Body and Soul Food

A few months ago I wrote about cabbage, much known, and much disparaged as, the poor people's vegetable throughout the ages. Well, in these parts there is another vegetable that wears the poor people's crown, and that vegetable is known as "collard greens." Predictably, collard greens are just another form of cabbage, a kind that doesn't head, but grows large leaves.  But people around here don't disparage their collards. Everyone knows they are cheap, nutritious, and most importantly, tasty.

A quick note on the "cheap" aspect: I went to Dekalb Farmer's Market, and was able to buy a bunch of Georgia-grown collards bigger than my torso for just $2.49. That's a crazy low price, especially considering the nutrient/quantity/price ratio. There is no way my family can eat that many greens before they go bad, but all you have to do is blanch the extras, chop, and freeze them. Or turn them into these bhajis.

At any rate, now that you know how enthusiastic I am about collards, you can imagine my excitement a couple weeks ago when chef Bryant Terry was a guest on NPR's The Splendid Table, and spoke about... you guessed it: collard greens. Bryant Terry is the author of  "Vegan Soul Kitchen: Fresh, Healthy, and Creative African-American Cuisine." (I'm next in line on the wait list at my public library to check this book out. I've been waiting awhile. Apparently someone doesn't want to return it! That must mean it's a good one, so once I finally get my hands on the book, I'll happily let you know more about what's inside.) On the show he mentions the traditional method of cooking collard greens, which is to simmer them in a pot with some pork for a very long time, until they are thoroughly soft, and a dull green. He said he likes to cook them for a much shorter amount of time, to keep the color bright green and more of the texture and nutrients intact, along with the actual flavor of the greens. I totally agree with Mr. Terry's way of doing things. You can check out his recipe for Citrus Collards with Raisins, and see if you agree too.

The past few days my kids have been struggling with strep throat, and yesterday I was starting to feel fatigued, with a vaguely sore throat. Inwardly, I screamed in horror, "Nooooo!" Outwardly, I cooked my collards simply, with olive oil, chili flakes, and garlic.

Simple Collards, with Red Chili Flakes and Garlic
(I'm not a doctor, but I ate a pile of these greens last night feeling sick. Today, I'm not sick. Just sayin'.)

Big bunch of collard greens, leaves separated from stems, sliced in strips one inch thick
Large pot filled with salted boiling water
A few glugs of olive oil
Several cloves of garlic, minced (Use as many cloves as you can handle. I used six.)
Pinch of red pepper flakes
Salt

Blanch the sliced collard greens in the boiling water until wilted. Quickly remove them and drain in a colander. Meanwhile, heat olive oil in a large skillet, and saute garlic and chili flakes until the garlic releases its fragrance. Add the blanched collards and salt, and mix with the garlicky oil. Cook the greens until they reach the desired softness. Do not overcook them—keep the leaves a beautiful bright green. Add more salt if needed. These greens are great as a dinner side dish, or eat them for breakfast with a nice piece of buttered whole wheat toast. The fashionable thing is to serve a poached egg on top, which is quite delicious, though a gently fried egg with runny yolk works well too.

Happy Shining Noodles

This dish is a strange, yet delightful convergence of cultures. Which is OK with me, because that's also my life. I used Italian spaghetti to create an Indian flavored noodle salad, very loosely based on a Vietnamese noodle salad I used to eat at least thrice weekly when I was in college and had access to about a half dozen good, cheap Vietnamese cafes within walking distance. The Vietnamese version used rice noodles, and the sauce was vinegary and sweet, with savory umami that probably came from fish sauce. The Indian version's tartness comes from lemon, the sweetness from cashews, and the umami comes from the nutty flavor of popped mustard seeds. Turmeric turns the noodles sunshine yellow, which contrasts prettily with the green and red of the vegetables.

I was inspired to create this dish because I had a couple handfuls of garden lettuce, which weren't enough to create a stand alone green salad, but were enough to plentifully grace a noodle salad. Indeed, it's the inclusion of lettuce that ties this dish to the original Vietnamese version. When I first tried it back in the day, I was slightly weirded out by the inclusion of lettuce in a noodle dish. (I was pretty naive about a lot of stuff back then.) But after I tried it, I realized what a great idea it was. The lettuce provided a crisp, refreshing counterpart to the soft, filling carb-ness of the noodles.

 My kids like anything pasta related, and definitely were fans of the naturally sweet lemon cashew sauce. I kept the vegetables separate, and let them choose what they wished. They didn't choose lettuce, but went crazy for the roasted red pepper. At least, the older one did.

Sunshine Yellow Lemon Cashew Noodle Salad

While preparing the other salad components, cook a pound of spaghetti according to the package directions. Drain, reserving a bit of the cooking water, and set aside.

Mustard Seed Oil
2 tablespoons oil
2 teaspoons brown mustard seeds
1 Thai green chili, cut in half lengthwise (optional)

In a small saucepan, heat the mustard seeds and green chili in the oil until the mustard seeds turn grey, sputter, and pop. Pour this mustard seed oil mixture onto the pasta, and toss to combine, adding a little pasta cooking water to help, if need be.

Lemon Cashew Sauce
1 1/2 cups raw cashews
1 clove garlic, roughly chopped
1 cup water
juice of half a lemon
1 teaspoon turmeric
salt to taste

Add the raw cashews, garlic, water, and lemon juice to a blender and blend until a smooth sauce forms. Pour sauce into a bowl and mix turmeric and salt to taste.

Other Salad Components
A few handfuls of very fresh lettuce, roughly chopped
3 roasted red peppers, chopped into one inch pieces
chopped roasted cashews
chopped cilantro or parsley
whatever else you have handy that you think would be good
lemon wedges (to be served with each portion)


Toss the noodles with the cashew sauce. Serve the other salad components separately, letting each individual create his/her own salad. Use a lemon wedge to add an additional spritz of lemon juice before eating. This salad goes well with beer.

Unified Curry Theory

 I am here today to rectify some common misconceptions about “curry.” Contrary to popular belief, curry does not contain “curry powder.” In fact, traditionally speaking, there is no such thing as curry powder in India, though many different powdered spice blends are used to make a variety of dishes. Also contrary to popular belief, curry is not complicated. It is the most simple thing in the world to make, and today you are going to learn how! (Then you too will possess the gift of being able to make any vegetable taste really freakin' good.)

The curry I am talking about is South Indian in origin, and also referred to as poriyal. You can think of it as a dry (not saucy), spicy Indian stir fry. For today’s example, I used green beans, but this method can be transferred to any number of vegetables with excellent results. I should also add, my kids won’t eat many vegetables plain, but will devour any number of vegetables prepared in this way (minus the chili powder). Last night, my five-year-old daughter plowed through her beans, and then insisted on refills of the cabbage curry from the night before. Green beans and cabbage in one night? Yes, this really did happen.

The hardest part of this recipe is chopping the green beans. My method is to grab a handful, line them up, trim the ends, and then chop. Though I suppose a food processor equipped with the right blade could handle this task easily. My in-laws always slice the beans quite small, into tiny rounds about a quarter of an inch thick. Mine usually end up closer to a half inch thick. If you’re feeling time-pressed or lazy, make larger pieces. However, note that larger pieces will take longer to cook and will absorb less of the flavor of the seasoning. If you’re really time pressed, you can pre-steam the beans, and then stir fry with the seasoning at the very end. This will tend to make your beans softer, which is how my husband likes them. Without steaming, they will be more crisp, which is how I like them.

Make sure you fry the mustard seeds until they pop, for maximum nutty flavor. The dry urad dal fries with the mustard seeds, and also absorbs their flavor. This provides a nice crunchy, nutty counterpoint to the soft green beans.

 Green Bean Curry (or as my in-laws say, Beans Curry)

2 tablespoons oil (neutral, like canola or grapeseed)
2 teaspoons brown mustard seeds
1 tablespoon urad dal (black gram)*
1/4 teaspoon asafoetida powder*
1/2 teaspoon turmeric (optional)
1 pound green beans, ends trimmed and sliced ¼ inch thick
salt
4 tablespoons dried, flaked coconut (unsweetened)
red chili powder (or cayenne pepper) to taste**
wedges of lemon or lime (optional)

Heat oil on medium high heat, along with mustard seeds and urad dal, in a large skillet or saute pan. When the urad dal is light brown and the mustard seeds begin to sputter and pop and turn grey, lower the heat and add the asafoetida and turmeric (if using). Mix quickly with mustard seeds and urad dal, then quickly add the green beans and stir to distribute oil and seasoning. Add salt. Cook uncovered on medium heat until the beans reach the desired tenderness (I like mine to be a little crisp). Make sure to stir and scrape the bottom of the pan occasionally to avoid sticking. Add the coconut and cook for a couple minutes more. Add more salt to taste if needed. Separate the portion of beans you will feed your children, then add desired amount of chili powder to the beans remaining in the pan and cook a minute longer. Serve with wedges of lemon or lime. This is optional, but sometimes a little zing of lemon or lime juice helps to brighten the flavors. This dish goes well with dal (lentil stew) and rice.

(You can try adding other spices depending on the vegetable. For carrots, I usually add some powdered cumin and coriander as I add the asafoetida. Also consider leaving out the coconut depending on the vegetable. For example, coconut works well with carrots, but I don't like it with eggplant as much.)

* Just get yourself on over to an Indian grocery (or DeKalb Farmer’s Market if near Decatur) and buy some urad dal and some asafoetida. Then you can make this any time you want with all those vegetables you get from your CSA that you don’t know how to use. (Turnip curry, anyone?)

**If you are cooking for people who don’t mind a bit of spiciness, you may add the chili powder at the same time as you add the asafoetida.

P.S. Happy Tamil New Year!

The Not-Quite-Rotten Banana Saves the Day

This is a tale of breakfast, involving a certain three-year-old and a demand for pancakes. After I agreed to this demand, I realized I was in trouble. My usual recipe calls for two eggs.  I didn't have any eggs. Saying 'no' to the three-year-old is hard. Saying 'no' after you've already said 'yes' (especially to much-loved pancakes) is to be avoided at all costs. It's a very bad place and you don't want to go there.

My eyes darted around the kitchen in a panic, until they seized upon this sorry looking banana lying in the corner, meek and forgotten. Salvation! It wasn't usable for peeling and eating straight up. But it was usable mashed  and mixed into pancakes, as a replacement for eggs! In fact, being a mushy, almost alcoholic mess is a pancake banana's ideal state, so it worked out perfectly, and I'm proud to say, wasting was also avoided.

I happened to have buttermilk hanging out in my fridge, so I took advantage of that happy accident, and added that to my pancakes as well. Buttermilk makes pancakes fluffy and tender, both of which are highly desirable traits in a pancake. I think a little plain yogurt thinned with milk or water would also serve the same purpose.

I really wanted to add some chopped pecans. However, in the three-year-old's construct of the world, pancakes must be entirely soft, and not crunchy.  I didn't want to mess with her worldview, so what I ended up with was Banana Buttermilk Pancakes, but if you're making them for yourself or someone who doesn't mind pancake texture, feel free to turn them into Banana Buttermilk Pecan Pancakes.

I served them smeared with butter and honey. Maple syrup would be even better if you can afford it, but only the real stuff. Or don't use anything at all, as these are actually pretty sweet on their own, because of the banana. You can pack the extra pancakes and take them with you to the park for a snack.

Banana Buttermilk (Pecan) Pancakes (adapted from Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone)
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup whole wheat flour
1 tablespoon sugar
Salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon*
1 very ripe banana, mashed (some lumps OK)
3 tablespoons oil
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup chopped roasted pecans (optional)

Mix the dry ingredients in a large bowl with a fork. In a second bowl, beat together the bananas, oil, buttermilk, and vanilla. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir just enough to combine. Gently stir in the pecans, if using. Don't worry if there are lumps, they'll smooth out during cooking.

For each pancake, pour about 1/4 cup of batter onto a well-oiled nonstick skillet set over medium high heat. Flip to the other side after bubbles appear all over the surface of the pancake. Cook the other side until browned, about one minute. (I found that these pancakes tended to stick to the skillet a bit more than my usual egg-y ones, so I added just a tiny bit more oil than normal to the skillet, and that helped immensely.)

Serve with butter and honey or maple syrup.

*Jeannette Ordas of Everybody Likes Sandwiches recently posted a similar waffle recipe. She adds a pinch of cardamom to her waffles. I love cardamom, and thought it would be great added to these pancakes as well. So if you do it, let me know. I'll be trying it next time.

What to Do With Your Easter Eggs

If you have some Easter eggs you need to use up, you could do worse than to make this egg salad wrap out of them. The fridge was fairly empty, except for the aforementioned eggs. My husband hates hardboiled eggs, but he was so desperately hungry that he asked me to make egg salad.  He surprised himself by actually liking it.

I really don't have a recipe for this, but the general method is as follows: Take some hardboiled eggs, and using a fork, mash them up with some mayonnaise, a minuscule amount of minced onion, chopped chives (if you have them), cilantro (if you have it, or parsley), and the barest amount of smoked paprika, along with salt and pepper to taste. Serve as a sandwich or wrap in a tortilla. Lettuce and tomato are welcome additions.

As an alternative to egg salad, you could do deviled eggs. (Easter deviled eggs. Hmm. Sounds sacreligious! Or maybe just ironic.) Same concept, just slice the eggs in half lengthwise, scoop out the yolks, and mash them with the same ingredients (except smoked paprika) listed above. Spoon the yolk mixture back into the egg halves. Sprinkle the smoked paprika on top, instead of mixing it in. It looks prettier that way. (My friend served her deviled eggs with mojitos. I think I sense the beginning of a new Easter tradition. At least for the Easters when it's 80-plus degrees outside.)

One more thing: This is the last recipe I'll post for awhile in which smoked paprika is used. I know it's good, but enough already. Even I'm getting sick of it. If you are already sick of it, regular paprika is always an option when it comes to egg salad. Or even a little cayenne pepper.

Still Haven't Found It

It's springtime, and I can't find any rhubarb. Plenty of things grow here in Georgia that don't grow as well up North – things I like, like collard greens, sweet potatoes, pecans, peaches, scuppernongs, etc... I would say I love scuppernongs more than rhubarb, except for the fact that I didn't grow up with them. They don't have the same resonance. (What is a scuppernong, you ask? It is a bronzey-green-colored grape native to the Southeast, with a tough, resinous skin, and an amazingly sweet, gelatinous inside which tastes more grapey than any grape you've ever had. You put the whole thing in your mouth, suck out the jelly, pick out the seeds with your tongue, then spit the seeds out along with the skin. And you make grape jelly with them, too. Or wine, which I've never tried, but imagine is a thing of beauty.) Scuppernongs come in late summer, while rhubarb is a spring thing. If you're in Georgia, go to your local farmer's market in August and September and seek out the scuppernongs.

But back to rhubarb. I mentioned its resonance – I always think of my grandmother when I think of rhubarb. My grandmother wasn't big on cooking. What I mean is, she cooked a lot – she made sure everyone was fed, and did it with love. But she didn't invest a lot of mental energy in it – she made a lot of beef and boiled potatoes, spaghetti with jarred sauce (diluted with water so it would last longer), and a lot of pancakes, fried eggs, bacon, and toast. Wonder Bread was the bread of choice. Oscar Mayer bologna was often featured prominently between the two slices of bread.

But my grandmother did do one thing special for me, that I loved more than anything else, and that was to make me rhubarb sauce. Basically she would take rhubarb from the yard, chop it, and cook it with butter and sugar in a saucepan until it was soft and stringy. Then she would spoon the warm, sweet-tart sauce into a bowl, and I would sit there and have three servings. She always let me have as much as I wanted.

The particularly bright part of this memory is when the raspberries were in season. Then she would send me out with a large bowl and I would pick raspberries from the bushes near the shed with the white paint blistering off of it. The door always hung slightly ajar, and a shaft of light would make twisted shadows inside, partially illuminating the broken down and rusty machinery. I would bring her the raspberries and she would add them to the rhubarb sauce. And when there were strawberries, we'd add those.

My dad could have taken over the dairy farm when my grandparents retired, but there was "no living in it," and he went on to college and life raising his family in the suburbs. All of the buildings except for the main house have either been bulldozed or toppled of their own accord. My uncle lives in the main house now with his family. A natural gas company is using the hay field as a staging area for their equipment as they build a pipeline. They are paying my uncle $30,000 for the privilege of using the land, which they are contractually obligated to return "to its original state." Nothing ever returns to its original state, but I keep trying.

Update 4/1/10: Lisa of Lisa's Kitchen informs me that the fresh chickpea salad my three-year-old and I enjoyed so much (and a posse of five-year-olds found "disgusting") has won the March "No Croutons Required" contest! Woohoo! Thank you, Lisa, for letting me know about the contest. April's contest is being hosted by Jacqueline of Tinned Tomatoes, and calls for a salad or soup which features a member of the allium family (ie: onions, garlic, chives, etc....) Be sure to check it out.