People (Person?) for the Ethical Treatment of Vegetables

One of the mistakes I think a lot of us new-ish cooks make is focusing all of our attentions on the entree and then realizing about ten minutes before it's ready that we need some sides, too, at which point we grab the bag of frozen peas out of the freezer and zap them in the microwave, hoping a bit of butter and salt and pepper will atone for the cavalier abuse we so shamelessly heaped on the little green orbs.  Which is also probably why a lot of kids grow up hating vegetables.  

So, with spring and all its abundance upon us (Or at least hopefully heading our way.  Please.  I mean really, can the snow just STOP?), let's all take a moment to reconsider how we (mis)treat our veggies.  Even the frozen guys deserve more than a spin in the radiation-box from time to time.  Let's take the time to plan ahead and saute, roast, grill, steam, sweat, dress and otherwise LOVE the ones who do so much to love us back.  

In the spirit of abandoning thoughtlessly-prepared vegetables, I thought I'd share with you one of my favorite preparations for one of my favorite spring vegetables: asparagus.

One of the things I love most about vegetables is that if you treat them right, they will reward you handsomely.  Like when you broil asparagus- the sugars caramelize and the tips get a little crispy and it's a whole new level of asparagus delightfulness.  And for those of us are who are busy or scatter-brained or just plain lazy, broiling asparagus is simple and relatively quick.

Broiled Asparagus

1 lb. fresh asparagus, washed and trimmed

Olive oil

Salt 

Pepper

Raise your oven's top rack to the uppermost position and then preheat your oven's broiler. Place the asparagus on a baking sheet in a single layer.  Drizzle with olive oil and season with salt and pepper.  Place baking sheet in the oven until asparagus is charred, but not burnt.  (Keep an eye on it- it took about 6 minutes in my toaster oven back in Las Vegas and about 15 in my mom's oven at 6500 feet.)  Serve immediately.  Thank me later.

Cream Soup is Back on the Menu!

Spring has not sprung in these parts.  In fact, today's forecast calls for snow- and in my particular neck of the woods the word "snow" was followed by "feet", not "inches".  So far we've only received a dusting, but I know better than to think we've dodged it.  All this Winter Redux business means one thing to me: it's still a good time for soup.  (Although it's pretty much always a good time for soup- even if it's 105 degrees outside.) 

Me and soup are friends.  Me and creamy soups are really good friends.  BUT.  I care immensely about health and having arteries that are soft and pliable and adept at keeping me alive, so cream-based soups were, for a long time, off the menu.  Until a couple of years ago, when I discovered the great secret of health-conscious cooks who still want a silky, creamy soup in their bowl.  A mind-blowingly simple substitution that I would like to share with you because it's Works for Me Wednesday over at We Are THAT Family.  Are you ready for this?  I mean, really, are you ready?  

Evaporated milk.

I know, why didn't I think of that?  Now, make sure it's evaporated and not sweetened condensed because they are NOT interchangeable.  Also, using the lowest-fat evaporated milk is good, but any you can find will be better than heavy cream.  Did you know that ONE fluid cup of heavy cream has 821 calories and 88 grams of fat?!?!  And think about how much heavy cream is called for in your favorite cream soup recipe.  Yikes.  If you use just plain old evaporated milk, not the low-fat version, you'll cut the fat by more than half.  Use a low-fat version and your arteries will sing your praises.   And your soup will still be creamy and dreamy.  Cross my heart. 

Homemade Vegetable Stock

High on my list of the problems of living in the land of butter and Crisco and ice cream and deep-fried everything is the astonishingly dismal lack of variety at the local grocery stores.  One of my chief complaints about life in Utah is the craptastic grocery stores in which you won't find anything more ethnic than tortillas and soy sauce, and in which there are 84 kinds of ranch dressing and two kinds of vinaigrette.  It is beyond maddening.    

One of the things it seems nearly impossible to get my hands on up here (without paying exorbitant prices, which is something I am allergic to) is low-sodium vegetable broth.  Back in Las Vegas, they carried it in every store and charged no more for it than they did for chicken broth.  I was BAFFLED when I first visited store after store upon moving to Utah and was unable to find the stuff.  When I finally did, it was nearly THRICE the cost of chicken broth.  And that was just not happening.  As I've said before, I'm not a vegetarian, but I don't eat a lot of meat, and when we're eschewing the meaty goodness, I like to go all the way.  For whatever reason, if I use chicken broth in a veggie soup, I feel like I might as well serve it with a big smoldering slab of steak.  (Oooh, steak.  Yum.)  SO.  Rather than subject you to further ranting and beside-the-point tangents, even though tangents make life fun, I will get to the point.

I was in need of low-sodium vegetable broth.  I was not paying two dollars a can or five dollars a box for it.  I was tempted to ask the next friend visiting from anywhere outside Utah to bring me a case, but decided against it, which left me with one practical option:  make it.  But making broth sounded so intimidating.  Broth is the base of many a dinner in my household, and if it sucked, well, that would be a giant waste.  Also, I imagined making broth to be an arduous process.  Guess what?  I was wrong.  Very, very, wrong.  And that actually makes me happy.

After turning to my trusty internet to do some method research/recipe scouting, I happened upon a blog called Casual Kitchen and this post, and instantly decided that it was the Vegetable Stock Gospel Truth.  And so, armed with my new knowledge, I went forth and modified (because that's the fun, right?) and then conquered.  

Here's my very slightly modified version of the recipe:

Vegetable Stock

3 carrots, peeled and cut into 2-inch pieces

2  1/2 yellow onions, peeled and halved (I had half an onion left over from a previous dinner)

4 celery stalks, in 2-inch pieces

5 garlic cloves, smashed

1 small bunch of broccoli, cut into pieces but not chopped

3 Fuji apple cores (saved & frozen from earlier apple-slicing)

1/2 bunch parsley, stems and all (not chopped)

12 cups of water, or enough to cover plus a few inches (my stockpot is narrow and deep, so it required a significant amount of water to do this)

Salt

Combine all ingredients except salt in a large stock pot, bring to a simmer, cover and let cook for at least 7 hours, stirring on occasion.  Add salt to taste.

When stock is done, strain out the vegetables and reserve the liquid.  Allow to cool, then store in the refrigerator or the freezer.   I measured mine into two-cup portions and froze it. 

I have since used almost all of the broth and have loved it.  The addition of the apple cores provided a touch of sweetness, of which I am a fan.  Next time, I might experiment with adding something seasonal and offbeat like rhubarb, or seasonal and not-so-offbeat, like artichoke. We'll see.  But given the simplicity of making the stock and how freaking domestic it made me feel, I will definitely be making it again.  

OH!  And in the original post on Casual Kitchen, one of the commenters suggested keeping the cooked vegetables to puree and use in soup.  Do it.  I did, and I adored the results, which I will be posting about soon.

Carcinogens, Anyone?

Recently, I decided to be a Really Nice Wife and cook something for dinner that my hubs loves and I am indifferent to- because I'm not a Completely Selfless Wife who will cook something that he loves and I hate, like a cousin of mine who is a vegetarian and will regularly make her husband steak.  I'm nice, but I'm not THAT nice.  But anyway.  Back to the dinner.  For this particular dinner, I would be cooking up a nice little ham.  

Hubs has big, strong, man feelings about ham. When a holiday passes in which he believes a ham the designated meat to be consumed during said holiday's meal (Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Arbor Day, etc.), and no ham is present, he gets a little sad.  Or a lot sad.  And, well, I grew up in a house where ham was something you had in a sandwich with a slice of processed cheese food, but never for dinner.  So you can guess how often it crosses my mind to make a ham. 

But, on this night, I decided to make a ham.  I went online to investigate the appropriate cooking time and temperature for said hunk of cured pig and to determine the necessary internal temperature to ensure we would not regret eating it.  Armed with my knowledge, I went to the kitchen.  I set the ham in the baking dish and removed the packaging and then sent it happily into the oven.  Partway through the baking time, I pulled it out to drizzle my soy sauce and mustard glaze all over it, and then I came back a few times to brush the glaze on thickly.  It wasn't getting the shine I wanted and I was annoyed, but I supposed that this particular glazing concoction musn't be prone to shine.  If only that was the actual problem.

Upon slicing the meat, I noticed that the glaze had created a bit of a plastic-y coating on it.  It was difficult to slice through and not very appealing, but I didn't pay too much attention to it because I was thinking about the other components of the meal.  Or, I should say, I didn't pay too mush attention to it until my husband said, "Is this PLASTIC?"  

To which I replied, "No, I took the plastic off.  That's from the glaze."  

He looked at me utterly dumbfounded.  "NO, babe," he said slowly, pulling the substance in question off his plate, "this is plastic."  

"But I took the plastic off."

"Apparently not all of it."

Silence.  I looked at the clear, suspiciously plastic-looking ribbon in his fingers.  It seemed it was... well... uh... plastic.  I tried to come up with some sort of plausible culinary technique that required cooking a ham in plastic to explain my complete stupidity away, but came up with nothing.  (Shocking, isn't it?)  I smiled sheepishly.  "Oops."  

We ate the ham anyway.  

Not a Pie, Still Delicious

Blackberries were on sale the other day, so I decided to pick some up. I got some raspberries, too, because I think blackberries are too tart on their own. By the time I got home from the store, the berries were begging to be something greater than a salad ingredient, so after dinner, I obliged.

I made a pie crust and set it on a cookie sheet, then mixed the berries with a couple of teaspoons of sugar, a couple more of cornstarch, a squeeze of lemon juice and a bit of zest. Then I piled the whole thing in middle of the pie crust and folded the edges of the crust over the top, leaving just a small area in the middle uncovered, put it in the oven and let it bake for an hour-ish.

I don't know the technical name for this concoction- I've heard them called tarts and crostatas and words I can't spell, but whatever it is, it's really good- especially with a scoop of vanilla frozen yogurt on top. The only thing I would do differently next time is add a touch more sugar to the berries, and maybe do an egg wash or some sugar on the crust to pretty it up a bit.



Even with a suck-tastic camera, it looks delectable.

Or Not.

Perhaps my last post about me being a gourmet and such was a wee bit premature. I recently went to visit my husband who has been away on business for a long enough span that I was compelled to go visit him. During my stay, the hubs asked me to make some oatmeal for him one morning. Despite the utter lack of measuring devices and all familiar kitchen accoutrements, I agreed, because I am a team player and I make oatmeal multiple times a week and have mastered it.

Or not.

What was intended to be a little stove-top-cooked pot of stick-to-your-ribs love turned out to be something else. Something solid and inedible with the ability to defy gravity. That's right, DEFY GRAVITY. When hubs saw the abomination that was supposed to be his breakfast, he grabbed the pot, turned it upside down, and NOTHING HAPPENED. Not even one little lump of gluey horrendousness fell to the floor. And then my husband proceeded to laugh at me. A lot. Very loudly.

And that is why perhaps my previous post may have been a teensy, tinsy, almost imperceptible bit premature.

A favorite dinner

I discovered this recipe while watching the television version of Real Simple (it's a magazine, too). I decided to give it a try, since we adore salmon in our house, and it seemed like a relatively painless process. Also, since it was on TV, I got to see what this mysterious vegetable called fennel is and how to prepare it. Just in case some of you are as lacking in education as I am, this is fennel:



Apparently, in some grocery stores, they call it anise. I don't know why. Some vast self-righteous foodie conspiracy, I'm sure. Anyway, in the middle is what the recipe-making lady called a "woody core". You don't want to eat it, unless you like chewing on things that are tough and tasteless. If you cut the fennel bulb in half up and down, you'll see it at the bottom in the middle. Cut it out. Also, fennel tastes a bit (and smells a lot) like licorice. Black licorice. This scared me because I do not black licorice as much as Hollywood doesn't like President Bush. Yeah, it's that serious. However, once it's roasted, it's quite good, so don't be afraid of it. If you are still afraid of it, I suppose you could come up with some sort of substitution, but I'm not gonna help you with that... mostly because I have no clue what you might use.

Anyway, my husband and I don't usually agree on what tastes good, but we both love this- as does our 18 month-old, who will eat almost as much of it as we do. The tomatoes burst open and are so good (and I'm not big on tomatoes in general), the onion gets sweet and soft and the salmon is fantastic, and the recipe practically makes itself. What's not to love?

A Culinary Evolution

I love food. I mean, I really love food. I think about it. I read about it. I crave it. I long to know what the foodies know. I, however, am not a foodie. Not even close. This is not a blog for foodies. This is a blog for people like me. Me, who at the age of 19 or so discovered that garlic did not, in fact, originate in powdered form. Who had no idea what basil was, or that oregano could be obtained as a fresh herb. Who could not cook many things and did not cook well. Who thought Olive Garden was authentically Italian.

I'm really not dumb. I could whip out my standardized test scores and prove it. I was just food-dumb. I know it's so blase to blame things on one's mother, but it's kind of her fault. Not entirely, but kind of. She just never really liked cooking or bothered to excel at it, or loved food, and she had an army of children to feed. Our family was big. Not the four-kid "big" family of today. I'm talking sports-team big here. With that many mouths to feed, I'd probably hate cooking, too. The woman could bake like nobody's business, though. No one's been able to duplicate her dinner rolls yet, even with the recipe. But, I digress. I came from simple All-American food. Meatloaf, casseroles, homemade pizza, pot roast on Sundays. We never ate anything more ethnic than sweet-and-sour chicken from the Chinese restaurant in the grocery store.


When I was engaged to my husband, he came to dinner at my place with his buddy and his buddy's girlfriend. With some serious advice from people who knew their way around a kitchen, I'd successfully made him salmon and shrimp during earlier dates (though the shrimp triggered his first-ever allergic reaction to shellfish and landed him in Urgent Care), so I had him somewhat fooled into thinking I was a better cook than I was. So, on this night, I went to the grocery store to procure the necessary ingredients. Chicken breasts. 2 limes. Rice. So far, so good. Six green onions. I went to the onions. Red onions, yellow onions, white onions, but no green onions. I looked and looked. I settled for yellow onions; six of them, just like the recipe said. Seemed like a lot, but who was I to question the almighty recipe-writers? When I got home, I began slicing the onions per the recipe. After three, I thought, "Holy crap, this is a lot of onion. I think they cook down a lot, though." After four, I decided that since no more onions would fit in the pan with the rest of the ingredients, the other two would just have to be our little secret. (I don't know who else was part of the "our", but that's not the point.) Needless to say, I think on that night my cover was blown. My husband didn't ask me to cook much after that. In fact, a lot of the time when I would offer to cook dinner, he'd say, "No, you had a long day. I'll cook." A few months into our marriage, I began watching the Food Network. Imagine my surprise when green onions were mentioned and out came these green straws-on-steroids. "Six of those would have tasted a lot better," I thought.

And thus began my quest. I became a woman on a mission. I was determined to figure out this cooking thing, to become that woman whose skills inspire people to angle for dinner invitations. I'm not there yet, but I'm getting better. My husband says I'm "an excellent cook" now, and not just to me. Before, when asked about my cooking he would say, "My wife makes the best banana bread" and leave it at that, unless further pressed, at which point he would divert attention by speaking about his own cooking skills. I must be getting better- or his taste buds are getting duller. One of the two. I've impressed others with my cooking and cooking-related tips (okay, they're not necessarily mine, but I remembered them, so I deserve some of the credit). I've even shared recipes with others and had them later complain to me that theirs was not as good as mine was and proceed to grill me on my exact ingredient choices. So, yeah, I'd say I've improved. But when you remember where I'm coming from, that's not saying much. I'm sure I'll have more green onion moments, and when I do, feel free to mock. Just don't ask me to cook you dinner.