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.

Munching on Mulberries

Ojai's farmers' market was bursting with summer fruit yesterday. Baskets of cherries, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries were everywhere, but my eye went to the odd-looking mulberries from Pudwill Farm. I wasn't sure if I'd like them so I picked up some blackberries and golden raspberries too.

Take a look at those long mulberries on the left. They have a distinctive taste, a nice flavor boost to my cereal this morning. I've learned they have a very short shelf life, even in the fridge (no wonder I've never seen them in the store), so I'll be eating them quickly and often in the next day or two. Mulberries and creme fraiche for dessert tonight!

Lettuce Make Another Salad

I got off to a late start planting my vegetable garden this spring. I knew I'd have to wait until after hip surgery in mid-February, and then when I felt well enough to get outside, I quickly discovered that leaning way down to plant at ground level wasn't going to happen. There was only one solution: invest in raised beds that would bring the working area up to a height I could tolerate without bending over. By the time the beds were delivered, positioned, filled with good planting soil, and irrigation installed, the ideal time for planting lettuce in Southern California was almost passed. With hot weather bearing down on me, but still determined to put in some lettuce, I made my way to Flora Gardens nursery to see what was possible.

Most of the cool-season lettuces were no longer available, but a lovely purple-red lettuce caught my eye: Midnight Ruffles Red Romaine. It sounded like a name for a pedigreed race horse so I was convinced it would be a winner. Two days after planting the seedlings, the temperature shot up to the high-90s, a death sentence for most lettuce. The only thing I could do was to keep it well-watered and hope for the best. For several unseasonably hot weeks I fretted and hovered, and my lettuce seedlings hung in there. Against all odds, I am now harvesting beautiful ruby-red lettuce.

This is a lettuce with a pronounced flavor, not bitter, but assertive, so when I make a salad I pair it with other equally assertive-tasting ingredients. At the Ojai Farmers' Market, I found a Green Butter Oak Leaf lettuce, a red onion, tomatoes, and a sweet red bell pepper for color and crunch. Back at home, I added some crumbled Greek feta cheese and topped the whole thing with a yogurt-based ranch dressing. Paired with a boule of freshly baked artisan bread and a medium-bodied California chardonnay, I had a meal fit for a queen. A winner, indeed.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

Another road trip to Santa Cruz, this time to catch my granddaughter's dance performance with her baile folklorico group. This company of about two dozen little girls and a couple of brave boys practice for months under the tutelage of very dedicated Mexican-American instructors who insist on keeping every detail of the dance steps, props and the costumes as authentic as possible. Even the girls' hair and makeup conform to a strict set of rules: tight braids, no curls, colorful ribbons woven into each braid; eye shadow in multiple bright shades, lots of mascara, blush and lipstick.

The instructors handle so many dance groups, ranging in age from the very youngest to older teens, that it has evolved into a major community fiesta called "La Guelaguetza" that celebrates the indigenous communities of the Mexican state of Oaxaca, birthplace to many residents of Santa Cruz. It is so big in fact that lengthy and dramatic proclamations are read by all the local politicians as well as the Mexican Consul General in San Jose, every one greeted with a deafening chorus of "Vive Oaxaca!"

Grilled nopales and butterflied chorizo.

The twin highlights of Guelaguetza are the dance groups in colorful native costumes from all over Oaxaca, and dozens of vendors of tantalizing foods and drinks. I thought I had a passable understanding of Mexican food, but everything here was new to me. Women in traditional dresses grilled nopales and chorizo with onions and chiles. Huge, round blue corn tortillas were toasted crisp then slathered with beans, grilled beef, avocados, sliced cabbage and cheese -- the traditional "tlayuda," a complete meal in itself. I gobbled up a cup of "nieve de nuez," a light ice milk made from finely crushed walnuts, and then tucked into a leche quemada (burnt milk). And there was a huge variety of pan dulce to satisfy any sweet tooth.

Blue corn "tlayudas" hot off the grill.

Pastries are packed into baskets lined with colorful paper.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention that my weekend in Santa Cruz also included a piroshki lunch in a Russian deli and a lamb kabob dinner at the local Greek Festival, but those are stories for another time. It's hard to imagine more cultural diversity anywhere in just two short days. The flavors and smells and languages being spoken around me were totally foreign but absolutely fascinating, and reminded me that it's good to leave home every now and then.

The Fish Taco Debate

I had been cooped up for way too long while recovering from surgery (I am now the proud owner of a brand new hip), when I made a last-minute decision to make the long drive up the coast to see my family. It's not an easy trip when you're the only driver covering the 300 miles without any relief, but the scenery is gorgeous in the spring and I've made the drive so many times in the past that I know how to find every NPR radio station between Ojai and Santa Cruz to keep me amused.

It was somewhere around Paso Robles that one of my favorite NPR shows came on the air: The Splendid Table, a series of engaging dialogues between the host and a variety of chefs, food historians, nutritionists, culinary writers as well as listeners who call in with questions and comments. One of the first callers, who sounded like an experienced and knowledgeable cook, inquired about a good recipe for fish tacos, although when she described the way she prepared this favorite Mexican dish, I was convinced that hers was a very authentic recipe and I wondered why she was asking for recommendations.

The host, Lynne Rossetto Kasper, said she likes rubbing orange zest and garlic into the fish before grilling or frying it in a simple batter. Okay, I thought, that sounded interesting, although probably not authentically Mexican. But the key to a perfect fish taco, she insisted, was the crema which should be blended with minced garlic, chopped cilantro and lime juice. I agreed, but raised an eyebrow at how she made "crema": half sour cream, half mayonnaise. But here's where Ms. Kasper  really lost me: she suggested topping the taco with finely sliced iceberg lettuce. "What!" I shouted at my car radio. Even the caller reacted with a gasp. "Oh no," she couldn't help blurting out, "fish tacos are always served with green cabbage, never lettuce."

As soon as I got home, I looked up several recipes for fish tacos to see if I could settle the lettuce vs. cabbage debate. Of course, I couldn't. I decided it was a regional proclivity. Those of us on the West Coast seem to cleave to the way they are made in Mexico (cabbage), while residents in other parts of the country are willing to substitute iceberg or Romaine lettuce. Californians have easy access to authentic Mexican crema and wouldn't dream of using anything but the real thing. Others will just have to made do with sour cream and mayo until their markets expand their ethnic product line.

In the meantime, here's a recipe I selected from the many I found. The rub for the fish imparts a very nice smoky flavor which I particularly like, and the crema is authentic. And yes, so is the shredded cabbage.

Fish Tacos with Cilantro Lime Crema

For the crema:
1/4 Cup thinly sliced green onions
1/4 Cup fresh cilantro, chopped fine
1/2 Cup Mexican crema
1 1/2 Teaspoons fresh lime juice
1/4 Teaspoon salt
1 clove garlic, minced

Combine above ingredients in a small bowl and set aside.

For the tacos:
1 Teaspoon ground cumin
1 Teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 Teaspoon smoke paprika
1/4 Teaspoon ground red pepper
1/8 Teaspoon salt
1/8 Teaspoon garlic powder

1 pound white fish fillets like snapper or Talapia
Corn tortillas
1 Avocado, sliced thin
2 Cups shredded cabbage

Combine the seasonings in a small bowl and sprinkle the mixture evenly over the fish fillets. Spray a sheet of foil with cooking spray and fit into a shallow baking pan. Bake at 425 until fish flakes easily, about 10 minutes. Remove from oven and break up the fish with a fork. Heat the tortillas until warm and pliable. Divide the fish evenly among the tortillas and top with a spoonful of crema. Garnish with shredded cabbage, thinly sliced avocado and cilantro leaves. Other optional toppings: chopped jalapeno, tomatoes or red onions.

Crack open a cold Dos Equis.

French Onion Soup and the Big Chill

It has been unbelievably cold in Southern California. Coming in at 15-20 degrees below normal temperatures for January, this cold snap has broken all previous records and has us all shivering and complaining. It's been colder here in sunny California than in Boston, Chicago, or Portland, Maine for crying out loud! Wind machines in the nearby orchards have run all night for a week now, trying to keep the frost from settling on the citrus. Inside my house, the furnace has never put in so many hours, chugging along day and night. I don't want to leave the house any more than I absolutely must because it's just too cold out there. All I want to do is snuggle up in layers of fleece and read a good book. And consume bowls of hot soup.

Just in time to keep me from freezing to death, the talented folks at America's Test Kitchen recently published a recipe that caught my interest: French onion soup. Just the ticket for living with The Big Chill. Not only is onion soup nourishing for body and soul, it takes a long time to make which fills the house with the aroma of onions slowly browning in butter then slowly simmering in stock.

When I've made soupe a l'oignon in the past, I always found the first step -- browning and stirring onions on the stove top for an hour or two -- to be really tedious. The test kitchen folks suggest it is also unnecessary. Yes, you still have to plan on a long afternoon in the kitchen, but this recipe lets the oven do much of the tedious work, so you're freed up for an hour at a time to do other things, a welcome solution to a multi-tasker like me.

French Onion Soup

3 Tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
6 Large yellow onions (about 4 pounds). Vidalia and Maui onions are too sweet.
2 Cups water, plus extra for deglazing
1/2 Cup dry sherry
4 Cups chicken broth
2 Cups beef broth
4 Sprigs fresh thyme
1 Bay leaf
1 Small baguette cut into 1/2-inch slices
8 Ounces Gruyere cheese, shredded (about 2-1/2 cups)

Adjust the oven rack to the lower-middle position and heat to 400 degrees. You'll need a large Dutch oven, big enough to hold 2 quarts of liquid plus all the onions.

While the oven is heating up, peel the onions and cut each lengthwise, then place each half cut side down and slice from pole to pole into slices about 1/4 inch wide.

Tuck the herbs into a muslin bouquet garni bag, or tie them together into a tidy little bundle.

Spray the pot generously with non-stick spray, then add the butter. Add the sliced onions and 1 teaspoon of salt. Cover and cook for an hour in the oven. Remove from oven and stir. The onions will be softened and slightly reduced in volume.

Return the pot to the oven with the lid slightly ajar and cook another hour. Again, remove the pot and stir the onions which by now will be browned and very soft.

Return the pot to the oven for another 45 minutes, then remove the pot and stir, scraping down the sides and the crusty bits on the bottom. By now, the onions have spent almost 3 hours in a hot oven.

Now place the pot on medium-high heat and continue to cook the onions, stirring frequently to incorporate all the browned, crusty bits, until all the liquid evaporates. Reduce the heat if the onions start to scorch. De-glaze the pot with a small amount of water, and stir until another crust forms on the bottom of the pot. Repeat this deglazing process another 2-3 times until the onions are very dark brown. Stir in the sherry and cook, stirring frequently, until the sherry evaporates.

Stir in the two broths, 2 cups of water, the herbs and 1/2 teaspoon salt, scraping any browned bits off the sides and bottom of the pot. Increase the heat to high and when the soup starts to simmer, reduce the heat to low, cover and simmer for 30 minutes. Discard the herbs then season to taste with salt and pepper.

While the soup is simmering, arrange the baguette slices on a baking sheet and bake in the 400-degree oven until the bread is crisp and turning golden at the edges. If you're serving the soup immediately, sprinkle the baguette slices with the cheese and brown under the broiler, then place 1-2 slices atop each bowl of soup. If you are using broiler-proof soup bowls, you can do this in one step, placing the baguettes and cheese on top of each filled soup bowl, then placing the soup bowls under the broiler. Serves 6.

The soup has a delicious, deep flavor as soon as it's cooked, but it's even better the next day. Serve with a hearty salad of greens, nuts and dried fruit and a robust red wine. Comfort food for winter.

Christmas Miracles

Not every holiday miracle comes wrapped in pretty paper and tied with a bow. This one happened in the kitchen.

Doug was home for the Christmas break and he and his friends were planning a New Year's Eve party. To cut costs, they decided not to pay inflated restaurant prices and after much texting back and forth, it was decided that my house would be the location of choice and the menu would be potluck. Doug scurried about tidying up the house, laid in some champagne, and then tucked into a cookbook to decide what he would make for the party.

This in itself is a minor miracle since in all his years, I have never seen Doug express any interest whatsoever in cooking. Intrigued by this new persona, I watched him study a new cookbook he'd bought for Bryn called Burma: Rivers of Flavor. Yes, that's correct: Doug The Inexperienced One was going to skip right past familiar American food and prepare a Burmese dish for his friends!

After some consideration, he chose a shrimp salad with ingredients that were easy to find in little ol' Ojai and lo and behold, he produced a beautiful dish that was the hit of the party.

Burmese Shrimp Salad

2 Tablespoons peanut oil or shallot oil
1 Pound medium or large shrimp, peeled, deveined and rinsed, then patted dry
3 Scallions, halved lengthwise and thinly sliced
1/2 Medium English cucumber
2 Tablespoons cilantro, chopped
1 Serrano chile, seeded and minced
1/4 Teaspoon red chile powder
1 Teaspoon fish sauce
2 Tablespoons fresh lime juice
Salt to taste

First, make the shallot oil by slicing a shallot thinly and frying in peanut oil over medium-high heat, about 10-12 minutes. When the shallot slices are golden brown, removed them from the oil, drain on a paper towel and let cool. Set aside for another use, like topping a green salad or a casserole. Set aside the shallot oil, all but 2 tablespoons, to use in salad dressings or whatever recipe calls for a onion-garlic flavored oil.

Place 2 tablespoons of the oil in a wok or wide skillet and heat until a test piece of scallion starts to sizzle when dropped in the oil, then start adding the shrimp. Stir-fry the shrimp until they turn pink, only about a minute or two. Transfer the shrimp to a cutting board and when they are cool, cut into small pieces.

Cut the cucumber into 1-1/2-inch lengths and julienne. You should wind up with about a cup. Add the scallions, cucumber, cilantro and chile to the shrimp and toss lightly. Add the fish sauce and lime juice and toss to mix well. Taste and add a little salt if necessary, toss once more and serve immediately.

To add just a bit more flavor and texture, Doug added some crushed roasted peanuts just before serving. This salad is refreshing and crunchy and very welcome on a table laden with dishes rich in cheese or cream. And, the miracle is that Doug made it!

This recipe serves 4-6, but Doug doubled the recipe to feed his group of 12, and it worked beautifully.

Making Do on Turkey Day

I spent the day before Thanksgiving pretty much in a funk. With no family coming for the holiday, and no invitation to join others, I was wallowing in self-pity. Around mid-afternoon I decided to take control of things and plunged head-long into the maelstrom of supermarket shoppers to buy me a Thanksgiving dinner, by god.

The parking lot was choked with the stressed, the rushed, and the pissed off, all vying for limited parking spaces. Inside, every cart was loaded with enough ingredients to cook for several neighborhoods. Not me. I was into short cuts. No fun cooking from scratch for myself, I decided, so I grabbed the very last cooked turkey breast in the warming drawer and headed to the deli counter for cranberry sauce, the packaged goods aisle for stuffing-in-a-box and an envelope of generic and tasteless brown gravy mix. Next, the freezer section for a frozen pumpkin pie. The only concession I made for fresh food was one sweet potato. Done!

Thanksgiving dawned warm and sunny, and after dawdling on the patio with the morning paper and a cup of coffee, I assembled the ingredients for my feast-for-one to decide my "cooking" strategy. It was so simple: everything could go into a 350 degree oven starting with the frozen pie which required a couple of hours of cooling time, followed by the potato, the stuffing and, finally the turkey breast which just needed warming up.

In the end, I think it was about creating the aromas and sounds of Thanksgiving that I craved: the savory stuffing browning off in the oven and a football game on the TV in the background. I also realized that I had been true to the traditions I had been brought up with -- a meal that tasted like home and was surprisingly good. Minus my mother's green bean, mushroom soup and fried onion casserole. I just couldn't do it.

An English Tea Room in an Unlikely Place

Ojai, California isn't a place where you'd expect to find an English tea room, but then again Ojai is full of things you wouldn't expect to find in most small towns. The Plaza Pantry has been a fixture here for decades and it's where ex-pat Brits go to get their fix of biscuits, shortbread, Heinz beans, PG Tips and of course to enjoy an afternoon cuppa with scones. And it's where I found the elusive British ingredients I needed for the Yorkshire Parkin I made recently.

As I was packing up jars of Devonshire cream and orange marmalade and tins of Lyle's treacle, I lamented to owner Beryl how much I missed Cornish cream teas. With that, she handed me a flyer announcing her monthly "English Afternoon Tea" and I immediately made myself a reservation.

When I arrived for the event, I sat down next to a chirpy table of ladies who were members of the Daughters of the British Empire, an American society of women of British or Commonwealth heritage. There are dozens of chapters in California, but this group's members were from Ventura and Santa Barbara counties. Broad English accents mixed with flat American twangs in a happy cacophony of conversation and bonhomie. I shared my table with a lovely couple from Wales who had just moved to Ojai to be closer to their children and grandchildren. We shared stories of traveling in the U.K., and talked about the different ways afternoon teas are served in Britain and in the U.S. We talked about English weather versus California weather. And we discussed the latest scandals shaking each country.

Our table was decked out with typical floral-patterned china, and tea came in a cozy-covered pot. A selection of small tea sandwiches arrived: tomato, cucumber and egg, along with little sausage rolls. Next, fresh scones were served. As teas go, this one was quite authentic, although we were surprised to find our scones buttered, which isn't customary and certainly wasn't necessary since we were adding jam and clotted cream to the warm scones anyway.

 
The final course was a lovely Victoria sponge with the traditional layer of jam in the center and a dusting of powdered sugar. It was delicious, although by then I was so full I couldn't finish but half of it. I'm thinking of making a Victoria sponge when my family comes for Christmas, but I wouldn't serve it for afternoon tea; they wouldn't sit still for it. I'd serve it after dinner, perhaps embellished with fresh berries and a dollop of whipped cream.

I'm sure this is exactly how authentic regional recipes get adulterated when they migrate to new locations. People do that too. They leave one place and go to another and they change and become someone new. I tried to imagine my grandfather who left England for America in 1879, leaving behind his family, his village and foods that were familiar to him. I wondered if he missed afternoon tea with scones and Victoria sponge. It was a tradition that would have been hard to replicate in the ramshackle mining towns of California. I can only hope that some kind English lady opened up a tea room for all those homesick blokes who would have enjoyed a little bit of home in the most unlikely of places.