The Rowdy Chowgirl

March 19, 2012

Tahitian Smoothie

We met at the Seattle Art Museum on Saturday morning, my friend Cindy and I, to see the Gauguin exhibition. It may have been only a few days short of spring, but you wouldn’t have known it. Just as I was parking, huge, fat flakes of snow started falling. As I rushed toward the museum, I pulled my hood forward over my face and the wet, sleety snow plastered the front of my coat and pants.

Once safe and dry inside, we marveled at the swirling snow outside the tall windows. Museum staff broke into Christmas carols and chattered hopefully about maybe, just maybe, getting to go home early if the snow kept up.

Inside the warm, windowless galleries of the exhibition, the only weather was created by Gauguin’s glowing paintings of Tahiti. The tropical scenes of beaches, fruit, and bathing women exuded warmth and light. The deep, saturated colors were in sharp contrast with the grey and white world just outside.

By the time we left the museum, the snow had disappeared, leaving an ordinary, cold, windy March day. I’d have been happy to leave this dreary weather behind for a few weeks in Tahiti. But I had to console myself with a tropical fruit smoothie that tastes of sunshine.

So throw some fruit in the blender, and imagine yourself lying in a lounge chair, one foot dangling off the side, toes digging into the soft sand. A warm, salty breeze wafts over you, and the sound of the surf lulls you into dropping your book and closing your heavy eyelids for just a moment.

The easiest way to make this smoothie is with pre-cut, frozen bags of fruit. Take what you need, and leave the rest in the freezer for next time the urge for a taste of summer hits. It is refreshing, nutritious, and the perfect fuel for tropical dreams. You can substitute grapefruit for the orange, add a few spoonfuls of plain yogurt if you’re feeling frisky, or even a handful of finely chopped kale if you’re feeling particularly virtuous.

Tahitian Smoothie

1 banana, sliced
1 cup mango chunks
1 orange, peeled and sectioned
½ cup coconut water
1 tbsp nutritional yeast flakes
1 tsp ground flax seed

Combine all ingredients in blender, or use immersion blender to blend until smooth. Serves two.

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March 15, 2012

Cooking Class: Night Markets of Bangkok

It has been a long dry spell between travel adventures for us, something that is particularly difficult to tolerate when those two words–travel and adventure, have stitched themselves across my heart, very nearly visible through the thin network of ribs and skin, and have become part of who I am and who I want to be.

But adventure is not exclusively found in travel to faraway places. I try to remember this when my wandering feet get itchy. Life is full of every day adventures too—new experiences and ideas and flavors, right here at home.

Last weekend, we went to a cooking class called Night Markets of Bangkok at PCC, a local food coop. The class was taught by Becky Selengut, local chef and author of Good Fish: Sustainable Seafood Recipes from the Pacific Coast. This was a demonstration class—the classroom was set up with rows of little tables with place settings, where we sat in twos, facing the kitchen. Becky cooked while talking us through the steps in her recipes. We also received a packet of printed recipes to take home with us. All of the dishes were complex tasting and delicious, but easily within the capabilities of any competent home cook.

Her assistants frequently came around with ingredients so we could take a closer look, or a sniff. In the case of the coconut oil, they encouraged us to spread it on our hands like a fabulous lotion. Which we did.

As each dish was finished, we were each served a small portion to taste as the cooking continued up front. These included Grilled Prawns with Tamarind and Orange, and Sticky Rice made fragrant with coconut oil.

Mieng Kahm are lettuce rolls filled to individual tastes with a variety of ingredients including toasted coconut, peppers, peanuts, ginger, and shallots, meant to create a flavor explosion in the mouth.

Mieng Kahm

We also had Thai Fried Chicken, golden brown and richly infused with a spicy marinade. The chicken was paired with a crisp beer. We learned that cilantro stems have as much flavor as the leaves and can be used interchangeably in sauces or marinades where they are ground up. We also learned that it is unnecessary to peel ginger before throwing it in the food processor—a real timesaver.

Thai Fried Chicken

The final dish of the evening was Khao Soy Noodles with Seared Duck, Pickled Mustard Greens and Cilantro, paired with a Reisling. We squeezed lime juice over our plates and enjoyed the rich medallions of rare duck, with all of the contrasting flavors and textures of the noodles swimming in curry sauce, sharp mustard greens, and crunchy fried noodles on top.

Khao Soy Noodles with Seared Duck, Pickled Mustard Greens, and Cilantro

Becky talked about the balance of flavors found in Thai cuisine—salty, sour, bitter, sweet and spicy. Each of the dishes she cooked displayed this satisfying balance.

The evening flew by in a pleasant routine of watch, taste, sip, sigh, repeat. Throughout, Becky shared anecdotes from her travels in Thailand that brought the cuisine to life complete with sights and smells, placing it in a vibrant context, including Bangkok street life, food vendors walking up the aisles of run-down trains, or families sharing their picnic meals with a young American backpacker.

This connection between the recipes and the sensory impressions that Becky retained from her experiences in Thailand, and her ability to include us in those memories of a time and place, which can be so elusive, made the evening remarkable.

Night Markets of Bangkok

Thai Fried Chicken

(used with permission from Becky Selengut)

Serves 4

Prep time: 1 hour minimum to 1 day for marinating chicken

cook time: 10-15 minutes

Marinade:

4 cloves garlic (or substitute 1-inch piece of ginger, chopped)
2 tsp coriander seeds, ground
1 tbsp black peppercorns, ground
¼ cup cilantro stems
1 tbsp fish sauce
3 tbsp oyster sauce
½ tsp cayenne
2 lbs chicken drumettes

Combine the garlic, coriander seeds, pepper, cilantro stems, fish sauce, oyster sauce and cayenne in a food processor or blender until finely ground. Marinate the chicken with this past for at least 1 hour, preferably overnight.

Batter:

¾ cup rice flour
¾ cup all-purpose flour
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1 ½ cups water

High-heat vegetable oil, as needed for frying

Heat the oil in a large pan or deep fryer to 360 F. *Mix the batter ingredients-it will still be somewhat watery. Dip the chicken in the batter and immediately fry in the hot oil until the inside is thoroughly cooked and the outside is golden brown. Depending on the size of the chicken pieces, from 10-25 minutes.

It’s fabulous served with Thai sticky rice and sweet chile sauce.

*Note: This recipe is also delicious roasted instead of deep fried. Skip the step of making the batter and just preheat the oven to 400 F and roast the marinated wings until cooked through and caramelized, about 30 minutes, flipping over halfway through the cooking.

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March 12, 2012

Sourdough Pizza Crust

Having a jar of sourdough starter in the refrigerator has expanded my baking repertoire already. After my recent success with sourdough bread, I started thinking pizza crust. I’ve written about various homemade pizzas before, including Cindy’s Pizza Rustica, Victoria’s grilled pizza, and some easy premade crusts that inspired a variety of creative topping combinations. I eat pizza a lot. I like pizza a lot.

And I’ve made pizza dough in my bread machine before, but the results were so-so. Definitely edible, but a bit on the thick, bready side.

Then I saw a post titled The Pizza Project at The Traveler’s Lunchbox. I love a good project, but in this case I was delighted to see that someone else had already done the work for me, and figured out, step by detailed step, how to produce a respectable pizza crust at home–one that approximates the wood-fired pizza crusts to be found in restaurants.

Out came the jar of sourdough starter. The instructions said to combine the ingredients for the crust in a food processor, but I don’t have one. Stirring with a spoon worked fine, fortunately.

With an overnight rest in the refrigerator, then a couple hour rise on the counter, the dough was warm, smooth, and infinitely enjoyable to stretch, pat, and coax into two 12-inch rounds, with a slightly thicker edge and air pockets here and there.

After lightly scattering some toppings across the surface of the crusts, the frantic part of the process began. We had preheated the oven and Michael’s gigantic iron skillet to the maximum temperature, which was 500 F. Transferring the crust, on a piece of parchment paper, into the skillet was a four-handed job, and one that required split second timing to get the pizza into the skillet, the skillet back into the oven, and the door closed, with as little heat loss as possible.

About 5 minutes later, we pulled the skillet out, whipped the parchment paper from beneath the crust, and rushed the skillet back into the oven for another 3-4 minutes. When the crust was golden brown, and the toppings were bubbling madly, the first pizza was ready, and it was time for the second one to go in.

Even on our first try, this method of making pizza really did produce a crust that was similar to one made in a wood-fired oven. It was thin and chewy in the middle, the edges had delightful air pockets interspersed with bits of char, and the crust was flavorful and satisfying, with nary a hint of that bland breadiness that had marked my previous attempts at homemade pizza crust.

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March 8, 2012

Blood Orange Infused Vodka

It’s nearly the end of the work week. I think you deserve a drink. Something icy and bracing, and a little fruity and a touch bitter would go down nicely, don’t you think?

This is blood orange-infused vodka. Infusing vodka isn’t exactly rocket science. You cut up some fruit, and you submerge it in vodka. Then you wait. That may be the hardest part. For this infusion, I sliced the blood oranges thinly, and cut the peels off of about half of them, to modulate the bitterness. Mind you, I wanted a bit of that bitter marmalade flavor that comes from orange peels, but not too much.

After a few weeks, the vodka will be strongly infused with the orange flavor, and it becomes a beautiful color, as well. My unscientific method of determining when to drink it is, well–to drink some. A little sip ever week or so until it seems strong enough. And there is no need to worry about going overboard. If the fruit flavor is stronger than you’d hoped, thin it out with a little more plain vodka.

An infused vodka doesn’t need a lot of additions, but certainly won’t be ruined by some cranberry juice and triple sec if a cosmo is your drink of choice. But I’d recommend trying this vodka in simpler combinations so that the orange flavor can really be appreciated–maybe mixed with champagne, or stirred with a spash of Lillet and shaken until very, very icy.

Here’s to a great weekend!

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March 4, 2012

Sourdough Bread

I take my jar of sourdough starter out of the refrigerator and feed it. The soupy paste is viscous at first, resisting my spoon, curling around it in wet, balky strands. At last it relaxes, and I stir together equal parts starter, flour, and water. It is smooth and thick and quiescent. I leave the jar on the counter overnight.

I don’t have time to make bread. I’m still ignoring my half-finished kitchen floor. I need to buy groceries, clean the bathroom, and finish my taxes.

Bread flour, whole wheat flour, barley flour, spelt flour and salt sprinkle the counter around the scale as I measure each into the bowl, the layers barely striated shades of white. The faintest fairy dust storm rises and I suppress a sneeze, holding up floury hands in a warding gesture, as if it might help.

Maybe I still have time to return my overdue books before the library closes tonight. Is it more important to exercise or sleep?

The sourdough starter is rich and foamy like Ovaltine now. It smells like a yeasty tide pool, teeming with life—or is that just my imagination? I pour some on top of the flour, then add honey and water. Back to stirring recalcitrant paste again. I put my arm into it, and within a few turns it becomes a ragged dough. I cover the bowl, then I wipe the counter down. Sprinkles of flour and drops of honey attenuate into streaks, then succumb to the sponge. I feed my jar of starter again, and return it to the refrigerator.

We go out to dinner and eat and drink and talk and I laugh until I nearly snort red wine out my nose, but only cough a little, then laugh some more, no harm done.

The next morning the rough dough is completely transformed, as if an arcanist called its name while I slept. It has risen to the top of the bowl.

I flour my hands and the bread board, and scrape the light, bubbly dough from the bowl. I stretch the dough out, and fold it over a few times. Maybe I’m kneading the bread, but it’s more like folding a pillow case warm from the dryer. I cradle it in my hands for a moment and it shapes itself to them–pliant, as smooth as skin on skin. Gently, I tuck it in under a kitchen towel, and cover it with an upturned bowl.

I think I’ll lie on the couch and read all afternoon. Oh, this feels so good…why do people ever get dressed, when pajamas are so comfortable? My eyes are getting heavy. Am I napping? Or reading? Who cares?

I put the cast iron dutch oven in the oven, and preheat it to the temperature of hell. When I smell a whiff of brimstone, the ball of dough goes into the dutch oven. I slash the top twice with a ruthless hand. When the bread is done baking, it falls onto a rack to cool for as long as I can bear it. The golden crust is beautiful and the smell of fresh bread is irresistible.

I slice. And butter. And eat.

The complete recipe and instructions for this No-knead Pain au Levain can be found here, at Chez Pim. The bread has a chewy crust, a light, flavorful interior, and rivals any artisan sourdough loaf from the store.

While some advance planning is necessary in order to give the dough adequate rising time, the active time spent making this bread was certainly no more than fifteen minutes.

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February 27, 2012

Sourdough Starter

The inspiration for making sourdough starter came from Tara at Tea & Cookies. I’m always fascinated by kitchen science, so I read her recent posts on the subject with interest. And I’ll ferment anything that will hold still long enough. But honestly, I’m more of a throw-it-in-the-bread-machine kind of baker, so I didn’t really have a compelling urge to try making my own starter.

That is, until the perfect reason presented itself. That reason was my friend Rob’s birthday, which was then only a few weeks away. Rob regularly turns out stunning loaves of artisan bread, and therefore it was obvious that he could put a sourdough starter to excellent use. And I wanted to give him a really great gift. What could be better than a present I had spent a couple of weeks creating myself? Let the kitchen science commence!

I followed Tara’s instructions, which originally came from The Fresh Loaf. Sourdough starter is simply flour, water, and time, each in their proper proportion. I made two batches, just to be sure that I’d have one to fall back on, should the other one come to a bad end. I found that making sourdough starter is part science, part art, and also a bit like raising Sea Monkeys—a lot of peeking at the jars, checking to make sure they were warm and cosy, and nurturing them along. The starter smelled different each day–first like flour, then like garbage, then warm and yeasty and rich and alive. The texture also changed daily. It started out like paste, then grew stretchy and bubbly.

Some days my starter grew splendidly, other days it seemed to take a break and slumber in the warm cupboard next to the water heater where I had stashed it. On those days I let it be, and it mostly came around in time. One jar mysteriously and completely gave up the ghost around day five, but that was okay–I just tossed the contents, split up the starter from the more cooperative batch into two jars, and carried on.

After about a week, I put my two jars of vigorous sourdough starter in the refrigerator. Then a week later I pulled them out, gave them another feed (equal parts starter, water, and flour) and left them out overnight to double again before putting them back in the fridge.

The hardest part of the whole process? Keeping it a secret! I was so proud of my starter that I longed to blog, tweet, and generally blab about my progress to anyone who would listen. But I maintained the silence of the grave until it was time to deliver the birthday gift. And finally, I can tell everyone all about it! Phew!

A funny thing happens when you care for a living thing and watch it thrive. I got fond of those jars of starter that I had coaxed along. I wanted to continue to nurture my remaining jar, and see it continue to develop. And there was so much potential in that jar that I wasn’t satisfied until it fulfilled its destiny and was turned into nourishing, delicious bread.

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February 21, 2012

The Sauerkraut Project: Phase Two

It has been a month since I filled my giant stoneware sauerkraut crock with shredded cabbage and salt, weighted it down and filled it with water. The instructions said to wait a few days until I heard bubbling before moving the crock to a cooler place. They also said not to lift the lid for at least two weeks.

I waited for several days, and never heard any bubbling. I came and went, made coffee or toast or did the dishes or fed the cat. Silence. When I pressed my ear to the side of the crock, I imagined I could hear the ocean in there, but no bubbles. The process inside of the crock was utterly mysterious. For all I knew, Schrödinger’s cat could be in there.

You can’t hurry these things. Fermentation follows its own idiosyncratic timeline. So I left the crock in the kitchen and did not lift the lid.

Finally, just a few days ago, I decided enough was enough. It had been nearly a month, after all. So I lifted the lid to peek inside.

The water had turned a light, briny green. A distinct odor of sauerkraut emerged, but with a raw edge to it. Just from that single whiff, I could tell that the cabbage was fermenting, but was nowhere near done yet.

I gave the stone weights a good solid push, and bubbles floated up. Bubbles! Very quiet bubbles. I replaced the lid, and refilled the water reservoir that forms an airlock around the top.

The very next day I walked in to the kitchen just in time to hear a very deep bloooop sound, like a submarine breaching, followed by the tiniest pop!

The lesson I take from all this: there is a time to be zen about things and a time to give matters a push in the right direction.

The sauerkraut is now bubbling. Time to move it to a cooler location.

Stay tuned for Phase Three.

The Rowdy Chowgirl

Tahitian Smoothie

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Cooking Class: Night Markets of Bangkok

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Sourdough Pizza Crust

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Blood Orange Infused Vodka

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Sourdough Bread

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Sourdough Starter

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The Sauerkraut Project: Phase Two

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