Tradition: NYE Celebration
January 1, 2014
Every year since 1999, J and I have rung in the New Year with our annual tradition of caviar, homemade buckwheat blini and bubbles. (This year, we celebrated with a special bottle of bubbles, a gift from Robb and Dana. Wow!) We remember our families and friends, and toast our good fortune. We are truly grateful.
Happy New Year!
Food Memory: Tomato Sandwiches and Ramen
August 17, 2012
J + R + T = Love.
Some couples have their song. (“This is our song! We danced to it at our wedding.”)
Some couples have a place. (“We are going back to Cabo in the spring. It’s where we met!!”)
Jeff and I, we have a sandwich.
Ok, to be fair, it’s a sandwich and a side. So it’s really a meal. Our meal is the tomato sandwich and “dry” ramen.
Of course I’d had BLTs before, and everyone knows how I feel about ramen, but this combination is special. Early in our relationship, Jeff introduced me to this glorious partnership, which he and his brother had perfected during their college years. The sandwich requires juicy, sweet, still-warm-from-the-sun, vine-ripened tomatoes, which are so plentiful in Salt Lake. It’s not worth making if you don’t have this component (and I’ve griped about the lack of decent tomatoes since leaving Utah).
The focus on the tomato makes this sandwich different from a BLT, where bacon steals the show. This is a T sandwich all the way, and the other ingredients are supporting cast: Two pieces of toasted wheat bread, one topped with a leaf or two of lettuce (I like either iceberg or butter lettuce). The other piece of bread has a slather of mayo and Dijon mustard. Call in the tomato. It should be plump, sweet and juicy, not like the anemic grainy flavorless imposters you find in the supermarket. At home we grew Early Girls and Beefsteak, and both made lovely sandwiches. Lay two, three or four thick slices on the lettuce. Grind a little black pepper over the tomato and put a couple not-too-thick slices of cheddar on top. The other piece of bread sits on top of the cheese. (You’ll notice the cheese and the lettuce insulate the bread from all the juices from the tomato. Ingenious, I know.)
While one of us assembled sandwiches, the other started a little pot of water on the stove for the ramen, which is drained and dressed with a dash of rice wine vinegar, a drizzle of soy sauce, several good shakes of Tabasco, half the flavor packet and five or six grinds of pepper.
Beautiful.
Sandwich on the plate. Ramen on the plate. Nothing could be more beautiful.
During the summer in Salt Lake when the tomatoes were bountiful, Jeff and I would eat tomato sandwiches for lunch at least a couple times a week. We even considered serving it at our wedding, only half-jokingly, before we decided that Log Haven likely would not tolerate Top Ramen in their kitchen.
Every once is a great while we come across the rare tomato that is sandwich-worthy, like the ones Jeff found last week. We pounced and went through the delicious summer ritual of so many years ago. Hunched over our plates, tomato juice dripping down our chins, we thanked our lucky stars that we don’t have a song or a place. We have a sandwich.
Namesake: Chicken Chile Verde
January 25, 2012
J's signature chicken chile verde.
People constantly buttonhole me: “Robyn, the name of your blog is Chile Verde Chronicles, but you don’t have a single chile verde recipe: What’s up with that?”
OK. I exaggerate. It is a fair question, but no one has asked. Well, hold onto your hats, friends …
First, a little bookkeeping: I contemplated filing this under “Tradition” as this dish pops up frequently enough in our rotation. It could also fit naturally under the header “Sunday Dinner” as that’s the standard CV feast day. At the same time, it could just as easily fit under “Refrigerator Staple” because we always seem to have a batch of leftovers. But to me this dish deserves its own header, and perhaps some day a series of posts.
Safe to say that J’s chicken chile verde has evolved dramatically over the years. In one of the first versions, back in our early dating days, he used canned jalapeños instead of milder green chiles. The result was fuego — liquid fire — which he declared “practically inedible.” Coming from him, that’s saying something.
Today the basic ingredients remain the same (chicken thighs, lots of veggies and chicken broth), but there’s always a tweak here and there. One batch he’ll use roux as a thickener, the next it’s barley. (Can you imagine?) At times, he’s rubbed and grilled the chicken first, finishing it in the stew, and other times he’s poached the chicken to make the broth base. Every time he makes it, it’s slightly different, and a little better.
So, without further ado, I give you his latest version which involved rub-seasoning and grilling the chicken:
J’s Chicken Chile Verde
1 pound boneless, skinless chicken thighs
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 teaspoon granulated garlic
1 teaspoon chipotle chile powder
2 strips bacon cut into 1 inch pieces
1/2 cup chopped carrots
1/2 cup chopped celery
1 large jalapeño (or more to taste), chopped
3 7-ounce cans whole green chiles, 1 can chopped, 2 cans diced (will be divided)
1 green bell pepper, diced (will be divided)
3 small onions, diced (will be divided)
6 cloves garlic, chopped
8 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1/2 chicken bullion cube
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon cumin seeds (less or more to taste)
8 to 10 black peppercorns
1/3 cup barley, rinsed
Pinch of chile flakes
Salt and fresh-ground pepper
Fresh lemon or lime.
For the rub: In a plastic storage bag, combine the paprika, granulated garlic, chipotle powder, salt and pepper, and shake to mix. Add the chicken, give it a little rubdown, and refrigerate for at least one hour while you start the stew.
In a large Dutch oven over medium heat, crisp the bacon, rendering the fat. Add the carrots, celery, 2/3 of the diced onion, 1/2 of the diced bell pepper and cook in until soft, about 15 minutes. Add the garlic and cook another 2 minutes. Add the tomato paste, barley, cumin seeds and peppercorns and stir to mix with the vegetables. Add 1 can of chopped green chiles and half the jalapeño. Stir. Add the broth and the bullion and simmer, covered, for 1 hour to 90 minutes, stirring occasionally.
After simmering, blend the mixture until smooth, not grainy, using an immersion blender (this could take a few minutes — you don’t want whole peppercorns). Add the remaining onion, bell pepper, jalapeño and diced canned chiles and continue to simmer while you grill the chicken, making sure to mark it well. When done grilling, let the chicken rest for a few minutes, then dice.
Add the chicken to the chile verde and stir. Simmer for another 10 minutes. Season to taste with chile flakes, salt and pepper. If you feel so inclined, add a squeeze of lemon or lime, to taste, for a bit of acid.
That’s it. The barley adds a rich nuttiness, the grilled chicken a smoky undertone and the peppercorns, well, a nice pepper flavor. Serve with warm tortillas, beans, shredded or melted cheddar, crumbled Mexican cheese, shredded lettuce, minced onion, habañero salsa, cilantro — whatever combination floats your boat. Hell, it’s good in a bowl eaten with a spoon. It’s better the next day, and the next.
Phone us on a Sunday night and chances are we’re drinking wine and cooking up a big batch of chile verde. Pretty nice tradition, I say.
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- J’s signature chicken chile verde.
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- All the veggies in the broth, simmering away.
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- Our beloved immersion blender.
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- Grilled chicken thighs.
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- J’s black bean, pinto bean and barley filling.
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- The master at work, stirring the finished verde.
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- A few suggested toppings, for your consideration.
Fagioli alla Fiorentina
Speaking of traditions …
This year, New Year’s Day fell on a Sunday, which means our most recent pork-centric Sunday dinner took on a familiar, annual theme. Why I started making this Italian pork-and-beans dish to celebrate the new year, I do not remember. I think at one point I may have claimed New Year’s Eve or Day as my holiday to spend in the kitchen preparing a fabulous dinner. At some point, I also may have claimed — hoping on some level — that I simply must be part Italian, though none of my ancestors were from anywhere near the Mediterranean. I do remember making fagioli for the first time on a cold a New Year’s Eve in Salt Lake City, and I’ve made it many years since, in Chicago, in Venice and now in Portland. My recipe combines two versions I found in Saveur magazine (November 2000), and while the ingredients are few and simple, the aroma from the oven is comforting, warming, homey.
Why we have not made this for any other occasion is beyond me; it’s the essence of a one-pot meal, and incredibly easy to prepare. In the past, I’ve used only sausage as the accompanying meat, but this year we decided to braise pork shoulder with the beans. Next time we make it, I’d love to play with the ingredients and perhaps substitute pork with lamb, and sage with thyme or rosemary.
Fagioli alla Fiorentina
1 pound dried cannellini beans (or any dried white beans)
5 ounces prosciutto cut into wide strips
Generous drizzle (1/4 cup) fruity olive oil
4 to 5 canned plum tomatoes, quartered
4 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
2 spicy Italian sausages
1 pork shoulder (about 2 pounds)
Sprig of fresh sage
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Put the beans in an earthenware pot or a dutch oven, and cover with cold water. Set aside and let soak overnight or at least 4 hours. Drain and add cold water to just cover the beans.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
In a skillet drizzled with olive oil, lightly brown the sausages. Remove and set aside. Salt and pepper the pork shoulder, then using the same pan, brown it on all sides. Remove and set aside.
Add the prosciutto, tomatoes, garlic and sage to the beans, and season to taste with the salt and pepper. Drizzle with olive oil. Place the pork shoulder in the center of the beans, gently working it into the liquid until it’s partially submerged. Place the sausages atop the beans as well.
Cover and bake until the beans have absorbed all the liquid and are tender, about two hours. A meat thermometer placed in the center of the pork should register 160 degrees. Remove the pork shoulder and the sausages and cut into slices. Serve beans and pork in bowls or deep plates with perhaps a good crusty bread to sop up any juices.
Favoloso, no?
Tradition: Christmas Pudding
December 26, 2011
Steamed pudding in its mold.
I cringe a little bit when I hear myself say, “I’d like to start a new tradition,” well aware that an act doesn’t become tradition until it is repeated so many times it is unnatural not to do it. My Grandma Dorothy upheld her family’s special-occasion tradition of serving czernina, the Borusheski version of the Polish duck soup, using the same green plastic teacup year after year as a soup ladle. My dad has maintained his father’s tradition of making the Hungarian káposztája, stuffed cabbage leaves, every New Year’s Day. J and I have a few traditions of our own, but starting a new tradition is tricky business: Sometimes they stick, sometimes they don’t. And there are few things lamer than hearing yourself say, “What ever happened to that tradition?”
Last year I did start what I hope will become a long-standing tradition: Christmas pudding. The recipe I use comes from Nigella Lawson’s book Feast. I first tasted “figgy pudding” when a former co-worker brought one to a holiday potluck, and immediately I knew I must try this recipe. Sweet, but not too much so. Dense, sticky and rich with layers of flavor. Is that chocolate? Is it a cake? Is it a fruitcake? And that dollop of rum butter? Oh man.
My copy of "Feast." I wrote that this will be a yearly tradition, so it must be so.
So the weekend after Thanksgiving, I make the puddings. I follow Nigella’s recipe faithfully, though it could be easily tinkered with. And because I don’t have a traditional pudding-steaming vessel I divide mine into four or five smaller glass containers with covers. The smaller portions make easy gifting and are easily stackable in the refrigerator. I skip the addition of the coins and tokens, which signify good luck, mostly because of laziness. Instead I send our good wishes along to everyone who enjoys the dish.
Nigella Lawson’s Nonconformist Christmas Pudding
2 cups dried mission figs
1 cup dried blueberries
1 1/2 cups currants (or dried cranberries, in a pinch)
3/4 cup Kahlua
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
1 cup ground almonds
2 cups breadcrumbs
1/2 cup cocoa
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup packed brown sugar
2 apples
3 large eggs
1/2 cup sour cream
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 tablespoon pie spice
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 cup vodka
Generously butter the steaming vessel(s) and lids.
Grind the figs in a food processor and put them in a saucepan with the blueberries, currants and Kahlua. Bring to a boil and let simmer for 10 minutes. Cut the butter on top of the simmering fruit and put the lid on, leaving it to simmer and melt for another 10 minutes.
Put the breadcrumbs, ground almonds, cocoa, flour, baking powder, baking soda and brown sugar into a large bowl.
Peel, quarter and core the apples and, as Nigella says, “bung” them in the still-figgy food processor until finely chopped. Add them to the bowl of dry ingredients along with the buttery dried fruit mixture. In the same unwashed food processor, break the eggs and add the sour cream, vanilla and spices. Process to mix and pour into the pudding, scraping the sides to get all the leftover bits. Mix well with a spoon, and pour into the prepared steaming vessels. If you’re using covered glass containers as I do, be sure not to overfill, as the pudding expands as it steams.
Now for the steaming: Because I make several smaller puddings, I arrange mine in a large canning pot, resting them on the rack. Cover and steam for four hours, checking the water level periodically. After four hours, turn off the heat and allow them to cool in the pan. Transfer the puddings to the refrigerator. (Some people allow them sit on the kitchen counter.) The more time you allow them to mature the better, which is why these are traditionally prepared toward the end of November. (That lazy Thanksgiving weekend, therefore, is the perfect time.)
The day you want to eat the pudding, steam it for another 1 1/2 to four hours — the longer it steams, the richer it will be. (A friend of mine steamed hers in a crock pot — a great tip.) Unmold the pudding by inverting it onto a plate, and stick a sprig of holly on top. In a saucepan, warm the vodka and strike a match to light it and pour over the pudding. “Then,” Nigella writes, “in absolute discordance with all possible health and safety initiatives, bearing it aloft make a dash for the dining table so everyone can see this fabulous, flickering spectacle.”
Makes me smile every time I read it.
Serve with rum butter.
Rum Butter
1 1/2 cups confectioners sugar
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup ground almonds
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract (my addition to the recipe. Optional)
3-plus tablespoons good-quality rum (to taste)
Put the sugar in the food processor and process to remove any lumps. Add the softened butter and cream it with the sugar. Scrape down the sides, add the ground almonds and process again. With the motor running, add the vanilla and the rum to taste. Taste as you go along. I prefer more rum in my butter, but some might find my preference too strong for their liking.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Willamette Valley Wine Tasting: Thanksgiving Weekend
November 26, 2011
The view of Red Ridge Farms' lavender fields.
The day after Thanksgiving, and the Christmas spirit had burst out of its bulging seams. Everywhere we turned were red, green and glittery decorations, miles of twinkling lights and of course, endless television commercials. But rather than join the Black Friday throngs, we headed toward wine country for a little holiday cheer of our own.
Thanksgiving weekend is an event for the Willamette Valley wineries, and most host open-house style functions with tasting tables set up in their cavernous barrel-laden storage rooms. We stopped at three wineries on Friday (Lange Estate, De Ponte Cellars and Argyle) plus we made a little side trip to Red Ridge Farms’ gift shop and nursery for olive oil. (Hint: If you’re looking for a gift for the food lover or gardener in your life, Red Ridge is a good bet. Tons of creative options for the cook or home entertainer, but if all else fails, locally pressed olive oil is always a welcome gift.)
We were lucky to have a gorgeously crisp, sunny day, and the indoor/outdoor tasting setups lent a festive note to the start of the season without being overbearing. I may be mentally ready to go Christmas tree cutting.
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: 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.
Friday-Night Tradition: Bandini
March 19, 2011
Sausage/green pepper and Canadian bacon/onion.
I don’t know when it started — in Chicago, probably — but somewhere along the line, we adopted the oh-so-original tradition of Friday night pizza. We have made it our quest, wherever we go, to find the best delivery joint: the crust must be thin, crisp, oven-browned; the salads must be big (nothing worse than paying $10 for a paltry tin of dying lettuce and dead shaved carrots).
The quest continues in Portland, but our current favorite is Bandini. I confess to being a skeptic when we first walked by the restaurant on MLK. The place looks cozy and inviting enough, but the menu seems scattershot: appetizers, pastas, salads, sandwiches, desserts and, of course, pizza. A real red-sauce, family-style, kid-in-booster-seats kind of place. But we took the leap and ordered delivery one Friday night last November, and it’s been our go-to Friday-night date ever since. Ordering can be tricky, especially if you are trying to communicate the concept of “easy cheese” or even “light cheese” to the sweet, non-native English-speaker on the phone — but who cares? The pizza arrives lickety-split, and the delivery guy is courteous and friendly.
Pizza crust is delicious, though it never quite achieves the crispness we crave. It has a pretzel quality: Definitely thin, slightly chewy, with a pretzel-style sheen. I love it. J wishes we could convey the desired well-done effect, and we’ll keep trying. (“When it’s finished, leave it in the oven for an extra 5 minutes.”)
Toppings are fresh and flavorful (we’re talking to you, sausage). Salads are plentiful. (Yeah, the Caesar dressing conspicuously lacks garlic and anchovies, but we won’t complain: The lettuce is fresh and there’s lots of it.)
Bandini: Thank you for being our Friday-night steady. We’ll call you. *Kiss.*
Chile Verde Chronicles 