Creation

In the beginning, peaches grew on trees. Now the peaches were ripe and ready, but they would not be fresh forever, and the smell of peaches at the farmers market wafted over me. 

And I said, "Let me take them home, fifteen pounds of them," and take them home I did. I saw that the peaches were good, and I separated the peaches from the peels. I called the peaches "tasty" and the peels "fuzzy." And there was dipping of peaches into boiling water then cold water as the peaches were skinned--the first step.

And I said, "Let the peaches be separated from the pits." So I took a knife and carved the flesh from the pits and was thankful these were freestone peaches. And they were separated. I called the flesh "halves." And there was a bowl of halves and a pile of pits--the second step.

And I said, "Let the little one entertain himself." And it was so. The little one called the toaster "fun" and the bag of chips "tasty." And I saw that it was good. 

 

Then I said, "Let the peaches be heated in an apple juice syrup, and when I run out of that a sugar syrup will do." And it was so. The peaches heated a single layer at a time, according to the directions. And I saw that it was good. There was heat and there was a ladle--the third step.

 

And I said, "Let the peaches go in the jars--the book says fifteen pounds should make five quarts." But it turns out I filled up seven more pints. I made two layers in my canning pot--one layer of quart jars and one layer of pint jars. I filled the pot with water. I set the jars in the pot as I filled them. And I saw that it was full. There was an an empty bowl where the peaches used to be and a full pot--the fourth step.

And I said, "Let the pot teem with water, bubbling over and onto the stove." So I cranked up the heat and put on the lid and tried to keep the fire from going out. The flame raged, according to its strength, and the water boiled and bubbled, according to its strength. And I saw the flame go out and panicked. I said to myself, "Maybe I should move the pot to a different burner and mop up the water so I don't fill the house with gas and blow us all up." And I slid the pot over and turned up the heat--the fifth step.

 

And the little one demanded, "I'm bored, according to my kind! Let me into the baking cupboard to play." And it was so. The little one took out the blender and put it together, according to its parts, and emptied out the muffin tins and cake pans according to his desires. He pulled everything out that was interesting to play with.

Then I said, "At least you are out of my way." 

And the little one was a busy as his mommy, just like his mom he kept himself occupied.

I looked at him and said to him, "Have fun and keep out of my hair; make sure you don't burn yourself on the pot. Glad there's nothing sharp in there." And it was so.

And when the timer beeped, I saw all that I had made, and it looked very good. And I took the jars out of the pot and placed them on the counter--the sixth step.

Thus the five quarts and seven pints were completed in all their vast array.

I had completed all the canning I desired; but the seventh step was to tidy the kitchen. Oh well.

Bake. Hope. Eat it anyway.

I have only one Finnish cookbook, so it’s good that I’m only a quarter Finnish. One cookbook can get me through three months of cooking; although, by the end of those three months, I had pretty much cooked everything I had wanted to, multiple times. It’s Beatrice Ojakangas’ Finnish Cookbook and it was first published in 1964. It’s stayed in print but I’m pretty sure hasn’t been updated at all. Since finding a Finnish cookbook is not easy, and this is the one I grew up with, it was pretty much my Bible for three months.

Two of the Italian cookbooks I used were older, too. The more I use older cookbooks, the more I understand why so many people feel like they can’t cook. Before I undertook this endeavor, I mostly used the latest edition of the Joy of Cooking and epicurious.com, both of which have very clear, explicit directions.

Older cookbooks, on the other hand, are at once more detailed and more vague. One of the Italian cookbooks called specifically for a “fryer” in the chicken cacciatora recipe. But then it also told me to cook until “done.” I don’t think I’ve ever noticed whether a bird is a “fryer” or not, and if I’m a novice cook, how am I supposed to know when something is “done”?

I didn’t feel that way with Beatrice’s book for a long time. Like I said, it was the Finnish cookbook I grew up with.  There were only a few recipes in it that my mom made, but they always came out great. I had faith in it.

As I started my three month long stint, my faith was strong. I started with my favorites, variations on the piirakkaa, which is a Finnish pasty. Oh, it was wonderful! I moved on to a few meat dishes (you’ve already read about the lamb stew). Things were great.

Carrot piirakkaa with egg butter

Then I found the recipe for patakukko, or fish pot pie. It had a rye crust and three ingredients for the filling: whole trout, bacon, and salt. The recipe called for it to bake for a total of six hours and then to rest for another. Oh, how patakukko intrigued me! The time commitment prohibited me from pursuing it for many weeks. But finally, an appropriate weekend arrived and, with the help of my husband (fish completely freak me out), I assembled the dish, popped it in the oven, and because it seemed wrong to enjoy something that took so long to bake by ourselves, invited a couple of friends over, one of whom also has Finnish heritage.

Bacon + trout = patakukko

It baked and baked. We waited and tidied. Our friends arrived.

Finally, time was up, the table was set, and our appetites were whetted. I took my knife and attempted to slice through the crust. Not quite a rock. Leather, maybe? But more durable. The filling was flavorless and dry. We did our best to find nourishment in the meal, but it was tough. Literally. We came to the collective conclusion that I should have used a deeper dish (the directions said “three quart casserole” but no dimensions).

Six hours of baking does this

And that’s the difficulty with these older books. They were written in a time where assumptions were more acceptable. When people learned from their mother or grandmother or at least from experience. I guess cooks were expected to know certain things that have gotten lost in our convenience-driven society.

The hardest part of the patakukko was the waiting. There was absolutely nothing to be done but to be patient. Cooking has definitely taught me a lot of patience, but that patience has brought success time and time again. This time, though, my patience realized only failure. Not failure of my skills. Just failure that it wasn’t meant to be.

And sometimes, that’s what’s meant to be.

The Spirituality of Food

I have this theory. Everybody worships something. And I’m not just talking about God or a deity of some sort. I’m talking about some THING. For everyone, at least as far as my theory goes, there’s an object or idea or activity that  is somewhat consuming and brings some sort of meaning to life. Some people love movies. Others are into figurines. Still others dig Mid-century Modern.

I worked really hard to avoid that. So hard.

I stopped collecting playing cards. I threw out sentimental memorabilia from random middle school events. I even got rid of most of the dust collectors on our shelves. Any “thing” that I have a lot of is only out of necessity: I can’t mooch all of my comic books, so I have to buy them. I have a lot of socks because I’m slow about doing laundry. I have five kinds or rice in my cupboard because—

Oh crap. I do worship something.

I think a lot of people worship food. Food is integral to our lives but also interesting and it’s nice to be dependent on something that is so enjoyable. Our society even has a name for this quasi-religion: Foodies.

Foodies care about their food. They have ideals they try to uphold. Foodies desire creative, good-tasting food that is locally sourced, humanely and sustainably raised, wholesome, unprocessed, and, at least for this Foodie, not horrifically expensive. That’s dogma if I ever saw it.

Since the weather has turned freezing (i.e. low 60s), I have switched to Finnish cooking for the next quarter year. Finnish cooking helps me to uphold several Foodie tennets, at least in theory. Specifically, it’s easier to cook Finnish food in the winter because the vegetables are all cold-weather veggies, and therefore easier to source locally.

Until I made lamb stew, that is. Yes, I have gone back to cooking meat, but trying to uphold my Foodie beliefs while doing so. And here is where I failed miserably and need to figure out which altar to kneel at for penance: My lamb was from New Zealand.

I didn’t even think about it at the store! I didn’t even look at the label, I was just glad to buy my meat somewhere I could be confident about Humane and Sustaining and Wholesome. It wasn’t until I got home that I took a closer look and saw where it was from.

Lamb Stew with Dill was amazing. It simmered for an hour and, with just some dill and salt, created a rich broth that became a slightly tangy gravy when added to a roux of butter, flour, sugar, and apple cider vinegar. We loved it, so tender and comforting but not overly heavy. An amazing winter meal. The Finns really know how to do it.

But what was the cost? Herein lies the problem—at least to me—with adhering to a belief system: Guilt is a huge motivator.  Yes, you’re supposed to do it for the love: because you want to, not because you have to. But breaking free from the guilt of not adhering every minute to one’s values is challenging. Where do you let it give a little without having it all fall apart? How do you stick to your guns without them weighing you down? (Or frightening off people who think they’re way too big to be safe?)

I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

Why I Make Ravioli

Yesterday was ravioli-making day. Butternut squash. Homemade. Delicious!

Now, I am no pasta-making expert, but I do my best, and when I make fresh pasta, I want it filled. Filled with delicious, delectable things. Which, to me, is not butternut squash. I really do not like the b-nut.

However, 1) everyone else seems to and 2) I love butter and fried sage more than I hate squash.

There seems to be no better medium to convey butter and fried sage to my mouth without feeling gross and getting a little bored (because too much goodness gets monotonous unless there’s something to counter that—that’s why we like grilled food with little burnt bits!), so a couple weeks ago I roasted a b-nut and froze it; today I conned a friend into coming over and helping me. Pasta-making is much easier with three hands. (Don’t know what to do with the fourth, but it’s always nice having an extra around.)

I always read in Italian cookbooks about how easy it is to make pasta, and how it’s an important daily ritual of every nonna feeding her clan. However, that does not jive with my Italian-American upbringing. I stole (only my mom thinks I “borrowed”) two old Italian-American cookbooks to use for inspiration (since Marcella Hazan’s book was causing me to get snarky phone calls from the library about returning it sometime soon) and neither of them have a pasta recipe! Both of my dad’s parents worked and there wasn’t the luxury of cranking out pasta every day. That, and I think dried pasta serves its purpose better than fresh. Yes, fresh is what you need for making homemade filled pasta, but fresh spaghetti or linguine? Not necessary. And making fresh shaped pasta? Not worth it.

And that is why I make homemade ravioli.

Finally, the Gravy

Jars of Italian food in my freezer, including 4 quarts of gravy.

Been putting off this post for a while. It’s kind of a little intimate.

Nearly two weeks ago now, we ate a few braciole and our first jar of tomato gravy, made from those twenty pounds of fresh tomatoes according to the best I could remember from the one time my Gramps taught me to make it when I was twelve.

First, a little history:

All of my grandparents lived on the other side of the country from my family, which means I only saw them about once a year, for two weeks at a time. What that means is I feel like I didn’t really know them that well. But there are three things that I always think of when I think of my Gramps.

He was an alcoholic. This made him a little peculiar and hard to understand, especially since my parents always hid the alcohol when he and my grandma would come to visit and he’d be going through withdrawal. It wasn’t until years later that I realized why he shook so much and always worked on latchhook rugs (to distract himself) when he came to visit.

He had other habits, too. A habit of walking. He never learned to drive and so when he visited us in our suburban town he would walk, every day, two miles each way to the grocery store. He made friends with the butcher, which was another habit. My Gramps always knew people. Baseball was another habit. The Yankees, to be exact. He watched the Yankees, bought Yankees memorabilia, even named his mini poodle after one of them.

He cooked up a storm. My dad told me he had learned to cook in the Navy during World War II and then got a job working in the kitchen at the company from where he’d eventually retire. He eventually moved up to being the electrician he had trained to be, but my Gramps was always a good cook, especially for crowds.

A large part of his visits would be spent cooking, packing our freezer with sauce and meatballs and lasagna and braciole. We’d have his food for months afterward.

In fact, he passed away shortly after he had visited us. It was like a temporary resurrection eating the food he had made for us. It was like he had died again when we ate the last meatball.

It wasn’t until just a few weeks ago, when my parents pointed out my own penchant for cooking for large groups of people, that I realized the connection I had to Gramps. I always knew we both loved to cook, but the ability to cook for crowds just made it that much deeper.

But I need to get back to the gravy. There’s a problem with it.

I can’t remember.

I think it tastes like what it did. At the very least, I think my gravy tastes good.

But I am not sure that it is his sauce.

And that’s okay. Because even if it’s not, even if it’s been too many years and I don’t hold flavors in my head as well as I would like to, when I made that gravy I was thinking about him and what he would do and trying to remember what he had taught me. I think it came pretty close.

It’s hard not to just let it sit in my freezer forever, since now there are only four quarts left.

The braciole, on the other hand, was exactly like I remembered.

The Refrigerator Transitions

Things that currently reside in my fridge until I use them up:

• Tortillas (only corn right now, and they are soooo handy for making last minute quesadilla lunches! Will the cheddar cheese become a memory, too?)

• Arepas (in the freezer; they’re little masa and cotija cakes that you fry up. Tasty with black bean soup. Will need to see if there are any Italian black bean recipes, as I heart frijoles negros er, fagioli neri so hard.)

• Empenadas (also in the freezer. They’re filled with sweet potatoes and pinto beans and make a great quick lunch when you’re desperate.)

Hmm… I’m seeing a Latin trend here. I can’t say that I make a lot of Latin-American food, but it definitely has been a recurring theme in my repertoire. I just recently mastered Mexican rice and I have half a bottle of annatto seeds that’ll just sit for a while, I guess. Unless someone wants them?

• Potato-cheddar pasty (there we go! On to a different culture! This thing is so poorly wrapped, though, that it's probably freezer-bitten as all get-out. Note to self: consume this week. Thanks.)

• Coconut milk and curry paste (cupboard and fridge door, respectively. I have been wanting to make a coconut milk-based dessert, so that’ll be easy to use up. The curry? Hmm… not sure what to do.)

• Udon and rice vermicelli but no other pasta right now! Isn’t that strange? I actually have been out of the habit of cooking pasta because… well, huh. Don’t know why. Now that I’ve got my five quarts of gravy in the freezer, though, I definitely need to be sure to keep a supply on hand.

Stay tuned for next week's post in which one week's planned menu gets turned into two!

Of smoke alarms, mold, and forgetfulness

Sunday: Pizza dough

Plan my meals for the week. Realize that this is turning out to be harder than I thought.

(One, I am way too stubborn. I’ve got my guns to stick to and I’m not quite willing to let go yet. Soon, local tomatoes, bell peppers, and other joyous veggie-fruits will be gone and I will be left high and dry with only canned varieties (or none at all!) to turn to. How do you cook Italian food without the nightshade family? I guess when I get desperate, that’s when my Finnish three months will start. But I gotta put that off long enough for the Finn months to get me *back* to tomato season!

Two, is this going to get repetitive? I feel like right now there’s risotto, polenta, pasta, and that’s not really enough to get through the week. At this point, I can’t afford cooking more meat, even if I wanted to. Gotta find a veg Italian cookbook!)

Then decide to make pizza for dinner. Beg dog park friends to come over. They’ve already got plans. This turns out to be a good thing when the entire apartment fills with smoke from the butter that dripped onto the bottom of the oven after the risotto timbalo from last week. Make calzone instead, since those can be fried. Hope particulate matter doesn’t accumulate too much in bebe’s lungs. Smoke alarm doesn’t go off only because I turned it off when I started. Big dog quivers in her proverbial boots anyway. She knows it's expected.

Monday: Italian enchiladas.

Okay, that’s not what they’re called.  They’re crespelle, but they are essentially Italian enchiladas. You make these little crepes, fill them with a mixture of parm and spinach, cover them in bechemel and bake.

Oh. Yum.

Friends come over and eat them all. As I question whether I will ever invite these two over again, I realize the better option is to make a double batch next time.

Tuesday: Bean and red cabbage soup. More stuffed bell peppers.
 

Discover cabbage can grow mold inside its leaves. Wasn’t quite sure that it was mold at first, since it was so smoothly integrated and there was no smell. But it was definitely fuzzy. Not surprising, since I think it was in the veggies drawer for almost two months. So, no bean and red cabbage soup.

Instead, I pull out the dozen bell peppers from the farmers market, cut off the moldy bits (will not be keeping them in the “moisture” veggie drawer next time) and stuff them with rice (out of arborio, though), chopped mozzy (soooo much better than shredded!), and BACON. Freeze them for easy dinner later.

Too much filling is left over, so bebe boy and I eat the rest for dinner.

Wednesday: Do Italians make tacos?

The husband cons a friend into bringing us Taco Bell. I don’t mind a day off from cooking.

Thursday: My Italian cookbook from England uses French words.

Aubergine fritters are on my list. Get the idea to make some focaccia as a side, too.

(While the dough is kneading in the mixer, I get on my hands and knees and de-grease the oven. A good scrubbing with baking soda does the trick. I turn the oven on and poof! Or rather, un-poof! There’s no more smoke!)

Slice the eggplant and bake it, but when I check it, it looks like it needs a little more time. So I shut off the oven and walk the woofs.

First rising for focaccia is over after the girls are walked and watered, time to crank the oven to 450 so it’ll heat up nice and hot for baking. I play with the boy for a bit, then decide it’s time to put together the fritters.

But where’s the eggplant?

I look high and low. How do you lose eggplant?!?

And then realize that the burning I smell is not just a little bit of residual butter but THE EGGPLANT.

It’s not quite a charred mess. More like a leathery one.

No eggplant fritters for me.

As I have already assembled the rest of the ingredients for the fritters, I just add another egg for binding and instead enjoy feta/parm/breadcrumb fritters. Delish!

Friday: Today.

Gonna buy another red cabbage for some soup. It’s better soup weather now anyway. And I've got focaccia.