vegan ascent

Of Food and Medicine

2012-02-07T12:54:00.000-08:00

My sharp-eyed readers will have noticed that I haven't posted in a good while. Thanks for coming back to check on me!

I've been working on several demanding projects, including a webinar production called "The Occasional Vegan" (I'll put up the link as soon as it's ready to launch).

I did manage to squeeze in my monthly column for One Green Planet, which just went up today.

I took my inspiration for the piece from Paula Deen's recent scrape with reality.

Ever since the cause-and-effect relationship between what I eat and how I feel became clear to me (I know--DUH, right?), I've been on an upward trend that has me not only eating plant-based food exclusively, but making better-informed choices within that realm.

So it's a little jarring when I see someone who has suffered both weight gain and diet-related disease go on national television and act like there is no connection. Not backing away one bit from the excessively unhealthy fare she dishes up, Ms. Deen now recommends "moderation," a term as meaningless and easy to fudge as "a balanced diet." Like so many Americans, her solution to the problem is to take a drug and just keep on going. I much prefer the "Forks Over Knives" approach, but that's just me. Food is so much more fun than medical intervention, let's face it.

You can read my take on all this here: http://www.onegreenplanet.org/vegan-health/of-cooks-and-doctors-the-food-and-medicine-connection/ and let me know what you think.

I've also been creating more new dishes lately, and I'll be posting about them in the days ahead. Thanks for following!

My First Time Sprouting Lentils

2012-01-17T20:07:00.000-08:00

Back in the days of hippiedom and the unusually earthy cuisine that grew up around it, sprouting was all the rage. And say what you may about most of said cuisine, a few things not only stuck, but joined the mainstream. Sprouting seeds for food is such an easy process, and if you're paying attention even just a little bit, quite miraculous. All you really do is soak them, drain them, and rinse and drain twice a day, and in a few short days you have a tangle of superfood tendrils. Brilliant, life is.

I had sprouted several seed varieties in my time, but for some reason I never tried lentils until recently. Then I came upon a nearly empty bag of very small tan colored lentils (an heirloom variety whose name unfortunately eludes me now), too few to bother cooking. So I decided to sprout them. They took a total of three days to reach their peak, and I seized the occasion to make a quick salad.

I wanted something that would showcase the lentil sprouts without distracting from them too much, so I picked only two vegetables to pair them with, red onion and beet. I sliced the onion thinly, grated the beet, and combined them with the sprouted lentils. I happened to have a fair amount of leftover balsamic vinaigrette in the refrigerator, so rather than start over and make a new dressing, I went ahead and tossed it into the salad. I had actually had in mind a sort of mustardy vinaigrette, but the beets played quite well with the rich 18-year old balsamic, and the resulting sweetness of the salad made a pleasant foil for the starchy-raw mouthfeel of those young lentil-lifeforms. My only possible complaint would be that I didn't have more of it.

If I manage to recall the name of those lentils, I'll definitely order them again and try a few other applications. Sprouting is fun. It's like gardening for the ADD-afflicted.

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Brown Rice Pasta

2012-01-16T20:34:00.000-08:00

Brown Rice Ziti with Spicy Tomatoes and Basil

The recipes in the cookbook I'm working on now will not only be vegan, but gluten-free as well. Actually, come to think of it, nearly all of the recipes in Speed Vegan are gluten-free. I didn't set out to do this; it just turned out that way because I was steering clear of refined carbs.

In the process of trying new foods to use in the book, I discovered brown rice pasta, and in spite of a longstanding dislike of whole grain pastas, I decided to give it a shot. Good call. Brown rice pasta is the only kind I've ever tried that comes even vaguely close to the durum wheat pasta everyone loves. It cooks up al dente, it doesn't fall apart, it's not grainy, and it tastes an awful lot like "the real thing." It's absolutely the only one I'll willingly eat.

Last night, I had a hankering for comfort food--the kind that normally brings with it some health compromise, like mashed potatoes with butter and heavy cream. I've taken this sort of thing up as a challenge; I shoot for maximum pleasure with virtually no downside. For me, pasta is (or at least can be) a tremendously comforting thing to eat, evoking moments of sublime enjoyment from my past.

Among the top ten iconic pasta sauces is tomato and basil. Spaghetti is the classic shape for this, but I chose ziti, which the manufacturers of brown rice pasta for some reason call penne (a glaring misnomer, since "penne" means "pens," owing to the quill-shaped tips). Americans.

The sauce is ridiculously easy to make, but it does have one or two potential pitfalls--not the least of which is burning the garlic. The safest way to do it is to put some olive oil in a cold pan and add several cloves of garlic, thinly sliced, and a few dried red chiles. Turn on the heat and swirl the pan until the garlic is just beginning to turn a tan color. Immediately add chopped Italian tomatoes, salt and pepper, and cook just about four minutes; the tomatoes should retain a little fresh taste, and the sauce should not be too thick. Remove from the heat and stir in a hefty handful of coarsely chopped basil. This whole process can be executed while the pasta cooks.

When the pasta is done, drain, but keep a little of the cooking liquid in the pot. Return the pasta to the pot and add the sauce. Swirl and toss to coat the pasta thoroughly. Eat. At this point you'll be in a position to understand why I like tube shapes with tomato sauce. Don't get me wrong, I do like spaghetti, but there is something about air passing through the juicy tubes, lifting and transporting microscopic bits of aromatic flavor across your palate as you slurp and chew that really awakens the Italian in me.

One note about the water pasta is boiled in: according to Frank Sinatra (rest in peace), it should have enough salt to make it taste like sea water. He was right. I know that sounds like an awful lot of salt, but most of it goes down the drain anyway, and it gives the pasta a delicious flavor in its own right, even without a sauce. You never know what you'll learn from people.

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Carrot-Cardamom Rice with Saffron

2012-01-14T14:52:00.000-08:00

I know, I know--white rice isn't that great for you. And I know this is going to sound like a rationalization (partly because it pretty much is), but I make a fairly rare exception for basmati rice. First, true basmati rice is processed by hand, and unlike polished rice, retains a glimmer of its erstwhile brownness. Second, for some dishes, there truly is no substitute. Third, just the smell of basmati cooking that wafts through the house is freaking heavenly. Fourth, because I eat it about once a month on average, I make it count. So there. Rationalization complete.

As an example of a rice dish for which I contend that there is no comparable grain--at least no whole-grain, "healthy" one--let me explain this simple little dish I came up with the other day:

First, as always, the rice needs to be rinsed several times, until the rinsing water runs clear. This must be done very gently, to avoid breaking the fragile grains. Basmati swells lengthwise as it cooks, into elegant fluffy white fingers, so it's important not to damage them. That's the most laborious task in making this full-flavored rice.

Once the rice was washed, all I did was put it in a small pot and add the remaining ingredients: water, carrot juice, a few lightly crushed cardamom pods, a pinch of saffron, a little salt, and a small gob of coconut oil. Then I brought it to a boil as usual, turned the heat down to the lowest setting, covered the pot, and cooked the rice for 15 minutes. At a lower elevation--like sea level--I would use a quarter less liquid and cook it for 12 minutes. Once done, I slid a silicone spatula under the rice and fluffed it very lightly. That's it!

The coconut oil helps keep the grains from clinging to one another, producing a lighter, much more appealing result than the same effort would without it. Brown basmati is a wonderful whole grain, and I do use it far more often than white basmati, but it would never absorb the flavors in this dish the same way, nor even close to the same extent. Think of painting with watercolors on a white canvas versus a grey or brown one--and then add the dimensions of texture, flavor and aroma!

I served this alongside a spicy dish of lentils and curried cauliflower and peas. And yes, I know I could have enjoyed the latter two with brown rice, but come on--nowhere near as much! The way I see it, if you eat something that's less than ideal health-wise but way up the charts enjoyment-wise, and you eat it very rarely, it does you much more good than harm. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it. No one has ever proven it wrong yet.

What do you think?

Oven-dried Tomatoes

2012-01-10T14:57:00.000-08:00

It's only logical that drying food would concentrate the flavors--as the water evaporates, they become "un-watered down." Wild mushrooms are downright fragrant when dried, and even after being reconstituted, they're still more flavorful than fresh ones. The flavor of sundried tomatoes is not only more potent, but radically altered. There are two minor issues with dried food, however. One is the loss of fresh flavors--citrus in particular undergoes a profound change--and the other is that leathery texture food takes on when it has dried a little too much.

Oven-drying tomatoes offers a happy medium, where a lot of the original flavors of a fresh tomato are still palpable, but enhanced, and their juiciness is not entirely expunged. I first encountered this phenomenon in Australia, where they're called "semi-dried tomatoes" (that's tuh-mah-toes) and sold in the deli department at grocery stores. Spectacular.

Making your own version of these beauties is not hard at all. Here's what you do:

Preheat your oven to the lowest possible setting.

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper (this prevents the acids in the tomatoes from reacting with the aluminum or iron in the pan, and contaminating the product.).

Cut the tomatoes in half and lay them out on the parchment, cut side up.

Stir pressed garlic and chopped parsley into some EVOO and brush a generous amount onto the cut surface of each tomato (don't worry if it spills onto the paper a little).

Season them with salt and pepper and slide the pan into the oven. Leave them several hours, checking on them from time to time, until they reach a "semi-dried" state. Depending on your oven, elevation, and relative humidity in the air, this could take up to 8 or even 10 hours.

First time out, I recommend doing this in the morning, and plan on being around to monitor them. If you have an oven with a very low setting, like 120F/50C, you can put them in at night and they should be perfect early the next morning. However, I tried this when I moved to Colorado and bought a house with an oven that would only light at 185F/85C, and they got too dark (as in burned). My advice: try it in the daytime once, and see how much time they need. You can take them as far as you like in the drying process, but I recommend pulling them out when they still have a little juice left. They'll continue to lose moisture as they cool, and I think you'll find that a tender, luscious mouthfeel is far superior to a chewy, dry one. Your call.

I'm always on the lookout for "baby roma" tomatoes, which are fabulous oven-dried--they shrink down to a perfect bite-size. You can pop them in your mouth all at once, unlike the larger ones (pictured) that require two somewhat messy bites. You can use any kind of tomato, but the thick, succulent flesh of roma tomatoes is ideal for drying.

Once the tomatoes are sufficiently dried, you can use them to make interesting hos d'ouevres, top salads with them, add a delicious dimension to ordinary sandwiches, or just throw them directly into your mouth. Then I'm sure other uses will come to you, like chopping them and stirring them into salad dressings, sauces and soups. I used to make a sandwich with pesto, oven-dried tomatoes and brie; now, having dropped the dairy products, I'm still looking to match the unctuous sensuality of that one!

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Eggplant and Buckwheat Sandwich

2012-01-09T17:09:00.000-08:00

I was reworking a recipe for Delicious Living Magazine last month, when an interesting thing happened--one of my favorite things, in fact.

My wife had not really liked the original dish I came up with, primarily because she's not a buckwheat fan.
My editor and her testing/tasting team pretty much agreed with my wife's assessment, which is why I was back at the drawing board with it.

I knew I would need to begin the creative process all over again, so I threw out the entire first recipe and took off in a new direction.

I decided to keep tomato in the picture, to challenge the buckwheat's firm footing--in effect, to upstage it and let it take a less prominent role. I made an abbreviated form of ratatouille, with onions, peppers, garlic, eggplant, and tomato--not the traditional way, sauteing each vegetable separately, but a much quicker way, sauteing them together, and then adding the tomato at the end. Once the vegetables were tender and the flavors had melded and concentrated, I added the cooked buckwheat and adjusted the seasoning. Then I roasted thin slices of eggplant, cut lengthwise, and used them as "bread" to make "sandwiches." To serve, I placed the hot sandwiches on plates, drizzled some oregano oil on either side, and sprinkled chopped parsley generously about.

This time I didn't even tell my wife what it was, but simply presented her with the finished dish, calling it an "eggplant sandwich." This time she gave my invention high marks, and asked what the filling was. That's the interesting thing I mentioned above, indeed something I've built a career on: a complete reversal of food aversion, by virtue of an unusual context. This is a fun thing, but it also provides tremendous benefit, enabling people to redefine their likes and dislikes--essentially retraining their desires--in order to enjoy eating a wider range of foods. In the case of buckwheat, I found at least one way for my wife--and, I hope, a lot of other people--to appreciate a highly nutritious whole grain.

I consider this a very encouraging sign, because it means that if I can just present plant-based foods in just the right way, I can help unlimited numbers of people to eat more of them with pleasure. I'm not out to convert anyone to anything, but if they're open to expanding their horizons, I love to provide them with an enjoyable landing place.

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Hogless Hoppin' John

2012-01-08T15:20:00.000-08:00

Each culture has its own traditional food eaten for luck on New Year's Day. In Germany and Italy, it's lentils; in Spain, they eat grapes; in Cuba, roast suckling pig, and there are all sorts of cakes and pastries consumed to assure good fortune the world over. In the southern United States, one eats blackeyed peas to "start the year off right." I've been inventing dishes featuring blackeyed peas every January for a few years now, but this year I decided to rework an ethnic southern mainstay known as "Hoppin' John."

For the original Hoppin' John, the peas are first boiled with ham hocks. Separately, chopped ham, onions, peppers, celery, carrots, and garlic are fried in oil or lard before adding water or broth and chopped collard greens. Then the cooked peas are added, ham hocks and all, and the mixture is simmered until everything is tender. The soup (or stew) is served with cooked rice and chopped fresh tomatoes and scallions.

For my hog-free version, I used a little smoked paprika and smoked salt to give it that smokehouse flavor. Some people like to use "liquid smoke" for this sort of thing, but I'm leery of artificial flavorings, especially ones that don't list their ingredients.

Unfortunately, collard greens were not available where I live (I searched at five markets without success), which was a shame for a couple of reasons--one, they're delicious and a favorite of mine at any time of year; and two, because the stacked green leaves are thought to represent money, eating them on New Year's is supposed to bring big bucks (which I could really use right about now). I switched out the collards for kale--a limp substitute, I know, but a healthy one nonetheless. I grew up in Mexico, where improvisation is a way of life, so this bothered me not one bit.

To keep things light, I skipped the rice at serving time, but kept the tomatoes and scallions. I had used both serrano and jalapeño chiles, but I'd seeded them first, in deference to any tender-tongued guests who might otherwise have encountered too much heat for comfort. To compensate, I passed the ol' Sriracha around.

Everyone seemed to thoroughly enjoy this classic soul food, and I hope it brings us all good luck. Personally, I don't really believe in luck--at least not the capricious kind that comes in the form of good and bad. I don't believe in bad luck at all, because even the so-called "bad" things that have happened to me have all eventually led to good things, not the least of which is the present moment where I live and breathe. I think bad luck is nothing more than a limited perspective--one that excludes the unfathomable good fortune of being alive in a human body, which, if you have your head screwed on right, is the luckiest possible situation that could ever be. So I guess I do believe in good luck--why? Because I've had it every day of my life.

Happy New Year Everyone!

My Compassionate Christmas Dinner

2012-01-07T16:37:00.000-08:00

It's a good thing, and I'm all for it, but no, I wasn't referring to compassion for animals. I'm working the other side of the street--the human side--where, I believe, compassion needs to begin in order to be ultimately effective. Truly, genuine compassion--like love, forgiveness, kindness, peace, and every other good thing--begins with the self. It's a simple premise: If I can't love myself, I can't love anyone else either.

So, on that premise, I decided to buck the system this year and blow off making a traditional Christmas dinner (along with a salad for myself, as usual). Instead, I went for broke and came up with a four-course all-plant menu that all twelve diners could enjoy, including me. This way, I got to eat the same thing as everyone else, and they got to eat a feast that didn't leave them lying around like beached whales afterwards. Zero cholesterol, healthy fats, and lots of vegetables. Here's how it went:

I began with an "Artichoke Caponata" that included fresh globe artichokes, onion, garlic, capers, preserved lemon, Sicilian olives, parsley, and of course, EVOO, salt and pepper. I served it on individual hors d'oeuvre plates with crostini. Sorry, no photo--I actually shot the plates the next day, using leftovers, and we ate all of the caponata. Moving along...

Following the appetizer, I served a brand new soup I developed recently when I was trying to make a butternut squash soup that doesn't taste like every other butternut squash soup.

I diced a giant yellow onion and sauteed it in coconut oil until soft and just beginning to color. I stirred in a ridiculous amount of minced garlic and four roasted, peeled, and diced red peppers, and continued cooking for several minutes. Then I added a small butternut squash and a couple of garnet yams, diced, along with Celtic salt and a little smoked paprika. Once the vegetables were nicely coated with oil and spices, I added a couple liters of water, a few bay leaves, and vegetable bouillon cubes. I got it boiling, lowered the heat to very low, covered the pot, and let it cook for about an hour. At this point everything was supersoft. I blasted the contents of the pot (minus the bay leaves) in a blender until very smooth and returned it to the pot. Then I added a pinch of saffron threads, a little ground hot red chile, freshly ground black pepper, and a bit more salt.

I reheated the soup on medium-low and stirred until the saffron's aroma began to penetrate. I served the soup in small bowls, garnished with snipped chives. No one knew what kind of soup it was until I told them--at which point there were epiphanous utterances of "oh...yeah...mmm!"

The main course was more complicated. I had decided on using beluga lentils, for two reasons: one. I love their color, taste and texture; and two, because these tiny black lentils are originally from Syria, and I thought a little solidarity with our oppressed Syrian brethren would be a good thing. I sauteed a large amount of diced fennel in EVOO until lightly browned on the edges and then stirred in the lentils, until coated with the oil. Then I added water and vegetable bouillon cubes and simmered until the lentils were tender (at my elevation, this took about an hour). Just before serving, I stirred in an ounce of absinthe, for good measure.

To serve, I browned large Portobello mushroom caps, seasoned with salt and pepper, and then finished them in the oven. I placed a cap in the center of each plate, concave side up, and filled it with the lentils.I surrounded them with four vegetable dishes:

Rapini, coarsely chopped, blanched, and sauteed in EVOO with garlic and Aleppo pepper (spicy and very flavorful, also from Syria).

Carrots and Parsnips, julienned and roasted with coconut oil.

Cauliflower and Beets, roasted with red onion and fresh thyme. I've usually served this as a salad, but of course it worked well served hot.

Sauteed Mushrooms, with a little coconut oil, splashes of aged balsamic and a few chunks of dark chocolate. Most people would never guess there was chocolate in there, but as soon as you tell them, you can see the light bulb coming to life in their heads. I love surprising people's palates that way.

A garnish of fresh thyme sprigs, a drizzle of chive oil, and a sprinkling of snipped chives completed the plate.

For dessert, I warmed pitted bing cherries with a little palm sugar, some crushed cardamom seeds, and a healthy slug of kirsch. I spooned them into bowls and placed a scoop of vanilla "Coconut Bliss" ice cream in the middle. Earlier, I had piped a batch of chocolate peace signs and dusted them with edible gold; I laid one on top of the ice cream for a crowning touch. I served dessert with a homemade spiced-pear brandy liqueur, which one of my nephews described as "like Christmas in your mouth."

When everyone was pleasantly sated--but not overstuffed--I announced that "No animals were harmed in the making of this meal." Compassion, come full-circle.

Has It Really Been A Whole Month?

2012-01-06T10:57:00.000-08:00

Rhetorical question. It's been a tumultuous roller coaster of a month, so I know all too well how long it's been since my last post. Anyway, I'm back and I have a lot of catching up to do! To my regular readers, thanks for coming back! To everyone else, welcome!

For today, I'm inviting you to check out my monthly column on One Green Planet--while people are still wishing one another a "Happy New Year," thinking about how they need to shed bad habits and finally get it right. Click the link:

"Choosing a New Resolution"

Tomorrow, I'll be backtracking a couple of weeks to show the four-course vegan feast for twelve people that I made for Christmas dinner. The day after, I'll put up a dish I made for New Year's Day. Then I'll launch into the present (my favorite time) and try to keep that up.

Something tells me 2012 is going to be a rocking year...

Thanks again to all, for continuing to read my stuff--especially those of you who were visiting in the last month, reading older posts.

My New Monthly Column

2011-12-06T11:45:00.000-08:00

I was recently invited to contribute a monthly column on One Green Planet - an "online destination for the ecologically ethical generation."

I considered this a huge honor; usually one would have to query, pitch and plead to get a foot in the door of such a widely read venue. After a couple of false starts--a "writing thing" that just seems to happen sometimes--I wrote my first submission about a subtle transformation that occurred shortly after I stopped eating animal products, which I called "Saving Gertie."

The editors added "The True Value of One Animal" to the title (don't ask me why), but they seemed to like the original piece just as I wrote it (which I found encouraging).

Please come back and comment here, if you have any remarks--I'd love to hear them!

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Heirloom Tomatoes

2011-11-30T15:09:00.000-08:00

Aren't these things just freaking gorgeous?

As I mentioned in an earlier post, farmers enjoy an elevated hero status in my esteem, especially when they grow organic, heirloom produce.

My reason for including the heirloom component is twofold: one, heirloom plants have unique qualities of appearance, flavor and texture that set them apart from all others of their kind, and these qualities make them especially delightful; two, an heirloom plant represents an original strain that has not been modified by crossbreeding, which protects biodiversity and by extension, the future of food itself. I don't think their importance can possibly be overstated, especially in this age, when monoculture is the norm and variety among edible plants is rapidly narrowing.

One of the most obvious examples of heirloom varieties on the produce shelf are tomatoes, owing mostly to their unusual shapes and colors. For cooks, this is a boon because it enables us to create eye-appealing presentations merely by setting them on the plate, whether whole, in cross-sections, or in pieces. They're so out of the ordinary, they're almost startling, and they've never failed to elicit an impassioned remark whenever I've served them. The flavor is even more impressive, especially to people my age and older, because it takes us back to a time when virtually all tomatoes offered such a full tomato experience. This is the way all tomatoes tasted before Big Ag came in and bred them for uniformity, ease of packaging, and shelf life, at the terrible cost of flavor, texture and variety.

Full disclosure: they are a bit more expensive then their blah assembly-line twisted sisters, since they must be grown by real farmers and transported quickly, to a fairly limited local area. However, buying them is not just good for our palate and our health; it also supports the farmers who are wise and dedicated enough to keep growing these wonderful rarities. By buying heirloom plants, we help assure their survival.

Here's another, pretty impressive plus: my son, who rarely expresses enthusiasm for any vegetable--if indeed he even deigns to eat one--was thoroughly enchanted by a salad I made the other day. I had only made enough for my wife and myself, assuming he wouldn't be interested, but something about the exotic appearance of the tomatoes attracted him. I let him have a taste and his immediate response was unexpectedly animated, so I let him have my plate. How rare it is, after all, that a teenager lets slip any hint of approval, let alone such an unabashed endorsement?

So there you have it, the salad that wowed my highly discriminating, near-exclusively meat-and-bread-eating son: Watercress Salad with Heirloom Tomatoes.

Like most great dishes, it's quite simple, relying on the potency of natural ingredients. The green part is nothing but hydroponic watercress and red onion, tossed with a basil vinaigrette. All I did for the tomatoes was to slice and fan them out on the plate, and then drizzle a generous amount of basil oil over them. As a final touch, I sprinkled some oak-smoked sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.

With its peppery bite and deep green juiciness, watercress makes an ideal counterpoint for any tomato, but especially these luscious full-bodied ripe red heirloom babies. The basil oil was gratuitous, especially next to the basil vinaigrette, but as I'm fond of saying, "nothing exceeds like excess!"

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Squash Trumps Turkey

2011-11-28T14:39:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving presents a challenge for those of us who have a wee problem with everything that leads up to the moment when a roasted turkey is being served. The primary obstacle is clear: tradition. Anyone who even considers opting out of gorging on Big Bird must be prepared to take on a convention entrenched for well over a hundred years--and to be singled out in much the same way as a person who may not be entirely keen on Christmas would. There is some irony in the fact that the holiday has its roots in a deeply religious tradition that would have involved fasting rather than feasting on a day set aside for giving thanks. But it's an irony lost on the majority of celebrants, who look forward to packing away their favorite holiday dishes--especially the turkey. Many people today have even dropped all pretense of thankfulness and gone straight to the point, wishing everyone a happy "turkey day."

Forget that the turkey on offer may have been deformed, fed a staple diet of antibiotics, shot up with hormones, and processed in the most unsavory manner imaginable. If you're read "Eating Animals," or seen any of the real-life horror films exposing the grim realities of life on a turkey farm, then forgetting will not really be a viable option. On this day above all, those who enjoy eating meat will have their ignoring mechanisms up and running to protect their dining pleasure from these realities.

For those of us who have trouble ignoring what we already know, but still want to participate, a little creativity can go a long way in keeping pace--if not peace--with tradition (and I'm not talking Tofurkey).

This year, I had a plan. A friend gave me a most unusual vegetable from her garden, which she called a "Pikes Peak" squash. It's the only squash I've ever seen that appeared to have two stems, a feature which made it look a little bit like a bird with a beak, a tail, and its wings tightly folded. I'd been thinking about how I might use this squash for several weeks, and as Thanksgiving approached, it came to me: use it as a stand-in for the turkey!

The concept and the execution were simple. All I did was carve out an oval section in the "top," using the "Jack-o'-lantern" technique of cutting at a sharp angle so the piece can be replaced to form a lid. I scraped out the seeds, poured in a little vegetable broth, added a sprinkling of salt, and set the "lid" in place. Then I rubbed a light coating of olive oil on the skin and baked the squash in a moderate oven until just barely tender. I fortunately had enough foresight to attach a handle, made out of kitchen twine, to facilitate lifting the lid.

While the squash was baking, I made my "Three Sisters Soup," which is a fairly quintessential harvest-celebratory dish in its own right. I used butternut squash for this, since the one I was baking would later act as a tureen, and needed to be kept in one piece. You can see an earlier version of this soup here, and read a little about the origins of the three sisters here, but basically this is a combination of corn, beans, and squash. I happen to love all three components, and I've been experimenting with various ways they can be presented. Look for them all in my next book (title yet-to-be-determined; stand by).

I had been spared the task of making the Thanksgiving meal, which has been my job for many years, because my sister-in-law asked to have everyone over at her house this time. Fine with me, seriously. So when it came time to go, I took along my bird-squash--fresh out of the oven and wrapped in foil to keep it hot--and the soup. Just before serving, I reheated the soup and poured it into the hollowed-out squash. I served it up with my usual accompaniments of lime wedges, diced avocado and chopped cilantro.

I doubt there was even the smallest bit of envy on anyone's part that I was eating a far healthier dish, with a much smaller carbon footprint--not to mention one that was cruelty-free--since everyone was happily chowing down and having a jolly good time. Nor did anyone appear to notice that when the meal was over, my "bird" looked just as good as had before, whereas the turkey looked, well, butchered.

Me? I was just thankful that I brought my own food, and didn't need to rely on the odd bits on the menu that didn't include any animal products (I'm pretty sure they all did, in one form or another--I've made this much-anticipated traditional feast many times).

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SPECIAL OFFER NOW THROUGH CHRISTMAS!

2011-11-18T16:46:00.000-08:00

In the general spirit of gift giving, eating uproariously, cavorting wildly, and whooping it up on wassail, I thought I might sweeten the pot of holiday excess with this offer:

Now through Christmas (or Hanukah, or Kwanzaa, or whatever your special holiday may be), for anyone who places an order on my website for one of my cookbooks,

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So act now and take advantage of this fabulous two-for-one deal!!!

Hydroponic Watercress

2011-11-17T15:34:00.000-08:00

Watercress is a superfood, in the sense that it provides high doses of important nutrients and disease-fighting compounds, and in the sense that it delivers great pleasure.

When I first began preparing watercress salads, soups and sauces, the only kind available in markets was harvested from streams. It was dark green, with a rich, assertive peppery flavor, which made it a wonderful component in a mixed salad or a sandwich. One downside to this watercress was that, like many fresh herbs and lettuces, it was often bruised from handling, and had to be picked over thoroughly before washing. Well worth the effort, certainly, but a hassle nonetheless.

Because most Americans in those days were unfamiliar with this incredibly healthful lettuce--and probably because it didn't really travel well--watercress was sold only in upscale markets, and even then unreliably. This was nerve-wracking for a private chef, because very often you would have to present a menu first, and then go out and track down your ingredients. If a central item was unavailable or in too poor a condition to be useful, you then had to fudge the menu a bit, eliciting whiny remarks if your clients happened to be the picky, demanding sort. My job was to please, after all, and I took it seriously enough to stress over this sort of detail.

Now, I'm glad to say, hydroponic watercress has become widely available--which is a boon to all cooks. The product itself is much fresher, too (it comes with roots still embedded in "soil"). It's infinitely easier to clean, and the stems are quite tender, so they can be eaten along with the leaves. I have to admit, I still prefer the old "natural" watercress as far as flavor goes, but given the choice between hydroponic and none at all, well, there is no choice. Now that I know I can pick up a bunch, nicely sealed in a protective package, almost without fail at my my local supermarket, I eat watercress at least three times a week. This is a wonderful thing.

Watercress is high in iron, calcium, vitamins A and C, and folic acid. Like most greens, it's also packed with phytonutrients and antioxidants, putting it right up there with blueberries in the cancer-fighting, free radical-thrashing category. And it's just a delicious, gorgeous leafy thing to eat, period. So there.

Now that we have a virtually ready-to-eat source of watercress, the possibilities are wide open for quickly prepared salads. Here are two I made just recently:

1. Watercress and Beet Salad

How fast--and nutrient-dense--can a succulent salad get? All I did was cut the stems to roughly 2-inch lengths, put them in a bowl, add some grated beet and some thinly sliced celery, and then toss with some Balsamic Vinaigrette (which I just happened to have in the fridge). Bada-bing.

2. Watercress, Fennel and Apple Salad

This one is a little fancier, But it didn't take too much longer to assemble. I took only the leaves and upper stems for this, because I wanted to make sure the watercress would be buttery-tender, with no distractions. I added sliced fennel, thin wedges of winesap apples, and walnut halves.

I tossed the salad with a light, quick dressing made with apple cider vinegar, walnut oil, Dijon mustard, fennel pollen, Celtic salt, and freshly ground mixed black, white, green and pink peppercorns.

After mounding the salad on plates and placing a few of the walnuts strategically, I drizzled a little chive oil over and around it. I chose apple cider vinegar, walnut oil, and fennel pollen, to spark against the apples, walnuts, and fennel. It also made a mild, unobtrusive foil for the salad, enabling each ingredient to speak its own note clearly. The chive oil was an afterthought--a rash intrusion to bring in some wildness.

Easy. Tasty. Fun.

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Winesap Apples

2011-11-16T13:08:00.000-08:00

A couple of friends from Denver came to dinner recently, and brought with them a sack of fresh-picked winesap apples (from another friend's tree). I had never tried these little beauties, but they proved to have all the quintessential attributes one might expect from an apple--deep red color, firm, crisp texture and full-flavored juiciness, neither too tart nor too sweet. They also had that unmistakeable right-off-the-tree rustic feel to them. Just perfect, really.

Of course I had to read up on them. Apparently the winesap is an American heirloom cultivar, originally grown in Virginia, dating back to some (unknown) time in the 18th century. As good as it is to bite into and eat, it was considered a "culinary apple," used in cooking, and for cider. Some winesaps have a yellow-greenish base under the red color; some are dark red all over. Because of their classic apple-red color and small size, they've been widely used in wreaths and other decorations (kind of a waste, if you ask me).

A couple of nights ago, I had my mother over for a dinner party to celebrate her 87th birthday. I made her a flourless chocolate cake, which I served accompanied by tiny baked apples. Winesaps are perfect for this--at least the ones I had--because of their size, ranging from about 1 3/4" to 2 1/2" in diameter (4.5 to 6.5 cm). The prep is very quick and easy:

Wash and core the apples. Combine some coarsely chopped walnuts, currants, coconut oil, palm sugar, ground cinnamon, allspice and cardamom, kneading to blend well. Jam the mixture into the apples' cavities, building up a small mound on top. Place the apples in baking dish. Pour a couple tablespoons each of water and dark rum in the bottom of the dish, cover, and place in a moderate (350F / 177C) oven. Bake for about 30 to 35 minutes, until tender. Their skins will shrivel just a bit, which is normal, but don't overdo it, or they will dry out and taste mealy. That's it. The combined aroma of apples baking and the spices (not to mention the rum) will fill the house, evoking some sort of pagan autumnal feast.

Last night, I noticed the remaining apples were beginning their decline, so I gathered them up and made an apple chutney. I've become a "food as medicine" enthusiast in the last several years, and even more so since my wife successfully survived breast cancer earlier this year, which would help explain why so many of my dishes tend to include anti-cancer, anti-viral, anti-inflammatory ingredients like turmeric, ginger, chili, cinnamon, and garlic, to name a few. There are many foods that support the immune system, such as fresh greens, berries, mushrooms, fermented beans and vegetables, and seaweeds. And they all feel great going down, but few pack the punch that I get from garlic, ginger and chili. Anyway, back to the apple chutney...

I began by heating a spoonful of coconut oil with cumin and brown mustard seeds, swishing the saucepan around, encouraging the aromatics to spread. As soon as the seeds began to darken slightly, I added a red onion, diced coarsely, and stirred to coat with the oil. Then I added minced ginger and garlic, and stirred until everything began to soften. After a bit, the mixture began to dry out, so I added a little water, followed by ground turmeric, red chili, coriander, garam masala, and salt. Once the vegetables were tender, I added the apples, coarsely diced, some currants, a couple of bay leaves, a little tamarind paste, and palm sugar. Then I covered the pan, turned the heat down to the lowest setting, and let it bubble away until the apples were soft and the moisture had been reabsorbed. After that, it was only a matter of letting the chutney cool to room temperature.

I had pushed the envelope a little on the chili; it turned out pretty hot, which is just fine with me, but I think it might be over-the-top for most people. I hope my wife will be able to enjoy it--she's trying to eat spicier foods, now that we've acquired the information that chilies are the most anti-inflammatory foods you can eat, but everyone has their limits!

When I went to take the picture, I was concerned that it might come off a bit on the monochromatic side, so I microplaned some lime zest over the top. Lemon would have been more in keeping with the chutney's flavors, but 1) I didn't have any lemons, and 2) the whole point was to create a little color contrast. So there you have it.

Celeriac (a.k.a. Celery Root)

2011-11-15T17:12:00.000-08:00

I've never met anyone who didn't know green celery on sight, but I've come across many who needed help identifying this weird, gnarly root--and even after a concise explanation (it's basically the root of the celery plant), their faces often exhibit a look of confusion (is it, like, edible?).

The difference between celeriac and the more familiar green celery stalk is at once minor--they both taste like celery--and stark. Whereas the top is green, juicy, crisp and stringy, with a fresh, almost herbal taste, the root, once peeled, is dense, with a creamy white color and a richer, more earthy taste.

Celeriac may be a much better name for this plant, because although it is technically a celery root, it's a specific cultivar, grown for its root vegetable qualities, as opposed to the leafy stalks. The tops don't grow in a tight bunch, the way "regular" celery does, but rather in thin, separate stalks. I love both forms, as each brings a unique character to any dish, whether cooked or raw, but celeriac is truly special.

If you're shopping for one of these, there are two main attributes to look for. The first is size; smaller ones, with more knob and less hairy, twisted root, will generally yield the best inner flesh, suitable for both cooking and serving raw. The other is weight; sometimes celery roots become porous, especially as they grow larger, so pick one that feels heavy for its size, indicating a more solid flesh. Of course, if you're planning to make celeriac puree, or a cream-style soup, this won't really be much of an issue, since you will be blending it to smithereens anyway, and the flavor will be the exactly same.

I included celery root in a soup I made a few days ago, just before a predicted snowfall that never happened. It was still chilly out, so a hot soup was much appreciated. This one began as yet another way to consume curried yams--I still have nearly half a case left--along with a few parsnips and some still-fresh ears of corn. I would have used the regular green celery, but I did have this one smallish celeriac that I knew would dice up uniformly and meld nicely with the other ingredients. So here's how it went:

I heated a couple tablespoons of coconut oil in a large pot and added 2 large onions, diced. As soon as they had softened and become very fragrant, I added parsnips, celeriac, and yams, also diced, and continued stirring until they had begun to color just a bit around the edges.
I added some minced garlic, stirred a minute longer, and then poured in a couple liters of boiling water and 3 vegetable bouillon cubes. When it came to a boil, I cut the kernels off a few ears of corn, directly into the pot, and then scraped the starch off the cobs with the back of the knife and added it, along with salt and a generous spoonful of Maharajah Style Curry Powder, stirring thoroughly. Then I adjusted the heat to maintain a vivacious simmer, and let it cook until all the vegetables were tender. Just before serving, I stirred in a handful of coarsely chopped cilantro. The curry powder I used contains whole saffron stamens, which add tiny red flecks of visual interest and a sublime aroma back-note.

Now, having green celery in this soup would have provided its characteristic qualities, but they would have washed into the background--as I would have wanted. But the celeriac retained its flavor, even after bleeding some of it into the soup base, and even surrounded by the heady spices in the curry mixture. It could be savored clearly, just as much as the yams, parsnips and corn--and that's what I call character!

That's how celeriac distinguishes itself in a cooked dish. For a raw example, here's a salad from Speed Vegan:

Beet and Celery Root Salad

Makes 4 to 6 servings

This visually stunning salad is a meal that will fill you up but won’t weigh you down. If you have trouble locating both arugula and watercress, simply use a double quantity of whichever one you find. I like to cut the vegetables into very fine julienne (thin as matchsticks), but if this seems too taxing, just grate them. If you can’t find celery root, substitute with celery stalks, peeled and cut the same way.

1 bunch arugula
1 bunch watercress
1 large beet
1 small celery root
1 tart apple
1 small red onion
1⁄3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons Roasted Garlic Purée (see video here)
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon agave nectar
1⁄2 teaspoon sea salt
1⁄4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1⁄4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1⁄4 cup flax oil
1⁄2 cup broken walnuts

Remove any coarse stems from the arugula and wash in plenty of water along with the watercress leaves. Allow the greens to soak and crisp while you prepare the rest of the salad.
Peel the beet, celery root, and apple. Cut them into fine julienne or coarsely grate them. Cut the onion in half lengthwise, and then thinly slice it crosswise.
Combine the lemon juice, Roasted Garlic Purée, mustard, agave nectar, salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Whisk until well blended. Whisk in the olive and flax oils and continue whisking until emulsified. Add the julienned vegetables and toss until well coated. Let sit for about 5 minutes.
Drain the arugula and watercress. Dry it in a salad spinner or roll it gently in a towel to absorb the excess water. Add to the vegetables and toss well. Divide among 4 to 6 plates. Sprinkle the walnuts on top. Serve at once.

Yam Curry, Two Ways

2011-11-11T11:47:00.000-08:00

Yams, as Americans know them, are actually a variety of sweet potato, so-called perhaps to differentiate them from the pale-fleshed, comparatively boring version. In Mexico, street vendors would push carts up and down city streets, hawking steamed yams. These guys would sometimes sell tamales (also steamed) from the same cart. At intervals, they would pull a lever and blow steam through a whistle, yelling a gutteral/nasal "caaa-mooo-tes!" (or "taa-maaa-les," depending on what they had to offer). I never bought any yams, because I had only ever had them baked, mashed up with brown sugar at Thanksgiving, and seeing them limp and plain like that was unappealing to me.

Since that time, I've broadened my horizons, and now I enjoy yams in all sorts of ways. I especially like them--and other sweet vegetables--in spicy dishes, such as tagines and curries. I recently bought a small case of garnet yams, opening the door to a rash of experimentation. Two favorites, both very quick and easy, were:

1. "Leek and Yam Curry"

This was partly an effort to use up some leeks before they went south. It consists of just two vegetables, with a little cilantro, coconut oil, hot curry powder, and Celtic salt. I selected a couple of the longest, thinnest yams, peeled them, and then cut 1/4-inch thick coins. The leeks I slit lengthwise in order to easily wash out the grit, and then sliced them.

First I heated a couple tablespoons of coconut oil in the pot, seared the yam slices on both sides, and removed them to a plate. I added the leeks to the pot and sauteed them until they softened slightly, adding a hefty spoonful of the curry powder and salt about halfway through. Then I returned the yams to the pot and stirred them into the leeks. I added just a splash of water to prevent sticking, and covered the pot until the vegetables were tender. Just before serving, I stirred in a bunch of coarsely chopped cilantro. The whole process took only about 20 minutes, but the dish had a sophisticated aura, with interesting flavor and texture contrasts--not to mention the fact that (as far as I know) it was a combination that had never been tried before.

2. "Yam and Baby Bok Choy Panang Curry"

This one was even faster, in part because that's just the nature of Thai-style curries, but also because I cut the yams a little thinner. I found some perfect little bok choy yesterday, and was determined to use them right away (versus waiting until they're on their last gasp, and their outer leaves are beyond salvage). So last night I made the second yam curry in a week. I sliced the stem portion of the bok choy roughly 1/4-inch thick, and cut the leaves roughly an inch square, keeping the two separate. The yams I just peeled, halved lengthwise, and sliced about 1/8-inch thick.

I heated about a tablespoon of coconut oil in a large pot and added the yam slices, stirring for about a minute before adding a gigantic gob of panang curry paste. I continued stirring for another minute, until the curry paste was well incorporated, and then added the bok choy stems. I stir-fried the mixture for another minute, and then added a can of coconut milk, using the spoon to dislodge any bits that may have stuck to the bottom of the pot. I covered the pot and let the mixture cook until the vegetables were just tender--just about 4 minutes. I removed the cover and added some diced "sprouted" tofu and then the bok choy tops, stirring until they wilted.

To serve, I pulled the pot off the heat and stirred in a large handful of coarsely chopped basil. I had intended to use two cans of coconut milk, but discovered only one remaining in the pantry, so that was it. (Note to self: don't let that happen again!) This made the dish a little less rich, but no less spicy. It was more like a vegetable dish with a fair amount of sauce, instead of the way I normally make it, which is almost like a creamy soup. I liked this lighter version, even though initially I had to get over the fact that it wasn't what I had intended (sometimes that's not easy). It was pretty spicy for my wife--who is trying to eat more chilies these days, to benefit from their anti-inflammatory qualities--but I used the sriracha liberally.

More and more, as time goes on, I'm gravitating towards nutrient-dense, highly medicinal foods. My body responds enthusiastically to my choices, and my palate could not be happier. Must be doing something right...

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Romanesco Cauliflower

2011-11-10T16:28:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you've seen this exotic-looking vegetable on the produce shelf during fall and wondered what planet it came from, or whether it's edible.

One of the most beautiful vegetables ever, the broccolo romanesco has been cultivated in Italy since the 1500s. It's the only edible plant I can think of offhand that sports a fractal design--meaning that each part is made up of smaller versions of the overall shape, repeating with each subsequent part, down to the infinitesimal. To be accurate, it's only an approximate fractal, since it doesn't go on forever, but stops at the point where it becomes too small to replicate. No matter how you slice it (no pun intended), it's one gorgeous eye-popping vegetable, and a fairly cogent argument for both intelligent design and evolution.

To answer the other question, it's not only edible, but combines the best attributes of cauliflower and broccoli--with a flavor more to the broccoli side (hence the Italian name), but creamier, and without that slight bitter edge. It can be prepared in all the ways you might enjoy cauliflower--steamed, gratinéed, à la Grecque, and in other ways, such as purees and cream soups, in which the original shape is no longer visible. I like to separate the florets and keep their fractal pattern intact, to provide visual interest--let's face it: the main appeal of this vegetable is the outrageous shape!

I recently made a salad with romanesco cauliflower that, in hindsight, makes it look even more other-worldy, sitting on a bed of mixed microgreens that appeared somewhat alien themselves. This may be hard to duplicate on demand, since the microgreens themselves can be difficult to find, even in a wilted form, let alone farm-fresh like these were. But if you happen to have taken the plunge and purchased a romanesco cauliflower, you'll get noteworthy results by simply doing your best to play along with this as a guideline:

First, I separated the florets, blanched them in boiling salted water, drained them, and then immediately plunged them in ice water. I spread them out to air-dry while I prepared the other ingredients: roasted and peeled red pepper, fennel bulb, preserved lemon, spicy green olives (pitted), and a little red Swiss chard--all cut into 1/4-inch dice; 2 small shallots, thinly sliced; and a simple vinaigrette made with sherry vinegar, Dijon mustard, freshly ground mixed peppercorns (black, white, green and pink), Celtic salt, and "Old Grove" Greek EVOO. When everything was ready, I tossed it all together in a large bowl.

To serve, I spread a generous bed of very fresh mixed microgreens--radish, bok choy, onion, buckwheat, and arugula--on each plate. I mounded the romanesco mix in the center, surrounded it with cubes of ripe avocado, and drizzled a little of the leftover vinaigrette in a circle over the greens.

The result was an explosion of textures and flavors that oddly enough complemented one another nicely. Those thin green things that look like stems are the onion microgreens, which pack a distinctly pungent allium punch--just one note in this little riot of sensations. In a single bite, you might have a bit of Morocco, a dash of Provence, some Italian smatterings, a vague Greek hint, a stout Mesoamerican presence (the avocado), and that potent tangle of infant greens, each with its own distinct character. You almost forget that this was all about that weird-looking vegetable you decided to bring home.

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A New Take On Cabbage Rolls

2011-11-05T13:58:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had been developing some vegan entrée recipes to go in an article for Delicious Living Magazine. Typically, the entrée (a term I've personally rejected) centers around some form of protein, so I included this in each recipe--being careful not to disappoint anyone.

As I began imagining various options, a classic northeastern European dish came to mind: cabbage leaves stuffed with kasha, or buckwheat. This seemed a good starting point for one of the recipes, since buckwheat is a whole protein, and cabbage is pretty widely known to promote health in a number of ways. An immediate problem with this idea was the amount of time cabbage rolls take to cook, because the assignment stipulated that my recipes needed to take a maximum of 30 minutes to prepare.

Not wanting to give up on a good thing, I let the idea roll around in the background as I designed a few other "quick & easy" dishes. Then a possible solution popped up: switch out the cabbage with radicchio--which is a member of the same family as cabbage (the cruciferae), but cooks up in much less time. The challenge would be radicchio's characteristic bitter taste (which I love, but many people do not). I figured that baking the rolls in a tomato-based sauce would compensate for the bitterness to some extent, but just to be sure, I added a generous amount of currants in the filling. It worked.

First, I separated the outer leaves from the center of the radicchio, collecting eight of the largest. The inner leaves I diced finely and set aside to add to the filling. I blanched the large leaves very briefly in boiling water and laid them out on a towel to dry a bit.

The old Russian method for preparing kasha is to beat an egg into the raw groats and then cook them in a dry pan, stirring constantly, until they dry and separate. Then water or broth is added, and the groats are boiled until tender. This keeps the groats from getting mushy and sticking together in clods. My method is actually much easier, requires no egg, and takes only a few minutes. All I do is drop the buckwheat groats into roughly five times their volume of vegetable broth, boil them like pasta for about 7 minutes, until tender, and drain them. Easy. I save the broth, which will have thickened considerably, for another use.

While the buckwheat was cooking, I sautéed some onion and garlic in a little EVOO until lightly colored, and then added the diced radicchio. I continued stirring until the vegetables were tender--just a few minutes--adding salt, pepper, and allspice about halfway through. Off the heat, I stirred in the cooked buckwheat, a little maple syrup (again, just to mollify the bitter-averse), some currants, and a hefty amount of chopped fresh mint. This became the filling.

After filling and rolling up the leaves, I made a quick sauce. I heated just a bit of EVOO in a pan and added some tomato paste, stirring to spread it out and get it bubbling. then I added some of the liquid left over from cooking the buckwheat, forming a sort of brothy tomato sauce. I poured a small amount of this into a large sauté pan and placed the radicchio rolls on top, fitting them in snugly, with the seam side down. Then I poured the remaining sauce over the rolls, covered the pan, and set it over medium-high heat for about four minutes. The radicchio leaves were just tender.

I served two rolls per person, with the sauce spooned over them and garnished with sliced Italian parsley. They definitely did not have the same flavor as the old familiar cabbage rolls, but they passed my wife's scrutiny, and I personally loved them.

So there you have it: a bold, new take on cabbage rolls.

Three Sisters Stack

2011-11-04T12:54:00.000-07:00

I just realized, after typing in the title, that it might sound a little kinky to some people. But no. This is about a new dish I've designed. It's based on a Southwestern Native American farming method, consisting of small mounds--versus rows. On each mound, the farmers would plant a stalk of corn, a bean plant, and a squash plant. The corn would grow up, forming a pole for the beanstalk to climb; the bean plant would fix nitrogen in the soil to help nourish the corn; the squash plant would spread a thick canopy of leaves over the mound, providing shade to inhibit weed growth. They're called "The Three Sisters." A very cleverly assembled symbiotic arrangement.

I first came to know about this at a presentation by Dr. Neal Barnard, at the NAVS 2010 Summerfest, which I found very inspiring on several levels. It struck me right away, that nothing could sum up the Mesoamerican diet like beans, corn, and squash. Of course, there are tomatoes, chiles, and specific herbs that complete the picture, but the lyrically-named "three sisters" are the foundation. Then, to hear of this ingenious gardening method, and to recognize the ancient, simple wisdom that made it possible, was thrilling to me. Dr. Barnard showed slides of his gardening efforts, with successful three sisters mounds, and this made me want to learn gardening!

As it happens, my wife is the gardener and my best contribution to date has been to help in minor ways, like watering on request (I never remember!), or digging, carrying rocks and dirt, and other menial tasks that prevent me from doing any damage. Basically, she gardens, I cook. Not a bad arrangement. We haven't (yet!) gotten around to figuring out how three sisters mounds could work on our steep granite hillside. Maybe next year.

But gardening aside for the moment, I've been working on several recipes that incorporate corn, beans and squash--not only because I like the idea, but because they really do complement one another well. I have a terrific soup with white corn, black beans, and kabocha squash, which is already in the manuscript for my next cookbook. And I just recently completed another dish, with corn, pinto beans and butternut squash:

Three Sisters Stack

For this dish, I used the thick, cylindrical portion of a large butternut squash. I peeled it and cut 12 disks about 1/4-inch thick, browned them lightly in coconut oil, and finished cooking them in a low oven. These supplied the structure for the stacks.

For the filling, I sauteed some onion and garlic in a pot until soft. Then I cut the kernels off 2 ears of sweet corn, scraped the starch off the cobs (using the back of the knife) and added it all to the pot, along with a few spoonfuls of ground chimayo chile, a small gob of chipotle chile puree, and a little salt. I had cooked some pinto beans the day before, so I poured a little of the cooking liquid over the vegetables to keep them from sticking. As soon as the vegetables were done, I added some of the beans. I cooked the mixture until nearly all the liquid was absorbed, so it wouldn't squish out between the squash layers and collapse the stacks.

Assembly was easy. First, I lay a squash disk on each plate (it helps if these are warmed, to keep the food from getting cold). I heaped some of the bean and corn mixture onto the center, placed another disk on top, mashing it down gently. Then I repeated the layers one more time. To complete the presentation, I surrounded the stacks with diced red onion, tomato, and avocado, and squeezed some fresh lime juice over them. Then I sprinkled chopped cilantro all around and drizzled some oregano oil in a circle, over the raw vegetables.

Although coconut is not part of the Southwestern cuisine, using this oil in place of the more traditional lard gave the squash an extra-sweet rich taste that held up well against the full-flavored, spicy filling. The combination of those hot, cooked stacks and cool, raw vegetables made for some fun eating, let me tell you. My wife loved it too (that's important to me).

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Quinoa with Zucchini, Tomato and Basil

2011-11-03T14:43:00.000-07:00

It's no secret by now, to anyone who knows me well, that I love quinoa. And I use the word "love" in its accurate sense, which I made clear in an article I'm currently using as my manifesto. Love must be reciprocated for it to be true love, and quinoa definitely loves me back. It feels good when I eat it, I can feel my body deeply appreciating what I'm giving it, and it feels good after I eat it. True love.

So it follows that I'm always eager to come up with new ways to serve and eat quinoa. Recently, I was working on an article for Delicious Living Magazine that involved vegan entrees, and one of the recipes I designed was "Quinoa with Zucchini, Tomato and Basil."

For me, it's not enough that food be healthy; it also must deliver pleasure to the eye, the nose, the tongue, and the whole digestive system. I always try to present my food in an eye-appealing way, so here's what I did for this dish:

I cooked the quinoa first. Then I sauteed some onion and garlic in a little EVOO, and added the zucchini. Once the vegetables were just tender, I stirred in the cooked quinoa and warmed it through. Just before serving, I stirred in a fair amount of sliced basil leaves--I've been combining onion, zucchini, and fresh basil ever since I first made Marcella Hazan's "Fritatta di Zucchine," back in 1983 (it's that good). Of course, I've since dropped the butter, eggs and cheese, but the vegetable-herb combination is a winner. I do use other herbs with zucchini, depending on the particular cuisine and application, but this one is like an old friend I'm always happy to meet again.

To serve the dish, I set a 3-inch ring mold on the plate and fanned out a few slices of fresh tomato to cover the bottom. I packed in the quinoa mixture and topped it with three more slices, pressing down just enough to compact and set them in place. I removed the ring, seasoned the top with Kilauea black sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, and then scattered sliced basil leaves all around. As a final touch, I drizzled a thin circle of chive oil around the dish. I would probably have used basil oil instead, but I just happened to have some freshly made chive oil on hand, and as it turned out, this added yet another layer of flavor. Serendipitous success.

The article I was writing required "quick and easy" recipes, which, like those in Speed Vegan, had to take 30 minutes or less to prepare. Naturally, the ring mold would complicate things too much for the average home cook (how many people even know where to get one?), so the magazine will feature the bare bones recipe--where all the flavor is, if not the full visual effect. But to my readers, I can't recommend a ring mold highly enough. As you can see, this simple tool has the power to transform a good dish into a great one--with only a little more effort.

As I'm fond of saying, "Why settle for good enough, when it's not that much farther to extraordinary?"

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The Emperor and the Nightingale

2011-10-27T13:47:00.000-07:00

There is a children's story about an emperor who loved to hear the song of a nightingale that perched every night in a tree outside his bedroom window. The nightingale, seeing how much the emperor appreciated her song, eagerly returned every night to sing for him.

One day, the emperor received a gift from a courtier seeking his favor: a mechanical nightingale that played a sweet song both night and day. This pleased the emperor very much. He no longer needed to rely on the whims of a wild bird; he could hear that song any time he wished. Seeing that the emperor was now taken with his artificial bird, the nightingale flew sadly away. Then, one day, the mechanical nightingale broke, and wouldn't play anymore. Only then did the emperor realize his mistake in choosing a fake bird over the real one. In some versions of the story, that was it; tough luck. In others, the real nightingale came back, and once again sang nightly for the doting emperor, and they both lived happily ever after.

Why am I bringing this up?

For millennia, humans needed to hunt, gather, and grow their food. Then commerce brought the option of bartering and trading for food. Much later, a commercial food industry developed, offering processed food products that made eating much easier, more convenient and enjoyable. Eventually, food science came along, enabling the creation of brand new foodlike products with unusual, intense flavors made from artificial ingredients. Food got a lot cheaper, too, because science also made it possible for both plants and animals to be grown closer together, in greater and greater numbers, using petrochemical fertilizers, pesticides, and genetically altered seeds. Monoculture began to replace biodiversity, favoring volume over variety. At long last, people could eat as much as they wanted, whenever and wherever they wished--and with very little effort. The crowd went wild.

After some time, as a result of eating all this unnatural, highly processed foodlike stuff, people got fatter, and they began to develop health problems they never had before. Cardiovascular disease, fatty liver, diabetes, and various forms of cancer. Animals began to develop their own diseases from the cheap, unnatural feed they were given, and from their filthy, overcrowded living conditions. Eventually, certain animal diseases began to jump from their imprisoned hosts to the human population, sparking fears of worldwide epidemics. The waste from animal farms began to invade the waterways, infecting even the plant food, sickening and killing more people. The wonderful new food system that had been so much fun for so many people had begun to backfire on them. Cashing in bigtime on the very human wish for secure, convenient, reliable comfort and pleasure, the food industry had hijacked the modern population's taste buds, and now it was all going terribly wrong.

In one version of this story, that was it. People continued to eat degraded, adulterated, genetically altered, artificial food, stubbornly addicted to their self-destructive choices. They had come to believe that their way of eating had always been part of their culture and heritage--that there was nothing wrong with it. They explained their unhealthy diet away to themselves, repeating the hopeless falsehood that if they could just eat a little less of it and exercise a little more, everything would be fine. Mass delusion. In this version, the great lumbering system that supplied the world's food became unsustainable, destroying fragile ecosystems like a voracious parasite that kills its host. Blights that in the past might have taken only one or two varieties of plants made quick work of wiping out entire swaths of the world's uniform food supply. Famine, hoarding and barbarism inevitably followed. The End.

I prefer the other ending, in which the people began to wake up and miss the days--not so long ago--when natural food tasted good all by itself; when it took a little effort to cook and eat at home, but the effort was rewarding, the food was more satisfying, and dining was a pleasurable, shared experience. Slowly, a few people began to revive the noble art of organic gardening, saving heirloom seeds, promoting biodiversity, and replenishing the soil. Small farms began to revive, supported by people everywhere who had come to understand the value of real food, grown by genuine farmers. Highly refined food became a thing of the past, abandoned by the marketplace in favor of nutrient-dense, natural foods. Finally, people came to understand that there was no need to have animals process plants into protein for them; that they could process their own food, spare the animal suffering, and avoid the diseases caused by over-consumption of animal products. In short, the nightingale returns. The emperor finally understands the value of what is genuine, and willingly submits to the natural rhythm, enjoying the nightingale's song on her terms.

I know this is over-simplistic, but that's the nature of fables. The point is not to hammer out all the details. The point of any fable is merely to spark a glimmer of understanding, to turn the human course just a fraction, so that down the line--hopefully--this might lead to a happier destiny for all living things.

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Herb-infused Oils

2011-10-26T11:30:00.000-07:00

The only sad thing about having a summer herb garden is that summer eventually ends, and there is no way you can use up the profusion of fresh herbs that are doomed, but still growing. We managed to stave off the ravages of high elevation fall weather--like the six-inch snowfall in late September this year--by moving our tomato, pepper, and some herb plants into our living room. This allows us to keep harvesting tomatoes and peppers for a little longer, but the herbs are another matter.

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We could dry the herbs, but the result would really be not very different from store-bought herbs. The creative solution is to infuse oil with the herbs, preserving the fresh flavor and color.

Restaurant chefs use grapeseed oil for this, because it has virtually no flavor to muddy the background. I'm skeptical of the process used to produce grapeseed oil, and until I get some clarity on it, I'm sticking with oils I trust. I happen to know that the oils produced by Flora (the same company that makes Udo's Oil) are unrefined and undergo a gentle process that protects their molecular integrity. I chose Flora Almond Oil for our herb infusions, because it's very mild-tasting, so its impact on the flavor of the herbs would be minimal.

The infusion process is very simple. Roughly, for one cup of oil, use two (packed) cups of herbs. Blanch the herbs in boiling water and then immediately drain, quench in ice water, and drain again. Squeeze the herbs in a strainer to extract every last bit of water. Drop into a blender and add the oil, plus about 1/4 teaspoon salt. Process on high speed for about 2 minutes, until the oil turns a bright green color. Pour into a glass jar and refrigerate overnight. The next day, strain the oil through the finest sieve you have. Return to the refrigerator and leave overnight again. On the following day, decant, discarding the sediment. Pour into a glass bottle--preferably dark glass--and cover tightly. Refrigerate until ready to use.

I used extra virgin olive oil for the rosemary, because first of all, the flavor of rosemary is strong enough to override the flavor of olive oil, but also because I've been using this combination of flavors for decades, with excellent results in the food. It makes a delicious dip for bread, with or without the addition of balsamic vinegar. You can also add garlic to this infusion, or use the rosemary oil to saute potatoes (for example), and add garlic while cooking. Great stuff, seriously!

If you plan to use the oil up within a week, refrigerate. If you're not sure, keep a little in the refrigerator and freeze the rest, which will extend its life for at least two or three months. Later, warm the bottle in a bowl of hot (not boiling) water and pour out the quantity you want to use. Return the unused oil to the freezer.

So what do you do with these infused oils, you might ask? For the most part, I use them only for color and flavor when plating dishes.

A good example is on the cover of my first cookbook, Omega 3 Cuisine. After positioning the serving of "Vegetable Lasagne" (which by the way, is all-vegetable, with sliced of butternut squash for the "pasta" layers), I placed a gob of roasted garlic puree on top and surrounded it with diced roasted red pepper and little pieces of zucchini and yellow squash, gouged out with a teeny-weeny melon baller. Then I drizzled red pepper oil and basil oil for the final touch (along with a light sprinkling of chopped parsley).

Another way to use infused oils just before serving is to add them to a soup, as I did for my "Corn Soup with Roasted Peppers."

To get this effect, I used a squeeze bottle to pipe two concentric circles of scallion-infused oil. Then I used the point of a knife to "pull" the oil back and forth, forming the decorative pattern. For this one, I also added some diced roasted pepper. You have to work fast when you do this, to keep the soup from getting cold, but the effect is pretty impressive. People always make a kind remark when you set it down in front of them.

It takes some work to make infused oils, but the payoff is well worth the effort. If you keep your unused oils in the freezer as I suggested, you should have enough to do a lot of fancy plating--with delicious results--well into the holidays and beyond.

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Kelp Noodles

2011-10-25T10:48:00.000-07:00

I was at Whole Foods recently, searching in vain for Ohana House Buckwheat Soba--apparently the company has been bought out and its product scrapped, in favor of an inferior version. The new soba are not 100% buckwheat, but mostly wheat, with other undesirable ingredients. Just like when you finally get a pair of shoes that work for you and they stop making them!

Anyway, as I scanned the shelves in dismay and disbelief, I came across a rather intriguing new item in the noodle world: kelp noodles, made with green tea. Always a silver lining. These noodles have have nothing in common with the ones I was looking for (beyond their shape), but of course I had to try them.

The ingredients listed are simple enough: water, sodium, alginate, kelp, green tea. The "sodium" sounds a little suspect, but everything else seems straightforward--the kelp and green tea supply the good stuff (nutrients, antioxidants) and the alginate (a natural extract of brown algae) holds the product together. It's possible that this is in fact sodium alginate (the comma in the list being a typo), with the same properties, used in molecular gastronomy to produce "spherification" of liquids.

The noodles themselves are a bit on the crunchy side and nearly flavorless, but they do make an interesting ingredient in salads. I threw a quick salad together for my first flirtation with this odd noodle, and it worked much better than I initially figured it would.

After rinsing the noodles (as directed), I cut them into manageable lengths and combined them with grated carrot, thinly sliced celery, celery leaves, and sliced scallions. I used a classic Japanese oil-free dressing, made with kombu dashi, tamari, brown rice vinegar and mirin. A scattering of sesame seeds completed the dish. Believe it or not, it was hugely successful!

I do have a call in to the corporate pirates who raided Ohana House, to see if they still produce and market the original 100% buckwheat soba I had fallen in love with (and where I might find them). I'll put up a post about this if good news comes back...

Anti-Cancer Snack

2011-10-13T14:48:00.000-07:00

As is so often the case, I get some of my best ideas when I'm hungry and want something quick. Maybe it shortcuts the thinking machine--the over-analytical, "that'll-never-work" side of my brain and hooks me up with the creative, intuitive, non-technical side.

I do come up with good stuff when I think about it for a while, too. Years ago, when I was making jewelry, a friend told me that traditional Navajo master silversmiths would design their creations this way--dreaming the whole piece over a period of days, process and all--and then they'd knock it out all in one go. I don't know if that's true, but I can totally relate, because this has happened to me. I find it profoundly satisfying when successful dishes come about this way. But magic is no one's possession, so we just have to take it however it comes.

Anyway, I was hungry and wanted something quick, but for me it has to be thoroughly gratifying--and nourishing--or it just isn't really food. I had recently tried an intriguingly simple spread recipe from "Clean Start," a gorgeously photographed cookbook by Terry Walters, that combined carrots boiled in vegetable stock, cashews, and light miso. It seemed to lack something for me (and my wife), but I liked the idea a lot, so I decided to revisit it and see if I could make it work for us.

I kept the original recipe intact, but while the carrots were cooking, I added some Vadouvan curry powder, Indian red chile powder, and grated fresh ginger and turmeric root to the broth. I also let the broth cook down to just the quarter-cup needed to thin the mixture. After the cooking was done, I added a few mashed cloves of garlic and a little freshly ground cardamom. With the utmost respect to Ms. Walters--I know she was trying to keep things clean and simple--this worked much better for my wife and me. I had it with gluten-free wholegrain toast and slices of very ripe avocado. Just before serving, I drizzled just a bit of Udo's DHA Oil Blend, and sprinkled a little dash of Haleakala red and Kilauea black finishing salts over everything.

Of course, this whole production was simply a response to that unexpected hunger I sometimes get when I eat dinner too early and then stay up too late. However, because I want my food to gratify not only my superficial, immediate craving, but my innate craving for beauty and my long-term health interests as well, I made sure all these bases were covered.

I got fed; good. I also thoroughly enjoyed what I ate; better. And from this quick dish, I got a blast of antioxidants, probiotics, phytonutrients, healthy fats, minerals, vitamins, and antibacterial, anti-inflammatory, anti-cancer compounds; freaking brilliant. Okay, I admit, I didn't need the carbs (especially late at night), but I rarely eat bread, and what's a spread without something to smear it on?

Note: I don't know if I recommended that cookbook highly enough, but it's an exquisite work. I almost always vary a recipe to suit my tastes--even my own recipes--so the fact that I monkeyed with one of the author's recipes should in no way be taken as anything but a compliment. Just thought I should say that.

Minted Chocolate Dream

2011-10-12T15:17:00.000-07:00

I had a chocolate-loving friend over for dinner recently, so of course I had to make something with chocolate for dessert. I had been busy all day, and had very little time to get this done, so I pulled out an old quick and easy item that I hadn't made since I finished writing Speed Vegan--something I had called "Minted Chocolate Dream."

This is very rich, but because it has no cream or butter in it, it doesn't leave you nauseous (really--let's face it, some of our favorite "treats" are not kind to us). And considering the immensely gratifying effect, making this is so easy it's almost like cheating.

The first thing you have to do--if you're accustomed to working with chocolate--is overcome the terror of having water get into your melted chocolate. I say this because it's one of the big no-nos that get drilled into you, via books and bitter experience. They tell you that if even a microdroplet of steam should find its way into your melted chocolate, it will be ruined and you'll just have to throw it out and start over. Seriously. That's what the conventional "wisdom" is on the subject. This dogma was so strong in the lore and literature that even as an autodidact (or perhaps especially), I swallowed it whole, utterly forgetting that in Mexico they've been mixing water and chocolate for millennia--with great success. The Aztecs and Mayans used to enjoy chocolate drinks made with water long before the Spaniards invaded, ripped them off, and took chocolate back to Europe. That's when people started adding milk and cream and a ton of sugar, in an attempt to improve on the food of the gods.

As it turns out, it's not water that makes melted chocolate seize up, break, and cease to work as it should; it's the wrong proportion of water to chocolate. Sure, at first it will look ruined, and if you've been educated to believe that this first sign of ruination is in fact the end of the line, you will quite naturally (as I have done) simply chuck the whole mess out and start over. But if you don't lose heart at the sight, and continue adding water (and if it's hot water), eventually it will begin to flow again, and you'll have a "water ganache." It will lack the richness of a cream-based ganache, and it might, depending on a few minor variables, have a slight graininess as a result, but it will survive. Learn something every day, right? There's more.

As most chocolate lovers who read are now gleefully aware, there are compounds (antioxidants and such) in cacao that are extremely good for health. Dark chocolate--not milk chocolate--with a high concentration of cacao solids (70 percent or higher), is a bona fide superfood. So the only thing now lacking in my water ganache would be richness (purely for pleasure, of course). My solution: add a decent amount of essential fats, namely, Udo's DHA Oil Blend. That way, you restore richness and silky texture while adding nutritional value. In the book, I say "flax oil," but between you and me, what I always use is Udo's, because it's the best I know of, and provides both omega-3 and omega-6 (apparently it's important to get them both and at the same time).

Here's the Recipe, ripped right from the book:

Minted Chocolate Dream

Makes 4 servings

This ridiculously quick-and-easy yet elegant and delightful dessert is made without cream, although the result is very rich and creamy. Impossible, you say? Try it. You can get a small bottle of peppermint schnapps so you don’t have to buy a full-sized one (although it’s great to have around for sipping in cold weather).

8 ounces vegan dark chocolate, chopped

1 cup boiling water

1/4 cup flax oil

1 tablespoon peppermint schnapps (optional)

1 teaspoon peppermint extract

4 perfect fresh mint sprigs, for garnish

Melt the chocolate in a stainless steel bowl set over hot (but not boiling) water, stirring occasionally. Once it is melted, whisk in the boiling water, 1 tablespoon at a time. The chocolate will seize up at first, but keep whisking and adding the water until it becomes smooth and creamy. Whisk in the flax oil, peppermint schnapps, if using, and peppermint extract. Pour into 4 dessert goblets. Refrigerate until set, at least 2 hours.

Remove from the refrigerator about 20 minutes before serving. Garnish with the mint sprigs at the last moment. After your guests have begun their spasmodic utterances of blissful approval, you can go ahead and tell them what’s in it. Show them the recipe if they don’t believe you.

Per serving, this provides 14.2 grams of omega-3 fatty acids!

Note: In making the dessert in the picture, I also dusted the tops with a high-quality cacao powder, to give it an extra-attractive look. To do this, I made a paper shield so the cacao wouldn't get on the rim. The mint sprig I added last.

Scenes From a Bullfight

2011-10-09T09:37:00.000-07:00

I was trolling for interesting news when I came upon a piece about a bullfighter who was gored in the face by a bull (and survived). I don't think I've ever read an article before in which every single line, if read carefully, was in itself disturbing. A sleeper in that bunch was one line mentioning the name and weight of the bull, the fact that it was the second "fighting beast" the bullfighter had dealt with that afternoon, and that the nasty business took place during the "Virgen del Pilar festivities." I'm assuming that the latter were religious observances.

I admit that my attention is--perhaps perversely--attracted by this sort of thing. It's not that I like to see anyone injured; it's more a fascination with things rarely seen--the unusual, especially grisly things which, I'm glad to say, I've seen very little of in my life. So for me they are a real-life oddity.

In Iraq, Chechnya, Sudan, and other war-torn areas, I imagine this story might not make the news at all. In the safety of my warm office, I have the luxury of not only reading it, but thinking philosophically about it.

I began wondering how bullfighting as a spectacle could be tolerated to such a degree that the particulars of this story, while gruesome, can be discussed with such unaffected distance. A goring is not an unheard of outcome for bullfights, in fact. When I was around eight years old, my mother took me to the bullfights in Mexico City, along with some friends who were visiting from the United States. I'll never forget the sight of a man being whirled around like a little floppy propeller on the tip of a bull's horn.

For those of my readers who may be unfamiliar with the protocol at these events, here it is in a nutshell:

First a trumpet announces the beginning of the games, and all the human players parade into the bullring to triumphant music. In come a squad of nameless guys with capes whose job it is to taunt, irritate, confuse and distract the bull. They are to bullfights what rodeo clowns are to rodeos. Of all the players involved, these are the ones most often seen running from the bull and jumping behind barriers to save their lives.

Behind them come the banderilleros, who will each tag the bull on the neck with two short decorative spears--called banderillas, or "flaglets," sporting the colors associated with the ranch proudly supplying the bull. The banderillas have barbed tips that help them stick in the bull's flesh and remain for the duration, flailing wildly as the bull moves.

Next the picadores, the fat, mounted pike-wielders, ride out on stout horses wearing blinders and thick protective padding. These guys are always booed--and understandably so, considering their role is to approach the bull from a superior position and jab a long blunt spear into his neck, precisely at the spine, in order to dull his wits and weaken him.

Finally the matadores (literally, "killers") march proudly into the ring, to roaring applause and cheers. They're followed and flanked by their own personal circle of guys with capes--the last resort and only recourse for a bullfighter who's lost control of the bull. If and when the goring starts, they will rush in to distract the bull so the injured matador can be rescued.

Then everyone exits the ring and a door opens to release one of the most spirited, powerful embodiments of masculine energy and fearless spirit on earth. The bull explodes into the ring, stopping and turning, spraying sand and charging in all directions. The guys with capes start their work, and the games begin. In ritual order, the players make their appearance, each taking a little of the bull's spirit and energy. Finally, the matador faces the bull directly (something none dare attempt when the bull first comes into the ring).

There is both skill and danger involved in the final act of slaying the bull, and both are in direct proportion to the condition of the bull at the time. Some bulls are quite exhausted and disoriented; others are keen and furious. The fight in this report ended badly for the human player. With very rare exceptions, it always ends badly for the animal players (even the picadores' horses may get bruised and injured).

One can't help assuming this bull was summarily dispatched with an efficiency and sangfroid that in literature are the central attributes ascribed to a serial killer. I wonder again, how such a spectacle could possibly be considered not only tolerable, but culturally normal. Unlike the spectators of dogfights or cockfights, most of the people attending bullfights are average, churchgoing, respected members of their communities. When I was a kid, bullfights were televised, like regular sporting events.

I see this phenomenon as a vestige of a more barbaric time--hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago--when humans were put into a similar ring, to fight each other to the death for a crowd's amusement. That became unacceptable at some point, so the organizers removed one human and inserted a fierce animal. For now this remains acceptable in some places, but we're evolving as a species. We're starting to find cruelty and suffering intolerable at deeper and deeper levels, and in wider and wider circles. Humans and animals have both begun to enjoy some rights--among humans.

Who knows how far our evolutionary trend of slowly awakening, becoming more conscious, less brutal, and more kind, will go. But it's definitely afoot. We're on our way upward as a species. Ascent is in our genes.

That's the good part of all this.

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Tajine-roasted Garlic

2011-10-08T15:21:00.000-07:00

When I make roasted garlic puree, I start with at least three or four cups of peeled garlic cloves. I toss them with a little olive oil, salt, and pepper, wrap them in parchment and several layers of aluminum foil, and then pop the package in a moderate-to-hot oven for about an hour. This is the wholesale method, which is ideal for making puree.

But sometimes it's fun to roast whole heads of garlic in a covered crock (I use a small tagine, which is a traditional north African baking dish with a gracefully curved, cone-like lid). This method affords a fundamentally more refined experience. An entire head of garlic presented fresh from the oven permits individual lightly caramelized cloves to be plucked still warm, with a knife tip or tiny fork, and eaten whole or smeared on bread--the diner, all the while, surrounded by a rich roasted allium redolence. This is a far more elegant serving option than pureed roasted garlic, and unless you're buying garlic already peeled, in the end it's a much easier way to go.

The prep time is brief and the method is simple. Just cut the top quarter off each bulb. Save the tops, which should slip fairly easily out of their skins, for another use*.
Place the bulbs, cut side up, in a baking dish. Drizzle a generous amount of EVOO over them and season with lightly ground Celtic salt and freshly ground black pepper. Cover the dish and place it in an oven preheated to 400F. Bake for about 20 minutes, then turn the oven down to 375. Bake another 40 minutes and then check to see how they look. If they aren't lightly browned, replace the lid and bake for another 15 minutes.

Ideally, serve the dish at once, lifting the lid at the table to suddenly release the roasted aroma, billowing up in a dramatic swirl of steam, and engulfing the guests.

*Make a quick garlic broth with the cut tops: Add them, skins and all, to a pot with a quart of water and two vegetable bouillon cubes. Bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to maintain a slow simmer, cover, and cook for about 15 minutes. Strain out the skins and bits. Use as a base for a soup or sauce, to thin purees, or for cooking rice or quinoa.

Superfast Sundried Tomato Sauce

2011-09-29T14:22:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, my son came into the kitchen in search of a quick something for dinner. At the time, I was assembling that "Taboulesque" salad I mentioned a few days ago, and my wife was sautéeing some freshly harvested zucchini and yellow squash.

The idea of pasta with tomato sauce was floated, to a slightly better than tepid response, but as it turned out, we had no tomatoes (believe it or not). We had already put the water on to boil the pasta (brown rice pasta, that is), so I had to think fast. We had no pesto either, but I did happen to have about a cup of sundried tomatoes (the dry, unmarinated kind). I threw them into the blender and added some hot water, a vegetable bouillon cube, garlic, salt, a little EVOO, and a couple sprigs of fresh oregano. I whipped it all to a smooth consistency, and that was it; three minutes flat. All that remained was to heat the sauce in a pan and grind in some black pepper.

When the pasta was firmer than my wife likes it, and not as firm as I like it (that's marriage for you), I drained it, keeping just a dribble of the cooking water, and sloshed it around in the sauce.

Marcella Hazan has famously--and snobbishly, frankly, although truthfully--accused Americans of using too much sauce on their pasta. I believe she would have approved of our starch-to-flavor ratio on this one occasion.

I don't eat pasta often (even the brown rice variety), so maybe the novelty of it influenced my enthusiastic response, but I think it's safe to say that everyone was glad we made a lot of this dish. I had no intention of photographing, or even mentioning this sudden addition to the meal, but after the first couple of bites, I whisked my plate away and fired off a few shots. As you can see, we had it on the same plate (infamia!) with my wife's delicious sautéed squashes. Heavenly.

A quick note about brown rice pasta, for those who may not have heard me rant about it: I've tried several substitutes for the real thing--the refined wheat pasta that is universally adored, but now widely shunned for one (good) reason or another. Whole wheat pasta is a wholesale loser (don't even try it). Quinoa pasta is a marginal contender, but it stops short of convincing me, and of course it does fall apart. Brown rice pasta has virtually identical properties to the world's favorite (or perhaps, as I said, it's been long enough since I've had the real thing, I don't mind the minor inconsistencies). At any rate, this is an excellent stand-in, and I'm not easy to impress, so there. We used fusilli, which are among the lest forgiving shapes, and they held together flawlessly.

Proud owners of Speed Vegan will most likely know about this sauce, because it's basically a form of "Sundried Tomato Paste" from the "Jump Starts" section of the book, with a little vegetable broth added. The recipe in the book goes something like this:

Sundried Tomato Paste

Makes about 1 1/4 cups

A terrific thing to have around for a number of uses, you can add this to sauces, soups, and dips for added flavor and complexity. Use it as a sandwich spread. Add a little hot broth for a quick, light pasta sauce.

1 jar (4.5 ounces drained weight) marinated sundried tomatoes, thoroughly drained

2 teaspoons minced garlic (or pressed)

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1/2 to 3/4 cup water, as needed

Combine all the ingredients in a blender and puree thoroughly.

Taboulesque

2011-09-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

As summer continues to wind down, the garden continues to yield its luscious gifts. Each day, when I look at the tomato, pepper, squash, and other plants, I'm astounded by their rapid growth, the changing colors of their ripening fruits. I imagine that if everyone could only see this mysteriously unfolding act of nature as the selfless nurturing of all things that it truly is, all arrogance would dissipate, replaced by a profound reverence and gratitude.

We'll move whatever plants we can indoors and continue growing throughout the winter, but the bright, kinetic profusion of summer will be gone until next year.

This may seem sad, but the last days of our summer crop are more celebratory than anything else. Just the other day, I made a salad from almost-all homegrown produce. It began as a tabouli, because we had a planter full of parsley that desperately needed harvesting. Then, as I went about the usual tasks, something happened; the kitchen gods derailed my plan. I began cutting cucumbers and tomatoes, and then I decided to add a few bright green peppers. By this point, I just didn't have the heart to muddy the vibrant colors and crisp, juicy textures with any grain whatsoever. So, after folding in a bunch of finely cut scallions, I stopped.

For the dressing, I pounded a little garlic with salt in a mortar until it formed a mushy paste. Then I worked in a little fresh lemon juice, followed by a fair amount of Bija "Old Grove" Greek extra virgin olive oil (from 600 year-old trees!), and a little Udo's DHA Oil. Simple, like nearly all great dishes. Not a true tabouli, but surely taboulesque in character.

Persephone's thoughts may be wandering now, deciding what to pack for her underworld sojourn, but the glory of summer is still on our plates, and I'm in no mood to mourn. I'm gathering the last glowing bits and feasting, joyfully, enthralled with every sapid mouthful.

Best In Show

2011-09-24T16:04:00.000-07:00

It seems like I've been on vacation. Last weekend I went to the VegFest in Portland, where I presented recipes from Speed Vegan to a packed house on Saturday and near-full house on Sunday. That, of course, was the highlight for me (along with completely selling out of both my cookbooks!), but there were other perks. I got to meet a lot of wonderful people, catch up with old friends, and sample some new products.

Top of my list were some new flavors of Theo Chocolate--from a truly excellent company based in Seattle. I admit I was already in love with their products, having tried them at Expo West a couple of years ago--and many times since. I like their name (from "theobroma," the botanical name for the genus of trees to which cacao belongs; it means "food of the gods."). I also like the elegant, whimsical design of their packaging, their ethos (high standard, fair trade, non-GMO), and their creative approach to chocolate making. I've enjoyed many surprising flavors and combinations from artisan chocolatiers, but few that shine through when mass produced. Every single one of Theo's chocolates is impressive, from their single origin 91% cacao from Costa Rica (ooh baby), to their mint--a simple enough, standard flavor, but made with both spearmint and peppermint essence and ground vanilla bean (wow).

It's hard to name a favorite, but the "Fig, Fennel and Almond" bar was truly inspired. Won a gold medal of some kind. The fact that figs are among the sexiest fruits imaginable no doubt gave it an unfair advantage over the other contestants, but often that's what winning is all about.

Another stellar product I sampled was a show-stopping "Marionberry Ice" served up by Kevin Bell, the proprietor of Oregon Ice Works, a single-location shop in Portland. Rarely have I tasted a commercial product with such a potent, small-batch intensity of flavor. His other two offerings at the show, coconut milk-based coffee and vanilla, were also delicious. If you're ever in Portland, you'll want to make the effort to locate Kevin's shop and see why I'm praising his stuff! (Sorry, no photo; I couldn't bring a sample back with me, and I didn't have the presence of mind to snap a shot with my iPhone).

Next, in no particular order--I'm just listing the products that genuinely surprised me--was a raw cracker called "Dr. John's Vita Crisp."

Now, I love raw food, and I understand how beneficial it is, but for the most part I've found raw food products a bit on the hippie-rubbery side. No aspersion on hippies (or rubber), but let's face it, there are some people out there who will eat anything they believe to be "good for you," regardless of how unpleasant it may be to get it down. I'm not one of them. Many raw foods I've tried have had, shall we say, serious pleasure deficits, the main two of which seem to be in the area of flavor and texture.

So it was a pleasant surprise to bite down on these cracker-crunchy, full-flavored raw treats. Made from (all organic) celery, carrots, onions, flax seeds, sprouted sunflower and pumpkin seeds, raisins, apple cider vinegar, sea salt, turmeric, and "other spices"--the latter apparently the only ingredients that create the four very distinct flavors--these healthful snacks are freaking spectacular. That well-researched combination of fat, salt and sugar that makes people overeat junk food is present here, but from natural, whole, organic, raw ingredients. So it's totally okay that they're downright addicting!

Then I wandered over to the "Wilderness Poets" booth, where I sampled some of the freshest-tasting nut and seed butters I've ever had. I met the proprietors, John and Mika, who have that starry-eyed look I've come to recognize as genuine passion--the unstoppable thrill that drives true craftsmen and artists. John introduced me to a couple of food items I'd never come across before: "Jungle Peanuts" and "Incan Berries" both from the jungles of South America. Apparently, the exotic-looking "jungle" peanuts are naturally low in aflatoxins (the allergen to which some peanut-sensitive people react adversely). They have a mild, non-fatty, pleasant flavor, and for some reason their unique reddish stripes made them especially appealing to me. John and Mika combine these and other superfoods in their "Wild Mixes," so-called to differentiate them from the standard old trail mixes. Sweet people, terrific products.

Next to the Wilderness Poets, I saw "Solstice" snack bars laid out for sampling, and almost walked past them, having tried many similar-appearing bars that turned out to be bland at best, or just plain awful. Something about the people standing behind the table made me stop and give them a chance. The first one I tried was astonishingly good--light, crunchy, slightly gooey with chocolate, sweet with goji berries, and very flavorful. I seem to remember there was puffed quinoa in the mix, but now it's all a blur and I don't see it mentioned anywhere in the literature I brought home, or on their website. At the end of the line of sweet treats, there was one savory bar called "Thai Fusion." My first thought was, "Uh-oh. here's where it gets weird." I was so wrong. It was like eating Pad Thai or Mee Krob, in a snack bar; sweet, spicy, crunchy and gooey, with all the subtle aromatics inherent to Thai dishes. Brilliant, period. Reiner Bohlen, the ring leader, was quite engaging and we chatted for a good while. I was so glad I stopped and took a chance on the "Solstice Goji bars."

The usual drill for me at VegFests like this one in Portland is straightforward: arrive, shop, prep samples, sleep (a little), prep some more, pack, schlep to the venue, set up the demo, present, answer questions, sign books, repeat. I thoroughly enjoy doing this, because I meet a lot of people and (so far) I'm very well received. This time two things were different; 1) I came a day earlier and got most of the prep done well in advance, and 2) my presentations were earlier in the day, so I had a lot of time afterwards to walk the show and visit with people. It was so much more fun this time around, but either way, all in all I have to say I LOVE WHAT I DO!!!

Western Slope Peaches

2011-09-14T23:19:00.000-07:00

Every September since I moved to Colorado, I've gotten a case of organic peaches from Rancho Durazno in Palisade, on the western slope of the Rockies. My sister-in-law knows someone who knows someone who owns this farm, and she takes orders. These are some of the most outrageously delicious peaches in the world. They feel quite firm, almost unripe, but as soon as you bite into them, juices gush down to your chin and luscious peach-essence explodes in your mouth.

Part of the beauty of having an abundance of these gems is that I don't mind taking a few and cooking them. A full case is virtually impossible to consume in the normal way before they begin to spoil, so we end up freezing some, making tarts, sauces, ice cream, and sorbet.

My publisher called me yesterday--right after I got back from Toronto--and asked if I'd be up for getting on a plane to Portland tomorrow, to present at the VegFest there on Saturday and Sunday. Of course I agreed. So off I go, first thing in the morning. Then I realized that the remaining half-case of peaches would probably not survive until I get home on Monday; tonight I roasted some.

I cut a few in half, removed the pits, and lay them cut-side down in a glass baking pan. Then I split a Tahitian vanilla bean and scraped the seeds over them. I cut the bean into four pieces and scattered them around. Then I took four stalks of fresh lemongrass, sliced them thinly and added them, letting the slices gather in the spaces between the peaches. I had a little simple syrup made with evaporated cane juice left over from making daiquiris last week, so I added that, along with a splash of peach schnapps and a slug of white rum. I added just enough water to bring the level up a bit more than half-way to the tops of the peaches and placed the dish in a moderate oven for about 40 minutes.

After letting them cool just a bit, I pulled the skins off and placed three halves in each dessert bowl. spooning the reduced liquid over them. The lemongrass and vanilla had just lightly infused the fruit, and the roasting had enhanced and enriched the peach flavor. There just isn't anything like fresh seasonal fruit of any kind, but western slope Colorado peaches are beyond sublime. I think I'll pack a few for the trip and see if they pass security...

I guess that's it until next Monday. If you're in the Portland area, stop in at the Veg Fest. I'm on at 12:30 on Saturday and at 11:00 Sunday morning.

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A Little Food For The Hungry Ear

2011-09-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

I just got back from Toronto, which may well be the most multicultural city in the world, where I spent four days sharing my food and ideas with hundreds of people. I also got to eat and enjoy other people's food--including the best Ethiopian food I've had to date (at "Rendez-Vous" on Danforth in Greek Town). On Saturday night, after my presentation at the Toronto VegFest, a friend invited me to the world premiere of the new documentary, "Vegucated."

All in all, I had a delightful, uplifting experience. So inspiring.

I'll get back into the kitchen this evening, but first I want to share some food of a different kind--one that we ingest through our ears, to nourish our humanness. I've been a fan of "Playing For Change" since they first began their songs-around-the-world project--uniting peoples and cultures through the universal language of music. I think you'll like it.

Seeing human beings all around the world harmonizing with one another, expressing the timeless feelings common to all of us, I'm in awe of the oneness and beauty of the human heart. Despite all our differences and the things that divide us, at our core we are one great being of longing, hope, love, and gratitude, breathing in billions of uniquely expressive forms.

This is their latest piece; the other two are my all-time favorites.

Salad of Pea Shoots, Endive and Fennel

2011-09-06T23:01:00.000-07:00

I'm off to Toronto, where I'll be presenting some cooking demos at various venues, including the Toronto VegFest, at Harbourfront. I had some very fresh pea shoots that I knew would never last until I get back on Monday night, so I had to think fast.

I also had a most interesting heirloom tomato that was beyond ripe, a fennel bulb, a perfect yellow pepper, a couple of Belgian endives, and a few other odds and ends. Here's what I came up with:

I cut the endive, the pepper, and half a red onion into thin strips, sliced the fennel thinly, and combined them all in a bowl with the pea shoots. For the dressing, I pounded a handful of fresh basil and two cloves of garlic in a mortar with a little Celtic salt until it formed a frothy green juice. Then I ground in a bit of Dijon mustard and peach-infused white balsamic vinegar until well blended. Pounding and swirling away, I added the last of an excellent bottle of EVOO, made from picholine olives, in a thin stream. The smell was intoxicating, and the taste of the silky emulsion was, well, certainly worth all the pounding and grinding.

I cut the tomato into slices a little thicker than a quarter-inch, and lay two slices on each plate. Then I added the basil vinaigrette to the vegetables in the bowl and tossed them until thoroughly coated. I made mounds of the salad next to the tomato slices and drizzled some of the remaining vinaigrette all around. Then I added some very coarsely chopped brazilnuts and a few twists of the peppermill. At the last minute, I threw a light sprinkling of chardonnay smoked salt across the tomatoes.

This one came together so fast, I really didn't have time to question what I was doing, or how it would all work. Clearly, the kitchen gods were in a good mood and generously guided my hands. This was an inspired salad--one of those things that just happen--and both my wife and I devoured it without saying a word.

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A Red Slaw Wrapped in Avocado

2011-09-06T16:32:00.000-07:00

My son walked into the kitchen while I was assembling this salad for the photo and asked me, "Are you pioneering this?" I had never heard him use that expression, but I liked it a lot.

Yes, when I'm not lazily repeating the past, or following blindly in the footsteps of others, I'm definitely pioneering. How do I know? It's a feeling--a sense that I'm stretching the envelope, finding yet another expression, widening the world I exist in as an artist. And that thrills me. Sometimes I discover later that someone somewhere has come up with basically the same invention, but this doesn't detract from the experience of blazing a new trail and making my imagination into a tangible reality.

I actually made the central part of this salad a couple of days ago, as part of a multi-course dinner for a guest. It didn't quite measure up to the other dishes--we all agreed--and I'd been thinking of possible ways to make it work. It had plenty of flavor, but it lacked richness and depth. The slaw consisted of grated beet and carrot, and thinly sliced red pepper, Tuscan kale and red onion, dressed with a balsamic vinaigrette.

Today I decided to, you might say, finish this salad. I packed the slaw into a ring mold, set it on a plate, and then lifted the ring away. I knew it needed some richness and a contrasting texture, so I cut some very thin strips of avocado and used them to wrap the molded slaw. Then I covered the top with sunflower sprouts, allowing some to drop around the perimeter. For a final touch, I placed a few drops of 18-year-old balsamic around the plate and scattered pumpkin seeds over the dish.

You don't realize sometimes, just how needy a dish is until you've taken the necessary steps to complete it in a fashion befitting its potential. This salad was a world apart in flavor, textural interest, visual appeal, and sheer pleasure, from the acceptable but non-spectacular slaw it had been just two days before.

Lesson for me: Never ignore the food's subtly whispered messages. Pay attention, and take it all the way to completion. Don't stop until it sings clearly, unabashedly.

Pollination, Food, and Life

2011-09-05T13:33:00.000-07:00

This short clip from the film, "Wings of Life" by Louis Schwartzberg, reveals the little-known, seldom seen support system on which our life fundamentally relies:

Creatures that feed and frolic in the flora, spreading pollen; the movement of pollen that somehow manages to reach its intended destination; the proliferation of plants that feed all living things--a splendid display of color, sound and movement, choreographed spontaneously with unparalleled grace and beauty.

Can you imagine? This incredible dance is what makes our entire food system work. Each of these tiny, fragile creatures, merely by pursuing their individual needs, participates in the nourishment of all other creatures. That's not even counting the many wingless creatures, in the ground and in the foliage, that play unique and irreplaceable roles in the grand design. What a world we live in!

A Summer Garden Salad

2011-09-04T12:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a chilly wind blew through our open windows and doors, relentlessly all day, presaging fall's inevitable approach. It's warmer today, but the span of daylight is shortening, and summer is definitely on its way out.

The good news is that we still have plenty of produce coming forth from the garden--life's uncompromising messages of love--zucchini, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes of various shapes and sizes.

You think you work so hard to make this possible, digging, building, planting, watering, yet nothing anyone can do will guarantee the bounty that just magically appears--sweetly, eloquently, perfectly.

There's a line in the I Ching that says something like, "The host attracts the guests by his willingness to receive them." I can't think of a more appropriate way to state what a gardener does than comparing it to a host's preparation for his guests, especially that pre-welcoming empty space he creates, that only the guest can fill. Full disclosure: I'm not a gardener; my wife is, but the small part I've played in creating our garden has given me this insight.

As summer begins its downward trajectory, I feel more than ever the urgency to enjoy its last fruits--the irreplaceable ones that come from where I live, from just outside my window, and not by boat and truck from somewhere in the southern hemisphere. Soon we'll have to bring our herbs and lettuces indoors again, restarting our "bathtub garden" for the cold months ahead. But for now, I'm savoring every mouthful of our open-air garden's last vernal blush.

I composed a salad yesterday, using some of our cucumbers, peppers, and different types of tomatoes, along with a few items from our local Natural Grocers. It was one of several versions I like to make of the simple Israeli salad, this one with a Lebanese-inspired dressing (I hope the two factions will see in this a bridge, and not an affront!).

It only took a few minutes to cut and combine cucumbers, tomatoes, green peppers, red onion, avocados, and cilantro, in a bowl with garbanzos. I dressed the salad with a light "taratour" sauce, made by pounding garlic and salt together in a mortar to a smooth paste, and then working in fresh lemon juice, olive oil, and Udo's DHA Oil, forming a thin emulsion. Then I added spoonfuls of tahini, stirring and pounding until smooth and creamy. I love using a mortar. It's like going back to the dawn of civilization.

I had never made a salad with different varieties of tomatoes before (how could that be possible, after cooking for 30-plus years?), but the combination was an added dimension of pleasure. The larger ones I had cut into juicy bite-size pieces, whereas the cherry tomatoes I left intact to explode between our teeth. The taste differences were also remarkable. You can't really tell from the picture at the top, but that slightly lighter color tomato in the center is actually a gorgeous orange, as it appears in the shot of the salad. And it's not just the color; the taste of that orange tomato is unbelievable--as different from the red ones as a Pink Lady apple is from a Granny Smith.

How often it is, at times like these, that I hear in my head Louis Armstrong's baritone, "...and I think to myself, what a wonderful world!"

Ooh, yeah.

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Garnet Yams and a New Flavor for Quinoa

2011-09-03T15:48:00.000-07:00

I saw the most endearing carrot-thin yams at my local Natural Grocers this week, and I just had to get some. Normally, like most people, I roast yams; it's easy, it works well, and the light caramelization they acquire that way adds wonderful flavor. But these little things seemed to be clamoring for a different sort of treatment, and I've never been one to ignore a vegetable's expressed wishes. Eventually, an idea came to me that I thought might work.

I peeled the yams and cut them into discs about an inch thick. Selecting a sauté pan wide enough to accommodate all the pieces in one layer, I brushed the bottom generously with coconut oil. I laid the discs out in the pan cut-side down and dusted the tops with ras el hanout and fine grain Celtic salt. Then I poured in just about a half-inch of water--careful not to splash any on the yams--and added a vegetable bouillon cube, broken into small bits. I placed the pan over high heat and brought the water to a simmer, immediately adjusting the heat to prevent it from coming to a full boil. I covered the pan with a glass lid, which would enable me to monitor the water level.

While the yams bubbled contentedly, I put a small pot of quinoa on to cook in the normal way, with salt and vegetable bouillon. As the water boiled away, the bottoms of the yams began to caramelize lightly. Soon the quinoa was done, and I added it to the pan, tossing and flipping it all together. I wasn't ready to serve yet, so I covered the pan and set it aside while I made another dish.

Yesterday I picked up a bunch of flawless collard greens, and decided to prepare them my favorite way. Collards take a good while to cook, so what I like to do is braise them with onions, garlic, dried red chile, and tomato. First I heat the pot dry, over a high flame. Then I add a couple tablespoons of coconut oil, swirl it once as it quickly melts, and then add a large onion, cut into wide pieces.

I stir just often enough to prevent sticking, until they begin to color lightly and turn translucent. Then I add seven cloves of garlic, thinly sliced, and a dried hot red chile or two, stirring constantly to keep the garlic from burning. Once the divine aroma has reached the neighbor's house and beyond, I add the collards, center rib removed and leaves cut into roughly two-inch squares. As soon as the leaves wilt slightly and the mixture is beginning to dry, I add about a cup or more of chopped peeled tomatoes, along with salt, pepper, and perhaps a tablespoon or more of water. Stirring briskly, I turn the heat down to low. After that, it's just a matter of time, and an occasional stir to make sure nothing sticks. For such a simple affair, this collard dish has amazing depth, concentrated flavor, and delightful textures.

When it seemed the collards would be done soon, I reheated the quinoa and yams. At the last minute, I added a bunch of scallions, thinly sliced, and half a bunch of chopped cilantro. After tasting it, I decided it needed a little more ras el hanout, a dash of cinnamon, and a spoonful of honey (which would be the Moroccan choice, but I used agave, to keep the vegan police off my back*).

I served the two dishes side by side on the plate, and that was dinner. I'm always astonished at how much quinoa I can eat without feeling bloated afterwards. It's like it just disappears. The collards made an ideal partner for it, not only contrasting the colors and textures of the quinoa dish, but providing a neutral counterpoint cuisine-wise--spicy, but with no distinct spices or herbs to nail it down.

I don't know if my Moroccan friends would approve of my blending their culture with Bolivia's, but the taste of this new dish just might have softened a pugnacious stance considerably. We may never know, because my wife and I ate it all, so there is no evidence left on which to indict me in the international court of culture crimes. Trust me, my habibis, it was very good!

* I'm not convinced that honey is necessarily a cruel treatment of bees. Although certainly the industrial production is just as abominable as the factory farming of animals, and the quality of that honey is poor to say the least, I happen to know some conscientious beekeepers who take very good care of their bees, and turn out excellent raw honey.

Anyone out there want to chime in and give me a rational argument for staying away from even a teaspoon, here and there, of properly produced raw honey?

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Fresh Fig Tart

2011-09-02T15:34:00.000-07:00

Fresh Fig Tart in a Pistachio Crust

You may have read an earlier post in which I not only raved about fresh figs in general, but at one point, also hinted at a fig tart I was dreaming up at the time. Sadly, there were no figs left when I went back to the store, so I've had time to think about how I would put this new dessert together. It seemed like months went by with nary a fig in sight--although it was more like weeks--and then just days ago I found a flat of large, nearly ripe beauties. Yesterday the ripening was complete, and I made what I'm calling "Fresh Fig Tart in a Pistachio Crust."

My wife was a little surprised that this was 100% vegan, especially given the creaminess of the filling. It's pretty amazing what you can do with plants--what can I say?

This is not a difficult dessert to make at all. The hardest part is the crust, and that's a piece of cake (sorry if this sounded confusing). I had made a pistachio version of "Nutty Chocolate Balls" for a demo I presented in Boston, and I'd been keeping a little bag of very fine pistachio flakes and bits in my freezer. It just so happened, I had precisely enough to make the crust (am I lucky, or what?).

As an aside, in that post I did indicate that the fine powder and smaller bits should be strained out before rolling the chocolate balls in the chopped nuts, but not why (I just went back and checked). The reason is that if you don't, then the fine powder will be the first to adhere to the chocolate, and this will keep the larger bits from sticking. This alone would not be a problem, but it's the larger chunks that provide the nutty flavor and pleasant crunch, whereas the powder's influence would be barely perceptible. But in a cake batter, cookie dough or--in this case--tart shell, the powder becomes very effective. So there you go.

Since the pistachio meal was already prepared, all I had to do was combine it with a little palm sugar and coconut oil. Then it was only a matter of packing the mixture into a tart pan and chilling it until firm before baking.

The filling was basically a cashew cream--made by soaking raw cashews in water until soft, draining them, and then whipping them to a smooth cream in a Vitamix blender. I added a little water to facilitate this, along with just a few tablespoons of agave nectar and kirsch. I spread this evenly in the tart shell, once it had cooled.

The smaller you cut the fruit, the better coverage you'll get, meaning fewer gaps where the filing is visible. However, in this case, I simply quartered them lengthwise, both for aesthetics and to maintain the integrity of the fruit. Looks are important, but so is the feeling in your mouth of biting through a piece of luscious fig! Having these elegant shapes to work with allowed for an attractive, almost mandala-like design.

For a glaze, I used a jar of St. Dalfour apricot jam--because it's excellent quality jam, but also because they don't add any sugar to their recipes. I just scoop the jam into a small pot, warm it over a low flame until it melts, and strain out the solids. Then I brush it onto the fruit while it's still warm. As it cools, it congeals to form a lustrous, highly flavorful protective coating on the fruit. Back when I was the head pastry chef at a billionaires' country club in California, they wanted me to use some cheap, tasteless "confectioner's glaze" from a gallon tub. To save money! I just couldn't. Wouldn't, in fact.

Well, that's it. Easy, huh? Look for the recipe in my next book--I don't have a title yet, so keep in touch with my blog and I'll announce it in plenty of time, don't worry!

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Attack of the Killer Zucchini

2011-09-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

No, don't be alarmed. I meant that in a good way. You see, we planted a lot of squash in our new garden this year, and they surged from the earth in a profusion I never imagined possible, becoming a dense jungle of giant bobbing leaves like bright green elephant ears.

I should have known--my wife has the greenest thumb on the planet. Every single seed she planted grew into a prolific squash producer. It's almost terrifying the way they keep coming--we have to eat fast to keep up with them! Fortunately, we adore zucchini (and all squashes) so this is no hardship--although eating them nearly every day does tend to crowd out some culinary diversity.

Summer also brings succulent sweet corn--although we aren't growing any, so I have to buy it at our local Natural Grocers. One dish we haven't tired of, zucchini with corn, has played many times so far without a complaint. Sometimes the blossoms aren't quite fresh and lustrous enough to add, but this doesn't stop me. The fresh basil alone brings all the elements together and renders this signature summer dish utterly irresistible.

Often we make a meal of only this and a salad--just last night, in fact. Other times, maybe I'll add an element of American-style eating, for the hell of it--like something smothered in barbecue sauce. I was surprised by my wife's enthusiastic response to the chipotle-grilled tempeh I made recently (she really doesn't go for tempeh). The sauce I just jammed together at the last minute, combining some unsweetened organic ketchup, fresh lime juice, a little palm sugar, and a gob of chipotle chile puree (recipe in the "Jump Starts" section of Speed Vegan). I cut the tempeh cake into four slices, steamed them for about five minutes to open them up a bit, then immersed them in the sauce. After they had soaked up a little of the sauce, all it took was a few minutes on the grill to mark them and give them a pleasant charred-smoky flavor. This combo didn't even need much of a salad to make a complete meal.

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An Easy Two-Curry Dinner

2011-08-31T08:33:00.000-07:00

There's something about finding a new vegetable or fruit, or one with an unusual size or shape, that activates my right brain and sets creative energy in motion. I can just picture a synaptic lightning storm blasting into action inside my skull, as free-associations and fresh images begin to bloom. This is what keeps cooking fresh and exciting for me, and makes what I do thoroughly engaging.

Last Friday I came across some of the tiniest eggplants I've ever seen--not much bigger than olives. Immediately, several applications came to mind: a sort of mini-ratatouille; vegetable tartlets, with slices of these eggplants alternated with sliced small zucchini, fanned over the surface; a Moroccan-inspired eggplant and chick pea tajine. When the time came to cook, I settled on a panang curry with eggplant and tofu.

The process is ridiculously simple. Heat a spoonful of coconut oil in a large pot. Add a big gob of Thai panang curry paste and stir wildly. Add the eggplants, halved lengthwise, and stir until coated with the curry paste. Add coconut milk, bring to a simmer, and cook until the eggplants are tender, and the liquid has thickened to a sauce. Add an eight-ounce block of firm organic* tofu, cut into half-inch cubes, and warm through. Throw in a handful of coarsely chopped basil and a bunch of scallions, slivered.
Stir, serve and eat.

While the eggplant dish was cooking, I made a quick salad. I had bought a huge green mango at the same time as the eggplants, with this salad in mind, but after a few days in my warm kitchen, it ripened from rock hard green to juicy yellow. No big loss, of course, if you love mangoes--most people would never know I intended this to be a green mango salad.

I cut the mango into thin strips and combined it with mung bean sprouts, hydroponic watercress, long strips of grated carrot, and coarsely chopped cilantro.

Then I put Thai green curry paste, lime juice, garlic, Udo's DHA Oil Blend, and fresh basil in a blender and blasted it to bright green smithereens.
As soon as the eggplant dish was ready, I tossed the salad with the green curry dressing. For a final touch, I sprinkled a generous amount of roasted cashews over each serving.

I brought the two curry dishes to the table together, not as an ideal serving method, but simply to avoid the need to get up in the middle of the meal and bring the second course. My wife has never cared about these things--although she does appreciate my usual observance of proper serving ritual--and it was just the two of us, after all. Common sense dictated we eat the hot dish first, but I knew this wouldn't take long enough for the salad to wilt, so why not? Sometimes I allow just a little laziness to influence the way I serve a meal--at home, that is.

I've heard arguments for and against eating your salad last. Some say you need to eat the raw part of your meal first, to awaken the palate, supply the stomach with live enzymes to aid digestion, and to go from lighter to heavier foods the way you would go from white to red wines, not the other way around. On the other side of the argument, others insist that eating the salad last refreshes and cleanses the palate, and brings the same digestive advantages suggested by advocates for eating salad first. You know what I suggest? Eat whatever you want, in any order you want, and see how you feel. If it works, don't listen to what anyone says. If it doesn't, try something else until you find what works for you. Pundits, by their very nature, are given to spouting whatever opinion will keep them in business; we're on our own to find out what's best for us.

*Note: If you want to avoid eating genetically modified soy as well as soy grown with chemical fertilizers and pesticides, always select organic tofu. Your call.

Shirataki in Shiitake Broth

2011-08-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

Say that five times, real quick. Maybe you've noticed this fairly new product in the tofu/tempeh section of your local natural foods store. Tofu shirataki are Japanese noodles made from a combination of tofu and yam flour--with little to offer nutritionally speaking (1 gram of protein, 2 grams of fiber per serving), but it's fun to eat if you like noodles. They're quite firm to the tooth, almost leaning toward the crunchy side, but they wiggle nicely and offer that slurpable quality with which Japanese noodle aficionados are well-acquainted.

To take them out for my first test-drive, I decided on a very quick, simple route: noodles in broth. I began by preparing a classic kombu dashi (without the shaved bonito flakes), which takes a little time, because the broth must be brought up to just below a simmer very slowly. This prevents the kombu from turning bitter and spoiling the broth, but it also helps leach the flavor and nutrients out of the seaweed--which of course is the whole point of this exercise. While I was waiting, I set a few dried shiitake mushrooms to soak in a little warm water. Once the broth was lightly colored, I removed the kombu (saving it to add to a batch of brown rice later) and added a little tamari, sake, and mirin.

Once the mushrooms had softened, I sliced them about an eighth-inch thick and added them to the broth, along with their woodsy-fragrant soaking water, and brought the mixture to a simmer. Shiitake mushrooms cook up nicely in just a few minutes.

In a separate pot, I par-boiled the noodles to remove the "authentic aroma," as the package directed. I guess authentic shirataki smell a little like four-day-old fish. Good call to get rid of that, package guys! Not everything authentic enjoys universal appeal.

After rinsing the noodles, I added them to the pot with the mushrooms and reheated the broth. I added a few scallions, sliced thinly on a slight diagonal, and that was that. On a sudden whim, as a final touch, I threw in a pinch of pickled shiso powder--a uniquely salty-sour macrobiotic condiment.

If you've never had the pleasure of shoving noodles and mushrooms into your mouth with chopsticks and slurping them up along with a flavorful broth from the lip of the bowl, I highly recommend trying it at least once. You don't have to use tofu shirataki for this; you'll also enjoy buckwheat soba--my favorite--or regular old wheat ramen, if you're not on a gluten-free diet.

Because these noodles are totally carbohydrate-free, this dish makes a light, tasty--and highly entertaining--snack, or an idea appetizer for a multi-course meal. Shiitake mushrooms are highly medicinal, with some research indicating they help lower the "bad" cholesterol, prevent platelet aggregation, protect the liver, fight cancer, and boost the immune system. They taste good too, which is very important--some would say paramount.

Bitter Melon Salsa

2011-08-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

It's been hot today, and I've been working in the kitchen. Perhaps it sounds counter-intuitive, but eating spicy food will eventually cool you down. This is known throughout the tropics, where nearly all indigenous cultures eat a lot of very hot food. Chiles, especially fresh green chiles, are the most anti-inflammatory food you can eat. That doesn't necessarily make it a cooling food, but in this particular instance, it does work. First, the chile will raise your body temperature slightly (an endothermic reaction). Then, you begin to sweat, as heat is released (an exothermic reaction). Finally, the sweat begins to evaporate, cooling the surface of your skin. It's magic, really, and you get to enjoy an endorphin rush in the process.

I was at the Indian store yesterday, buying fresh mint, when I saw some unusually fresh bitter melons. On impulse, I bagged over a pound of the beauties, with no particular purpose in mind. I used to make a filipino salad I learned from a coworker in Beverly Hills, that involves grilling the bitter melon (called ampalayá in Tagalog). I haven't made it lately because it needs fish sauce to taste right, and I don't even buy fish sauce anymore. But I was in the mood to bring back that grilling technique, so I came up with a sort of MexicAsian relish. It evolved as I made it, as you'll see.

First I grilled the bitter melon as usual, letting it blacken dramatically. The next step is to wash and scrape off the char (always a good idea), slit the bitter melons lengthwise, and scrape out the seeds. Then I sliced them crosswise, a little wider than a quarter-inch. So far, it's the same salad. The filipino cuisine apparently doesn't mix bitter with spicy, but I have no problem with that, so I added basic salsa ingredients: fresh green chiles, tomato, onion, cilantro, lime juice and salt. Then I kept going, bringing in some diced avocado for good measure, and red kidney beans, for substance and protein. Finally, I added a few tablespoons of Simple Garlic Udo's Oil, a grind or two of black pepper, and a little ground chile chimayo, folding gently with a silicone spatula.

You have to like bitter melon to really enjoy this, but I do (very much), so there you have it. I made a lunch out of this little salad/salsa, eating it with some fire-heated tortillas.

For more ideas using bitter melon, check out an earlier post, "Bitter Is Good," and another one called "Bitter Melon Curry."

Take a Leek

2011-08-25T14:48:00.000-07:00

Sorry--it was the first title that came to mind. I did spin a few other ideas, but none had any punch, and in the end, I just didn't want to waste any more time coming up with a better one. So it goes.

Everyone seems to appreciate the smell of onions cooking, and so many classic dishes begin this way, but I want to speak up a bit for another prominent member of the allium family--one that really doesn't get the respect it deserves. In Europe, everyone knows what a leek is, and how it participates in gastronomy's grand design. In America, not nearly as much. It's an elegant vegetable, with a specific place in the flavor spectrum, a noble one, at once congenial and understated. If an onion were a trumpet, the leek would be an oboe.

It's important for both human and environmental health to eat as diverse a selection of produce as possible, and to constantly push the envelope that tends to rein in what our choices may be. For the environment, this will be a benefit by supporting local farmers who take the initiative to grow non-mainstream plants, especially heirloom varieties, thus promoting biodiversity and replenishing the soil, which is at the heart of nature itself. In terms of our health, eating diversely ensures that we obtain all the micronutrients we need for optimum nourishment, but it also offers us an organic shield from dietary boredom--and this is no small thing, because it's ennui (a most modern affliction) that leads many of us to eat processed junk.

Back to the leek. I'm still on a roll with my fresh turmeric experiments, trying to stretch into areas where turmeric as a spice is not particularly comfortable--or where the host might not be terribly receptive to its advances. A recent successful meld came about as a last minute flash, where I suddenly decided to include some freshly grated turmeric just before pulling the dish off the heat, and then garnished the plate with a bit more. I'm not sure I would have planned this combination, but it worked.

Leeks and Mushrooms with Fresh Turmeric Root

It all began innocently enough. I had some leek tops--the green part--left over from making a dish that required only the white portion, and was working on a recipe for what I planned to call "leeks and mushrooms." It's a very simple dish. All you do is cook thinly sliced leeks in a little coconut oil (my best choice for obtaining the cooking qualities of butter) until soft and beginning to color, and then add quartered button mushrooms. The secret to mushrooms is to cover them until they begin to release their liquid, then uncover them and cook until they reabsorb the liquid, and they're done. Then you can add salt, pepper, and anything else you may have on your mind. For me, it was shreds of fresh turmeric (don't ask me why). I grated it right into the pan, turned it a few times with a silicone spatula, and that was it. Off the heat, I folded in a little chopped parsley. On the plate, I garnished with more parsley and a few gratings of the turmeric. Loved it.

The same day, I made another new leek dish, which I'm calling "Quinoa with Leeks and White Truffle Oil." Three things I really love in a single item, with nothing else to muck it up. This was pure comfort food, but by no means pedestrian.

Quinoa with Leeks and White Truffle Oil

I put a cup of quinoa on to cook, with Celtic salt and a vegetable bouillon cube. While it was bubbling happily on the back burner, I cut four leeks (white part only) into half-inch dice. I sautéed them in a small amount of EVOO, turning the heat down just enough to keep them from coloring, until they were very tender. By this time, they had cooked down from about four cups to about two, but the flavor and aroma were downright intoxicating. I seasoned them with a little salt and pepper, stirring lightly, and then folded in the quinoa. Just before serving, I drizzled about a tablespoon of white truffle oil over the mixture and fluffed it through. I served it garnished with snipped chives. I think leeks and truffles were meant to be together, cream or no cream. The quinoa took on their collective aura readily, making the entire dish into a veritable siren's song. (Yes, I do think sailors would turn their ships into the rocks, questing for the source of this heavenly scent.)

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An Anti-inflammatory Soup

2011-08-24T19:27:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I've been exploring ways to incorporate fresh turmeric into various dishes, in order to combine the health benefits of this remarkably medicinal vegetable with the pleasure of eating it. Of course there are a few straightforward, simple options, like adding it to blended drinks, or tossing some grated into a salad. But I like to see what new effects can be coaxed out of ingredients--especially ones with such concentrated flavor and color as fresh turmeric has.

Coincidentally, some other considerations came up recently. Last weekend was a busy time, what with my participation in a major sporting event among other things, so no one had been into the garden to check on the produce. After several days of fairly heavy rainfall, the zucchini plants had become a bright green sprawl of bobbing leaves so dense it was hard to see anything underneath. Understandably, one squash was overlooked for a few days, and by the time my wife found it, we had a one hefty cudgel to contend with. This is not by any means ideal for cooking, because at this stage the squash is mostly water, with a very diluted flavor. The only way to deal with it was to cook it right away before the skin had a chance to get dry and tough. So here's how it all came together:

I sautéed about four cups of thinly sliced white onion in a couple tablespoons of coconut oil until just beginning to soften. Then I added about a tablespoon each of minced garlic, finely grated turmeric root and fresh ginger. I set this to cook over very low heat, so that the flavors would flow into one another. As this happened, I grated the monstrous zucchini and added it to the pot. I went about some other tasks while the liquid released from the vegetables reduced down to a few tablespoons, and then added a can of coconut milk. By now the dish had turned a pale yellow with mere flecks of green.

I scooped out about three-quarters of the mixture and puréed it in the Vitamix with a few cups of vegetable bouillon and a few green serrano chiles (green chiles, by the way, are the most anti-inflammatory food there is). Then I returned the puréed soup to the pot, stirred well to combine it with the solids, and reheated it. On a sudden whim, I threw in a pinch of saffron, which turned out to be an excellent call, because this put the considerable heat of fresh green chiles in an elegant context. As soon as the soup was hot, I took it off the stove and stirred in a handful of coarsely chopped basil.

To serve, I ladled the soup into low bowls, strewed a few long strips of basil across the surface, and added dots of paper-thin shaved raw turmeric root. As a finishing touch, I ground black pepper over the soup and sprinkled on a few grains of Haleakala red sea salt.

It's a well-established fact that we absorb and assimilate nutrients much better and more readily when they are in food than we do when they come as supplements in pill form--and even more so in food that we truly enjoy eating. It's common sense, really, if you think about it. The human body is--to risk using a loaded word--designed for enjoyment. We function at our optimum when we're in harmony with our environment, and we digest best when what we eat is appealing to our senses.

This isn't to say that our senses can't be fooled. We might in fact enjoy eating something that is ultimately harmful--like potatoes crisp-fried in duck fat, for example. That might be delicious to some people, but eating it regularly could have a terrible impact on their arteries. The trick is to find ways of preparing beneficial foods, in ways that protect their healthful properties and bring us joy.

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