Greek tomato fritters: don’t let these stay Greek to you

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of meeting new people. It’s a great opportunity to gain new perspectives and also learn more about your own. And, if nothing else, you’re closer to getting to know someone who might know someone who knows Kevin Bacon.

But there is just one thing I don’t look forward to in the getting-to-know-you-stages of life, and that’s the question that inevitably comes tucked in somewhere between the introductory handshake, the hurried exchange of names and hellos, and the uncertainty of where to go from here. It’s the, … so…what do you do for fun? question.

I have no idea how to answer this.

For instance, let’s say this question arises on a date. What do I say to him? ‘I really like to eat. But I take pictures of most things before I eat them. And then I post it all on a blog, complete with a conversational tone, as if I’m convinced of a friendship with passerbys in the ether. Oh, hey, and if you stick around long enough, I’ll write about you and what you eat, too.’
I don’t think so.

So I usually come up with something that sounds like a mumbled knot of weak passions, and even I begin to wonder if I know myself at all. What do I do with my time?

Well, lately I’ve been reading up a bit on the ways that different cultures look at things like health and well-being (also a great lead on a date). When it comes to eating, I have a penchant for the Mediterranean, mainly because a scene there would probably look like me somewhere in Italy with a glass of red wine in one hand and a jar of Nutella in the other. But, then again, the unrestrained consumption of chocolate-hazelnut spread might interfere with all the things that attract me to the Mediterranean’s healthful style of eating lots of fruits and vegetables, grains, and fish from the nearby blue.

So I went in search of a recipe that would also put to good use the ingredients that are fresh to me now. Santorini’s famous tomato fritters, more formally referred to as Domatokeftedes, incorporate perfectly all the tomatoes and herbs overflowing from late-summer backyard gardens.

And let me tell you, I am absolutely shocked by how good these are.

I’m shocked that I’ve been on this earth this long without having tasted the slightly crunchy texture, the understated but powerful herby tone, and the delectable package size of these little tomato patties. And I’m shocked to admit that I’d swap a stack of these for that jar of Nutella in my Mediterranean dreams in a heartbeat. But I would. I’d keep the wine, of course.

I found a couple of different recipes for these. Most came from travelers who had had their first taste on a trip to Santorini, and were doing their best to bring a little delicious piece of Greece back home with them. Following their suggestions, and a couple of more formal recipes like this one and this one, I ended up with the recipe you’ll find below.

Besides being one of the most artful ways I’ve found to use your garden plenty, these tomato fritters are the kind of thing that force me to seriously consider how plausible it might be to catch the next flight to Greece. In case you’re interested, I could well be on my way by this afternoon at 1:48pm.

So I guess maybe what I do for fun, is dream about going places. And not only in the way that I dream of that flight leaving for Athens just before 2:00pm, but also in the way that what I do right here in my world can lead me to anywhere I want to go. What I love about food is that it has a real knack for coordinating mini-trips across the globe. So if you feel like exploring a bit, I think you better give these a try. I dare you not fall in love with them.

Domatokeftedes
AKA Greek Tomato Fritters

4 ripe tomatoes
Handful of cherry/grape tomatoes
½ medium onion
½ cup parsley, chopped finely
½ cup basil, chopped finely
2 cloves garlic, chopped finely
1 teaspoon dried oregano
Salt
Pepper
1 ½ cups flour mixed with 1 ½ tsp. baking powder
Canola oil, for frying

In a large bowl, mix the tomatoes, onion, parsley, basil, garlic, oregano, salt and pepper together in a large bowl.

In a separate bowl, mix the flour and baking powder together well, then stir into the tomato mixture to make a batter that will hold its shape. Add a little water if too thick, a little more flour if too thin.

Heat about ½ inch of canola oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Shape two tablespoons worth of tomato mixture into a round in your hand, flatten, and slide into the oil. Fry until golden brown on each side, about 1-2 minutes each side. Drain on paper towels and repeat with the remainder of the batter. Serve hot or at room temperature.

honey-cumin mascarpone lamb burgers

Until about five years ago, the closest I had come to eating lamb was the lamb-shaped butter I insisted on inviting to Easter dinner every year. Actually, insisted isn’t strong enough. For me it has always been, and still remains, a stringent requirement. Without it I would throw up my jelly-bean-stained hands in dramatic disbelief, exclaiming that I couldn’t have done anything so wrong to warrant this.

I was actually paid to take my first taste of lamb. I’d love to regale you with an impressive story, but really it was part of the training protocol at the bussing job I took at a fine-dining restaurant during high school. We had to taste everything on the menu (bummer, right?), which meant I fell in love with meats of every luxurious cut, Caesar salads, champagne-infused Brie, lobster tails, and lamb chops.

But even before that, the only Lamb Chop I had come to know was Shari Lewis’ hilarious creation. With an infectious laugh and a Brooklynesque accent, Lamb Chop brightened my Sunday mornings with knock-knock jokes, the song that never ended, and customary PBS life lessons (like this one, about the importance of being independent). Does anyone else remember this show?

I’ve recently been hearing a lot of good things about lamb, and I’ve been increasingly interested in the prospect of it making it to my table at home. So I made up a little bit of my own concoction with the help of this recipe.

I began by making the Honey-Cumin Mascarpone sauce, whose original recipe presents itself as a dipping sauce for lamb chops.

But for these lamb burgers, I decided to use the sauce more like one might use a mayonnaise. So I mixed a bit of the mascarpone into the ground lamb before forming them into patties. The chopped mint leaves remain a visible clue to the goodness that is to be found inside.

I think what is most surprising is how well and deliciously the cumin just shines when you bite into these.

I much prefer a more rustic bread with my burgers, so I like to add a drizzle of olive oil to some ciabatta and toss it on the grill just long enough for subtle grill marks to appear.

Now, I sometimes doubt the honesty of my family. It’s not that they’re not trustworthy people. It’s just that there’s no way that every joke I relayed to them from my Sunday morning with Lamb Chop warranted the laughs they gave me. And there’s no way that I delivered them with enough comic timing to leave them wanting more. But they always humored me, and continue to do so still today.

I don’t think they were merely appeasing me when they told me they liked these lamb burgers, though. You can always tell when people take seconds. So, I invite you to give these a try. I really don’t think you’ll be disappointed. And that’s no joke.

Honey-Cumin Mascarpone Lamb Burgers
With the help of this recipe, from Food Network.

For the Sauce:
1/2 cup creme fraiche
2 tablespoons honey
3/4 tablespoon ground cumin
2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint leaves
1/2 cup mascarpone cheese, at room temperature
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

In a small bowl, combine the creme fraiche, honey, cumin, and mint. Add the mascarpone cheese and stir until just combined. Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

For the lamb burgers:
1 pound ground lamb
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 ciabatta buns
2 tablespoons olive oil

Heat the grill to medium-high heat.
Begin by adding 1/4 cup of the honey-cumin mascarpone sauce to the ground lamb and mix. Add more as you like. Don’t worry too much about the mixture becoming too wet, it will make for a moist burger. Form into patties and grill to desired temperature.

Drizzle the ciabatta buns with olive oil and grill for one minute, or until grill marks have formed. Spread the remaining honey-cumin mascarpone sauce on the buns, top with your choice of green, and add the lamb burgers.

Enjoy!

quinoa and The Parsley Monster: spice-grilled shrimp and pistou

‘Quinoa’ is one of those words I just cannot seem to pronounce. Flanked by a different number of syllables each time, I whispered the word to myself as I was skimming the aisles of the grocery store and hoping that some ‘helpful smile on every aisle’ wouldn’t see my dazed look and ask me if there was something they could help me find. Thank goodness I found it in time on my own. I left there like a bandit, never having had to reveal out loud why I was there.

Luckily the quinoa I bought shouted from its package that the proper pronunciation is “keen wa.” So for anyone out there who has never tried this rustic, ancient grain, don’t be intimidated if you have to ask directions when you’re navigating the market aisles. Because, let me tell you, it is well worth the search.

My version of John Currence’s Quinoa with Spice-Roasted Shrimp and Pistou was my first encounter with the grain. (I’ve found that there is actually an organization, Quinoa Corporation, whose website offers a wealth of information such as the history of the grain and its nutritional digits.) And it was a delightful one, I have to admit.

You see, lately I’ve noticed within myself this serious streak of wanting to try new things. Until recently, I’ve only ever wanted to make Italian food. (Probably because I can semi-pronounce most of the words.) I think this wave of newness rides closely on the heels of the somewhat sobering – but also very enlightening – realization that hmm, maybe we don’t know exactly what we want every part of our life to look like. Which is okay, really, because I guess its better to live in the moment than look towards things I can’t be sure of.

But I do so love to plan for tomorrow. Mainly because that’s where dreams live. Not to mention that one thing I can see for certain: my leftover quinoa and pistou sitting in the staff lounge refrigerator, playing it cool until sometime around noon when I invite it back to my desk to keep me company.

I started off by deveining the ½ lb. of shrimp. It’s not the most exciting ten (feels like twenty) minutes of your life, but it does make you feel a certain level of profound involvement with your meal that you might not have found with frozen shrimp.

Once the shrimp is prepared, you assemble a tour de force of a spice mixture, contain its gorgeous scent within the walls of a resealable bag, and let the shrimp sit in this room temperature bath of Spanish paprika, oregano, thyme, garlic, and fennel for 30 minutes.

The original recipe directs the shrimp into the oven for a bit of roasting after this short marinade, but I opted to keep the heat outside during what seems like the heat-wave-to-end-all-heat-waves. So I filed the shrimp onto skewers and grilled them for about 10 minutes.

It’s cute, almost, the way the shrimp, now reddened from their dip in spice, line up on the skewers – standing at attention to the Spanish paprika as if it were some kind of General.

But it’s true, in a way, the spice mixture really does lead this meal. It’s an exquisite blend, and one I wouldn’t have thought to craft myself. The way the chopped fennel seeds retain a bit of their shape and hug the shrimp throughout the process only adds to the rustic, herby feel of the whole thing.

Which brings me to the pistou. Now, from what I can gather, a pistou is much like a pesto other than the fact that it does not contain pine nuts. What really stands out, and makes up for this otherwise costly omission, is the addition of several fresh herbs: rosemary, thyme, and parsley.

The parsley, I thought, should be no problem. Growing in my backyard, I looked forward to the opportunity to pluck and enjoy. Until I ran into this guy:

We’ll call him, TPM (The Parsley Monster). If you know his real name, please let me know.

I’m not going to lie to you, TPM creeps me out. He shouldn’t. He’s adorable, really. Look at those vibrant colors. But I didn’t want to bother him (read: didn’t want him to bother me), and I thought seriously about making a trip to the store for the whopping 2 tablespoons of called-for-parsley. But then a certain voice of reason stepped in and said to me, “You don’t think there’s ever been a bug on the herbs you’ve bought at the store?” To which I respond with a hopeful, “No.” No, I don’t think about that.

Anyway, the combination of herbs makes for a fresh taste that pairs especially well with the near-oatness taste of the quinoa. And the original recipe’s measurements are perfect. I was worried a bit at first when the pistou didn’t fill much of the food processor, but I found that all you need from the pistou is a gracious spotting. Be sure to use a fork to fluff up the quinoa after it’s finished simmering, and the herby mixture will float among it seamlessly.

Then cut the shrimp in half, at least, to top it all off. I love the colors of it all.

It’s a light but filling summertime meal, as well as a great opportunity to pay some attention to the herbs in your garden (and its residents, apparently).

Quinoa with Spice-Grilled Shrimp and Pistou
Adapted slightly from John Currence’s September 2010 recipe in Food and Wine magazine.

1/2 pound medium shrimp, shelled and deveined
1 garlic glove, minced
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds, chopped
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
2 tablespoons canola oil
2 tablespoons olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/4 cup basil leaves
2 tablespoons flat-leaf parsley
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary leaves
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves
1 garlic glove, smashed
2 tablespoons grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
1 1/2 cups quinoa, rinsed
2 1/4 cups water

In a resealable plastic bag, toss the shrimp with the garlic, paprika, oregano, fennel seeds, dried thyme, 1 tablespoon of the oil and 1/2 teaspoon each of salt and pepper until coated. Let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes.

Heat the grill to medium or medium-high heat. In a food processor, pulse the basil, parsley, rosemary, thyme leaves, garlic and cheese. Add 2 tablespoons of the olive oil; puree until smooth. Season with salt and pepper.

In a saucepan, combine the quinoa, water, and the remaining 1 tablespoon of canola oil. Season lightly with salt and bring to a boil. Cover and simmer over low heat until the quinoa is tender, about 15 minutes.

Grill the shrimp for about 10 minutes. Cut the shrimp into thirds and add to the quinoa and the pistou. Toss well, season with salt and pepper and serve.

remembering grandma in her cinnamon rolls

I don’t know that I could ever consider myself a baker. Mainly because I don’t keep bakers’ hours.

(Also, I only just recently learned that a baker’s dozen is actually thirteen. And while I’ve looked into it, I still haven’t found a worthy explanation for why exactly this is the case.)

Though I do quite enjoy the act of baking. And I certainly adore its results. It’s just that I won’t wake up at 4:00am unless it’s for something especially exciting, like catching an early flight or leaving on a road trip or to answer the door for balloons and a big giant check. Even then I’d probably be groggy and not easy to handle.

And while I was dragging still at 9:00am this Saturday, I began the process – which I have formerly underestimated – of making my grandma’s cinnamon rolls. At first, it didn’t look like it was going well. In my early morning stupor, I dropped everything I touched and couldn’t for the life of me open this can of evaporated milk.

I felt a little bit like a civilized criminal. Like I was being forced to siphon the last drops of available evaporated milk following a tragic dairy spill.

My grandma’s “Twisters”, as she called them, woke her several early weekend mornings before the sun had risen – probably just a few short hours after the rest of us had gone to sleep – so that she could pass them out to anyone and everyone who might stop by. You see, she was much more of a baker than I’ll ever be.

She was a woman of preparation and presentation, there’s no doubt about that. A lot like these cinnamon rolls, she took a lot of time to make you feel special. (The rolls take a collective 3 hours to rise). A meal at her house began hours before you arrived, and her years of restaurant experience manifested itself in flawless fine dining tabletop aesthetics, no matter the occasion.

And I really mean it when I say she was prepared for everything. The moment a dark cloud formed in the sky, she set her flashlight by the stairs to her basement in case the need for shelter suddenly arose. She knit a blanket to give to each of her grandchildren for their wedding long before they had even met their significant other, and stowed them in her closet for the later date. And a week before that later date, she would begin baking cakes which she would one day prior cover in white frosting and situate into a multi-tiered, bride-and-groom-topped masterpiece.

But most heartwarmingly to me, she placed a strip of masking tape under nearly every item in her home, directing those things to their new homes after she was gone. Holidays at her house were often spent jokingly looking under lamps, tables, and other keepsakes, finding out who got what. I say ‘jokingly’, because all any of us ever really hoped for was her. A piece of her to carry with us. And things aren’t always perfect at accomplishing this.

But because she had chosen so thoughtfully what each person should have, I get this feeling that these things will remain things no longer. They will now forever be a piece of her. Take this bowl, for instance. This bowl that is at least fifty years old:

I found my name on masking tape beneath this bowl (as well as a ceramic turkey napkin holder, but I’ll put that on hold until Thanksgiving) and put it to use for the first time this weekend, just as grandma did, making her cinnamon rolls.

I really didn’t want to disappoint her legacy, or my family, by falling short on this baking endeavor, so I took the piece of her that came with this bowl and crossed my fingers. Since I spent many days over at her house when I was growing up, I had helped make these cinnamon rolls before. But I had never seen the kneading and rising process. That part had happened long before I had even thought about greeting the day. Once you’ve mixed the butter, milk, eggs, sugar, and flour in the bowl, you continue adding flour until the dough is no longer sticky. And I now know why we spent summer mornings trimming coupons for flour. I estimate it takes between 8-10 cups of flour in the end.

And it’s so worth it, because the dough becomes this pillow of a thing, rising to meet you after you’ve left it sit for any amount of time. Once you’ve allowed it to rise the first round, for one hour, it nearly explodes out of the bowl. So you punch it down, and then help it back up again by letting it rest for another hour. It’s amazing to me how dough has a mind of its own.

Finally rolling out the dough is gratifying either because its such smooth dough to work with, or because you’ve been waiting at least two hours to get your hands on it.

It was a little bit like riding a bike once I got to the part that I remember. Rolling out the dough, cutting into strips, twisting and dipping in melted butter and then brown sugar and cinnamon.

And it all just smelled a lot like, well, grandma.

In the end they turned out a lot like I remember, actually. Though they did rise up a bit over the sides of the pans, while hers seemed pristinely manufactured with perfect edges and uniform shape.

But I’m not perfect. And if there’s one thing she taught me with the utmost tenderness, it’s that being imperfect is perfectly fine.

Because just like stepping into her house, recognizing from the scent in the air that cinnamon rolls had been in the works since early that morning, things (and food, especially) are much more about what you recognize within them than how perfectly they might appear.

So maybe I’ll never be a baker. But I’ll remember her every time I make her cinnamon rolls.

unforgettable chocolate-hazelnut crepes

When I’m travelling, I struggle with the question: to take pictures or not to take pictures?

Part of me wants to hold onto the scene forever, and nothing freezes and frames sentimental moments quite like photos do. But I’m also a person who loves to be completely absorbed in the moment, allowing the sentimentality of the present to embrace me so tightly that forgetting its warmth is never a concern.

In my experience, your photos can sometimes become stacked in boxes or lost in your digital archives, and though you can find them when you want them and muster the resolve to look, nothing can quite bring you back to a place like a meal you’ve had.

And thank goodness for that, because I’m very afraid of forgetting wonderful moments. I treasure them and do everything I can to ward off their impact’s dissipation. Lately, I’ve been anxious about slowly forgetting what it feels like to be in Italy. It’s been two years now since I’ve returned from a semester abroad, and while I maintain the changes it made within me, I sometimes long for a lingering thin crust meal at Premiata Pizzeria, or the thicker walking slice of pie from Garbagnati at the perfect location halfway between the Duomo and the Castello Sforzesco, a cappuccino at Café Saint George nestled between the shops of Via Torino, or the novelty of the juice box wine in the cafeteria at my collegio (dormitory).

So this last week it was important for me, and therapeutic, to try my hand at making crêpes at home. Since nearly every night after dinner in Milan sounded like the perfect time for a crêpe con Nutella from Le Colonne in the bustling and vibrant Porta Ticinese neighborhood, nothing could quench my longing for Milanese life like this divine treat.

Also, even though photos often do this work, nothing could introduce my time in Milan to my family at home like a taste of the dessert I had consumed each night with the fortitude and consistency of prayers before bed.

I borrowed and adapted a recipe for Double Chocolate Crêpes from David Lebovitz’s, The Sweet Life in Paris. I opted not to add cocoa to the crêpe batter, mainly because that’s not how I had them in Milan. I instead added a teaspoon of vanilla extract (though I would have used vanilla bean had I had any on hand). The vanilla really does come through in a subtle and luxurious way.

The star of the show is, however, Nutella.

Nutella is the kind of thing that steals the spotlight no matter who it’s standing next to. And when the glare of the bright lights causes that luxurious chocolate-hazelnut spread to melt, its celebrity increases tenfold.

I even hate to admit that crêpes are easy to make. They’re just so good and uniquely elegant that I don’t want to shatter the façade of sophistication that they sometimes tout.

In fact, the hardest part of making crêpes is in the waiting. Once you’ve melted the butter in the company of the vanilla, sugar, milk, and salt and then blended the mixture together with the flour and eggs, you allow it all to cool before chilling it in the refrigerator.

Once it has sat for at least an hour (why do you do this to me?), you must leave the batter to come to room temperature before beginning to cook. But since you actually shouldn’t make these crêpes until seconds before you’re ready to eat them, waiting might actually work out perfectly.

In that way, this is a great make-ahead dessert for anytime. Really. Anytime. It’s a must, in fact.

Since many crêpes have a fruit option, and since strawberries and chocolate go together like soul mates, I either like to fold strawberries into the crêpes or, at the very least, top the crêpes with them and a sprinkling of powdered sugar.

I have a feeling that that warmth of the crêpes and the creaminess of the Nutella will work on you to create a sentimental moment. And while you may not take a snapshot like you might of the sun setting over the Mediterranean or a Rocky Mountain stream, it will certainly take hold of you and not allow you to forget the goodness of a simple and elegant dessert.

Crêpes con Nutella
Adapted from David Lebovitz’s recipe for Double-Choclate Crêpes.

2 cups whole milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for the pan
3 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
4 large eggs, at room temperature
1 1/4 cups flour
1 jar of Nutella
Sprinkling of powdered sugar

Heat the milk, vanilla, butter, sugar, and salt in a small saucepan over low to medium heat until the butter is melted.

Put the eggs and flour in a blender and pour in the milk mixture. Blend until smooth. Chill the batter for at least 1 hour.

Remove the batter from the refrigerator and let come to room temperature.

Heat a 10- to 12- inch nonstick skillet over medium to high heat with a bit of butter in it.

Once the pan is is hot, wipe the butter around. Give the batter a good stir and pour in 1/4 cup of the batter. Quickly tilt the pan so the batter spreads and covers the bottom. Cook the crêpe for 45 seconds to 1 minute, until the edges are crispy, then slide a spatula under the bottom and flip it over. Sprinkle about a tablespoon (or two) of Nutella over one half, and let cook for another minute. (Watch it, this happens quickly.)

Fold the crêpe into quarters (once in half, and then in half again), enclosing the chocolate. Sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve immediately.