack, face.
Anyway. I want to throw up my hands in despair. How does one get good at cooking, anyway? I know how you become a chef -- culinary school. But I don't want to be a chef right now. I just want to be a kick-ass cook. And so I read about cooking and think about cooking and I try new things, and I try really hard, and... and it makes me want to throw my hands up in despair. Because there are people who seem like they just excel effortlessly at this. Like everything they touch magically responds to the meal in their mind, while I'm left with a big and active imagination, with a perfect plate in my head and mediocrity on the table.
Maybe this is the world balancing out my test-taking skills, gently teaching me a lesson. Right at this moment I am frustrated enough that I would rather be a killer cook with a C-average. I have priorities. And I am hungry.
I really, really want to be good at this. I want to cook foods that make eyes widen, smiles erupt, hearts feel warmer. I want to cook food that can adequately express my love for my favorite people. I want my food to fill bellies and warm hearts and comfort souls and blow minds. I want to make dishes people talk about for years, request again and again, remember fondly. Food is, in my mind, one of the best parts about living, and I want my food to be as good as the rest of my fantastic life is.
Mantra: It takes time. Keep trying. It takes practice. Keep going.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat. "It takes time, keep trying..."
But I feel like it doesn't, not for everybody. I know people who are younger than me who are fantastic cooks. I know. I have eaten their food. So I don't even have my youth on my side, really. And I'm not lazy, and I'm not too busy, and I don't not care, and dammit, I am really trying here.
Maybe I am just doomed to make edible food (because I've been managing that, so far) and I will have to pay other people to make me the lovely and delightful things I really want to eat. This whole cooking-really-fantastic-food thing might just be a bad idea. Maybe I'm aiming too high. Maybe I should just give up.
Stop. Enter William:
"Camila, you can't expect to make things perfectly the first time. But I have every faith that you can make them perfectly the second or third time. So try again later!"
Breath deeply. Rinse. Repeat.
