Like eggplant parmigiano, but simpler

Hey there.

So I haven't been writing much lately - maybe you've noticed?  Sorry about that.  In the last few weeks, I've taken charge of a big new project at work that has been occupying most of my time and thoughts, and even some of my dreams... so you could say I've been a little preoccupied.  At the end of the day, I haven't felt much like writing, because if I'm going to write, I want to do it well, and that takes time and energy and focus, all of which have been put to other use.

But there's something I really need to tell you about before we waste any more time.  I've eaten it twice a week for the last three or four weeks, and there's more stored away in the freezer, and if that doesn't mean it's good, I don't know what does.

I don't really know what to call it, so maybe I'll just tell you about the first time I ate it.  I had just arrived in Lausanne, Switzerland, where I was looking forward to spending a few days with Justine.  That evening, one of her coworkers, an Italian named Giulia, had offered to make us dinner.  After serving us perfectly al dente pasta with pesto made from basil in her parents' garden and olive oil from their family friends, Giulia brought out an eggplant dish.  "Like eggplant parmigiano, but simpler," she explained.  The eggplant had been diced, and cooked with tomatoes, and baked with cheese on top: in other words, eggplant parm without the breading and frying.  I enjoyed it, and made a mental note to add it to my repertoire.

Fast forward to fourteen months later, and as the eggplants continue to show up each week at the market, I've been continuing to snatch them up and make this dish every Saturday night, with leftovers for dinner on Mondays.  It takes a little while to cook the eggplant, but otherwise this dish couldn't be easier, and it is so, so good.  It's one of those dishes that every time I taste it, even though I knew it was good, I surprise myself again with just how good it really is.  And that's why I can't justify waiting any longer to tell you about it.  It's rich and earthy and so flavorful, and uses just a handful of ingredients, most of which are vegetables.  It's not flashy, and it's certainly not the prettiest thing I ever ate, but it makes me so happy every time I eat it.

Who knows if there will still be any eggplant left at the market this weekend, but if there is, you know what I'm having for dinner Saturday night.  And I hope that's the case, because then I don't have to figure out what I'm having for dinner that night, and frankly, I don't have much energy left for important decisions like that just now.

Eggplant and tomatoes

Sorry, I know that's not a very sexy name for a dish - especially one as super fantastic as this one - but that's basically what this is.  If you've got a better one, I'm all ears.  Back when the tomatoes were at their peak, I used fresh ones for this dish, but lately I've been using canned and they've been great.

1 onion, diced
2-3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 large eggplants, diced into 3/4"-size pieces
2 teaspoons sea salt
1 28-oz can diced tomatoes
2 cups tomato sauce
4 cloves garlic, minced or put through a garlic press
2 teaspoons herbes de Provence (or a mix of dried rosemary, oregano, thyme, marjoram, basil...)
1/2 pound fresh mozzarella, shredded
1/2 cup freshly grated good parmigiano-reggiano

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

Over low heat in a large pot, sweat the onion in the olive oil until soft, then add the eggplant and raise the heat to medium.  Let cook for five minutes or so, stirring every now and then to distribute the heat evenly, then add in the salt.  Let cook another five minutes, then add in the tomatoes, tomato sauce, garlic, and herbs.  Let cook 30-40 minutes, stirring every few minutes, until the eggplant is soft and delicious, with none of that green, raw eggplant flavor - it should be ready to serve as is.

Remove the pan from the heat, and pour the eggplant mixture into a large casserole dish or two - I have found that for this much eggplant, one 13 x 9 inch pan and one 8 x 8 inch pan are about right.  Sprinkle liberally with the mozzarella and parmigiano.

Bake for 15 minutes, until the cheeses are melted and beginning to brown.  Serve immediately with good, fresh, crusty bread.  Sigh with happiness.

Serves six, or reheats beautifully in the oven if there are leftovers

Pancakes and other necessities

It's October!  That must mean Halloween, which must mean pumpkins, which must mean pumpkin pancakes.  I feel like lately I've been trying to play catch up with so many fruits and vegetables as their seasons draw to an end, but it will not do with pumpkins.  Pumpkin pancakes cannot be delayed.

The first time I ate a pumpkin pancake, it was something of a revelation to me.  It was a Sunday morning, about four years ago, in, of all places, my college dining hall.  I know, I know, that's not much of a recommendation, but hear me out.  I know it was a Sunday because it was a "Sterling Brunch" - a fancy, once-a-month affair that boasted all sorts of fancy breakfast items like quiches and tortes and lox for your bagels.  And, this one fateful morning, pumpkin pancakes.  I had never considered making pumpkin anything beyond the standard pumpkin pie, and I was intrigued.  They did not disappoint: mildly sweet and incredibly aromatic, I was hooked from my first maple syrup-drenched bite.

Once I discovered pumpkin pancakes, it was as if the floodgates had opened.  Suddenly, I made pumpkin everything: pumpkin bread, pumpkin scones, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin baked with ziti and cheese.  (Some of those efforts, I may say, were more successful than others.)  Within a few months, the P section of my recipe card box was full to overflowing with pumpkin recipes, nearly squeezing out underutilized letters J or D all together.  By the time spring came around and I had access to more varied vegetables than just canned pumpkin and frozen broccoli, I think I must have been quite ready to move on.

Not for long, though.  I keep coming back to them.  With just a little spice and a luscious fresh squash flavor, these pancake makes for one of my all-time favorite breakfast foods.  Luckily, now that I don't depend on the dining halls to make my breakfasts, I don't have to wait for special once-a-month brunches.  In October, once-every-three-days feels much more appropriate - especially when there's plenty of fresh apple cider on hand.

Happy autumn!

Pumpkin pancakes

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
3 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ginger
1/8 teaspoon allspice
2 eggs
2 tablespoons canola or vegetable oil
1 cup plain canned pumpkin
1 1/2 cups milk
chocolate chips (optional)

In a medium bowl, sift together all the dry ingredients.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs, then add in the oil, then the pumpkin and milk.  Mix in the dry ingredients, stirring just to combine.

Heat a griddle to 350 degrees Fahrenheit, or heat a non-stick frying pan until water drops flicked on its surface dance and take about two seconds to evaporate.  Using a 1/3-cup measure, pour out circles of batter to create your pancakes.  Let the pancakes cook for 2-3 minutes, until the edges look dry and the top surface is pock-marked with indentations.  Flip the pancakes, and let them continue to cook another 1-2 minutes, until firm when depressed with the spatula.

If you want to include chocolate chips, you can mix them into the batter, or, if you only want chocolate chips in some of the pancakes, you can do what I do:  when cooking a chocolate chip pancake, spread a thin layer of batter on the griddle, sprinkle with chocolate chips, and top with another thin layer of batter.  These pancakes tend to be on the thick side, and consequently take a little longer to cook.  On the plus side, though, there's no melted chocolate mess to clean up on your griddle!

Serve immediately with warm maple syrup, and fresh cider to drink, if you've got it!

Serves 3-4

Just in case you were wondering what to send me...

When I lived in Paris in 2008, my host family had two exchange students: me, and another girl from my exchange program.  While I was there, my mom sent me a guidebook to the best pâtisseries, or pastry shops, in Paris.  My roommate's mom sent her miniature boxes of American cereals.

I always kind of wondered why she had come to Paris, if she wanted to eat American cereals and didn't seem much interested in practicing her French or sight-seeing.  I, on the other hand, wore out my shoes hitting the streets of Paris, nearly always with my pâtisserie bible in hand.  Good thing I did; otherwise, I doubt I ever would have found Le Loir dans la Théière.

Le Loir dans la Théière (which means, by the way, the dormouse in the tea kettle) is an eclectic salon de thé/café/restaurant tucked away on the narrow, verdant rue des Rosiers in the heart of the Marais.  It's the kind of restaurant where the chairs don't match, where the half the tables feature brightly colored ceramic bowls filled with white and raw sugar cubes (and those who don't have them make friends with their neighbors), where diners charge their iPhones at the socket beneath the Alice in Wonderland-inspired mural.  Basically, it's my favorite kind of place - especially when you consider how outstanding the food is.  I came for the dessert buffet, much lauded in my pâtisserie guide for its enormous slices of tarte à la citron meringuée (left), but I came back again (and again... and again!) for the tarte aux oignons rouges et tomates.

The savory tarts don't show up on the paper menu - instead, they selections du jour are always listed on a chalkboard near the front door.  The selection is pretty similar from day to day: tarts with fresh goat cheese, capers, and tomatoes; tarts with shallots and aged goat cheese; tarts with red onions and tomatoes.  All the tarts are good, but oh my, the onion and tomato tart is just heavenly.  The earthy sweetness of the caramelized onions is perfectly balanced by the acidity of the fresh tomatoes, and then it's topped with a dusting of diced herbs and served on a perfectly crisp, flaky, buttery crust.  In a perfect world, I would eat this for lunch every day.

Unfortunately, it is not a perfect world, and I don't usually have this even once a year.  I've tried a few times to make it at home, and I think I'm starting to get close.  In any case, I have definitely learned a few things in the attempt.

1.  The onions need to be cooked slowly in advance, to get to the soft, sweet, unbelievably delicious state.  That's just not going to happen during 15 minutes in the oven, so they need to get going well in advance.

2. The tomatoes won't get cooked in 15 minutes, either.  Better to roast 'em by themselves in the oven for an hour first to condense some of the juices and create a much deeper, richer flavor.

3.  To be crisp and flaky and perfect, the crust really needs to be fully cooked on its own, too.

So when you get down to it, making the tart itself is super quick and easy, because you're just throwing together ingredients that have already cooked, and heating them up for 10 or 15 minutes.  It's just the time spent getting everything ready in advance that takes a while.  The end result, though, is so, so worth the effort.

Now that I'm back in the US, I wish my Parisian host mother would send me care packages... I could use a nice slice of authentic Loir tarte aux oignons rouges et tomates!  However, since I doubt it would survive the trip in stellar condition, I suppose I'll just have to keep making my own.  I suppose my consolation ought to be that I have access to all sorts of American cereals in any size box I desire...  Lucky me?

Tarte aux oignons rouges et tomates

A quick note about pie dough: I used Pierre Hermé's recipe for pâte brisée because that was what I had waiting for me in my freezer, but you could use your own favorite recipe.  What's important is that it's fully baked before you put the onions and tomatoes in.  Otherwise, it won't be crisp and divine when the tart is served.  If you have a tart pan, this is a great opportunity to use it, otherwise a pie plate will work just fine.

1 pint cherry or grape tomatoes, sliced in half
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil or bacon fat
6 medium to large red onions, julienned
Salt and pepper
Dried herbes de Provence

Pie crust, pre-baked in a tart pan or pie plate until golden brown and crisp.


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper, then spread out the tomatoes in a single layer over the paper.  Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt.  Bake for thirty minutes, flip the tomatoes over, then bake for another thirty minutes or so, until they're wrinkled and browned and leaking their juices.

While the tomatoes are roasting, set a large frying pan over low heat.  Warm the oil or bacon fat, then add the onions.  Let the onions cook over low heat for about twenty minutes, stirring every few minutes, then add salt and pepper to your taste.  Continue to cook for another twenty to thirty minutes, still stirring every few minutes to prevent sticking and burning, until the onions are soft and sweet without any of the sharp pungency of raw onion flavor.

If you're really good at planning and timing your cooking, you could be preparing the pie dough during the time the onions and tomatoes are cooking: after it has rested, rolling it out, getting it in the tart pan, chilling it, pre-baking it.  If, like me, you have high hopes for doing 15 things at once in the kitchen that invariably turns into a slow working process, you could get the pie dough done ahead of time.  In any case, once the pie dough is baked, the tomatoes are roasted into their sweetest essence, and the onions are irresistibly caramelized, it's time to start assembling.  Pour all of the onions into the tart crust, then dot the top with tomatoes.  Finally, sprinkle herbes de Provence over the whole tart.

Bake at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes, just until heated through.  Serve immediately with a tossed green salad and crusty bread.  If you also happen to have a buffet table full of desserts when you finish, so much the better.

Serves four

All signs

Today I ate my first apple from the market, and shuffled my feet through the first of the crunchy fallen leaves.  The air is cool and crisp and fresh, and it's just beginning to pick up that tell-tale October scent of crumpled, drying foliage and wood-burning fires.  We may still be a day or two from the equinox, but in my book, all signs point to autumn.

Here's to soon-to-be-made chili and applesauce and butternut squash soup!

Red, green, gazpacho

I don't know why people always talk about Christmas in July.  Based on what I've seen in my kitchen lately, it seems to me that Christmas in August would be more fitting.

I know, I know, technically, the calendar says it's September now.  Sometimes, I even believe it, like when apples and grapes first started showing up at the market last week, or when I check the weather forecast and see our high is going to be in the 50s.  My kitchen is still full of tomatoes and basil, but it's starting to feel like a mad rush to get whip up pestos and roast the tomatoes and get everything stored carefully in the freezer to brighten the months to come.  I have more to say about those efforts, but first, I need to talk about gazpacho.

I made gazpacho a few weeks ago, back when it was still warm enough that the idea of a chilled soup doesn't feel quite so outrageous as it does today.  Today, I made my first pumpkin bread of fall, and I'm keeping warm at my computer with a sweatshirt and a mug of hot tea.  Two weeks ago, though, we had a warm day and lots of vegetables.  Gazpacho is my perfect August dinner: cool, refreshing, ideal for those hot, sticky evenings when you can't stand the idea of turning on the stove.

I had made gazpacho before, but the last time I made it, it was a chunky soup that really emphasized each vegetable individually.  When I was in France last summer, however, I tried gazpacho andalou, a smooth, velvety revelation that appears on menus all over the country, but especially in the southwest.  It was served with tiny bits of bell pepper, onion, and crisp little croutons to be added by the diner as garnishes, providing just enough textural contrast to keep the whole thing interesting.  This was the gazpacho I wanted to make.

Gazpacho andalou is a French name for the popular chilled tomato-based soup from Andalusia, the southernmost region of Spain.  Home to the Great Mosque at Cordoba, Pablo Picasso, and hot, dry, summers, these people really know their chilled soups.  Their gazpacho includes all of the common ingredients found in a chunky, state-side gazpacho: tomato, bell pepper, cucumber, onion, garlic, good vinegar, good olive oil, salt and pepper.  However, there's also one more standard ingredient mixed in: stale bread, which helps the smooth soup bind together.  Because we're not worried about having perfectly diced vegetables, the recipe couldn't be easier: just a rough chop, a minute or two whirling in the food processor, and a quick press through a sieve.  No heat required; thank goodness.

The thing that really counts, though, in making a good gazpacho is to use top-notch ingredients.  Luckily, August is the month that farmer's markets are overflowing with vegetables, and this is a perfect way to use 'em.  (I know, I know, that pesky September thing again... but last I checked, there were still plenty of vegetables at the market, so if it's still hot enough to warrant it where you live, get to it!)  The vinegar and olive oil should be great, too.  A good sherry vinegar, always a popular choice in Spain, is ideal, but any vinegar you like enough to drink straight would be great.  As for the olive oil, this is the time to break out the expensive bottle of extra virgin, estate pressed stuff.  Keep a little extra on hand for garnishing, too.

Speaking of garnishing, keep an extra red and green bell pepper on hand to dice for garnishes, and then go to town with the Christmas in August celebrations!

Gazpacho Andalou

Traditionally, gazpacho was made by mashing all the ingredients together with a mortar and pestle.  I've heard this gives the soup a better texture.  But when it's hot enough outside that you want gazpacho for dinner, do you really want to be exerting all that energy?  I don't.  I was quite happy with the results from my food processor, and it saved me some considerable elbow grease.

All the recipes I've seen for this gazpacho say that it needs to sit at least 2 hours once it's all mixed together, and they're not kidding.  When I tasted it right out of the food processor, it was a disappointing, bland vegetable mush.  The next day, though, the flavors were much more pronounced.  After two days in the fridge, it was better yet, bright and refreshing. 

2 1/2 lbs tomatoes, seeded (reserve the juice!), and cut into chunks

1 good-sized cucumber, or 2 medium cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and cut into chunks

1 green pepper, seeded, cut into chunks

1 red pepper, seeded, cut into chunks

1/4 sweet onion, diced

1 small clove garlic, peeled

6 oz good bread (I used this one), crusts removed and torn into smallish bits

2-4 tablespoons good olive oil

2-4 tablespoons good vinegar (sherry, if possible)

Salt & pepper

Set the bread to soak in the reserved tomato juice.

Combine the cucumber, tomatoes, peppers, onion, and garlic in the bowl of a large food processor.  If you don't have a huge food processor, it may be easier to do this in two batches.  Add in the vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper, and let sit for 10 minutes.

Add in the bread and tomato juice, then process until smooth, pausing occasionally to scrape down the sides of the processor with a spatula.  Season with salt and pepper to taste, keeping in mind that the flavors will heighten as the soup rests.

Strain the soup through a seive or chinois, then set in the refrigerator to rest for at least two hours, and up to three days.  Serve chilled with good bread and some garnishes (see below for possibilities).

Garnishes

While not strictly necessary, having some crunchy bits of vegetables or croutons make for a fantastic contrast with the silky-smooth texture of the soup.  The garnishes are generally served separately in small bowls.  At the table, diners can garnish their own bowls of soup as they please.

1 slice good bread, diced into tiny bits, browned in the oven for 5-10 minutes to make croutons

1 red pepper, seeded, diced into tiny bits

1 green pepper, seeded, diced into tiny bits

1 small cucumber, seeded, diced into tiny bits

Good olive oil, for drizzling

Serves 4 as a main course with bread, or 8-10 as an appetizer