Viking Sunday Dinner

Starchy-savory

Before Viking Sunday Dinner, we serve hors d'œuvres, which in our house does not mean mini quiches or bacon wrapped scallops, unfortunately; though those are both good, they tend to be better when you have a wedding caterer making them for you.  It means, almost always, some kind of starchy thing with some kind of savory thing on top of it.   Doesn’t sound very glamorous when phrased like that- but they serve a critical purpose!  The starches get the metabolism revved up so folks are prepped to eat more!  The savory wets the thirst for a cold beverage – critical to a lively dinner. 

We usually serve these with a cocktail or glass of crisp white wine; living in a Portuguese neighborhood as we do this is often a Vinho Verde. 

Let’s start with the starchy things.  These should be crisp, lightly salted and enriched with olive or vegetable oil.

• Water crackers.  So simple and basic, they make a great foil for almost anything without competing – or you can punch them up a bit by getting the kind with cracked pepper.
• Crostini.  These are the little tab-shaped olive oil crackers that come in clear plastic bags at the grocery store, sometimes with bits of rosemary baked in.  Amazing accompanying all kinds of Mediterranean flavors. Without question, these are my number one food addiction.
• Melba rounds.  The cracker of my childhood. Probably my mother’s number one food addiction.  I’ve come to like the whole wheat versions best.
• Swedish crisp-bread.  I know, I know.  It looks like cardboard; it has terrible associations with dieting and usually is pictured on the packaging topped with something horrifying like cottage cheese and strawberries.  That said, I like them, particularly the thicker kind – and particularly when I break them up into smaller pieces.  A big three-by-six-inch slab of crisp-bread is a little intimidating; broken into six or so rough squares, it can be a nice hearty foil for lots of things, particularly fish.
• Bagel chips.  It’s not unusual to find yourself with a few stale bagels on your hands (especially if you work in an office; how many times does that bloody tray of abandoned-looking bagels end up in the kitchenette?).  Don’t toss them; slice them vertically into thin bits (maybe 2-3mm thick) and stash them in sealed bags in the freezer.  When you need some kind of cracker-thingie, arrange the frozen bagel bits on an oiled baking sheet (or oiled sheet of foil on top of a baking sheet) and brush or spray with oil.  Bake at around 400 degrees for 10-15 minutes or until they are golden.  Toss with some salt and you have bagel chips. 
• Toasts.  Have a stale baguette or rye loaf floating around?  Same principle applies as with the bagels.

So, then, what’s on top of these?

• A smear of goat cheese and a dollop of fig jam.  Best with the water crackers.
• Cream cheese and mango chutney.  This is my family’s traditional Christmas dinner hors d'œuvres, always served on melba rounds.
• Homemade salmon pate.  Canned salmon mashed into cream cheese with a finely minced shallot and a few flakes of crushed red pepper.  You can also make this with smoked salmon, though I would not recommend using the lovely sheets of translucent Nova Scotia for this less-elegant purpose.  Trader Joes sells extremely tasty (and reasonably priced) smoked salmon tails in cans.   Good on any of the above, with the possible exception of the crostini.
• White bean paste.  Dump a can of cannelloni beans into the blender with the juice and zest of one lemon, a couple of cloves of garlic, and a few good glugs of olive oil.   Blitz into a smooth puree and salt (probably not necessary) and pepper (essential) to taste.  Best with crostini, bagel chips or toast.
• Olive tapenade.  Either in the blender, food processor, or (if you’re really ambitious) by hand, chop good quality olives down to a rough paste.  Amazing with crostini or toasts. 
• Anchovy mayonnaise.  Empty one of those little tins of anchovies into a bowl and mash them into a paste with a couple of forks.  Mix in a finely chopped shallot (or small onion) and a few plops of mayonnaise.  Particularly good in months when you can find a nice handful of basil leaves to chop and toss in as well.  Best with the crostini – you’re almost dipping here, rather than spreading. This is also great as a dip for some blanched vegetables.
• Anchovy-parmesan toasts.  Rather than baking your toasts or bagel chips in the nude, you’re going to put them onto the baking sheet topped with a sliver of roasted red pepper (from a jar is easiest, but if you’ve been a good doobie and made your own, this is a great place for it), one whole anchovy, and a sprinkling of grated parmesan.  Bake until crisp and brown and serve hot.

Am I obsessed with anchovies?  Yes.  Sorry.  You might as well know that now.

Cabbage and Bacon Pasta

I know it's kind of a no-brainer to put bacon in something to make it taste good.  I sometimes feel like I see entire issues of cooking magazines that appear to be completely bacon-dependent, which I find so infuriating.  I mean, you people are supposed to be professionals!  Where's the challenge in bacon?

That said, the cabbage is a kind of magical friend to bacon, and the combination makes this dish feel substantial and even just a little healthy, especially if you've been on a long run or shoveling snow in the cold.

Serves 4.

• Four slices bacon
• Couple of gulgs olive oil
• Two shallots
• Two large garlic cloves
• 1 lb fusilli pasta (I use whole wheat)
• 1 medium savoy cabbage
• 1/2 cup Parmasan cheese, plus more to garnish

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil.

Chop the shallots and garlic, and cut the bacon into 1/2 inch lardons.   Cut the cabbage in half vertically and cut our the core, then slice into inch-wide frilly ribbons.

Heat a few glugs of olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat.  When it's shimmering, add the bacon and cook until crisp, about 5 minutes.  Add shallots and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, while the pasta cooks.

Add the pasta to the pan of water and cook according to package directions.  About 5 minutes before the pasta is done, toss the cabbage into the pasta pan and slap on the lid to let it steam.  When the pasta is done, drain pasta and cabbage and transfer into a serving bowl.  Mix in the onion and bacon, and toss with Parmasan cheese, a sprinkle of sea salt, and freshly ground pepper.

Fishpie!

After I made this for the first time, Fishpie became my bowling nickname.  That tells you the impact it had on those who ate it.

This isn't a pastry pie, but a kind of oceanic shepherd's pie, with a chowdery underside, and a luxurious mashed potato topside.  It is a very gently adapted version of a recipe by Nigel Slater from his extraordinary cookbook Appetite.  Nigel has a real thing for smoked fish, and while I love it too (witness husband's all-smoked fish birthday party), I don't find it particularly cost effective in the bulk that you need it for this recipe.  Fresh tilapia fillets, however, are fantastically cheap and delicious - and if you can find a few tidbits of smoked bluefish, trout or some other white fish (not salmon) to throw in here, it's great but hardly essential.  The mussels, however, are.  See my notes on moules and be reassured that they're probably the easiest part of the recipe.

If you break the recipe into a few phases, it's a nice afternoon project that culminates in a glorious Sunday evening feast.  It really comes into its own with a Belgian white beer and a big bowl of lightly buttered peas.   Serves six.

• 4 pounds or so fresh mussels
• glass of white wine
• 3 pounds tilapia fillets
• 3 bay leaves
• 2 cups milk
• 1/2 stick of butter
• 4 tablespoons of flour
• handful of chopped parley
• 3+ pounds of potatoes (Idaho or Yukon gold are nice here)

First stage:  mussels.  Rinse and inspect the mussels, tossing any open mussels or mussels with broken shells.  Throw the wine into a large saucepan with a lid and bring to a boil, then toss in the mussels and cook for ten minutes.  Transfer cooked mussels and juices into a colander with a bowl underneath to catch all the juices.  When the mussels have cooled somewhat, start pulling the meaty mussel bits out of their shells and into a prep bowl.  Sieve the remaining mussel juices and pour this smoky pot liquor over the mussels.  Set aside, or stash in the fridge; the mussels in their juice will store covered for about a day.

Second stage: other fish.  Put the tilapia (and any bits of smoked fish you've found) into another saucepan and pour over the milk.  Tuck in the bay leave sand bring - carefully - to a simmer over medium heat.  Do not let this boil over; I speak from experience when I tell you there are few stovetop messes less attractive than burnt fishmilk.  When the fish is opaque and flakes when you pull at it with a fork, it's done - probably about 10 minutes.  Turn off the heat and set aside.

Third stage: make your mash.  Peel (yes) and cut the potatoes into chucks, placing them in a large pan of water.  Bring the water to a boil and simmer until tender, probably about 20 minutes.  Drain these lovely babies.  If you have a mixer, this is a nice occasion to break him out.  Toss in the potatoes, about a tablespoon of butter, a bit of salt and a bit of the milky haddock juice, and mash.

Fourth stage: make a roux (this is an extremely fun trick that's great for lots of things).  Put a deep roasting pan (hello, Hellbelly) over medium heat, and melt the remaining butter in it.  When the butter's melted, tip in the four tablespoons of flour and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the mixture begins to brown gently and smell nutty.  Slowly, about a half-cup at a time, add all the milk from the haddock pan, stirring as you go to make a smooth white sauce; let this simmer over very low heat for about ten minutes, stirring occasionally. 

Last stage: Assembly!  Using a fork, break up your cooked tilapia into big juicy chunks.  Throw these into the roasting pan with the simmering white sauce, along with the mussels and their juices, and the handful of parsley.  Stir this creamy chowder mess and add a little pepper and a few flakes of salt to taste.  Remove from heat and let the whole operation cool, then carefully pile on the mashed potatoes, smoothing them to the edges of the pan. 

Bake in a 400 degree oven for about an hour or until slightly golden and crusty on top.  Serve hot.

Moules - French, or Belgian

You'll think I'm kidding when I say mussels for an everyday dinner, but let me tell you, mussels are the easiest thing in the universe to get right.  Once you've made them once, and had a cozy dinner in front of a fire, or adult swim, picking glistening fleshy bits of briny heaven our of their shells and dunking a fresh baguette into the murky juices left behind, you'll make them frequently.  Like, every night frequently.

You'll find mussels in plastic or net bags, nestled in ice in front of the fish case at your grocery store.  They should be shiny, black, and have a good fresh seawater smell. Take them home no more than a couple of days before you're going to eat them; they store best in a colander sitting on a plate in the fridge, with a couple of ice cubes tossed in for good measure. 

Right before you're going to cook them, rinse them thoroughly and go through them by hand, tossing out any that are cracked, or partially open.  The key thing here is to make sure that every mussel you put into the pot (and therefore into your mouth) is glistening alive and kicking before you steam it to death - and that means tightly closed.  If a mussel is open, you can give it a couple of taps and see if it begins to close.  Toss any that sit lazily and refuse to respond!  A mussel that fails to recognize your authority as a cook is a mussel that's already dead and doesn't deserve culinary greatness.

Average a pound of mussels per person.  This recipe is perfect for two as supper.

• 2-3 lbs mussels, fresh
• 1/2 stick of butter
• 2 shallots, sliced
• 2 cups white wine
• parsley

Rinse and inspect the mussels, tossing any open mussels or mussels with broken shells.

Heat the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat.  When melter, add your shallots and saute, stirring occasionally, for about 2 minutes until the shallots are soft and slightly golden.

Throw in the wine, and turn up the heat to high to bring the wine to a boil.  Give it a couple of cranks with the peppermill at this point too.

Gently tip the mussels into the pot, then lid it and let the whole operation steam over high heat for ten minutes or until mussels are 100% open and gaping.  Throw in some chopped parley (or any other fresh herbs you happen to have around; tarragon would be good too), put the lid back on, and, holding the lid down tightly, give the whole plan a good shake to disperse the juices and herbs.

Dump into a serving bowl to serve, or just eat out of the pan, with lots of crusty baguette.  Drink some of whatever wine you used in the recipe with it.  This also works really well with a nice inexpensive Cava sparking wine from Spain.

For the Belgian version, use witbeir or Hefeweizen instead of wine.  Still good with a baguette, though some might prefer some frites with the Belgian version... and who's to say they're wrong?  Not me.

Nice pear, miss.

Holy crap - the pears right now are INSANE!  Get down to your local grocery, food co-op, whatever and lay hands on as many Bartlett pears as you can find because, baby, they are in season and they are superhumanly delicious.  Throw them in a paper bag on your counter for a day or two until they dent slightly when you press a finger into them; you'll be able to smell the juicy ripeness practically bursting out of them.

Best option here for a winter dessert?  A pear shortcake, with slightly salty oatmeal biscuits, pears very briefly sauteed in brown sugar and butter, and softly whipped unsweetened cream.

Drooling now.  Must find dishcloth.

I am a pig for salt.

On a whim, I picked up a $15 bamboo salt box at Crate and Barrel - and once I started cooking with it I was completely hooked on the whole concept of a box, a cellar, a pig, or any kind of little container for your salt.

 

It's hard to put my finger on why I like this little pool of salinity sitting on the stove so much. I think it's more or less the act of actually touching the salt itself.  No matter how many fabulous appliances you may have or desire, I do think that the foods that are the most special and give us the most pleasure are the ones that we've spent some time actually touching with our hands.  A bit of basil, carefully sliced and sprinkled by hand over a ripe tomato, becomes as luxurious as caviar.  A braided and dimpled loaf of homemade bread has a heft and chewiness that echos the musclepower put into kneading it.  A pastry crust's delicate fluting speaks of the fingertips pressing and prodding it into shape.

Rubbed between my fingers as it tumbles into a basic pot of pasta, I feel like salt gives me a echo of that same satisfaction - the joy of the handmade, in miniature.

While I love the swing top and clean lines of the keeper pictured here, there are lots of other nice options out there if you want to get your hands salty.

• Emile Henry has a classic pig model in lots of basic colors.   
• Nigella Lawson's version is matte black and curvy. 
• Williams Sonoma has a few versions, including a miniature maple box, a rather country piggy, and a positively Provencal version that's frankly way too much money for a box to keep salt in but never mind. 
• This black marble one is intense, like something you picture Michelle Pheiffer's character in Scarface using to store her drugs.

And speaking of which, be warned: all this playing around with salt will definitely tempt you to upgrade to the hard stuff.

Saucepan popcorn

I feel like I almost forgot there was a time when popcorn didn't come in a microwave bag and covered in mysterious (but let's face it, sometimes delicious) goo.  Then a couple of weeks ago I was in the grocery store and saw a plastic tub of organic popping corn, hard little topaz-y nuggets with the slightest hint of translucence, and I remembered you can do this in a saucepan, on your stovetop.  And then I thought about olive oil and sea salt and I got really excited.

Two things here: 

1. Make sure you don't use more popcorn than your saucepan will hold, or face popcorn apocalypse!  For a 1 1/2 quart saucepan I use about three tablespoons of unpopped corn, so basically 1 tablespoon = 2 cups popped corn.  Measure your pan first with some water if you're not sure.
2. Keep moving.  Throw a little oil (olive, canola, ooh sesame might be good!) in the pan over medium-high heat and let it start to shimmer.  Drop in your little corns and slap the lid on tight.  Holding the lid down with your hand in a nice solid potholder, let the corn sit on the heat for a few moments, then give them a vigorous shake.  Repeat this every 10-20 seconds; you'll start to hear some popping within a minute.  Keep shaking and resting for about a minute or so more; you'll use your ears principally to tell when they're done.  If it's been more than 5 seconds without a pop, take it off the heat right away!  Better a few unpopped kernels than a burned mess.

Season with sea salt.  Eat and revel in your Luddite-ness!

Vegetable Pot Pie

Principal among the traditions that I'm talking about in this blog is Viking Sunday Dinner.  I'm not sure exactly how the Vikings came into the picture, actually.  All I really know is that when we moved into our new place last winter we were trying to save money on restaurants, so we started having folks over on Sunday evenings for dinner.  We're both from families that said blessings before dinner, and Donovan can say a mean blessing in Low German, but we ended up settling on some vaguely Norse blessings thanking Odin and Thor for their gifts, because that seemed the most ecumenical.

Whether you do a blessing or an animal sacrifice before dinner, it's enormously gratifying to crack into a savory pie in the middle of the winter; this one is good for your vegetarian friends too (though vegans will be s.o.l).  It's a modified version of one from the brilliant Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook.  While warming, it also has some lovely summery qualities that make it really appetizing in the dead of the winter, with eggs, lemon, herbs, ricotta and parmesan setting off the fleshy, almost meaty quality of the mushrooms and tomatoes.  My version makes it wicked easy by using frozen spinach and canned tomatoes.  This recipe makes about six servings, but honestly it's almost impossible to make too much of this, as it's also incredible cold the next day for breakfast. 

I like to make this in a square spring-form pan, but any baking dish that'll hold 2 quarts works great.  The key with this recipe is to drain all the veggies so they're not too wet when they go into the pie, or it won't keep it's shape.

• One recipe brunhilde's basic pie crust
• 1 pound bag of frozen chopped spinach
• 10 oz package of mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
• 28 oz can of diced tomatoes
• 1 pound of ricotta cheese
• 1 cup grated parmesan cheese
• Juice and zest of one lemon
• 1 teaspoon salt
• Freshly ground black pepper
• Some butter (good to have on hand)
• Chopped herbs (basil is particularly nice if you have it, but parsley works too)

Make and chill the pie crust in the fridge for at least an hour.

Stick the frozen spinach in the microwave-safe bowl and cover with plastic wrap; cook for about 5 minutes until it's hot and steamy, then sling it into a colander in the sink and let it cool and drain.

Saute your sliced mushrooms in about a tablespoon of butter or canola oil and a heavy skillet.  Keep the heat low; the mushrooms will start out excruciatingly dry, then get really wet, then start to dry out again as the moisture evaporates.  Cook them to about this point, then transfer them to a bowl to cool.

Open up and drain your tomatoes and set them aside.

Combine the ricotta in a large mixing bowl with four beaten eggs, the chopped herbs, the parmesan cheese and the lemon juice and zest.  Season with the salt and a few good turns of the peppermill.

Now for the assembly!  Preheat your oven to 375 degrees.  Get your pie crust out of the fridge and cut it into two slightly uneven halves.  Roll out the larger of the halves and line your baking dish with it.  Spread about half the ricotta mixture in the bottom of the dish, then layer in the cooked spinach, mushroom and tomatoes.  Top with the rest of the ricotta mixture, then roll out the rest of the pastry to top the pie, crimping the edges together with a little water to form a tight seal.  Cut a few vents and slap that baby into the oven!  It'll bake for about an hour.

Serve with a sauvignon blanc and a leafy green salad.

What's the Hellbelly? And why are we posting notes from it?

The Hellbelly is a 5 and 1/2 quart Le Creuset cast iron dutch oven.  It is a minor household diety, and from its depths springs nourishment.  Fear and respect the Hellbelly.

Brunhilde's basic pie crust

When my brother was trying to impress the girl that he met at Burning Man by bringing her apples that he grew on his backyard tree for them to make a pie together (I'm serious), he turned to me for advice.  This is, pretty much verbatim, the e-mail I sent to him on pie crust.  It makes a really nice pie, either sweet or savory - and he's still with the girl, whatever that tells you.

This may be more crust than you need for a basic two-crust pie, but it's traditional to have some extra dough that you can roll in brown sugar and bake as little cookies.  Or stick in a ramikin and top with a beaten egg and some cheese for a microscopic quiche.

• 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• 1 cup (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces (I actually like to use 50% butter, 50% Smart Balance; there's a nice rich/light thing that they do together
• 1/4 to 1/2 cup water

Mix the dry ingredients, then use a pastry cutter to cut the butter and shortening into the dry ingredients until it's about the consistency of cream of wheat (you can also do this with two knives... or your clean fingers, just basically rubbing the butter into the flour).

Put in a couple of tablespoons of cold water and mix (gently) until pieces of dough start to appear; you can pull out the dough as it shows up. It'll be crumbly. You can keep adding water until it's all dough, but again you WANT it to be crumbly, not wet at all, and you want to be very gentle with it; if you stir too much, you activate the glutens in the wheat too much and then it gets chewy (like bread) not flakey. There should be some flour left over in the bowl when you are done, probably.

Wrap it all up in some plastic wrap and pack it gently into a ball, then stick it in the fridge for about an hour.

Take it out, cut it in half and roll it out on a floured surface - a couple of pieces of wax paper are also useful here; you can put the dough between them and roll them on your counter, if that's easier. Roll it until you have a rough circle, about a inch bigger than your dish on all sides. Gently flip or slide one circle into a buttered pie dish, then roll out the other one and let it rest while you get on with the filling.