Carrot Soup All The Way from England

In spite of our drought, I had a fairly impressive garden this past winter: several varieties of lettuce, basil (until the frost killed it), and chives and parsley, which are both hardy in cold weather. I enjoyed fresh lettuce every day from November through March. But then I planted beets and carrots and it wasn’t long before ennui set in. I had purchased them as wispy-thin seedlings, clumped into small starter packs and they were planted too densely. I repeatedly thinned them for several weeks, but as they matured I could see they were still too close together. Feeling defeated, I left them to survive on their own. The beets kind of grew into each other, producing gigantic, grotesque beetroots that I cut up anyway into more manageable pieces and roasted in olive oil. They tasted just fine.

The carrots grew in a comically catawampus way, sticking out every which way, and kept poking their heads out of the ground to show off their colorful shoulders and try to convince me that they were actually beautiful. I finally pulled them all, relieving the poor darlings from further ridicule. I had decided to just chop them up and cook them in a light, carrot-ginger soup, or try to replicate Bryn's tasty curried carrot soup. But an article in the Los Angeles Times changed my mind.

 

What caught my eye was “A taste of Bath.” When I was in England in 2012 researching my family’s history in Cornwall, my British cousins persuaded me to join them in Bath where they were enjoying a weekend of theater, museums and sightseeing in that magnificent old city. John was anxious to take me to one of the oldest restaurants in town, the Sally Lunn EatingHouse. As a child in the 1940s, John and his mother had been sent from London to the countryside to escape the bombs dropped by German warplanes. One of his happiest memories of living in Bath is eating at Sally Lunn’s, so in a culinary nod to happy times, we gorged on his childhood favorite, the Bath Bun, a rich buttery roll that has a lump of white sugar baked into it, a delicacy that’s been famous since the 18^th century.

When we had recovered from the sugar high, we settled into healthier fare. Fortunately, the menu provided several choices, one of which was the subject of the Times’ article. Reading through it, I was nostalgic for my trip to England but I also had stumbled upon a way to use my homely carrots.

Sally Lunn’s Carrot and Lentil Soup

2 Tablespoons olive oil

2 Pounds carrots, chopped, about 6 cups

3 Large celery stalks, chopped

1 Onion, chopped

2 Leeks, white and pale green parts only

½ Lemon (peel and segments), chopped

6 Cloves garlic, chopped

1 Tablespoon ground cumin, or to taste

1 Teaspoon ground cardamom, or to taste

2 Teaspoons garam masala, or to taste

½ Teaspoon smoke paprika, or to taste

¼ Teaspoon cayenne pepper, or to taste

½ Pound red lentils, about 1 cup

8 Cups vegetable broth

Salt and pepper

In a large stockpot, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Stir in the carrots, celery, onion, leeks, lemon and garlic, along with the cumin, cardamom, garam masala, smoked paprika and cayenne. Cook while stirring frequently until the vegetables are soft and the spices are aromatic, about 7-8 minutes.

Stir in the lentils and broth. Bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to a gentle simmer and cover. Cook until the vegetables and lentils are tender, about 20 minutes. Remove from the heat and season with 2 teaspoons of salt and a scant teaspoon of pepper.

Using an immersion blender, puree the soup. Add additional broth or water if necessary to bring it to desired consistency. I don't puree this soup to a fine consistency; I leave it a little chewy so I can bite into all those vegetables. Taste and adjust the seasonings if needed. Garnish with a sprig of celery leaves or a generous pinch of thinly sliced scallion greens.

Makes about 3 quarts.

With all the Indian spices in this soup, I think a chilled Reisling is the best choice for wine.

Crab Bisque: An Unexpected Holiday Surprise

When my family visits for the holidays, I have to re-think all my usual menus because I am cooking for two kids who can be picky eaters, and two vegetarians. It's the kind of audience that can make your eyes glaze over.

I decided that hearty soups would play a starring role in our holiday meals, and that I would start with my go-to Corn Chowder recipe I posted in the fall. With rare foresight, I had stockpiled sweet, just-off-the-cob corn in the freezer so I already had the main ingredient. To up the heartiness factor, I went to my favorite seafood vendor and purchased a few pounds of fresh Dungeness crab. Not only was the crab quite expensive, but I spent an hour cracking and picking the shells and claws to extract the meat. But the end result was worth it. My family loved the sweet corn and sweet crab combination, and even the diet-impaired devoured bowl after bowl.

I was about to discard the empty shells when I had a wiser, second thought. I stored the shells in the fridge and a few days later I made a luscious seafood stock. I wasn't sure exactly how I'd use the stock until certain factions of the family invited friends over for a post-New Year's dinner. Bryn contributed a wonderful chicken main course, Sonia created a sparkling green salad, and Doug made a batch of his popular candied pecans. I opted to make a crab bisque to serve as an amuse-bouche before dinner.

This is a two-step recipe, and I recommend making the stock a day or two before you want to make and serve the bisque. Since crabmeat is quite pricey these days, save this recipe for a special occasion.

Crab Bisque

For the Stock:
4-5 Cups crab shells
1/2 Cup dry white wine
1 Large yellow onion, chopped
1 Carrot, chopped
1 Celery stalk, chopped
2 Tablespoons tomato paste
2-3 Sprigs of thyme
3-4 Sprigs of parsley
1 Bay leaf
10-12 Whole peppercorns
2 Teaspoons of salt

Break up the crab shells by putting them in a plastic bag and using a rolling pin to crush them. Spread the shell pieces in a single layer on a baking sheet and put in a hot oven for about 15 minutes to toast. This really brings out the flavor. Remove and put it a large stock pot and cover with about an inch of water. Bring just to a simmer over medium high heat, but do not boil and do not stir. If foam forms on the surface of the water, just skim off with a slotted spoon. Cook like this for an hour, never stirring.

Male a bouquet garni with the thyme, parsley, bay leaf and peppercorns and add to the pot along with the wine, vegetables, tomato paste and salt. Simmer another 30 minutes, then remove from heat. Let the stock cool a bit before straining through a cheesecloth-lined strainer into a clean pot. Discard the solids. This will make 2-3 quarts. Freeze if you aren't using it within a few days, reserving 1 quart for the crab bisque.

For the Bisque:
2 Tablespoons unsalted butter
1/3 Cup shallots, chopped
3/4 Cup white wine
1 Quart of seafood stock
1/4 Cup white rice
2 Tablespoons tomato paste
1 Pound cooked crabmeat
1 Cup heavy cream
1/4 Cup port
1/2 Teaspoon salt
1/8 Teaspoon white pepper

In a large pot, melt the butter over medium heat, add the shallots and cook gently until they are transparent, about 5 minutes. Add the wine, stock, rice and tomato paste. Bring to a simmer and continue to simmer until the rice is completely cooked, about 30 minutes. Remove from the heat and cool a bit. Add most of the crabmeat to the soup, reserving some nice whole pieces for garnish.

Working in batches, ladle the soup into a blender and puree until very smooth. Return the pureed soup to the pot. Add the cream and port, then season to taste.

I served the bisque before dinner in the living room in espresso demitasse cups to universal acclaim. Everyone asked for seconds, although the bisque is very rich and filling. I am disgusted I did not take any pictures for this success story, but I have witnesses.

My Kind of Kitchen

I am an incorrigible looky-loo. So when I got the chance recently to tour one of Ojai's most intriguing homes, I was thrilled. Built in the '60s by a notable local architect, "Shantigar" (which is Sanskrit for "peace") is a gem of mid-century modern architecture. California redwood and exotic Brazilian hardwood, plus walls of river rock next to wide expanses of glass, are dramatic accents throughout. Everywhere there are stunning views of the 21-acre estate with its towering oaks and pines.

But the kitchen! While it's not huge, it was fully endowed with all the appliances and fixtures a cook could want, with the added bonus of a large window overlooking the back garden. But there was something about it that went beyond sheer functionality. Like the rest of the home, this kitchen was filled with artistic touches and collectibles.


 Even the pots and pans hanging above the center island had personal stories. Well-worn cast iron skillets and copper pans brought in a charming old world vibe that softened the modernist design. On the table, a hand-carved wood bowl with primitive utensils collected by the owner (not surprisingly, an artist) beckons you to join in at the family table.

A quick peek outside that lovely kitchen window revealed two features that I've always dreamed about: outdoor fireplaces where family and friends could gather for festive meals.

A brick oven with a wide, raised hearth for pizzas and maybe even a loaf of homemade bread, and a smaller rock grill for burgers and shish kabobs were tucked into small picnic areas under the trees. Yep, this is my kind of kitchen. It has artistic charm, it tells a family's story, and it's where communal meals can take place beyond the kitchen and dining table in the beauty of the great outdoors.


Lucky for all of us, Shantigar will be open to the public on November 16 and 17 on this year's Holiday Home Look In right here in Ojai. Treat yourself to inspiration.

Extending Summer with Corn Chowder

I have been bingeing on corn. Not only because I love it, but also because I can. I endured the last two summers with orthodontic apparatus bonded to five of my lower front teeth, making chomping down on corn on the cob all but impossible. Now that I have been liberated from my dental prison, I can tackle previously forbidden food like raw whole apples, chewy ciabatta bread and saltwater taffy. And sweet corn on the cob, possibly late summer's most exquisite gift.

My first ear of corn, post orthodontia, made me feel like I was indulging in contraband. I had almost forgotten that sweet smell of steamed corn as I raised it to my mouth. Slathered in butter and lightly salted, I sank my newly straightened teeth into the juicy kernels, closed my eyes in sheer delight and chewed my way from one end of the cob to the other. Row after row, I couldn’t get that corn into my mouth fast enough.

In August, my son, his girlfriend and I drove from Boston up to Maine for a short vacation. Our first stop was Beth’s Market in Warren, a veritable bazaar of exquisite organic produce, fruit, meats, dairy and preserves. The three of us went a little crazy, spent way too much, loaded up the car with a year’s worth of groceries and headed to our little rented shack on the St. George River. Two days later, my sister drove over from Vermont and arrived with hefty coolers full of the bounty from her garden and a carton of just-picked organic corn.

Bryn, a marvelous cook, rolled up her sleeves to make pots of fish and corn chowder, curried carrot soup, sumptuous salads, and omelets stuffed with fresh vegetables. Susan and I were her sous chefs and kitchen stewards. It was all so indulgent and so delightful.And boy, did we eat well!

Thanks to California's long growing season, the Ojai Farmers’ Market is still full of fresh-picked corn. I just bought half a dozen ears of sweet white corn and brought them home to make corn chowder. After stripping off the kernels, I simmered the cobs in some water to make a corn stock for the chowder. Everything went into the freezer to have on hand for making later in the season when the family will appreciate a hearty chowder that reminds them of long summer days.

Almost every recipe for corn chowder starts with bacon, but I have vegetarians in my family so I was relieved to find a recipe from Jamie Oliver that was meat-free. I've made some adjustments that will yield a quantity that will feed my gang, but otherwise I've stayed true to his formula. I especially like that he uses low fat milk instead of evaporated milk (like restaurants tend to do) but if you prefer a thicker, more traditional chowder, use half-and-half mixed with some corn stock.

Corn Chowder

1 large celery stalk
1 large onion
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
6 cups low fat milk (or half-and-half)
2 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into small cubes
5 scallions
4 cups corn kernels (from about 8 ears of corn or use frozen corn)
1/2 cup chopped fresh chives and parsley mixed together

Chop the celery and onion, setting the celery leaves aside. Heat the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat, then add the celery, onion and thyme. Stir until they start to brown. Sprinkle the flour over the vegetables and stir for a few more minutes. Pour in the milk, add the potato and bring to a boil, stirring constantly to prevent the soup from sticking to the pot. Cook until the potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes, but don't let them get mushy. 

While the potatoes are cooking, chop the celery leaves and slice the scallions thinly. When the potatoes are tender, stir in the corn, scallions and celery leaves. Bring the soup back to the boil, then serve.

Variations on a Theme: To make this chowder hearty enough to serve as the main course, I will add either some crabmeat or some smoked fish. The smoked fish will be reminiscent of Finnan Haddie, a winter staple in Maine that I learned to love when I lived there. To complete the menu, I'll serve it with a crisp, green salad, some crusty dark bread, and a full-bodied Chardonnay. Pardon me while I wipe my mouth -- it's watering.
 
 

Making Pasties the Cornish Way

I had promised at least a modicum of reportage while on my most excellent adventure with my granddaughter to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando -- and then I broke my promise. I learned on Day One that finding the time to write in the midst of a fantasy-driven week designed for ten-year-olds was not going to happen.

The program we had joined was not for the faint of heart. Every day started early with either a tour of the theme park or a Harry Potter-related group activity like a making wands, studying owls (real ones), making butter beer or playing Quidditch in the pool. After a mid-afternoon swimming break to cool off, it was back to the park for more. By 10 P.M., both grandmother and granddaughter were exhausted.

The heat in Florida that week was excruciating, made worse by stifling humidity. But nothing slowed down those kids. The adults passed around a cold Frogg Toggs Chilly Pad (the best invention ever!) and took turns waiting in long lines with the kids for rides that were stunningly creative, but only lasted a few minutes.

My personal favorite moment was when we stepped into The Three Broomsticks restaurant for lunch and we were greeted with a blast of air conditioning that sent welcome shivers all over me. The Three Broomsticks, as every Harry Potter fan knows, serves authentic Hogsmeade food and drink. With glee, I ordered Cornish pasties and a frozen butter beer. It was the perfect repast. I devoured every bite.

When I was in England last year doing family history research in Cornwall, I ate as many pasties as I could. This traditional meat turnover has been eaten and enjoyed by the Cornish for millennia and still today you can find pasties on every street corner, in every flavor. But an authentic pasty (please, say "past-tee," and not "pace-tee") contains beef steak, potato, onion and swede (or turnip) wrapped in an envelope of pastry. A thick, rope-shaped seam seals up the two halves of pastry and served as a convenient handle for miners who ate pasties for lunch, many dark fathoms underground. After the collapse of the British mining industry, when Cornish miners immigrated to more promising mining sites all over the world, the pasty went with them to Canada, America, Australia, South Africa and Mexico (where they were called empanadas).

While in Cornwall, I bought several books that claim to have the original recipe and the proper technique for making a Cornish pasty. After a few experiments at home, here is the recipe I prefer:

Cornish Pasties

Make The Pastry:

2-1/4 Cups flour

1 Teaspoon salt

1 Tablespoon sugar

1/4 Cup cold shortening

1/2 Cup (or one stick) cold butter cut into 1/2-inch cubes

2-1/4 Teaspoons cider vinegar

4-6 Tablespoons ice water, more if needed

In a food processor, pulse together the flour, salt and sugar. Add the shortening and pulse until the dough resembles moist sand. Add the butter and pulse until the butter is the size of peas. Sprinkle on the vinegar and 4 tablespoons of ice water and pulse a few times until the dough begins to clump together into a cohesive ball.  If the dough is too crumbly, add more water one tablespoon at a time. Remove the dough and form into a large disk about 6-8 inches wide, cover tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 2 hours, but preferably overnight.

Make The Filling:

When ready to assemble the pasties, set the oven to 425 degree, then prepare the filling.

1 pound rump, chuck or skirt steak, cut into 1/4-inch pieces

1 onion, cut into 1/4-inch pieces

1 large baking potato, cut into 1/4-inch pieces

1 large turnip, cut into 1/4-inch pieces

Salt and pepper to taste

1 large egg, beaten

Mix together the first 5 ingredients but do not cook them; the "proper" Cornish way is to use raw ingredients and let them bake in the oven along with the pastry. 

Divide the chilled dough into 12 equal pieces and shape each piece into a small disk. Roll out each disk on a lightly floured surface into a circle about 6 inches in diameter and 1/8-inch thick. Carefully set each circle aside until all 12 are ready.

Dampen the edge of each circle with a little water, but don't overdo it or the edges will slide around instead of sealing together. Add 1/4 cup of the filling onto one side of each pastry disk, carefully fold over the other side of the dough and crimp the edges together to form a half-circle. Make a small slit in the top of the pasty with a knife to let steam escape, brush each pasty with a milk or egg wash and place them on 2 parchment-lined baking sheets, leaving a couple of inches between them. 

Bake one sheet at a time, keeping the second sheet chilling in the refrigerator. Bake each batch until the pasties are puffed up and golden brown, about 25 minutes, rotating the baking sheet about half way through for even browning. Remove from the oven and lift each pasty with a spatula onto a serving plate. Pasties keep very hot for a long time, so wait at least 15 minutes before eating.

A-Buzz about Honey

I have two intrepid women friends who have recently gone into beekeeping. My pal Sharon, who lives in Maine and is the brains behind the blog Delicious Musings, took classes on apiculture with the intent of creating a healthy bee population for the future. The other friend is my sister Susan who lives in Vermont and, like Sharon and beekeepers everywhere, is constantly monitoring the hives for mite infestation that causes colony collapse. I admire these hobbyists who have learned to handle insects that are known to behave badly when disturbed, that are extremely vulnerable in spite of their reputation, and are currently under threat from all the toxins we humans are dumping into their environment. Since about 1/3 of all the food we eat depends on pollination by healthy bees, it’s time to pay attention to these flying life-giving heroes.

I don’t know a honeybee from a wasp or a hornet, so in my ignorance I’m fearful of all of them. When I saw a notice in the local paper about a honey-themed event in Fillmore over the weekend, I saw an opportunity to get some education about bees.

Fillmore, a small agricultural community about 25 picturesque miles from Ojai, was hosting thousands of visitors at their Honey Harvest Festival in the town square, but I headed a few blocks away and boarded the Fillmore & Western train for a ride another 15 miles out in the country for a tour of Bennett’s Honey Farm.

After observing the process of harvesting, filtering, grading and bottling honey (simplified for us rookies), we enjoyed a tasting of honey made from local sage, clover, wildflowers, buckwheat, eucalyptus, orange and avocado blossoms, and cactus.

Scraping frames to release honey into the centrifuge.

Raw honey is filtered through two layers of fine mesh.

It was apparent that learning to taste the terroir of honey was as subtle as refining the palette when tasting wine or coffee or olive oil. We were encouraged to note the different colors of honey (avocado is very dark, clover is almost clear) and the “nose” of each varietal.

While most of us consume liquid honey that is extracted from the honey comb by centrifugal force and strained, there is also comb honey that is sold just as the bees produced it – in the wax comb, whipped or creamed honey that spreads like butter, and raw honey which is unprocessed, unheated, unfiltered and comes right out of the hive and into the bottle.

So I’m not an expert and I still wouldn’t want a hive in my backyard. But I honor those fearless souls who wrangle these little critters and harvest a natural food that is healthful, healing and delectable. For my part, I vow to become a more educated consumer of honey by avoiding supermarket brands and buying from local apiarists.

Harry Potter on my Mind

In a couple of weeks my granddaughter and I are headed to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter theme park in Orlando, Florida. The trip is in honor of her tenth birthday, a present I have promised both my grandkids when their age flips over to double digits. She has read the entire Harry Potter book series and seen all the films; she also started a Harry Potter Fan Club at her school. She is an expert in Hogwarts, Sorting Hats and Quidditch.

And it's a good thing because she and I will be joining a group of other grandparents and kids to spend five days exploring this world of spells, potions and magic. We'll visit Hogsmeade, take a ride on the Hippogriff, buy a magic wand, dig into the hidden meanings of the books, and eat all of Harry Potter's favorite foods like treacle fudge and butter beer at The Three Broomsticks restaurant.

I've been feverishly playing catchup because I until recently, I didn't know a thing about the Harry Potter world. Yesterday I managed to finish the third book in the Potter series in one sitting, then dashed off to the store to replenish the larder which was down to Mother Hubbard standards. Imagine my surprise to stumble upon this item at my local market: Flying Cauldron Butterscotch Beer!

Touted by the manufacturer as a "magical brew for under-aged wizards and unrealized wizards alike...known to accelerate wizarding abilities in borderline wizard cases." That's the tonic for me, I thought. so I grabbed a four-pack and headed home, confident that after a few bottles I would not shame my granddaughter with my ignorance.

Tucked into the tongue-in-cheek back story on the packaging was this:

Giggle Potion Recipe

1 ice cold bottle of Butterscotch Beer
1 scoop of vanilla ice cream

Chill down a nice beer mug in the freezer. Put a scoop of ice cream in the glass. Slowly pour the Butterscotch Beer over the ice cream. Watch out for an attack of delicious foam.

 A delightful explosion of creamy vanilla and butterscotch flavors for wannabe wizards anywhere.