Tag: vegan

  • Skordalia


    I have a fascination with recipes that utilize ingredients that seem to have lost their value: vegetable tops and bottoms, stalks and skins, bones and bits, crusts and scraps. I don’t like wasting food, so when I discover something that allows me to use these delicious rejects in a creative way, I get a little thrill out of it. And do you wanna know what’s laying around our home that’s sometimes challenging to use before it becomes hard as a rock and “useless?”

    Bread. Lots and lots of effing bread.

    My partner bakes some of the best damn bread around and posts saliva inducing photographs of it on our Instagram, but alas, we can only eat so much of it at once, and sometimes we don’t consume all of it before it goes stale. Toward the beginning of his bread kick, we actually started to give the bread away to our friends, but even that didn’t keep us out of the clear, and I was starting to hear creaky protests coming from our food processor that seemed to say, “Please, God, not one more batch of breadcrumbs. PLEASE, NO MORE.” Luckily for our food processor, and for us, I discovered a type of recipe that changed the way I cooked with bread.

    Bread sauces.

    There are several, actually. The Brits have one (it’s just called “bread sauce,” because of course it is). Romesco sauce is also technically a bread sauce, utilizing stale bread to bind all its parts together. There’s even a Peruvian stale bread and cheese sauce that’s intended to be served with potatoes. I cycled through a few of different variations of this style of disposing of Nate’s hearty loaves, but it didn’t take long for me to stumble upon what became far and away my favorite one of the bunch: skordalia. Skordalia is easy to make, versatile in its use, keeps for a long time, and it focuses on two of my all time favorite flavors: garlic and lemon.

    Side note: using a good stale French loaf would be great for this, but in our house, we like sourdough. It really latches onto the lemon flavor, which is the backbone of the sauce. Also, you don’t even need to use stale bread for this recipe, just know that you can. I mean, you’re dousing it in oil and lemon juice and water then blending it into oblivion, so don’t get too hung up on that.

    Skordalia:

    • One 1” slice of stale bread from a large, hearty loaf of bread (we like sourdough)

    • 6–8 cloves of garlic (or, like, more if you’re into that)

    • A heaping ½ cup of slivered almonds

    • ½ cup olive oil, divided

    • Juice of one whole juicy lemon

    • ¾ cup of water

    • Salt to taste

    In a skillet on medium heat, warm ¼ cup of the olive oil until it begins to shimmer. While the pan is coming up to heat, cut your stale bread into 1-inch cubes. Think of it like you’re making some big-ass croutons, because, well, you kind of are. When the oil is ready, add the bread to the pan. It should begin to fry immediately, making a satisfying “deep frying” noise (you know what I’m talking about). If it doesn’t, remove the bread and wait until it gets hotter and try again.

    Fry the bread cubes on all sides, moving them around the pan from time to time. You have a couple options here: fry the bread until it’s golden brown OR until it’s just a little more than that. This will determine the flavor character of your skordalia. Golden brown bread will be a nuttier, milder, and buttery skordalia whereas slightly charred bread will be a more sour, punchy, and smoky skordalia; they both have their place. If you’re using your skordalia as a dip, meant to be eaten more on its own, I’d opt for golden bread since it’ll be milder. If you’re using your skordalia to accompany a meal as a hearty bread sauce component, then I’d do charred bread since it’ll stick out a little bit more. The sourness of the charred flavor bonds with the lemon really nicely, and the smokiness responds really well to meat or roasted vegetables.


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    Once your bread is fried to your desired shade of sexiness, remove it from the pan and add it to a food processor or blender along with all the remaining oil in the pan, the garlic, and slivered almonds. Pulse the ingredients to break them down, scraping the sides of the bowl frequently, then give it a good long blend to get them as fine as you can. While the ingredients are whirring away, consolidate the remaining ¼ cup of olive oil, water, and lemon juice into a vessel with a lip so you can slowly pour it out in a steady stream without making a mess. Through the opening at the top of the food processor or blender, slowly add all of the liquid, allowing your skordalia to loosen up and emulsify. You’ll probably need to let it blend on its own for a minute or two afterwards to break down the last few chunks. When finished, your skordalia should be smooth and resemble hummus. Salt your skordalia to taste and pulse to incorporate. Serve immediately or store in your fridge for up to two weeks.

    Side note: if you’re taking your skordalia out of the fridge to use for later, we’d recommend having it come up to room temperature on its own as opposed to microwaving it, since the application of heat really alters the fresh lemon juice flavor. That being said, don’t let that stop you from adding a dollop of this goodness to a lunch on-the-go that you’ll heat up at work or wherever you go later. It’ll still be delicious, just know that it’ll be a little different. The garlic flavor will come out more and the lemon will play less of a role.


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    Yield: about 2 cups

  • Smoky Baba Ghanouj


    The baba ghanouj recipe is a little nod to the only Middle Eastern restaurant from my Oregonian hometown of Coos Bay/North Bend, simply named Cafe Mediterranean. My family is reasonably certain that when they first opened that we generated a venerable chunk of their revenue. Back in the early 2000’s, living in such a small town, we hadn’t really ever been exposed to food like that before, and it was such a welcome influence that it sent us on a mezze kick in our own kitchen that lasted for years. They had a strong menu, but for us, the star of the show was their baba ghanouj. One day, we asked for the recipe, and they graciously revealed the secret ingredient that made it so addictive: a little kiss of liquid smoke. It ties everything together so nicely, opening up a larger dialogue between the eggplant and the garlic.

    Since then, we’ve tweaked it to make it our own, for instance, roasting the eggplant longer for a deeper flavor and adding a lot more garlic. We also boost the smoky flavor by garnishing the dish with a little dusting of smoked paprika.


    Smoky Baba Ghanouj:

    • 1 large eggplant, halved
    • ¼ cup tahini
    • 4–5 cloves garlic, crushed
    • 1 teaspoon ground cumin
    • Juice of 1 lemon
    • A drop of liquid smoke
    • Salt to taste
    • Olive oil for garnish
    • Smoked paprika for garnish


    Preheat oven to 350°F. Cover a baking sheet in aluminum foil then lightly oil the surface. Roast the eggplant on the baking sheet skin side up for about 2 hours or until the flesh of the eggplant is very tender.

    When the eggplant is cool enough to handle with your hands, scoop the flesh out of the skins and place into a food processor with the tahini, garlic, cumin, lemon juice, and liquid smoke. Pulse at first, breaking everything up into more manageable sizes for the blades, then blend steadily until completely smooth. Taste test and add salt to your liking. When finished, place the baba ghanouj into a serving dish and drizzle with a little bit of olive oil and a light dusting of smoked paprika.


  • Strawbanero Sorbet


    Sorbet gets a bad rap.

    “Why would you want to eat that when you could have ice cream?”

    “That‘s gross, no thanks. I’ll take the good stuff.”

    “Aww, I’m sorry that’s all they have for you…”

    Rude.

    I’m going to make something clear here. If you think that sorbet is gross, it’s because all the sorbet you’ve had is garbage. It’s simple as that.

    I can understand the aversion; lots of commercial sorbet can be incredibly icy, resembling more of of a sad popscicle that got crammed into a pint container, but know this: it doesn’t need to be this way. Real sorbet is light and bright, harnessing the pure and unadulterated essence of the fruit it was made with. In a way, it’s like a little time capsule, keeping the fruit at the peak of its ripeness so you can revisit it every time you open your freezer. Good sorbet outshines any alternative no-fat, low-carb, low-sugar, high-protein, “guilt-free” bullshit on the market today. We tried some just to see for ourselves what the fuss was all about (for science!) and let’s say that we won’t be returning to that arena any time soon. Or ever.

    While Nate and I love almost everything about ice cream (eating it, making it, designing it) we understand that it’s a sometimes food. So, in an effort to find a dessert lower in fat that would be a little easier on our bodies and also rid ourselves of the ungodly amount of strawberries we purchased at the farmer’s market this week (they were just so pretty) we came up with this little recipe. Using amazing strawberries make it bright and floral while the habanero lends its own sweetness to the mix along with something a little extra.

    Strawbanero Sorbet:

    • 2 pounds ripe strawberries, tops removed

    • 1 small(!) habanero

    • ¾ cup sugar

    • ¾ cup water

    • ¼ cup light corn syrup or tapioca syrup

    • 2–3 tablespoons lemon juice (to taste)

    Put the sugar and water in a sauce pan over high heat and allow the mixture to boil, dissolving all the sugar in the solution. Once it resembles a syrup, remove from the heat and let it cool to room temperature.


    Spear the habanero on a fork and flame the skin over a gas burner (or with a blow torch) until the entire body of the chile is black. Remove the habanero from the fork and place in a plastic bag for 10 minutes or so, allowing the chile to sweat and its outer skin be very tender. Rub the char off the habanero, then remove the stem and the seeds, discarding them.

    Put all of the strawberries and the processed habanero into a food processor and blend until completely smooth. Strain it, if you like. Transfer the very fine strawberry habanero pulp to a large bowl and whisk in all the simple syrup and corn syrup. Chill in an airtight container until cold, at least an hour (we recommend overnight as it will allow the subtle flavor of the habanero to develop further).

    Prepare your ice cream/sorbet churner (if you using a freezer bowl make sure that it is completely frozen—this typically takes up to 24 hours). Remove the sorbet mix from the fridge and add the lemon juice, then pour into the churning machine. Churn for 15–20 minutes, or until it becomes thick and almost smoothie-like. Transfer into an airtight container like a large tupperware; cover in plastic wrap, allowing it to stick to the entire surface of the sorbet, lid it, then chill in the freezer for at least 4 hours.

    Serve in cups, cones, or maybe even in a spritzer for a zippy float.


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  • Leek Powder


    Leek-Powder-Pierogi-1.jpg

    As odd as this may seem, this recipe is actually quite personal for me. My mother taught me how to make this. My mother was a very strange woman. She would pick wild mushrooms and bring them into the house to examine what colors they might make if you turned them into dyes, sometimes leaving them on paper to create intricate designs with their spores. She was a master preserver, confident in her ability to can or process anything. Her library of mason jars would line the walls of my childhood home, holding the little secrets of her fearless flavor experiments and prized recipes. She could eliminate the daunting space between a stranger and a friend in a matter of seconds. I learned the majority of what I know about food from her. She taught me how to see that everything is connected, no matter how obscure the link may be at first. If you can maintain your sense of wonder in this world, you can always find a way to make something into something else; something you need, something you want. She taught me that humble things are beautiful, and if treated correctly, they can be turned into something even more beautiful; something you love.

    I miss her so much.

    Leek Powder:

    • 2 whole leeks, roots removed, cleaned

    Preheat oven to 170.

    Cut the leeks into smaller segments (including the greens) then place them in the food processor. Blend until they resemble finely minced onions. If you don’t have a food processor, just do this by hand with a sharp knife. Be careful since the greens are fibrous and might be hard to cut.

    On a baking sheet with parchment paper, spread the minced leeks as thinly and evenly as you can. Place them in the oven and allow them to “bake” for about 6 hours, or until all the moisture in them is gone. They should be light and crispy, like dead autumn leaves.

    Place the dehydrated leeks in a coffee grinder and grind until it becomes a fine powder. Store in an airtight container. Keeps for months.

    Yields about ½ cup of leek powder.

  • Nate’s Pinot Noir Marinara


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    Marinara is a mother sauce that you can use in all sorts of Italian dishes, from spaghetti to pizza to lasagna to meatball subs, even just for dipping breadsticks.
    Jon and I make marinara differently. His turns out smoky and rich. Mine is more bright and floral with a slight acidic edge. (I think it’s because of the bay leaf and I put waaay less wine in the sauce.) You can’t make marinara wrong, but sometimes the freshness is nice. You can customize the sauce for the dish as you see fit.

    Nate’s Pinot Noir Marinara

    • 2 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes
    • 1 medium sweet onion, diced
    • 6 cloves garlic, minced
    • 2 tbs. dried Mediterranean oregano
    • 1 tbs. fennel seed
    • 1 10-inch sprig rosemary, leaves removed, minced (reserve the stick)
    • ¼ tsp. red pepper flakes
    • 1 bay leaf
    • 2 cup pinot noir red wine
    • 2 tbs. olive oil
    • salt & pepper to taste


    Marinara_02

    Marinara_02

    In a large heavy-bottomed stock pot, heat oil over medium heat. Sweat the onions (cook them until translucent), stirring constantly. Add tomatoes and stir. Add everything else, and bring to a simmer. Reduce to low heat and cook uncovered for 1 hour, stirring frequently. The sauce will reduce about halfway.

    You can refrigerate the sauce for up to 3 days or freeze for up to 3 months.

    Yields scant 3 pints.