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butternut squash latkes

Oh December!
I like this month. I'm an omniholidayvore, so I've got a few packed in, plus my birthday AND my wedding anniversary. And also, cookies. And eggnog. And latkes.

Let's go back to October for a minute- back in the hilly wonders of California at Naya and Oliver's wedding. I was sitting at a picnic table, spacing out on the early sun and gnarled trees, waiting for coffee to clear the Champagne fog. There were lovely Californians all around me, bundled in their sweatshirts and anticipating coffee, and in the midst of the conversation, one woman (who kept wearing the most perfect shade of yellow through the weekend) said to another, "Oh yeah, I saw that at Bi-Rite."

"Bi-Rite?" I cut in. "Does that place really exist?"

They laughed and assured me that it did.

You see, a week or two earlier, I'd gotten this beautiful cookbook in the mail. (I know! It happens every so often, and it feels like my birthday, but I promise you I only tell you about the books that I love). It was nothing short of enchanting, and I turned the pages and wanted to inhabit every one. I made two recipes from the book that first week, and both were perfect. But the store that it came from? It seemed like something out of California legend.


A few days after the wedding, I was walking the streets of San Francisco with my friend and nearly-brother Andrew. It had been a while since we'd seen each other, and we walked and ate and walked and ate. Burritos in the mission. An eclair at Tartine. Noodles in spicy broth. And when we came to the right block, he pulled me into the Bi-Rite Market.

It was tiny. And (as a friend had so perfectly put it the weekend before) it was exquisitely curated. It was a living museum of artisan food, each cheese and fruit and meat local and gorgeous. Most liquids were in vessels that you would want to repurpose as vases, tiny ceramic crocks for yogurt and sensually curved bottles for oil. We stood in front of the jam and preserves shelf. Each bay area chef had their own preserves, and there was quince and marionberry and herbs and all of those different and elevated fruits. Andrew and I spent the next 45 minutes in there, as if it really were a museum, discussing the food like art on the wall.

There are a lot of reasons why you might want to pick up a copy of Bi-Rite Market's Eat Good Food. It is, in a way, a manual for conscious food shopping (as Marisa so eloquently described in her review). But the recipes! They are my favorite part of this book. That, and the fact that is stays so fabulously open on the counter. This is a book that inspires. It is sturdy, and beautiful, and (as we move into that season) exceptionally giftworthy.

Oh, the season. Because although Hanukkah is a few weeks away yet, I say- December is latke month. My grandfather used to be the latke maker in our family, and he and my grandmother would throw a party and make latkes all day long. Friends would stack those greasy pancakes on little paper plates with blue menorahs printed on them, chunky applesauce and sour cream along side. The day would begin with desire for latkes, and the day would end with the hope that we would never see latkes again. It would take three washes to get the greasy smell out of our clothes.

These are better, if that's possible. The butternut squash is sweet, the texture is perfect, and the flavor is... well, entirely worth of expletives. This recipe uses a method where the latkes are started on the stove and transferred to the oven and so the grease factor is nearly gone. This is my latke recipe now- I'm never going back to just plain old potatoes.

Oh, before we get to that- one more thing! Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning, my new site will be up! We're just working out a few last coding issues, but I can't wait to show you. So don't be scared- it's still me! And I've got a fairly rockin' giveaway to celebrate the site's first day, if I do say so myself. I'll see you there. Yeah!

And now, the latkes.

Butternut Squash Latkes
from Eat Good Food, by Sam Mogannam and Dabney Gough
Makes 18 (they say! but I got 24- lucky me!)

1 1/2 cups grapeseed or other neutral oil, more as needed
1 large yellow onion, halved, peeled, and thinly sliced lengthwise
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 pounds russet potatoes (about 2 large)
1 1/2 pounds butternut squash (about 1/2 medium)
4 large eggs
1 cup matzo meal
1/3 cup finely chopped fresh parsley
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh sage
1 tablespoon chopped fresh marjoram

Position racks the the top and bottom thirds of the oven and heat to 350 degrees.

Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat. When hot, add the onion and sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon of the salt and a few grinds of black pepper. Cook, stirring frequently, until the onions are golden all over and very soft, about 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

Peel and grate the potatoes and butternut squash (I did this in the cuisinart using the grating disk, but a box grater will work too). Put in a large bowl, along with the onions, eggs, matzo meal, parsley, sage, marjoram, 1 tablespoon salt, and 1 teaspoon pepper. Toss gently to combine thoroughly.

Heat 3 tablespoons of the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. When the pan is hot, use a 1/3-cup dry measure to scoop a mound of the mixture into the pan. With a fork, spread and flatten the mixture to a 4-inch disk. Repeat 3 more times. When the first side is golden brown (about 2 minutes), carefully flip the latkes over and brown the other sides, about 2 minutes more. Transfer the latkes to a rimmed baking sheet and continue to scoop and brown the remaining latke mixture in batches, adding another few tablespoons of oil before each new batch. Arrange the latjes in a single layer on the baking sheet; you'll probably need at least 2 sheets to accomplish this.

When all the latkes have been shaped and browned, transfer the baking sheets to the oven and bake until the latkes are cooked through, about 15 minutes. Serve hot.

(With thanks to Ten Speed Press! Reprinted with permission from Bi-Rite Market’s Eat Good Food by Sam Mogannam & Dabney Gough, copyright © 2011. Published by Ten Speed Press, a division of Random House, Inc.)

the girls, traveling

These days surprised me over and over.
My stomach turned at the thought of sitting in the airport with Joey and the girls, waiting for inevitably delayed flights, paying 3 bucks for water, packed terminals, food lines, tired and "when will we be there?" wishing I was one of those parents with a portable dvd player for my kids to watch something, anything, and by the time we are in Denver, we are done! ready to go home and done with laying toilet paper on the toilet seat and and (again inevitably) at least one child getting sick, most likely throwing up.

You might think me pessimistic, but I've done this before, and it's all come to pass.


But these days surprised me over and over. The girls with their backpacks and rolly bags, independent and looking forward to the next moving walkway so that they could break the rules and go backwards too, going back and forth until they were dizzy. Drawing and playing and watching- the girls were travelers in the very best sense. They were open and ready and adjustable in ways that made me marvel.

It was not just the girls that surprised me. It was the kind world around them. The smiles and comments from everyone. And on Tuesday, when we were surrounded by college students on their way home in their leggings and boots and big sweaters, the kindness was overwhelming. The girls, insisting on sitting together on the plane, sat next to a 15-year old boy coming home from boarding school, and he beamed at them as if they were his long lost little sisters. They talked deep into the dark airborne night, and when he, exhausted, couldn't stay awake any longer, he set them up on his laptop with a movie (only after politely asking across the aisle for parental approval from us).

After this momentous success, the girls said that they would always sit together with us in the row opposite. And so, on Saturday (after family and Denver and a turkey nearly on fire of course, but that is all another story), when all of the college students had been replaced by families, the kindness again all around us, Sadie and Rose took their seats next to Jessica, a woman in her twenties with shiny blond hair and heeled boots. The girls started to take out their books and coloring supplies but Jessica asked them about who they were, and because they are their home and their cats and their school and their family, she got all of the details. They talked all the way to Chicago, and then, learning that they would be on the plane together to Hartford as well, Jessica promised (with a pinky swear, Sadie told me), that she would save seats for them on the next plane.

As we pulled into Hartford, Sadie and Rosie were drawing our house for Jessica on a napkin. They wished Jessica and her terrier (waiting, with husband, at home) well, and Sadie gave her her prized polished rock at the baggage claim.


I can always create optimism in my little world. Traveler that I am, it is my home that feels brightest, and as much as venturing out can expand and enlighten me, I am just as prone to see the worst in things when the world (and so mundane a world as that within the Chicago Midway airport, for example) is pushing its way around me. But these masses- sitting on the floor of the airport, running through the terminals, getting up to share a table for a family who might be waiting, they shook me with their smiles and their kindness and their happiness. Couples holding hands, parents speaking so lovingly to their children, friends laughing as they found their gate. There was calm, and it shook me. They shook me with the ease in which they loved and supported my girls.

Perhaps I was watching with optimistic eyes? But I think something was different. Everyone just seemed... happy. Okay. Open. And for all the messes that we seem to be in right now in this country, I could not help but think that good things are happening, quietly.

the table awaits

Saturday morning, we piled the turnips high in the elementary school. They nearly reached the basket ball hoop.

The place was a madhouse. I love the crazy Berkshire Grown holiday markets. I love working them, mostly so I can hang out with so many people who are thinking about cooking for the holidays.

That's a particular breed of loony, that one.

I'm tempted to bring a bottle of wine with me, so I can hand out little glasses while people tell me about how nervous they are to meet their brother's new girlfriend, and about how she's a vegan and have I ever stuffed a squash for thankgiving? I want Joey to make me a T-shirt that says, "Oh honey, it's all going to be okay."

But there's no time for that. I'm shoving change in people's hands, and telling them how to caramelize white turnips (sliced thin, tossed with salt and pepper and olive oil, 425 degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes), and I'm trying to convince people that broccoli greens are a fitting replacement for spinach on the Thanksgiving table. We sold so many turnips. Endless turnips.

There was serious panic about brussels sprouts. There were not enough in that little gymnasium, and anyone with a stalk poking out of their reusable bag carried it smugly like a trophy. More realistically, we should have probably been wearing shirts that said, "WE'RE SORRY. WE HAVE NO BRUSSELS SPROUTS." Then, perhaps Elizabeth would not have lost her voice.

Oh, honey. It's going to be okay.

A few things to remember:

If you are traveling, bring snacks, lots of snacks. Give your kids their own snack supply.
If you are a drinker, drink while you cook. Do not wait until the meal begins to have your first glass of wine. If you are a "no drinks before 6" kind of cook, break that rule.
And while you're at it, put booze in your cranberry sauce. Put booze in your brussels sprouts. Why not.
Don't forget the fucking gourds on the table. Even if you've read this one before, it merits a yearly rereading.
Oh, no you don't. Just don't!
Don't mess with it too much. Just leave it alone.

Today, I'm packing up for our very first ever family Thanksgiving travel experience. Oh yes, Denver- I'm talking to you.

And if you are one of the millions making there way through the Chicago airport tomorrow night, I'll be the one with the husband looking for the Chicago Dog (even if it's in another terminal) while I keep the girls from trying to ride on each other's rolly bags.

Yes! Here we go!

(You guys are so great, you know that? I'm not sure I tell you enough. All this grateful talk is making me feel, well, particularly grateful. I hope you all are having a good week out there, and... thank you.)

the weekend mix

I was looking for something or other today, and I got lost in the polaroids.

 

They were tucked away, but before I knew it was sitting on the floor with them all around me.

It was that kind of day.  But I made you a mix for the weekend. A quiet one.

 

Have a good one, friends.

I'll see you on the other side. Till Monday, then...

 

cranberry maple tart

 

Oh, yes. Here we are.

When I was sixteen, my friend Jette and I hopped on a bus to New York late late the night before Thanksgiving. The ride took nearly the whole night, and we arrived in the city just as the sun was starting to come up. We sat on the sidewalk and watched the massive balloons inflate for the Macy's parade. We wandered the empty city, resting in parks with the pigeons. (I know, I know. What did our mothers say? Honestly, I don't even remember.)  It was a gray day, and we had no plan. Somehow, we got on a train and ended up at a friend's house outside of Philadelphia. I don't remember how we got the invitation, but I do remember sitting at his fancy table with his very proper family, struggling to use my knife and fork correctly. I remember being bleary with sleeplessness and thankful to be in that strange and warm place. I remember that Jette and I were proud of ourselves for stepping out of the lines, for making the holiday an adventure, and for making the holiday our very own.

Four years later, my friend Eilen and I cooked for days, and we invited every straggler we could find. My parents were there too, visiting our woodsy home in Santa Fe. My mother and I were really fighting for the first time in my life, and she kept out of the kitchen. Eilen and I rolled and chopped and baked, and we were grownups in our own kitchen. We, too, made that holiday our own.

We've had Thanksgivings with friends and Thanksgivings with family. We have cooked and been cooked for. Every year has been different. But through these years with all of those meals, we are always finding ways to make the holiday our own.

How do you do it?
Have you found traditions that make this one yours?
We have an appreciations box. We learned that one from Gould Farm. Everyone writes down the things they are thankful for, and then we read them. That's a good one.

I woke up thinking about this tart last week. I made it a few times before I found it. Joey and the girls can attest to this. (It's a hard life in the kitchen of a food writer) But then I found it.

I thought you might be interested, just in case you haven't settled on your dessert options for next week. This is easy to put together, and the maple, cranberry, and orange sing to each other in a way that brings out the best in each. 

And while we're at it, shall we take a moment for some dessert inspiration? I'll give it a go...

Pear pie. Poached quince. Damp gingerbread with pears (I can't get enough of that one). Indian pudding. Sweet cornmeal biscuits. Apple rhubarb pandowdy. Olive oil and sherry pound cake. Apple pie. Pumpkin Mexican hot chocolate. Buttermilk spice cake. Are we there? Did we find it? Let me know- we can definitely keep the list going.
But in the mean time, let's have a piece of this one to keep the hunger at bay.



Cranberry Maple Tart
serves 8 to 10, or thereabouts

For the crust:
scant 1 1/2 cups (7 ounces) all purpose flour
1 stick+1 tablespoon (4.5 ounces) cold unsalted butter (cubed) plus extra for greasing the pan
the zest and juice of 1 orange (this will be in both the crust and the filling)
1 teaspoon sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 egg

For the filling:
3 cups cranberries (fresh or frozen)
1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon maple syrup
1/4 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup heavy cream
3 egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon salt

Lightly grease a 10-inch tart pan with butter. Combine the flour, butter, orange zest, sugar and salt in the bowl of a food processor fit with the chopping blade. Pulse about 10 times. Add the egg and 1 tablespoon orange juice, reserving the rest of the juice for the filling. Process just until the dough comes together around the blade. If it's too crumbly, you can add another teaspoon of juice.

Roll the dough out on a floured surface until it is a circle at least 14 inches in diameter. Transfer the dough to the tart pan. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Take the tart pan out of the fridge about 10 minutes before you are ready to bake. Bake the crust for 10 minutes, peeking in to gently press down any air bubbles that might rise in the crust over that time. Remove the crust from the oven, but leave the heat on.

Combine the cranberries, 1/4 cup of the maple syrup, brown sugar, and remaining orange juice (it should be about 1/4 cup) in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce to medium heat and cook, stirring often, until the berries burst and the mixture thickens, 5 to 7 minutes. 

Meanwhile, whisk together the cream, egg yolks, vanilla, remaining 1 tablespoon of maple syrup, and salt in a mixing bowl.

Spread the cranberry mixture into the crust, then pour the cream mixture over it. Put the tart pan on top of a baking sheet and bake until the top is firm and golden, about 40 minutes.

Allow the tart to sit at room temperature for at least 1 hour before serving. If preparing a day or two ahead (totally fine- this holds up beautifully!), store in the refrigerator, then let it come to room temperature for at least an hour before serving. This is good on it's own, but also lovely with whipped cream. I served it with orange flower whipped cream (1 cup heavy cream+1 tablespoon sugar+1 teaspoon orange flour water).

quince jelly

I appreciate the element of uncertainty in the kitchen. This might make me an inferior food writer.  But I've never been particularly good at faking it.



I did, after all, promise you jelly.
Last year, I made a tiny batch of quince jelly--4 perfect half-cup jars. They were firm like tough jello- barely spreadable, but I was proud of the chemistry of that superhero pectin that lay within my beloved quince.
This year, the jelly was soft, just short of dripping off the knife.
You never know where the jelly's going to go.  At least I don't. And although some might say I'm here to tell you what will work every time, when it comes to jelly, I promise to tell you when I figure it out. Until then, I'm wringing my hands, fiddling with my thermometer, and taking little plates in and out of the freezer.



I love making jelly.


 I find deep satisfaction in the rough chopping of a whole piece of fruit, core and all. I like the process of coaxing the essence out of the fruit. And in this rare circumstance, I love not knowing if it's going to work.


There is, of course, always the cocktail option if you "fail". But when there are cocktails involved, you have simply not failed.


 So, in the last chapter of our quince romance for the year (perhaps, although I'd never promise that), for those of you who don't mind a bit of hand-wringing in the service of these perfect pink jars, I offer you quince jelly. And, understanding that we are just over a mere week before Thanksgiving, I promise that I will shift into the more reliable and useful foods that you might be searching for this week. I've got a tart on deck that I'm pretty excited about, and we'll do the usual brussells sprouts roundups, too. But first, the perfume, the gentle stickiness, and the pink.



Quince Jelly Recipe
(makes about 11 cups)

7 pounds quinces
1 vanilla bean, split
8 cardamom pods
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
8 cups sugar

1. Wash the pubescence (the slight furriness) off the quinces. Roughly chop the fruit. Leave the skins on, and roughly chop the cores as well. Put the chopped quince into a large pot along with the vanilla bean and cardamom pods. Just barely cover with water. Cover, bring to a boil, and reduce the heat to a simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 1 1/2 hours, or until the fruit is so soft that it starts to fall apart.

2. Set up a jelly bag, or rig your own with a pot, a colander, and a length of cheese cloth. Let the fruit drain (without smushing or poking!) for at least 3 hours, but up to overnight if that's convenient.

3. You should end up with about 12 cups of juice. Combine the juice, sugar, and lemon in a large pot and stir to dissolve the sugar. Bring the mixture to a boil, and keep it at a rolling boil until it registers 225 degrees on a candy thermometer OR (if you're thermometer-phobic) it makes a nice jelled drop when you put a bit on a plate that you have been storing in the freezer. This will take between 10 and 20 minutes of rapid boiling (and hand wringing).

4. Decant into sterilized jars and process for 10 minutes in a hot water bath. If you're new to canning, hop over here first!

jeans

Oh, my beautiful girls.
Oy.
This week, I bought Sadie a pair of new jeans.
I rarely buy new clothes for the girls. My 13-year-old sister (who never spills anything on anything) passes all of her clothes down to Sadie (who spills everything on everything), and then Rosie gets the dregs. Rosie is okay with it, as long as she has socks she likes. I buy her new socks.
My sister is narrow and willow-y like her father, and so as time goes by, I filter out the jeans and send them to goodwill for children of that tall and willow-y body type. And so, last week, when Sadie pointed out another pair of stretchy cotton pants that were all of the sudden 4 inches too short, I agreed to go in search of some new pants.

I picked up the girls at school and we headed to the outlets. Small planned city with manicured bushes. Really big strollers. Christmas music piping over the sidewalks. Cinnabon.

We were cheery. And with one girl's hand in each of my own, we crossed the street to start our adventure at the Gap. The girls laughed at the early Christmas music, and I thought to myself, this will be easy. In and out. Comfortable and inexpensive pants in hand.

Store 1: Into the dressing room with a pile of every fit and several sizes. And also lots and lots of these things called jeggings. Jean leggings. Jeggings. Rosie explained it to me. And then, one at a time, Sadie tries on each pair. She falls over trying to get the things off. She pulls them up. She struggles with the buttons. She runs around the dressing room and does the mandatory "squat in your jeans" test.

She shakes her head and hands them all back to me, one at a time.
"Mom," she says. "I can't do the skinny jeans. I don't get them, and I can't get them on."
It's either skinny or slim fit. And neither fits. I size up, and then they're huge. She starts to look discouraged.

Jeans are hard! I say. Maybe you're just not a Gap jeans kind of girl. Most people have to try on a million pairs before dining the right one.

Store 2: Again with the skinny jeans! Only these have silly zippers on them, too. They're out of almost every size, and so we try on more jeggings. Sadie shakes her head again. The staples-on paper label on the back pops off, and she bursts into hysterics.
"My butt is too big for these pants! I popped the label off!" Rosie falls on the static-y carpeted floor laughing. Coldplay is playing Christmas music in the dressing room.

Store 3: There are lots of styles and sizes and I am hopeful. There is, however, no dressing room. I ask the woman at the counter where we can try things on, and she says, "try on? why?" We try to go into the back store room, but there are a bunch of guys in baggy pants in there. I grab the nearest skirt, a tulle tutu, and hand it to Sadie. She puts on the tutu, takes off her pants, tries on the jeans. Rosie is again on the floor laughing. Sadie shakes her head. 

Store 4: It is dark, and we are hungry. Sadie is asking why there is Christmas music, and why all the jeans are skinny. I am telling her that some people don't even like wearing jeans at all! That we will find the right ones some day. That all these stores are lame and we don't want their jeans anyway.

I don't want her to hate shopping. I don't want her to hate jeans shopping, or swimsuit shopping, or situations when she has to be under bad lighting in front of a full-length mirror. I just need a pair of decent pants for my beautiful beautiful girl.

In the darkness, the inside of the another store calls to us. "GIRLS DENIM!" I repeat the words, and pull the girls into the store. There is a wall of jeans.  None of them are skinny. They are "bootcut" and "straight" and there are jeans in every size. My arms are filled with little jeans, and we head to the large and empty dressing room.

The first pair fits. Perfectly. She slips on her sneakers and runs the full parameter of the store.
"These are my jeans."

I exhale.

membrillo, or quince part one

I adore this fruit.
There are a few foods I feel this way about. Rhubarb. Leeks. Celeriac. When I have a pile of quinces on the counter, I feel newly in love, tingly, unsure of what will happen next. I feel like I've discovered them. And I always have.
This is something I want to do more, that is, adore my food. We talk all about being connected to the source of our food, thinking consciously about the social implications of our food, blah, blah, blah.  And I don't blah because I don't agree- of course I agree! But I think that for me, the heart of it is somewhere else. I want to love the food itself.

Simple as that might seem, let's think about it together for a moment.
Have you ever come across a food that stunned you with its beauty? Was it the fertile curve of an eggplant? The flowering spike of an artichoke? Was it the swirling marble of a perfect cut of meat? The pale glow of a triangle of wonderful cheese?

And then, catching yourself admiring that very ingredient, you prepared it--washed it, chopped it, cooked it to a perfect softness in whatever way was appropriate... and then, you ate it?

How did it taste? And how did it feel?

When I eat quinces, I feel like I am consuming art and perfume and beauty. I feel like I am eating history.

 And then, instead of cooking because I have to, I'm cooking because I am in love with this fruit. (Which, incidentally, can not be eaten raw, so cook it we must.)


Last week, when we were buried under the snow, a friend asked me what to do with quince. Her tree, it turned out, had dropped most of its fruit under the weight of the blizzard, and she could not keep up with them. Quince chutney! I told her, and poached quinces! And without trying to sound too excited so as to give myself away, I offered to dispense with some of the beloved fruit in my very own kitchen in exchange for the results of my labor.

And that is how I came to these particular quinces.

When quinces sit in the kitchen, they perfume the entire house. My mother, who does not like most smells, kept asking, "What is that sweetness?" and I told her quince! My sister hovered in that corner of the kitchen in particular, smiling and breathing in. And for those few days before I had my way with the fruit, I walked in the door and breathed deep. And like a lover who has come back to her beloved, I dropped my bag and, shoes still on, made my way to the kitchen for a deeper inhale before I fully arrived in the space of home again.



These quinces, 12 pounds in all, met two different fates. I was having a party, and dreamed of serving sweet cubes of membrillo with cheese, and so that was one.
And then, of course, there was jelly. That will be part two, soon, soon.



My friend Nikki showed up at the party with her fantastic pear ginger vodka. I held out the tray of membrillo with manchego, and confessed that although I was in love with the rosy little squares, I might just never make them again. She's a cook too, and she laughed, I think, because she knew what it was to spend hours and hours making a 9x9 square of quince candy.  And although I said it then, I think I'm taking it back. Because for my beloved quince, it's always worth it. And if you are having the right kind of day filled with stirring and warmth in your kitchen, this will be worth it for you too.




Membrillo (quince paste)
with help from here, and here too

makes one 9x9 square pan's worth

(note: Most people peel and core their quinces when making membrillo, but I opted to keep both the peels and cores in the mix, as that is where most of the pectin comes from, and it's less work for you. Most of the fiber was removed in the food mill step, but the end result had just the slightest amount of additional texture from the pith of the quince. I admit that I love it! But if you want a smooth, smooth candy, then core the quince.)

4 pounds quince, scrubbed of pubescence (the lovely fur), and roughly chopped
peel of 1/2 lemon
1 vanilla bean, split
4 cardamom pods
4 cups sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice

Put the chopped quince into a large pot and just barely cover with water. Add the lemon peel, vanilla bean, and cardamom pods to the water. Cover, bring to a boil, and then lower the heat to a simmer. Cook until the quinces are very soft, about 45 minutes.

Use a slotted spoon to transfer the quinces to a food mill (or you can press them through a sieve if that is what you have and you want to work really really hard).  Remove the vanilla bean and cardamom pods as you go and set them aside. Pass the mixture through the food mill. You want the puree to be fairly smooth (mine was not, because my food mill has big holes), and so, if needed, transfer to a blender or food processor to make it smoother.

Wash the pot, and return the puree to the pot. Add the sugar and lemon. Put the vanilla bean and cardamom pods back in the pot.Then cook over low heat, uncovered, stirring often, until the puree gets quite thick and turns a rosy shade of reddish orange. This will take somewhere between 1 1/2 hours and 3 hours. I know this is a long time. You need to keep an eye on it and stir every few minutes, so this is a recipe for a rare day when you can just be in the kitchen making things. Perhaps you are also making jelly? Or dinner? Either way, the quince will merrily cook as you bustle around it--it doesn't need your full attention. Feel free to taste when you stir. It will keep you going all afternoon.

Preheat the oven to as low as it will go. For me, this is 170 degrees.  Line a 9x9 baking pan with parchment, and then grease the parchment with butter. Transfer the puree to the prepared pan, removing the vanilla bean and cardamom pods as you do.

Bake for about 1 hour. Remove from the oven, and let sit for a few hours before cutting into squares.
It will get more solid as it cools.

Store in the refrigerator in a covered container. I am told that it will keep for up to 2 months or so, but I'll let you know if it makes it that long.

sisig

Well, sort of sisig.
This is the story.
Last week, on our final night in San Francisco, we went to eat at the food trucks at Fort Mason.  I know I've already told you this part, but I've got to set the stage.
This is my uncle, Gary.
Gary was at the heart of why I was there with my mother, and why I traveled up to San Francisco after Naya and Oliver's sweet wedding in Carmel. It was a fortifying sort of weekend that left me full of love and hope and good food. Joey went home after the wedding, and I met my mother in San Francisco. In the interest of time, and of getting to talking about that bowl up there, I won't give you all the details, but I will tell you that we were there to do some work on a family rift (you know that rift that most families have in some shape or another? this would be ours), and that long ago, before the rift was so severe, it was Gary and his wife, Sondra, who taught me a whole lot of what I know about how to cook, and how to eat, and how to love food.

And so, on our last night in that full-bellied city, Gary took us to the food trucks. And as he admitted that he had been there several times that summer, we took his recommendations as to how to prioritize. With so many choices, we had to eat wisely in order to draw out the appetite. It was necessary to imagine with each choice that we were eating the very best thing there- the pork buns with pickled daikon (the best!), the fish tacos on homemade tortillas (also, the best!) and finally, the pumpkin and mushroom dumplings (again, the best!). But sitting in my little black folding chair in the middle of the parking lot, one truck kept catching my eye.

It's the brown one there. And finally, at the end of it all, I asked Gary the question that had been humming in my all night.
"What, exactly, is Sisig?"
I take a fair amount of pride in knowing my road (and food truck!) categories, and this one was utterly new to me.
"Oh, it's good!" he told me. "But you'll never be able to fit it in your stomach now. It's brisket over coconut rice with an egg on top."
Yes. I know.
Brisket over coconut rice with an egg on top? Have you ever heard of anything so exciting? I thought (okay, I obsessed) over the combination as we packed up and made our way to the plane. I dreamed of it while I dozed over Kansas. I cursed the 2 feet of snow that fell within hours of our return- I cursed it because it prevented me from getting to the store to buy brisket so that I could create my own sisig NOW.
But then on Monday, I went to The Meat Market, our very own new and wonderful local butcher, and Jeremy gave me the brisket that would become my very own sisig.




After I had the brisket safely in my possession, I did a little research to get more details on this new food. How should the brisket be spiced? Are there any other elements I need to include in there?

I went through at least 10 obscure and cloudy websites on Filipino food before I entirely believed it- there is no brisket or coconut rice involved in sisig. The main ingredient that I needed was actually pigs ears.

I have no pigs ears, although I know of a few places I could get some.

As far as I could tell, I needed some pigs ears and some chicken livers, and a really really hot plate. It would ideally sizzle together with peppers and onions and ginger and a the juice of a fruit called calamansi. Then I would eat it on a street corner in the Philippines with a cold beer, and that would be sisig.



I don't know if Gary had it wrong, or if the food truck was actually selling a version of sisig that the obscure cloudy Filipino food websites weren't aware of. Either way, I had brisket, and I knew what I wanted.

Brisket over coconut rice with an egg on top.

I'm stubborn when it comes to cravings.



And so I'll call it sisig, because that's how it came about, but it's really not quite. It is, however, really, really delicious.  It did not disappoint. And although it might look like a lot of steps, active time is pretty minimal. Very very worth it.


Sisig, sort of
serves 6 to 8


For the Meat:
2 tablespoons olive oil
One 2 lb brisket
1 tablespoon soy sauce or tamari
5 cloves minced garlic
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon chili garlic paste (fabulous stuff! It looks like this:

but if you don't have it, combine about 1 tablespoon of chili powder with 2 cloves minced garlic, adding a drop of soy sauce and a bit of water to get a thick paste
1 red onion, minced
1 bottle dark beer
4 cups water or beef broth
1 dried d'arbol chile

For the rice:
2 tablespoons coconut oil (or butter if that's what you have)
2 cups Jasmine rice
2 tablespoons shredded coconut
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 15 oz. can coconut milk
1/4 cup water
1/2 teaspoon salt

For the final bowl:
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cups chopped sweet peppers (add in a bit of hot peppers here too if you can)
1/2 onion, sliced
1 tablespoon grated ginger
salt and pepper
1 egg per person

Some sort of sliced pickle, for garnish

Make the brisket:
Preheat the oven to 250 degrees.
Combine the soy sauce, garlic, vinegar, sugar, salt, and chili paste in a small bowl. Rub the mixture over the brisket.  Heat the olive oil in a large skillet or roasting pan over medium high heat. Cook the brisket for a few minutes on each side so that a nice brown crust develops on the meat. Take the meat out of the pan and set it aside on a plate. Add the red onion, shuffle it around for a few minutes, and then pour the beer in the pan. It will bubble and sizzle- scrape all of the brown bits from cooking the brisket into the beer.  Put the brisket back into the pan. Add the water or stock, and tuck the chili pepper into the liquid. Cover the pan with a lid if it has one- otherwise cover it with tin foil.
Put the pan into the oven and forget about it for the better part of the day. Cook for at least 4 hours, but it could be 6 or 7 if that's what works for you.

Make the coconut rice:
I did this in a rice cooker, but if you're making it in a pot instead, you'll need to increase the liquid. Essentially, you'll need as much coconut milk as you usually use water when you cook white rice.
So- in the rice cooker, first melt the coconut oil in the rice cooker bowl. Add the rice, stir to coat it with the oil, and close the lid. Let it it cook for 5 minutes. Then add the coconut milk, dried coconut, water, and salt. Close the lid and set it for the regular cooking cycle.

Then, when the brisket and the rice are ready, finish it up!
Heat the olive oil in a skillet over medium high heat. Add the peppers, sliced onions, and grated ginger. Stir stir stir until it's all shiny and starting to brown. Transfer the mixture into a bowl, keeping the pan hot. Add a bit more oil or butter if the pan needs it--then fry one egg per person.

Now the pickle- I leave this one up to you. Do you have a fridge pickle languishing in there from August? This is the moment. I had these beautiful pickled baby squash inspired by Marisa, and they were perfect. You can also make a quick carrot or daikon pickle- this one would be nice here too.

And now... the bowl.
First the rice, then the peppers and onions. Lay a few slices of the brisket over that. Then the egg on top of the brisket. Pour a bit of the spicy fatty sauce from the brisket over the whole lot of it. Then the pickle gets tucked in where the bowl needs a bit of color.

eating off the grid

 Oh California.

 I don't even know what to say. Do I laugh? Cry? Tease you?

Or do I jump in with glee? (my mug filled with blue bottle coffee and the sriracha mayo on everything)

 You, my friend, are serious about your pickles.

 Of, course, so am I.

 And the cynical New England in me, the one that knew that I'd be sitting in 2 feet of snow in 24 hours, could not help but laugh, and say, California!

Every Friday night at Fort Mason, there are food trucks. Lots of food trucks. It's called Off the Grid.

It's kind of like a Grateful Dead show, but for hipster foodies.

I was happy to play the part. If only for the fish tacos with pickled red onions.

And for pork buns with pickled daikon.

Oh, California. You and me, we go way back. And although you make me laugh and feel a bit silly about your best-of-all-possible-things-are-here ways, I'm always happy to come back to your kitchen.

Till next time, friend.