Ode to a Chocoholic

I'll miss the way we'd binge together

Afterwards we'd need a feather

Rest in peace, my bittersweet dove

Our chocolate-filled days were rich with love

For Mom

b. October 4, 1927

d. December 10, 2009

The Last Butterscotch: In Memory of My Mother

My mother had a way of letting you know when you were hungry. “It’s been two hours since you’ve eaten,” she’d say. “Aren’t you getting weak?” It didn’t matter that you were still having reflux from the all-you-can-stand buffet she goaded you into going to with her just two hours ago. The kind that made you pine for a Roman vomitorium so you could purge not only the meal, but the long-lingering shame that accompanied your bloating.

You could always count on mom to be readily equipped with the antidote to your hunger—hard candy. “Do you want a butterscotch?” she’d ask, as she desperately tried to stave off Ethiopian flies from your soon-to-be distended belly. Us kids—and later as adults—found this form of nagging to be intrusive and annoying, but if that was the extent of her yenta-ing, we’d just have to suck it up, along with the butterscotch.

Mom was not a heavy woman. She just ate like one. But mostly, she liked talking about eating. About you eating. Or you not eating enough, rather. And she had a penchant for taking home leftovers like it was nobody’s business. She carried baggies in her purse because a restaurant could not be entrusted with providing something as precious as a foil-lined paper bag. She started her ritual in the days before the ubiquitous styrofoam container became a mainstay of the dining scene. Back then, it was up to proactive women with too much plastic and twist ties on their hands.

Yes, my mother was the reigning doggie-bag queen. There was no leftover too small to leave on her plate. I remember the time in a restaurant when she had two bites of meat loaf left and asked the waiter to wrap it up. Beet-red with embarrassment, I wondered why she had to take home two measly bites. Was it from living through the Depression? Was it because an animal should not go to waste? Did she merely want to be reminded the next day of how much she enjoyed the previous night’s meal? Or did she do it to piss us off? Who knew. But that night, those two bites got lost in the restaurant's kitchen (probably mistaken for blowback), and when she found out they were never to return, the look on her face conjured up the horror in the song, MacArthur Park: “Someone left the meat loaf on the plate, and she’ll never have those last two bites again. Oh no…” Needless to say, that was the last time mom left her leftovers to fate. From that moment on, it was paws off, except for hers.

Sadly, my mom died two weeks ago, unexpectedly. When I started going through the clothes in her closet, I noticed that she had about 40 shirts, all with two pockets. The left pocket of every shirt contained three items: a folded Kleenex, a folded baggie, and a piece of hard candy. She lived in a retirement home and didn’t get out much, so chances are, she was only going downstairs to the dining room for her three meals a day. But apparently, it was far enough that she thought she might need sustenance on her journey down the elevator.

Now, with all that's happened in the past two weeks, I'm feeling kind of weak. And even though I ate a big meal just two hours ago, I could really use a butterscotch. I would give anything just to hear her ask.

No-Feel-Awful Falafel

These baked falafel patties will have you gloating, not bloating.

Sure, deep-fried falafel is tasty, but afterwards you’re stuck with that pesky self-loathing. With this healthy version, all you’ll gain is a wholesomer-than-thou attitude.

This divine interpretation came after reading a variety of recipes and then tweaking Joan Nathan's My Favorite Falafel to match my vision. When it's baked, you can really taste the herbs, spices and garlic, but the traditional kind seems to lose all that freshness in the deep fryer.

Not only is this version delish, it's nutrish. The garbanzos aren’t even cooked. All you do is soak the raw beans in water overnight, and they plump up and are ready for grinding in the food processor the next day. Add the fresh garlic, onions, parsley, cilantro, cumin and coriander, and it’s a party in your mouth. The kind where you’ll be able to look at yourself in the mirror the next morning without wishing you were Kate Moss. Well, no more than usual.

Recipe

1 cup dried chickpeas
1 small onion, finely chopped
3 - 4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 TBSP fresh parsley, finely chopped
2 TBSP fresh cilantro, finely chopped
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp coriander
3 - 4 TBSP AP flour, GF flour or garbanzo flour (this works really well)
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp olive oil

Put the chickpeas in a large bowl and add enough cold water to cover them by at least 2 inches. Let soak overnight, then drain. Or use canned chickpeas, drained.

Place the drained, uncooked chickpeas and onions in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Add the parsley, cilantro, salt, garlic, cumin, coriander and oil. Process until blended but not puréed.

Sprinkle in the baking powder and half of the flour, and pulse. Add enough flour so that the dough forms a small ball and no longer sticks to your hands. Turn into a bowl and refrigerate, covered, for several hours.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Form the chickpea mixture into 1 1/2" balls and slightly flatten on an oiled baking sheet. Bake for about 15 minutes on each side until nicely browned.

Serve with pita, tahini sauce, tomatoes and cucumber.

Makes about 16 patties.

Ode to a Sushi Chef

I watch your rice and seaweed grace

The flesh and fins in your embrace

You could be a wealthy surgeon

Yet you're rich in roe and sturgeon

The Tofurducken: Accept All Substitutes

I’ll make no bones about it. I’m soon to be the darling of the veg set with my ballsy, brilliant brainstorm of an idea: the Tofurducken—the vegan turducken. The Tofurducken is going to be the mother of all faux meats.

We’re not just talking Tofurky. We’re talking a tricked-out Tofurky on rbST-free steroids that ate two other Tofurkys. Here's how it works: First you stuff an imitation turkey with a pretend duck. Then you stuff the pretend duck with a mock chicken. Then you make a stuffing out of wild rice and Fakin’ Bacon. And voila—it’s an original genuine fake.

Wait till faux agribusiness gets wind of my tagline, which by the way, is available for purchase:

The Tofurducken

Three times less cluckin’

Potato-Fennel Soup

You say potato, I say po-tah-to and fennel.

This low-fat, rich-tasting meal in a bowl is peasant fare at its finest. I don’t actually know what constitutes peasant fare, but I'd venture to say any peasant would give his last potato and fennel bulb for this.

I’ve been making this enchanting soup from Mollie Katzen’s Moosewood Cookbook for years, and it just keeps getting better with age (that makes one of us). Browned onions, potatoes, minced fennel, and caraway seeds are a truly inspired combination.

I’ve made a few tiny tweaks, but nothing major. Since caraway seeds play a large part in the soup’s complex character, I double what the original Mollie Katzen recipe calls for. I also like to maximize the delicious, aromatic fennel flavor as a counterpoint to the caraway, so I up the ante there too, with 1 to 2 cups. (One can never have too much boiled fennel. Am I wrong?) I usually just get the largest bulb I can find and don’t fuss with the measuring. I'm telling you—this soup has so much flavor from so few ingredients, you’ll be peasantly surprised.

Recipe

1 TBSP butter or olive oil

4 cups thinly sliced onions

2 tsp salt

4 medium potatoes (average fist-size), not necessarily peeled, and sliced into thin pieces 1 to 2 inches long

1 - 2 cups freshly minced fennel bulb (the largest bulb you can find)

1 tsp caraway seeds

4 cups water

white or black pepper, to taste

Makes 4 - 5 servings

Heat the butter or oil in a kettle or Dutch oven. Add the onions and 1 tsp salt. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, for about 15 to 20 minutes, or until the onions are very soft and lightly browned.

Add the potatoes, the rest of the salt, the minced fennel bulb, and the caraway seeds. Sauté over medium heat for another 5 minutes, then add the water. Bring to a boil, then partially cover, and simmer for about 45 minutes (the potatoes should be tender and almost falling out of their skins).

Taste to adjust salt; add pepper. Serve hot, topped with a decorative swirl of thinned sour cream and/or minced feathery fennel tops.

Travel Bite: Xochimilco Snack Vendor

A few years ago, I photographed this colorful snack vendor as I was taking a boat ride at the floating gardens of Xochimilco. This area of waterways on the outskirts of Mexico City dates back to the Aztecs, and the word Xochimilco means “lower field place" in Nahuatl. I had been there as a child (in my Aztec youth), and it was really unkempt, but they spiffed it up, and now it's a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The boat vendors have an unusual array of offerings, from candied apples and homemade potato chips to fresh corn they grill on floating hibachis. Chiclets, anyone?

On weekends and holidays, Xochimilco is a popular destination for families to rent these festive boats, or trajineras, and enjoy food, libations, drifting mariachis—or whatever else floats their boat.

Ewww...ewww...ewww...ewww...Stayin' Alive

At a dinner party the other night, the conversation turned to the topic of unusual foods eaten in other cultures. It started with the Chinese eating monkey brains as a delicacy. Then we digressed, and from cow tongues to ox tails, pig feet to goat heads, sheep stomachs to camel humps, no organ went unexamined. Bats, bugs, snails, snakes, guinea pigs, dogs, kitty cats, bunnies and elephants were all disgustingly discussed and verbally dissected.

"If you’re going to sacrifice an animal, you should use all of it," I said. Why should any of it go to waste?"

“That’s so gross!” an indignant guest exclaimed. “I would never ever eat any of those things! But I wouldn’t have a problem eating a person," she added. "You know, like in that movie Alive, about the plane crash in the Andes. That wouldn’t bother me at all. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

The guy sitting next to me turned and asked if I would eat a human to stay alive. “Only someone with an 'A' rating," I said. "Preferably a germaphobe. But I’d have to look at the menu.”

Since that dinner, the prospect of polishing off a person has been gnawing at me. If I were in a dire circumstance like the plane crash of that soccer team in Chile, could I bite the bullet and chow down on a chum? Would I go that far to stay alive? Wouldn't that person just be going to waste? Granted, I would more likely be on a plane with the People Who Blog in their Undergarments team. But hey, if they’re foodies, they might be pretty tasty.

Note: I took this photo at a market in Istanbul.

Fig Crostata

With this dense, lattice-crusted crostata, I was thinking fig.

This ambitious figurative work is from this month’s (big sob) final issue of Gourmet Magazine. It was more labor-intensive than they let on, but it proved to be a crowd-pleaser at Thanksgiving. I had been wanting to try a fig tart for a while, and this deep, crostata variety was my debut. Like a lot of desserts, it was even better the next day.

A couple of notes: I used more than a tablespoon of cold water in the pie crust (but if you’ve made pie crusts, you know the dance). I also cooked it 10 - 20 minutes longer than it said to, but my oven temperature has been fluctuating more than a menopausal mama.

Recipe

A rich filling is studded with walnuts and imbued with citrusy notes of orange, then packaged between a crust and a lattice top, both made from the cookie-like pastry dough known as pasta frolla in Italy.

For pastry dough:

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/4 cup granulated sugar plus additional for sprinkling

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

2 large egg yolks

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 tablespoon cold water

For fig filling:

12 ounces soft dried figs (preferably Calmyrna), stemmed and coarsely chopped

1 1/4 cups water

1 cup fresh orange juice

1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar

1 stick unsalted butter, melted and cooled

3 large eggs, lightly beaten

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 teaspoon grated orange zest

1 1/2 cups walnuts (6 ounces), coarsely chopped

Equipment: a 9-inch springform pan

Accompaniment: mascarpone

Make pastry dough:
Blend together flour, sugar, salt, and butter in a bowl with your fingertips or a pastry blender (or pulse in a food processor) just until mixture resembles coarse meal with some roughly pea-size butter lumps. Add yolks, vanilla, and water and gently stir with a fork (or pulse) until incorporated and dough begins to form large clumps.

Turn out dough onto a lightly floured surface and divide into 4 portions. With heel of your hand, smear each portion once or twice in a forward motion to help distribute fat. Gather all dough together (using a pastry scraper if you have one), then divide dough in half and form each half into a 5- to 6-inch disk. Chill, wrapped in plastic wrap, until firm, at least 1 hour.

Make fig filling while dough chills: 
Simmer figs, water, orange juice, and brown sugar in a medium saucepan, covered, stirring occasionally, until figs are soft and mixture is reduced to about 2 cups, 15 to 20 minutes. Pulse in a food processor until finely chopped (mixture should not be smooth). Transfer to a large bowl and cool slightly. Stir in butter, eggs, vanilla, zest, and walnuts.

Make tart shell: 
Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Generously butter springform pan. Roll out 1 portion of dough between 2 sheets of parchment paper into a 12-inch round (dough will be soft; chill or freeze briefly if it becomes difficult to work with). Peel off top sheet of parchment and carefully invert dough into pan. (Dough will tear easily but can be patched together with your fingers.) Press dough onto bottom and 1 inch up side of pan, then trim excess. Chill tart shell until ready to assemble crostata.

Roll out remaining dough between 2 sheets of parchment paper into a 12-inch round. Peel off top sheet of parchment, then cut dough into 10 (1-inch-wide) strips and slide (still on parchment) onto a tray. Chill until firm, about 10 minutes.

Assemble crostata: 
Spread fig filling in shell. Arrange 5 strips of dough 1 inch apart on filling. Arrange remaining 5 strips 1 inch apart across first strips to form a lattice. Trim edges of strips flush with edge of shell. Sprinkle crostata with sugar.

Bake until filling is slightly puffed and pastry is pale golden, about 30 minutes. Cool completely, then remove side of pan. Serve crostata with mascarpone.

Cooks' notes:

•Dough can be chilled up to 3 days.
•Crostata can be made 1 day ahead and kept at room temperature.

Ode to a Cow

This lavish life so rich in butter

Thrills me unlike any udder

As heaven sashays down my throat

I write this bovine thank you note