Food Memory: Slow-roasted Tomatoes
October 8, 2011
Caramelized, roasted tomatoes topped with fresh rosemary and thyme.
In Salt Lake City, J and I lived in a sweet little Victorian cottage in the 9th and 9th area. The house itself was a charming brick structure with a large backyard, and a good-sized, sun-soaked garden perfect for growing tomatoes and herbs. I’ve never considered myself a gardener, but somehow growing delicious tomatoes in the hot, arid Utah summers took little effort or skill. As long as you got them in after Mother’s Day, kept them watered and guarded against late frost and pesky snails, they pretty much grew themselves.
Starting around mid-July, we’d start enjoying the ripening Early Girls, Beefsteaks and Roma tomatoes in salads, fresh tomato sandwiches and pasta sauces and by September, you couldn’t turn around without stepping on a tomato. Well, now, where did you come from, my pretties? So plump and delicious, the mouth waters. All the better to eat you with!
Sometime in the mid-90s, I came across a recipe for oven roasted tomatoes with fresh garden herbs. Perfect for the end of September when the cricket thrums slow to the tempo of a porch rocking chair, these tomatoes go in a low oven for at least three hours. As they slowly give up their juices, they fill the house with an aroma so herbaceous and now familiar to me, it is a powerful symbol for the arrival of fall, and the comfort of home.
I make these tomatoes at least once a year in the fall, even though it’s been more than 10 years since we’ve had the “problem” of an exploding tomato population. What a shock it was moving to Chicago, and having access only to bland, waxy, hard grocery store tomatoes. Even so, this simple technique vaults even the most anemic tomatoes over the brink of caramelized deliciousness. Incredible on sandwiches, wrapped in a warm corn tortilla or munched straight off the cookie sheet, these gems don’t last for more than a few hours in our house. But if they did, I imagine they’d also be delicious on pizza, in pasta or atop crostini. Ladies and gentlemen: Welcome to autumn.
Slow-roasted Tomatoes
10 to 12 Roma tomatoes
4 tablespoons kosher salt or sea salt
4 tablespoons sugar
1 to 2 teaspoons freshly ground pepper
Extra virgin olive oil
1/2 to 2/3 cup finely-chopped fresh herbs (thyme, rosemary, sage, basil)
Pre-heat the oven to 250 degrees F. Line two cookie sheets with aluminum foil or a Silpat liner. Cut the ends off the washed tomatoes; cut into thick crosswise slices. 1/4 to 1/2 inch wide. (The thinner the slice, the more the tomatoes shrivel. I prefer thinner slices.) Arrange the tomatoes on the cookie sheets, and drizzle each slice with a bit of olive oil. Turn the slices over, and repeat on the other side.
Mix the salt, sugar and pepper in a small bowl. Sprinkle a large pinch of the mixture on each tomato slice. Sprinkle on herbs.
Roast for three hours or until the tomatoes start to dehydrate. (If your slices are thicker, they can stay in longer. Just don’t let them burn.) Or, roast for two hours , turn off the oven, and leave overnight.
Refrigerate in an airtight container — that is, if they last that long.
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- Caramelized, roasted tomatoes topped with fresh rosemary and thyme.
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- Store-bought tomatoes, unfortunately.
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- Thick-sliced Roma tomatoes, ready for roasting.
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- Drizzled with olive oil.
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- All dressed up and ready for the oven.
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- Tomatoes in the oven, smelling delicious.
Food Memory: Dad’s Shrimp
July 16, 2011
70s-tastic shrimp cocktail.
One of my distinct childhood memories is of the occasional cocktail parties my parents gave. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, my sister Julie and I would help make the house sparkle and set up the appetizer table in the family room, knowing our reward was nigh.
Of course, Julie and I could not have cared less who was coming over, and once we survived the polite introductions, our work was done. Those nights were an occasion because we were promised a rare and exotic frozen TV dinner, eaten in front of the TV. Anything to keep us occupied and out of the way. We were in heaven.
Party nights were also special for the other uncommon foods in the house. Bags of potato chips with sour cream dip (my sister and I tempting each other with the old ad pitch “Bet you can’t eat just one!” ); tiny sweet gherkins; pitted black olives whose main appeal was as freaky finger coverings; cocktail weenies on toothpicks; and of course my dad’s shrimp cocktail.
“Dad’s Shrimp,” as it came to be known, was a fairly grownup flavor for little kids, but I loved it: unexpectedly piquant, spicy and barely sweet.
The recipe came from a long-ago edition of Sunset magazine, and who knows how close Dad’s version is to the original. I’ve never known him to follow any recipe from start to finish. He might use one for inspiration and to understand the intended flavors, but then he adds a dollop of creative license to make it his own. And the theater involved — well, it’s amusing to watch. When he’s really having fun, he talks to himself while he bobs and jigs around the kitchen: “A little of this, and, ah, a little of that … yes. That’s it. Oh, do you know what would be good? I know just the thing.” Though I was not present when he first made this shrimp cocktail, I imagine that’s how it went down. And several years ago when I asked him for the recipe, it was clear that the science of measurement was not something he’d applied to this dish — ever.
Its components seem odd. And when I list the ingredients to curious friends, they respond surprised: “Really? Ketchup? Mustard? Celery?” Yes, really. Good, isn’t it?
I still crave it. That snap of horseradish and tarragon vinegar lend a zesty contrast against chilled poached shrimp and creamy avocado.
Here is the recipe as told by my dad. Mine never quite tastes the same as his, so the liberties he takes with measurements are not perfectly represented here, and every measurement could be followed by an “-ish.” But like a good ’70s cocktail party, it’s still groovy in my book.
Dad’s Shrimp
1/4 cup tarragon vinegar
1 1/2 tablespoon prepared horseradish
1 tablespoon yellow mustard
1 tablespoon ketchup
1 1/2 teaspoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 cup canola oil
1/4 white onion
1 stalk celery
Put the ingredients in the Vitamix, and blend to a puree. (A regular blender works, too, but first mince the celery and onion.)
Pour over 1 1/2 pounds poached shrimp (shelled and deveined) and refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours. Serve over avocado slices on individual plates or small bowls. I like making a bed of arugula or spinach under the avocado.
Food Memory: Noodles for Breakfast
June 26, 2011
Delicious noodles for breakfast.
I had a pretty typical childhood. I loved swimming in the summer; my friends and I pretended we were “Charlie’s Angels,” packing heat and fighting crime in our Salt Lake City neighborhood; I adored kittens — more than once my sister and I dressed up the family cat in old baby clothes. And I ate Top Ramen regularly for breakfast. OK, maybe not completely typical.
Of course, on the weekends, I enjoyed traditional breakfasts: pancakes, French toast, oatmeal with a little brown sugar. But around the age of 12 and on through high school, my breakfast of choice during the week was ramen.
I must have learned this breakfast behavior from my dad, Levi Mike, who never ate “normal” breakfast food. Instead he would make soups and stews, vats of collard greens, Mexican menudo, the leftovers of which would be his morning sustenance. So my penchant for ramen was not terribly unusual. Every morning, I’d start a saucepan with a finger of water and cut the top of the flavor packet, leaving a graveyard of silver trimmings in the drawer where the scissors lived. In less than three minutes, I had a savory, salty, warming pan of noodle soup. Rather than dirty a bowl, I would eat the soup right out of the cookpot, and to get to the “meat” of the meal faster, I would slurp the liquid with a giant mixing spoon. (J and I still have that spoon and use it often, though it’s been retired as silverware.) Once the broth was out of the way, all that remained were the delicious, slippery, curly noodles. I would savor them lovingly, making them last as long as possible. After one unfortunate morning when my mother asked for “a bite” and ate HALF THE NOODLES on one forkful, I became fiercely protective, guarding my noodles with the ferocity of a junkyard dog.
Though I don’t often eat ramen for breakfast anymore, every once in a while I wake up with a craving. I’ve graduated to bowls, and I now use a regular soup spoon. But don’t ask for a bite, even on your birthday. Call me selfish, but for 20 cents or so you can have your very own bowl of noodles for breakfast, in under three minutes. I’ll start the water for you.
Pan, Pan, PAN!
April 25, 2011
Simple, delicious.
In the weeks before our holiday, J and I largely avoided bread, pasta and other simple carbohydrates. Now, anyone who knows me is aware I have a weakness for noodles, making this current diet a hardship (and making me cranky) at times, but I stuck with it nonetheless. And, except for the travel day which presented bland in-flight versions of the starchiest kind — chicken and white rice for dinner, egg on an English muffin for breakfast and a dry ham and cheese sandwich for lunch — we have, for the most part, been able to avoid overloading on carbs. That is, until yesterday when I may have met my match: the warm-out-of-the-oven, crusty exterior/pillowy-soft interior baguettes served in some restaurants and cafes.
Our first encounter with these treats was at Hontanares. While we consumed none at the time, the bocadillo (sandwich) action behind the counter caught my eye: a woman toasting fresh baguettes on the grill, then assembling the most simple, but delicious-looking, subs with jamón, queso, sausages or vegetables.
My friend agrees: No pasta, no happy.
An hour or so later, during our meal at La Finca de Susana, the waitress came by with smaller, pointier versions of the baguettes. Without ceremony, she placed them next to our plates. To break into one is something for the senses: The crust is crisp, but not too much so; the interior is soft and steaming, and neither the word chewy nor spongy fully describes the consistency, though those qualities exist. It’s soft, light and dense all at once. No homemade bread has ever matched this.
Today, after several hours touring the Reina Sofia and haunted by the assemblage of the sandwiches, we headed back to Hontenares. I ordered a Baguette Alemán — a toasted baguette topped with nothing more than halved sausages (frankfurters, really) and melted cheese. It was a good 12 inches long, and I halved it so J could try. (I gave him an inch and he took four or five!) Moments later, like a wisp of silk scarf disappearing around a corner, it was gone. Panicked, I contemplated ordering another, but I came to my senses. There is always mañana.
Chile Verde Chronicles 