Defying the Conventional Wisdom

Onion soup is one of the supposed betes noires of vegetarianism. They will tell you that it can’t be done without meat stock, and more specifically without beef stock — homemade from roasted beef bones, of course. They will tell you to give it up, because a vegetarian-friendly onion soup by definition will be bland, feeble, and worse than nothing.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

It’s just a matter of expanding your definitions a bit and being a little more creative. While this version is not identical to the beef-based original, it is no less deep, dark, and wonderful. Even better, it’s fast and easy enough for even your most harried mid-week dinner, especially if the weather is as miserably damp and grey as it has been around here lately. The only downside is that slicing this many onions will make you weep quantities of tears Ron Howard would sell his last remaining hairs to evoke and quite likely will stink up your house. It’s a small price to pay for this level of heartstring-plucking warmth (which, again, Opie would kill for).

You could go whole hog and gratin the tops of individual portions with shredded Gruyere, or serve alongside a grown-up grilled cheese made with artisan bread and the fancy cheese of your choice. It would also meet with my full approval were you to be moved to whip up a batch of these:

Cheese Biscotti

Vegetarian Onion Soup
Serves 2-3 as a main course, 4 as a first course

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
8 cups thinly sliced onions (see note below)
1 cup apple cider
4 cups vegetable stock
2 teaspoons dried thyme
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the butter and oil in a large heavy pot over medium-high heat until the butter is barely starting to brown. Add the onions, tossing to coat with the fat, and cook, stirring intermittently, until the onions are seriously browned and caramelized, around 15 minutes.

Deglaze the pan with the cider, scraping the bottom thoroughly to pick up all the yummy solids. Add the stock, thyme, salt and pepper, partially cover the pot, and simmer until the onions are meltingly soft, 20-30 more minutes.

Notes:

I favor a combination of yellow onions, red onions and shallots. I think this gives the soup a little more nuance, but if plain old yellow is all you have, go right ahead and use those. I would not use very sweet varieties like Walla Walla or Vidalia, since as lovely as they are for other things, they tend to make an insipid soup, and you’re already getting sweetness from the cider.

I use the “chicken” flavor bouillon concentrate, but if you have good homemade veggie broth, by all means use that.

Read Full Post »

Yes. Yes She Did.

She most certainly did make the trek on a wretchedly rainy Saturday to the dangerously-nearer-than-before Penzey’s boutique, wherein she proceeded to plunk down more than $80 on spices.

What? I just moved! I needed to restock! Not to mention, the holiday season is coming up! Don’t judge.

By the way, was I exaggerating when I said I clean out their chile section whenever I go there?

No I was not.

Yes, I do like it hot.  QED.

So anyway, you might be wondering what I did with this embarrassment of spices when I got home.  Well, the first thing I did was make a curried egg salad sandwich for lunch.  The second thing I did was to make these fantastic cupcakes for afternoon tea, because spotting the poppy seeds on the Penzey’s shelves reminded me that I’d been craving them for weeks.  The cupcakes also gave me an opportunity to crack open the little jar of dried orange peel and intoxicating Mexican vanilla extract, both of which are absolute necessities for my holiday baking.

While these were cooling, we took the Monster out for her walk, and of course the heavens chose that precise moment to crank up the rainfall to 11. Normally that would put me in a vile temper, but I came home to ferociously strong and milky tea, snappy little cakes, a pantry full of future deliciousness, and an excuse to trot out the totally awesome poppy pin I got at the Museum of Opium in Thailand. I have absolutely nothing to complain about.

Except perhaps the project this shopping spree spun off, namely finding a storage solution for my spicy bounty. On our way out of the store, His Lordship declared the current arrangement — a big covered bin into which all the zip bags and little jars are unceremoniously tossed — unacceptable. If anyone has any suggestions that do not involve me wasting hours transferring spices into little jars I don’t even have the shelf space for, I’m all ears.

Poppy Seed Cupcakes
(Adapted from Brown Sugar Lightning Cake in Sally Schneider’s The Improvisational Cook)
Makes 10 jumbo cupcakes, or 12-16 normal ones

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
Scant 1/2 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons poppy seeds
2 large eggs
1 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons dried orange peel, rehydrated in 2 teaspoons boiling water
Zest of one lemon
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350, and line the appropriate number of jumbo or regular muffin tins with foil or paper liners.

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and poppy seeds.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs with the sugar and zests until pale and light. Whisk in the liquid mixture, then fold in the dry ingredients until just incorporated.

Scoop the batter into the muffin cups, filling no more than halfway. Bake 20-25 minutes for regular cupcakes or 25-30 for jumbo cupcakes, until golden and springy and the proverbial skewer comes out clean when inserted in the middle of a cupcake. Cool the cupcakes in their tins on a wire rack.

Notes:

If the cake recipe has a vaguely familiar ring, it’s because the endoskeleton is the same basic one that supports the olive oil cake I wrote up last month. Like Alton, I adore a multitasker, and this recipe is as adaptable, quick and foolproof as any you’ll ever find.

I favor cupcakes not because I have a weakness for cute food, but because they cook faster than full-sized cakes, and leftover individual cakes are easier to share with coworkers or friends than a partially-eaten cake. If you have neither concern, bake the batter in a buttered and floured 9-inch round pan for 35-40 minutes.

Read Full Post »

Two for the Price of One

Speaking of ginger — and with me, you pretty much always are — I’d like to share one of my favorite fall desserts and/or breakfasts: poached pears.

A perfectly ripe pear is an autumnal joy all by itself, but when the pears are not quite ripe or are a little on the grainy side, poaching them erases all sins. Using a plain light syrup gives you a soft, unpretentious result reminiscent of the canned pears we probably all loved as kids, but adding grown-up flavorings to the liquid or using wine or juice instead of water elevates the simple fruit to heights of sophistication.

Naturally, ginger is one of my favorite additions to the poaching syrup, but that’s just the start. Although I once thought nothing could supplant allspice in my “where have you been all my life?” affections, lately I can’t keep my hands off the jar of Szechuan peppercorns. These little pink gems look like miniature red popcorn kernels, smell like a cross between citrus and roses, and add just the right hint of delicious mystery. To play supporting alto to their trilling soprano, I add an equal amount of black peppercorns, rendering a subtly challenging syrup that makes both the pears and your tastebuds go “hmmm”.

As a bonus, any syrup left after you’ve fished out the last of the pears can be mixed with fizzy water to yield a subtly spicy pear-and-ginger soda, or stirred into unsweetened iced tea for a flavor Snapple only wishes they’d thought up.

Pears Poached with Ginger and Szechuan Peppercorns
Serves 4-6, not counting leftover syrup for beverages

1 cup granulated sugar
1 thumb-sized piece of ginger, peeled and sliced
1/4 teaspoon each Szechuan and black peppercorns
3 cups water
1 quart Seckel pears or 6-8 full-sized pears

In a large saucepan, combine the sugar, ginger, peppercorns and water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, peel the pears, cut in half, and remove the cores with a melon baller. If using full-sized pears, cut into eighths. Seckels can be left in halves.

Tip the pears into the syrup, return to a simmer, and continue cooking until the tip of a sharp knife easily pierces the pears all the way through. Let the pears cool to room temperature, then fish out the peppercorns and ginger.

Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve in your prettiest bowls, with or without ice cream, for dessert, or with yogurt and granola for breakfast. Use any leftover syrup in your favorite beverage application.

Notes:

I am a fiend for the tiny, cute Seckel variety, which make for a particularly elegant presentation, but pretty much any variety will work. In this batch, I mixed Seckels and big red Bartletts with no ill effects. Very firm varieties like Boscs will hold together really well, although you will sacrifice some of the creaminess that makes a poached pear so soothing.

You can bump up the quantity of ginger or black peppercorns to your heart’s content. Whatever you do, though, don’t add more Szechuan peppercorns unless you like your desserts with a side of Novocaine. The same compounds in Szechuan peppercorns that give them their addictively floral fragrance also make them a topical anaesthetic in larger quantities. Any more than I’ve indicated here will numb your tongue for hours.

If you can’t get Szechuan peppercorns, you could get a similar, if less dramatic, effect with a couple of star anise or a cinnamon stick plus half a vanilla bean in addition to the black peppercorns.

Read Full Post »

What Have We Here?

Swamp water? Toxic waste?

Whatever it is, it doesn’t look very appetizing, doesn’t it?

Well, this is another of those cases where looks are inversely proportional to yumminess. It’s an infused syrup for homemade ginger ale, and if you’re as ginger-obsessed as I am, it’s beauty incarnate. This syrup makes a turbo-charged version of ginger ale, a bubbly drink so intensely spicy and punchy that your head will reel in the best possible way. It’s simultaneously refreshing and electrifying, with a deeply addictive slow, sweet burn.

I love ginger so much that I make this summery cooler year-round, but it recently occurred to me that its bilgey appearance and diabolical bite couldn’t be more perfect for your Halloween party. Depending on the size of your bash, I’d double or triple the batch, and serve it out of a glass vessel suitable for a mad scientist’s lab. If your party is of the strictly grown-ups variety, you could mix in some rum for the aptly-named Dark and Stormy.

Ginger Ale Syrup
(Originally from Jean Georges Vongerichten, but see below)
Makes around 2 cups syrup, enough to serve 6-8 (assuming I feel like sharing)

1/2 pound fresh ginger, peeled
Inner parts of bottom third of 2 stalks lemongrass
1-2 dried Tien tsin peppers or other small infernal chiles, left whole
3/4 cup sugar, preferably raw (demerara or turbinado)
Seltzer or fizzy mineral water

Chop the ginger into half-inch chunks, and thinly slice the lemongrass stalks. Place both in a food processor and pulse until very fine, but not pureed.

In a small saucepan, combine the ginger mixture, chiles, sugar, and 2 cups of water. Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer vigorously for 15 minutes.

Let cool to room temperature, then strain through a fine-meshed strainer. The syrup will theoretically keep in the fridge for days, but it’s highly unlikely it will last longer than 48 hours once you’ve tried your first sip.

To serve, pour 4-5 tablespoons of syrup into a large ice-filled glass, and top off slowly with the seltzer or mineral water. Stir gently with a chopstick or long spoon to distribute the syrup.

Notes:

The original recipe came from Jean Georges Vongerichten, but I found it some time ago after following so convoluted a trail of hyperlinks that I’m really not sure how authentic it was even before I started tweaking.

If you don’t have access to a food processor, as I didn’t when I first tried this, grate the ginger and mince the lemongrass instead.

Read Full Post »

We Now Return You to Your Regularly-Scheduled Programming

It’s that time of the year again, in more ways than one. Early fall seems to be my usual time for disappearing and/or reappearing here, since it’s my usual time for starting new things, like degree programs, jobs, household projects, not to mention finally making an honest man out of His Lordship. It’s also the time we get a sizable shipment of dried figs from my father-in-law, which I’ve previously documented.

This cake, which marks my renewal of the Sunday baking and blogging tradition, is apropos of all of that, since it was inspired by a dinner out last weekend to commemorate our anniversary, the start of my new career, and our return to the East Coast.

We resume our narrative at a big-deal local restaurant named after an eating implement, which originally witnessed the very-long-in-coming decision to de-sin our relationship. While the meal was enjoyable and the company was naturally delightful, one of our “small-plate” desserts (a trend about which I have very mixed feelings) was quite the let-down. In principle, it sounded like the perfect not-too-heavy ending: an individual olive oil cake with Marcona almonds, garnished with figs. In practice, the cake was dry, crumbly, and tasted of neither olive oil nor almonds. The only saving grace was that the figs in the accompanying garnish were fresh and very nicely presented.

With the first bite, I knew I could do it better, since I already had a great and easy olive oil cake in my repertoire. I had figs that, while not fresh, were so lovingly grown and processed that they were still brightly green and tender, which reminded me of a old-favorite recipe for figs and apricots reconstituted in a honey-lemon syrup. I didn’t have almonds, but since they had added nothing at all, I quickly dropped that element altogether.

My path clear, I proceeded to do it better the very next day, on the first try, in about an hour and with minimal kitchen messing-up. Unlike the original, this cake is moist and beautifully springy in crumb, and delicately perfumed in ways that really do hint at sun-dappled groves. The glistening green-and orange compote instantly clicked with the cake and added even more Mediterranean flair, not to mention perfect fall color.

Not a bad way to make a comeback, one-upping an award-winning institution. Sometime soon I’m going to try improving on the rather bland butternut risotto I had as an entree, after a faultless appetizer of wild mushrooms en croute and a Calvados sidecar that made me want to rush across the Ben Franklin to stock up on hassle-free apple brandy for future cocktail applications.

Olive Oil Cake with Honeyed Fig-Apricot Compote
(Adapted from Sally Schneider, The Improvisational Cook and The Moosewood Collective, Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant)
Serves 8

For the cake:

3/4 cup each “white” whole wheat flour and all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
Scant 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
2 large eggs
Zest of one large lemon
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup each milk and yogurt (preferably Greek)
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Butter and flour a 9-inch cake pan, lined with parchment paper.

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt. In a glass measuring cup, thin the yogurt down with the milk, then whisk in the olive oil until emulsified. (I’ll warn you, it won’t look at all pretty.)

In a large bowl, beat the eggs, lemon zest and sugar by hand until frothy and and the sugar is starting to dissolve. Whisk in the flour mixture until mostly incorporated, then stir in the swampy-green yogurt and oil emulsion.

Scrape the batter into the cake pan and bake about 45 minutes, until the top springs back when gently pressed, or until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cake for five minutes in the pan, then invert, peel off the parchment, and cool completely on a rack.

For the compote:

3 cups boiling water
1/3 cup honey
2 cups dried figs, sliced into eighths
1 cup dried apricots, quartered
Juice of one lemon (the same one zested for the cake)

While the cake is baking and cooling, mix the honey and water in a medium saucepan. Add the fruit, bring to a boil, and simmer until the fruit is tender and the syrup has reduced and thickened, about 20-25 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice.

Once the cake has cooled, serve generous slices with the compote on the side.

While it’s best the day it’s baked, the cake will keep well for several days at room temperature, tightly wrapped in plastic. Any leftover compote can be spooned into a small container and schlepped to work the next day with a single serving of even more yogurt, turning your Monday morning into an entirely different experience.

Notes:

A good, but not great, olive oil is what you’re aiming for here. You want one that is fruity and flavorful, but don’t waste your $40-a-bottle, murky-green unfiltered Tuscan early-harvest on an application that will bake out most of its divinity. Save that one for salads, and grab the $5 a bottle California estate stuff from Trader Joe’s instead.

I use the “white” whole wheat flour both to add flavor and to make the cake marginally healthier — although with no butter and all that “good” fat, it’s already about as good-for-you as you can make a cake that’s still absolutely delicious. If you don’t have it on hand, go ahead and use a total of 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour instead.

You can use 1/2 cup of buttermilk instead of the yogurt and milk, although I don’t know about you, but I’m much more likely to have yogurt around during the last-minute, MUST HAVE CAKE NOW occasions when this recipe comes in particularly handy. Likewise, regular plain yogurt is fine instead of the Greek yogurt, but I usually stock the Greek kind, and there’s something particularly appropriate about using it in a cake based on olive oil.

Incidentally, the cake is equally wonderful in the summer with fresh berries or nectarines, preferably macerated with a tiny bit of sugar in orange juice or white wine.

Read Full Post »