I hate beets. Or more precisely, despise them. There’s just something about their flavor; the way they stain your hands when you handle them, and their peculiar smell. A friend of mine goes a step further and says he’s actually afraid of them because they must be the  ’Devil’s Food’ (“They bleed when you cut them, look!”).

Throughout my childhood, I recall a nasty clutch in my stomach everytime there was beets at the dinner table (Mum would make her popular ‘Beetroot Curry’); there was just nothing anyone could do or say that would convince me to like them even the slightest. And it appears, I have carried this dislike with me all these years.

Perhaps it was the desire of late to change into a more ‘adult’ mindset and leave all childish hang-ups behind (having hit the big 3-oh and all), or more so, because it was that interim period in early spring when the sun is out and the birds are chirping, but chices in the produce department are rather sparse. So, out of sheer lack of choice, and a bit of bravado, I like to think, I found myself lugging home a nice, hearty bunch of red beets.

I tried to look at them in a different light, literally, and took my time taking pictures of them. Once peeled and chopped, their marbled texture ppped right out. Set against their lovely deep red, it looked gorgeous.

Even after taking to their beauty, however, I couldn’t bring myself to slide nasty little chunks of cooked beets down my throat, and so decided to puree them into an unrecognizable pulp which  could be used as an addition to something else. And so I arrived at Beet Gnocchi.

I’d cooked the beets alongwith some potatoes, and mashed them into a puree in the food processor, after which I mixed them with an egg, salt & pepper onto flour for a smooth gnocchi dough. The resultant dough was a gorgeous magenta. Making gnocchi is not only easy, but great fun. Rolling a bit each time into an oblong sausage, I cut them into little pillows and added a ridges with the tines of a fork.

After that, all that remains to do is dropping them into a pot of boiling salted water and cooking them until they rise to the top-2 to 3 minutes. The beets provide much of the flaovr, so a sauce, per say, is rather unnecessary, but coating the cooked gnocchi in a buttery base of garlic, crushed red pepper and fresh herbs gave it the perfect flavoring.

Perfect way to enjoy beets. I doubt I will ever like them, but perhaps I don’t loathe them so much now.

Spring is in the air. And finally, in the markets. Not in full swing; no, but in little pockets of color here and there, amidst the fading pale hues of the winter.  Easter-egg radishes and artichokes like bridal bouquets; peas and spring onions; and finally, swirls of green garlic and fiddlehead ferns that look like plant forms from a different world.

Most striking of them all, I find however, is the asparagus. Have you ever really looked at an asparagus shoot? I mean, really stopped and looked at it? It starts out with a dull green at the bottom, slowly turning into a more sparkling hue before finally tapering off into a graceful spear (That might have been the only time the word ’spear’ was described as ‘graceful’). 

To me, spring begins when the first tender shoots of asparagus hit the farmers’ market. Their mere presence evokes the forthcoming warming of the days, the tangy breezes and the cornucopia of produce.

And so simple to work with-they take no more work than a little steaming, and a toss of olive oil and salt & pepper; and go with nearly everything. My most favorite way to enjoy them is atop slices of toasted pain de campagne topped with a soft-boiled egg.  Occassionally, I like tossing them in a salad or even a stir-fry, but that was about the length of the range. 

So I went for something different this time when I found myself with more bunches of the green goodness than I could possibly consume within a few days (their one bane), and made a little pesto of them.

I love pesto, and while it’s more common in the Gastro Lab during summer, asparagus pesto screamed ’spring!’ with every bite. Besides, it made the wait for basil less lengthy. Pine nuts added a touch of nutty flavor while green chilies gave it a little kick. 

I toasted a handful of pine nuts, and ground them to a fine paste with  asparagus cooked in salted boiling water , a handful of baby spinach, a cup of parmesan cheese,a few cloves of garlic, small green chilies and salt, while drizzling olive oil until it formed a thick paste. After emptying it onto a bowl, I added lemon juice, and adjusted taste with more salt & some crushed black pepper.

Meanwhile, I cooked about a lb. of spaghetti, and tossed it with about a cup of the pesto, dusted it with some parmesan and toasted pine nuts, and topped it all off with a couple of spears I’d saved after cooking the asparagus.

Paired with a little Rose´, it made for a great sunny spring day meal.

Of late, beans have been featuring nearly everyday at the Gastro lab here. I’ve always enjoyed cooking with them; versatile and immensely nutritious, they ought to be a daily ingredient. However, thanks to my obstinacy over only having to stock them in their dried form, they take a little more effort and time than I’m willing to spend.

Nevertheless, I was seized by bean fever when I rearranged my pantry and found a jar full of Ceci, or chickpeas. Rich in zinc, folate, protein and fiber, they are great in soups and stews, salads, curries; eve dry roasted with spices or sweetened in syrup (as is apparently done for the Phillipine dish Halo-halo).

While Channa Masala remains my most favorite way to enjoy these little things, I am also partial to Mediterranean salads and sautes in which they play an ever so subtle role.

One of the two ways mentioned in the title, was a simple saute, Provencal in style. Accompanied by sliced onion, fennel and carrot in a tomato paste/garlic base, it makes for an excellent light lunch with some pain de campagne. I threw in some carrots for a bit of vegetable intake and garnished the lot with parsley. Different versions can include a touch of smoked Pimenton or a little lemon juice.

The other thing I did with the big batch I had soaked for over 12 hours and cooked for about 1, was a pasta sauce.  I had avoided making a Ceci sauce for a long time out of sheer laziness, but I couldn’t imagine why right after. It was rich, creamy and, with just a bit of  grated Parmesan sprinkled on top,  it was the perfect savory pick-me-up for a dull Sunday.

Have you ever had a day, when you’ve been beset by a sudden, stubborn longing to travel to a particular place, come what may? Where you spend hours going from wishful thinking to rationalization and finally, determination; and somehow finally tackling this longing and accepting that a substitute would have to do, for now? No? Ah.

Anyhow, this happens to me a lot; I get the travel itch at the most inconvenient of times, and quite often at that; and most of those times have to be dealt with, as though they were real problems. Over the course of several years’ trial and error, I have found that cooking a dish native to the country I wish to visit culls the yearning a bit. A minuscule bit, but a bit, all the same. After that, it’s only about staying away from travel blogs and National Geographic. Sigh.

Recently, North Africa has been floating around in my mind; and uncannily, everywhere else too-tv, a random travel magazine I happened to pick up, some of the travel blogs I regularly peruse-ever noticed how sometimes you think of something and then you see it everywhere?! Weird, eh?!

So North Africa, yea. I’ve long harbored a desire to go to Morocco; always wanted to snap a photo of that ubiquitous one of a souk, with all its multicolored spices and the one by the ocean where the heat rising off the ground is almost palpable. I fancy browsing through beautifully crafted ceramics and brass ware, and enjoying  sweet mint tea, rich pastries ever so delicately scented with rose and orange blossom water and luscious Medjool dates; running my hands through lovely silks and artisan fabrics and getting a glimpse of Bedouin culture. And lately, I’ve been very interested in Algeria as well; with its Moorish history and  Rai music.

The cuisine of both countries is not too dissimilar, although I’m sure there are always those minute regional differences only a native could discern.  I’m a big fan of couscous in any form, and a Tagine is a common enough dinner meal at the household. But I needed something new, substantial, but new, to keep me from sinking into self-pity for not being able to make the trip yet. And so, I hit upon Tcicha bel Khoubiz.

If there is anything that keeps me from preparing North African inspired cuisine regularly, it’s the time consuming aspect. I suppose I could get around that by going with instant couscous; or a couscousier, for that matter, but you know me, little Ms. complicated. It was a sort of jackpot then that I discovered Tchicha bel Khoubiz , or Bulghur with Greens. The very idea of combining Bulghur with leafy greens in a warm, spicy broth sounded fantastic, and I got cracking. Morocco and coastal Oran in Algeria can wait. Here was a Casbah delight at arm’s length. And best of all, I found another way to cook with bulghur!

The greens in question, Khoubiz, are apparently a wild variety in most North African countries. Their taste is likened to the pungent tartness of watercress. I combined a little arugula with a bunch of chard for that slight tang instead, and the result was superb-earthy, warm and hearty.

And unlike Tagine, it didn’t take any more than 10 minutes, 15 max. The greens are washed and cooked lightly in a little water and chopped coarsely.

Garlic is pounded in a mortar & pestle with turmeric, chili flakes, cumin and b. pepper to a coarse paste;

onions are sauteed to translusence in olive oil with the garlic & tomato paste;

all of which are cooked with bulghur in broth. The cooked greens are added finally , with a sprinkling of cilantro & parsley, before being served piping hot with warm pita.

The actual recipe can be found here.

I may still be a long way away from making the trip to Algeria a reality, but perhaps Algeria can come visit me often enough in te meanwhile. Cheesy, yes; but whatever works, right?!

After a 4-month long hiatus, I’m back. I wish I could add ‘with a bang’ to that announcement; but since I’ve nothing particularly big to share, I must desist.

I’m afraid lethargy is the only excuse I can come up with. For the first month, perhaps, I did have a valid reason-a brilliant toss off a running treadmill at the gym and a shot tendon kept me from doing anything that required the use of my left arm. After that, however, it was all about the difficulty; nay, disinclination, to get back on track. For whatever reason, the allure of the result couldn’t make up for the chores involved in picking a recipe, making the dish, setting up the camera, taking pictures, uploading them, writing posts and putting things away afterwards. Phew-it seemed miraculous that I’d kept with it for most of 2008.

Speaking of which, there was then the new year, subsequent closing down of my office, a few weeks of relishing newfound freedom which is now turning into anxiety over the rapidly disintegrating market, and a total lack of creative inspiration. Recipes were tucked away into cobweb ridden corners of the mind; meals became predictable and writing felt like a chore. The beastly weather didn’t help either.

So there you have it. All sorts of pools of self-pity to wallow in; all sorts of euphemistic explaining away of sheer laziness and indiscipline. However, the sun has finally decided to come up on this horizon (momentarily, at least); and I sure hope to make up for all the lost time by putting this fresh light to good use.

Today, Mar. 7th, 2009; is exactly two years since my first post here. I reckoned it might be a good place (auspicious occasion, if you will) to restart the blogging engine. And thus, I’m back, with a little celebratory cake that marks the year’s first baking venture as well as my first, proper round cake ever (seriously); and a grand discovery that will be a great topic for an upcoming post:

I’d always known my kitchen to be something more out of a miniature model than a real workplace; but I was amazed to discover, that for over 2 years, I have been mucking about (mostly with success) in an area of 56 Sq. Ft. without injuring myself or anyone else. Now if that isn’t inspiration, I don’t know what is.

I had trepidations about putting up this post first; for I was sure that I would be bombarded by emails or comments from folks gently (or perhaps not so) reminding me that the term ‘Bukkake‘ refers to something else altogether and that I was probably mistaken. And then it struck me; it’s my call, actually, to be smug here; because, you see, that disgusting association they’d make with the term (them and everyone else, thanks to the wonderful world wide web) is unknown in Japan; and by itself, is only used to describe a type of Udon dish: A shallow bowl of Udon, splashed (which is what the verb, Bukkakeru, literally means) with a little broth and decorated with various toppings.

So those of that inclination, kindly spare me any double-entendres or nasty insinuations. In other words, get your minds out of the gutter.

Having gotten that out of the way, let me get on with it:

Bukkake-Udon is fantastic in summer; light, cool and just a wee bit tangy. The dish consists of Udon noodles cooked in a slightly different manner-boiled, washed and rubbed between both hands. This process is called Momi-arai, and helps to remove excess starch in order to maintain a chewy texture to the noodles. They are then transferred to a serving bowl and splashed with Mentsuyu-the soup base for noodles, consisting of Dashi stock (whose ingredients in turn are Wakame (a type of seaweed) and Katsuobushi (smoked Bonito flakes) ), Mirin, sugar, and Soy Sauce.

The noodles and the soup base form Bukkake Udon in its purest form, but what makes it unique to each establishment or home kitchen dishing it out is the type/types of toppings it takes. Sesame seeds, Wakame, Katsuobushi, and Umeboshi (pickled plums) are quite common; but other favorites include thinly sliced negi (a longer spring onion); thinly sliced Shiso leaves; Tenkasu (little balls of fried tempura batter); raw egg yolk/whole raw quail egg/Onsen Tamago (hot spring-poached egg); Nattou (fermented soy beans); and grated ginger/Daikon radish.

The key, however, is to remember to not go overboard with the toppings; the Udon should be the focus of the dish. 3 at a time should be ample. Apart from the Umeboshi+Wakame+Negi, my most favorite combinations are the Tenkasu+raw egg yolk+Negi and Nattou+Ginger+Shiso.

As part of a main meal, the Udon can be served with a simple salad and some Hiyayakko (cold silken tofu with toppings that range from sliced scallions & okra to grated ginger, julienned Shiso & Yuzu rind and Ume paste.)

(People in the U.S seem to freak out at the idea of raw egg yolk; so avoid it at all costs if you think the Salmonella monster’s gonna come get you.)

For a while after my return from France in 2003, fresh out of a lethal combination of backpackers’ fatigue, snobbery and artisan bread (and cheese! and wine!) withdrawal, I complained to anyone who’d bother to listen about how France was actually more taxing on the system than anything else.

Unsurprisingly, matters turned course over a few weeks after that, and I found myself actually longing-and get this-sighing-for the wealth of memorable experiences I’d acquired there. Like the countless picnics on the Pont des Arts in Paris: nibbling on some world-class Morbier or a summer Truffe du Perigord or Gouda speckled with cumin; slathering the creamiest Camembert on some baguette, and sipping a fantastic Côtes-du-Rhône; all while watching the sun go down the Seine, and collectively sighing with the artists, photographers and lovers around. Or the time I got lost wandering through landscapes that’d inspired the likes of Renoir, Cezanne, Van Gogh and Monet in Provence. Or learning that the major difference between a Bistro and a Bouchon; apart from being native to Paris and Lyon, respectively; were the degrees of communal heartiness; the perfect (needless to say, in the latter) atmosphere for befriending the patrons at the table next to yours; the ooh-ing and aah-ing as the dishes are brought over; the meals peppered with booming laughter and a general sense of small-town festivity. The list, as you can imagine, goes on.

It was this last memory that had me going recently. I have no immediate plans of travel to France (or anywhere for that matter; not until next Fall, at least), but I found the memory of those little family eateries, with their wobbly furniture and checked red tablecloths and hand-made lace curtains; and an owner, a buxom middle-aged Frenchwoman with an air of infectious bonhomie, cracking the ceiling with her booming laugh at your embarrassment at having to request vegetarian choices (in French marred by months’ of derision from the Parisians) and reassuring you that you leave it to her to give you an unparalleled gustatory experience, a bit overwhelming. I mean, this was no little deal-in a country where vegetarianism was likened to such ‘faddish’ pursuits as Wicca or other things the misguided youth take up; and in a town whose traditional eateries tended to be heavily oriented around offal (as in the internal organs of butchered animals) and other fatty meats, someone was prepared to actually see to it that I had a good experience, leave alone let me patronize their establishment.

At one such meal in Lyon, I had the pleasure of encountering a lentil salad. Warm and tangy and sharp, all at once, it was a meal in itself as well as a superb side to some rustic bread and cheese. I might have dined on this alone, had I not done Lyon towards the tail end of my stay in France and wanted to make the most of the time I had left.

And thus, like countless other traveler’s nostalgia-induced times, I comforted myself with preparing this simple and yet amazing dish at home this week, and also lined up a couple of sides that channeled Lyon and its fabulous bouchons (examples in question, the Café des Fédérations (Rue Major Martin); and Chez Hugon (Rue Pizay), both near the Hotel de Ville Métro).

Before I get into the details, I’d like to add some information about the main ingredient involved; the Lentils de Puy. Also known as French green lentils, they have the impressive association of being the ‘caviar of lentils’. And for good reason: Grown in the volcanic rich soils of the Auvergne region, they impart a unique, nutty warm flavor that is a result of the lack of excess starch; which in turn, is due to the lack of humidity, plenty of sunshine, and growth without fertilizer. And like wine, they too can be authenticated only by the AOC stamp; so watch out for knock-offs that promise not to weigh down your culinary budget (you do get what you pay for, trust me).

That being said, onto the recipe: like a lot of French sides, this too is tart, and contains raw garlic and/or shallots. However, letting the ingredients sit for a bit seems to take some of the edge away (apart from evening out the flavors). It packs in a lot of nutrition prepared this way; with vegetables and all. Serve alongside some rustic bread (dressed with some olive Tapenade, or a juicy Bohémienne*), a selection of cheeses (versions of Chèvre, perhaps?), and a nice crisp white wine.

* A Bohémienne is a simpler version of a Ratatouille or a Caponata, from the south of France. It’s typically served as a side dish, or a spread on toasted rustic bread. Eggplants are diced and salted, after which they are added to onions & garlic softened in olive oil, and crushed to a coarse puree along with tomatoes, before being topped off with herbs like basil and thyme .

Have I ever told you, how much I love Greek food? Oh, the whole Mediterranean spread, actually? Looking at my blog now, I am astounded as to how and why I haven’t devoted most, if not all of it, to the pursuit of cooking and indulging in that divine cuisine; that’s how much I love it.

Be it the striking combinations of warm vegetables and greens with sharp, salty cheeses; the tart zing to most dishes; there’s something fascinating to the say the least, about the best of Greek cuisine.

Last year, S and I had the opportunity to sample the cuisine at its home; and it was every bit fantastic as we’d expected. Here’s a (brief, very brief) account of the some of the goodies we had then.

As a vegetarian, I had some difficulty finding suitable main courses sometimes, but as I’ve mentioned before, there is no dearth of appetizers and first courses, called Mezedes, a selection of which would make more than a full meal. One of these gems was Gemista; something I think I must have had everyday. I thought Spanakopita , Dolmades and Tzatziki were heavenly enough samples of Greek cuisine, but along came this marvelous dish and blew me away.

Simply put, Gemista (pronounced Yay-mistah) refers to tomatoes (and/or bell peppers) stuffed with rice and sometimes, meat, seasoned with herbs, garlic and olive oil. (We also came across stuffed seafood Gemista at some points.) It is simplicity itself, but for the longest time, despite strong cravings, I desisted from making it myself, because of my (rather frequently) aforementioned fear of things stuffed and all.

However, I had a rare burst of daredevil energy and just went for it. And as countless other times I’ve taken that risk, it was well worth it: soft & warm cups of tomatoes, bursting with flavor and a hint of crisp tartness here and there. It felt so good, with its rich olive oil and herbal base, that I barely remembered the time it took to prep them, cook the rice, and fill them up before setting them to bake.

In Greece, they were served with a little potato on the side; cooked & tossed with olive oil, salt & some sort of pepper-I used a Spanish Paprika-, which made it a full meal.

Without further ado, here’s a pictorial to the process:

First I sliced the heads off of 4 tomatoes and 1 beautifully mauve bell pepper and scored out their insides:

Then, cooked the rice (oops! forgot to take a picture in the flurry!) and the potatoes:

After which, I stuffed the tomatoes and the pepper with the rice, sprinkled some Kefalograviera (a salty hard sheep’s milk cheese) on top, and prepped them on a baking dish by drizzling some olive oil over & around them, and laid the potatoes around.

And capped them off before setting them to bake for about 15-20 min. at 350°.

They turned out warm, crisp on top, and yet juicy & succulent on the insides:

Served with a glass of a chilled Sauvignon-Blanc, it was a fantastic weekend meal.

Here’s the recipe.

One of the things I miss about a regular-sized kitchen is a regular-sized oven. I am not much of a baker, and any baking I do is limited to rare bursts of culinary enterprise (you know the kind; ‘it looked so good on the magazine page/tv screen; surely it’s a cinch’…?), mostly during the holiday season; so it’s not as though I feel deprived. Nevertheless, I found myself wishing for something more substantial than a convection oven the other day, when I came down with a severe case of ‘Must-make-Pizza-itis’. Of course, the fact remains that the best pizzas are made in a wood-fired oven; which, incidentally, is something I probably would never own; but still, a regular-sized oven would be far more convenient to work with than the itty-bitty I own.

You might wonder why I was wasting so much breath over something that was merely a phone call away; but then, you see, I’m a bit of a pizza snob and won’t settle for anything other than the best. Which, incidentally (in these parts), is the Cheese Board in Berkeley; home to a fantastic pizza of the day on most days of the week. However, like a lot of good things, they’re not all that accessible-the distance from SF, for one (not much, but still too far for a regular pizza), and they don’t deliver. But try reasoning with strong craving.

Thus, necessity bore invention; and I made do with the convection oven. And it turned out not too bad, actually-I ended up going on a bender and turned out enough to warrant daily rigorous workouts for the next year.

Fully aware that any project I undertake is bound to go awry with my keenness getting a bit out of hand, I desisted from going ‘all out’ the first few rounds-in other words, I didn’t get off to messing around with yeast and all that, and sufficed with frozen pizza dough courtesy of Trader Joes’s (which, incidentally, is the best of its kind). I just needed to concentrate on the toppings at this point.

After a few rounds with frozen pizza dough, I moved onto making the dough from scratch. To my surprise, it was neither difficult nor time consuming. I realized I had let my fear of dealing with yeast and bread-making (thou too shall be conquered someday!) get a bit ahead of me. I experimented with a few tutorials, till I settled on the one that worked best for my type of oven, preferred toppings, and of course, constitution: While the verbose instructions seem complicated, they are easier than pie (no pun intended) once you get the kneading process going. And as with most other recipes, practice makes not only perfect, but easy as well.

Pizza toppings are some of my favorite things to experiment with; and I had a blast with these. In fact, I made every one of them more than twice-at least.

1. My most favorite pizza of all; the Margherita. Basic tomato sauce-smooth, garlicky and hot; topped with quality Bocconcini and fresh basil, and the lot drizzled with the best olive oil you can get your hands on:

2. Fennel, caramelized with crushed red pepper, and layered with some Nicoise olives and sharp, aged Gruyere over a basic tomato sauce:

3. Red, Orange & Yellow Peppers, sliced and mixed with sliced red onion, chopped basil & parsley, and some sea salt & pepper over minced garlic in olive oil and shredded mozzarella. The prettiest by far.

4. Ripe Mission figs, caramelized red onion and goat cheese with rosemary. This was S’s favorite.

5. And last but not least (unfortunately, not pictured), a sort of end-of-the-week-one-vegetable-left pizza: creamy potato slices in a hot tomato-adobo sauce, topped with gruyere (and one without).

It’s great to know that a small oven doesn’t have to keep you from baking pizza, that food of all beings creative-or wishing to be so.

Second in my dabbles with Korean cuisine comes a dish that is absurdly simple in concept; and yet manages to pack a heck of a punch. The former quality was particularly helpful the day-before-yesterday, when S and I returned from a 5-day trip to the Canadian Rockies, where we hiked up hills, crossed turquoise rivers & streams and drove hundreds of kilometers to wonder at glaciers, waterfalls, alpine meadows and canyons (and that was only half-way through).

Despite the proximity of the region, the return flight seemed to take hours longer than it had, so we returned with hunger pangs so rough that they bordered on feeling faint. So it was something of an epiphany (temporarily, at least) that I hit on this dish and its recipe the minute I’d plonked my bags down. Not to worry, I did wash up before I touched anything in the kitchen-even such rabid hunger pangs couldn’t overcome my fear of spreading airport germs onto my home!!

Back to the dish now. Tteokkboki (once again, the English spelling varies) is basically Korean rice cakes, or Tteokk, in a spicy sauce. It’s a common street-side snack; found often at farmers’ markets and the like in Seoul (as I have been told). It’s also a rainy day favorite; its hot-both in temperature and flavor-quality makes it a soothing comfort food.

Tteokk are used in several dishes, from soups to stews to stir-fries. Made of glutinous rice flour, they are rather like the Japanese Mochi and are also used in dishes made to celebrate New Years’.

They are usually sold in the frozen section at Korean markets.

Another ingredient is Gochujang, the ubiquitous chili-bean paste present in most, if not every Korean dish. Sharp and yet subtly sweet, it imparts a smoky base to every dish it graces.

And now to the recipe:

Let the Tteokk thaw for a few minutes before separating them individually.

For the amount of Tteokk above, bring about 4 cups of water to a boil. The general recipe calls for anchovies at this point, where they are roughly chopped and made to steep in the hot water for a broth; but I used Dashi granules to make a less fishy version instead. Once the water gets to a steady boil, add about 4 tablespoons of Gochujang and about 1 tablespoon of sugar.

Stir until dissolved, and lower the heat before adding the Tteokk.

Stir continuously, until the sauce thickens and is only coating the Tteokk. Add scallions chopped in 5cm pieces.

Once most of the sauce has thickened, transfer to a shallow bowl and enjoy piping hot,

as we did, with gusto, to keep us from acknowledging that we were done (for the time being, at least) with cavorting around places like this

and this

(More pictures from the trip can be seen here)