Orange & Spice (rum makes it nice)

From BlogOfParadox by Deirdra Harris Glover

November 14, 2009

Halloween is my favorite time of year, and I take great umbrage with those who insist dressing up is only for children. I’m loath to turn down an opportunity to wear a costume and carouse with good friends, but the novelty of Frankenconcoctions made with absurd amounts of green sherbet and grain alcohol is lost on me. My days of finding inebriated guests asleep in my bathtub are thankfully over, and now I like to host cozy get-togethers with kindred spirits. Instead of a boozy free-for-all, I keep it simple with a mulled wine or a grownup punch. The company is better, the finger food isn’t ignored in pursuit of an epic hangover, and the structural integrity of the house is never threatened by overindulgent revelry.

This punch is reminiscent of a classic mix called “Russian Tea,” which is neither truly tea nor Russian, as it is comprised of instant iced tea and powdered orange drink once reserved exclusively for astronauts. Orange juice and chai spices meld with the caramel kick of spiced rum to create a sweetly fragrant punch that meanders between Mumbai and Barbados. It’s suitable for any grownup occasion, but I think it’s perfect for nights when the cold creeps into your bones.

Holiday Spice Punch
Servings: 10 to 12

• 1 1/2 quarts orange juice
• 3 cups liquid chai concentrate, or 1 quart chai tea, brewed and then reduced by half
• 1 cup brown sugar, tightly packed
• 3 to 4 cups spiced rum (to taste)
• Orange and lemon slices to garnish

Heat the chai concentrate and brown sugar in a stockpot until completely dissolved. Allow to cool to room temperature.

Add orange juice, tea mixture and rum to punchbowl, adjusting ratio of liquids to your taste.

Float citrus slices on top for garnish, and serve to well-behaved monsters.

This article originally ran in the Jackson Free Press

Love Conquers Hate: Wasabi Pea Soup

From BlogOfParadox by Deirdra Harris Glover

November 14, 2009

I’m no Tony Bourdain, but I consider myself an adventurous eater. I’ll try most anything once, and if my first impression doesn’t include the words “epi-pen” or “health code violation,” I’m likely to take another bite. That said, I do have a few food aversions, mostly due to texture or smell. I do try to continually challenge my palate because, as a great lover of food, I believe preparation and context can make or break a perfectly tasty ingredient. Old prejudices run deep, but I try to keep an open mind.

Love
I’ve been friends with wasabi since high school, when my mom started buying Japanese rice crackers from an international market. I loved the combination of the ocean-air tang of nori, the hot punch of chili and the nose-searing shock of wasabi. When I began to sample sushi, I rediscovered wasabi as a familiar friend on an otherwise foreign plate. I tried my hand at rolling sushi, but it rapidly degenerated into me and my neighbors happily sitting on the counter with a bottle of sake and an enormous slab of sushi-grade tuna, dipping thin slices into an eye-wateringly potent paste of wasabi powder mixed with soy sauce. Wasabi worked its way into my spice cupboard, adding bite to mashed potatoes, cole slaw and even sesame-crusted beef.

Hate
My mom encouraged me to eat lots of vegetables in my early childhood and was largely successful. However, I harbored a deep hatred of peas for decades. English peas were the worst: mealy and wrinkly with bland flavor and a revolting color. I left them untouched on lunch trays, and my first dog betrayed me by not discreetly eating them after I spooned them under the table. Spring peas tempted me with their bright, plump beauty, but I never enjoyed them the way I enjoyed in-pod peas or cruciferous vegetables.

As an adult, I eat peas for politeness’ sake or if their presence is masked by a good Indian curry. My tolerance for peas in vegetable medleys with strong flavors forced me to reconsider my opinion of them.

My old friend and childhood nemesis collided when my local grocery stopped carrying my favorite blend of rice crackers. The only alternative was wasabi peas, and while I’d previously considered it an unholy union, desperation won out over aversion.

Surprise! Thirty years later, my mother’s persistence paid off. Wasabi peas are crunchy little flavor bombs and nothing like the uninspired peas of my youth.

This Japanese-influenced recipe was born from my long-overdue discovery, and is a testament that hearts, minds and mouths can change if placed in the right circumstances. Ginger’s spicy burn, scallion’s subtle undercurrent and wasabi’s pungency mesh with the receptive sweetness of flash-frozen peas and the creamy earthiness of soy milk. This soup can be served hot or cold, and much like chili and other stews, its flavors are even more lovely after resting in the refrigerator overnight.

Wasabi Pea Soup
Serves four as a first course, or two as a generous meal

• 1 tablespoon minced ginger root
• 4 scallions, finely sliced
• 1-3 teaspoons Wasabi paste, to taste (see note)
• 2 cups prepared miso soup or vegetable broth
• 3 cups frozen green peas
• 1 cup unsweetened soymilk
• Optional: Japanese rice crackers for garnish

In a medium saucepan, bring to a boil the broth or miso with ginger, scallions and 1 teaspoon of prepared wasabi paste. Add frozen peas and cook for 5-7 minutes. Add soymilk, then transfer the soup into a food processor or jar blender, or use a stick blender. Puree the soup until smooth. (I once learned the hard way that hot liquids and expanding gases can be volatile in jar blenders or food processors, so only fill the container halfway, and be sure to apply pressure to the lid with a thick kitchen towel.)

Check the taste of your soup, and adjust the flavor if necessary. If you’d like to add more wasabi, I recommend mixing a few tablespoons of the soup into wasabi paste, and adding it back to the bulk of the soup slowly. Serve with rice crackers on the side, or floating atop the soup like croutons.

Note: Wasabi can be a tricky, mercurial condiment. It takes nearly five minutes for dry wasabi powder’s flavor to “bloom” in water. Once developed, it should be kept tightly wrapped to preserve its full flavor.

This article originally ran in the Jackson Free Press

To Kula, with Love: Carrot Halwa

From BlogOfParadox by Deirdra Harris Glover

November 14, 2009

I consider cooking an act of devotion. I don’t bow in front of my stovetop (although I’ve considered full prostration in front of my stand mixer), but creating food that nourishes bodies is my way to connect and share love with friends and family. I dote on ingredients and pour myself into their preparation, wanting my guests to enjoy the food and know that care and thought went into the process.

While pots and pans aren’t a part of my yoga practice, the same principles I employ in the kitchen apply to my time spent on the mat: both demand focus, technique, improvisation and a heart intent on offering up the best one has.

I didn’t do much cooking last week because I participated in a 30-hour training with yoga teachers from all over the Southeast. We worked together to deliberately step outside our comfort zones to find our strengths and weaknesses, and to become better teachers through exposure to each other’s methods. These sorts of intensive studies require a degree of vulnerability and openness that’s not normally required of us in our day-to-day lives.

Through shared practice and learning, we often form deep friendships in a short period of time. Some yoga traditions call this by the Sanskrit word kula, or “community of the heart.” I’ve been party to this sort of quick-bonding at sci-fi/fantasy conventions: since we geeks congregate out of our love for the genre, there’s an instant common thread and camaraderie that can make forging a friendship easier.

Shifting back into daily life is difficult because leaving a community of peers is depressing. Very few people might speak your language, whether it’s Batman or Hanuman. I came home to write about food, and felt trivial—until I came up with the idea to cook Carrot Halwa, an Indian dessert, in homage to the community I’d just left.

Halwa (from the Arabic word for “sweet”) is an ubiquitous dessert found in Central and South Asia and the Middle East. What I love best about halwa is that it’s made of whatever’s handy: Grains, nuts, fruits, legumes and even gourds are fair game. The textures are just as varied. Halwa can be doughy, crumbly, gelatinous or even succulent, like candied fruit.

If you’re after a throw-together dessert, look elsewhere; halwa is a labor-intensive dish. As a result, I had plenty of time to process my thoughts about what I’d learned, the people with whom I’d nearly spent a work week, and about how the resulting dish embodied my experience.

It takes willpower and muscle to grate a pound and a half of carrots, but the imperfection of hand-grating gives it added texture and depth. Cooking halwa requires patience and focus because seeing each stage through to its completion before proceeding to the next is crucial to the final outcome.

Like kula, it’s a melding of deep contrasts: firm shreds of carrot and ghee-plumped raisins, the sharp bite of ginger and cardamom against the creaminess of the thickened milk. It’s peppered liberally with nuts, so in that way, it is also very much like my idea of kula. Feed this to people who inspire, challenge and support you as you follow your bliss.

Gajar Ka Halwa (Carrot “Pudding” with Ginger and Cardamom)
Serves 4-6

• 1/3 cup ghee, divided*
• 1/3 cup golden raisins
• 1/3 cup unsalted cashews, chopped
• 1 and 1/2 pounds carrots, peeled and coarsely grated
• 2 cups whole milk
• 1 teaspoon ground cardamom
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 tablespoons minced crystallized ginger

In a large, deep saucepan, fry the cashews in 2 teaspoons ghee on medium heat until fragrant and golden. (If you don’t have ghee on hand, patiently melt one stick butter on low heat until the milk solids separate from the oil. Strain and use.) Remove the cashews, add another teaspoon of ghee and fry the raisins until they’re fully plumped and their color deepens. Remove and set aside the raisins and any remaining ghee.

Increase the heat to medium-high, and add carrots, cardamom and milk. Stir frequently, until the liquid is reduced by two thirds. Add sugar and stir constantly until the remaining liquid thickens into a clingy syrup.

Add remaining ghee in stages, stirring to incorporate. As the flavors meld, the halwa’s color will deepen, and you won’t see any evidence of liquid at the bottom of the pan. When the halwa looks glossy and sticky, remove it from the heat. Fold in the ginger, raisins and cashews until distributed evenly, and allow flavors to meld as the mixture cools to room temperature.

Serve warm in tiny bowls.

This story originally ran in the Jackson Free Press

Strange Beauty: Cooking with Fennel

From BlogOfParadox by Deirdra Harris Glover

November 14, 2009

I spent years casting sly glances at fennel in the produce section before I ever brought it home with me.I was fascinated by the strange beauty of its feathery chartreuse fronds and the folds of its voluptuous, fluted figure. When I finally worked up the nerve to walk across the aisle and put it in my cart, it was love at first sniff. I couldn’t wait to get it home. It was intoxicating: spicy, cool and sweet with anise notes ranging from whispery to boisterous.

Fennel is an ancient plant, cultivated for culinary, medicinal and sacred purposes. It’s a champ for combating hiccups and other digestive unpleasantness. Prometheus used the stalk of the giant fennel to steal fire from the gods, and the decadent followers of Dionysus used the stalks in Bacchic festivities. Fennel seeds were tucked into medieval church-goers’ pockets and handkerchiefs to ward off hunger during long fasts. It provides an herbaceous top-note in Absinthe, the alcoholic muse of bohemian culture. Fennel seeds impart an earthy, green flavor to Chinese five-spice powder and are used in Indian cuisine as a seasoning as well as a post-meal digestive. Fennel figures most prominently in Italian cuisine: fennel seed is the key flavor in Italian-style sausage, with fennel bulbs and fronds being used in pastas, braises and risottos, as well as fish and egg dishes.

A good specimen’s unblemished, milk-white bulbous body and thick green stalks give it the appearance of an anatomical heart and branching arteries. Don’t be fooled: Some supermarkets incorrectly label it as anise because the two share a fragrant licorice aroma and flavor. Fennel fronds are delicate and lacelike, strongly resembling dill weed. Cooking greatly reduces the licorice flavor, which is most potent in the fibrous, celery-like stalks. The stalks never last long in my house, because I tend to devour them while everything else is cooking.

This Italian-themed stew is a balanced, easy way to feed a crowd without breaking the bank or resigning yourself to hovering over the stove. It has a great range of texture and color, and I love the way sweet fennel, bitter kale and bright red pepper play off one another. I make vats of this soup and freeze it in two-person portions for nights when my husband and I don’t feel like cooking.

During the winter, we like this stew as hot as we can get it, in hand-warming oversized coffee mugs. For a summer get-together, serve it warm with a simple salad and crusty bread.

Tuscan Stew (for a friendly mob)

• Your choice; 2 cans of cannellini beans, rinsed and/or 1 package of Italian sausages, slipped from their casings and crumbled
• 2 bulbs fennel, trimmed of their stalks and sliced
• 3 russet potatoes, coarsely cubed
• 1 large yellow onion, finely diced
• 2 bunches kale, washed and torn, stalks removed
• 1 head garlic, peeled and minced
• 2.5 quarts vegetable or chicken stock
• 1.5 teaspoon fennel seeds, lightly toasted
• 2 teaspoons thyme leaves
• 1 teaspoon crushed red pepper (use Aleppo pepper if you can find it)
• 2 large bay leaves
• Salt and black pepper to taste
• Fennel fronds, for presentation

Heat a large stockpot on medium heat. If you’re making a meatless soup, use 3 tablespoons olive oil; otherwise brown the sausage and set it aside, leaving the rendered fat in the stockpot. Cook the onions and fennel in the fat until the onions are golden and the fennel is tender ( about 10 minutes), stirring frequently. Add garlic and the remainder of spices to the pan, giving the garlic two minutes to sweeten.

Add the browned sausage and/or beans, potatoes and stock to the pot, cover, and let the soup simmer for a half-hour or more. The potatoes will begin to crumble, adding body to the soup. Adjust the salt/seasoning if necessary. Stir in the torn kale just before serving. If you have picky eaters, you can add kale to individual bowls as you serve, as the soup’s heat will rapidly cook the greens. Garnish each bowl with a few snips of fennel frond, and serve to an adoring crowd.

While fennel’s lovely in a stick-to-your-ribs stew, it’s a culinary shape-shifter. Substitute raw fennel for celery in a chicken salad, or pair paper-thin fennel shavings with orange segments and pecans atop a bed of peppery arugula.

This article originally ran in the Jackson Free Press

Spice World: Revamp Your Culinary Wardrobe

From BlogOfParadox by Deirdra Harris Glover

November 14, 2009

Some believe you can learn a lot about a person by snooping in their medicine cabinet, but if I’m looking for insight into your personality I’m far more likely to sneak a peek at your spice rack.

My husband’s Grandma Ella knows how to feed a crowd: She’s been doing it her whole life. One of the first times I met her, we talked in her kitchen as she finished a few dishes for a Thanksgiving spread. As we talked, I moved over to stand by her decorative spice rack. I spotted a bottle of ancient bay, unopened, the leaves bleached golden by time and Mississippi sun. After a closer look, I realized she’d only opened a few of the jars on the rack, and she’d stuck to the basics: salt, pepper, parsley, garlic and onion. While the wasted potential of beautiful bay personally pains my heart, it says a lot about Grandma Ella. She is a woman who knows the value of moving ingredients directly from the garden into the pot, of letting the quality of her ingredients speak for themselves. Her food is wonderful because it’s understated, authentic and free of pretense, just like her.

My first spice rack was a housewarming gift from my mother: corked test tubes that slid into a metal stand. I had no clue what to do with most of them, and they moldered in their tubes as I pushed past the grilled cheese and Ramen stage of my culinary experimentation. As my skills and palate progressed, my spice cabinet expanded beyond the 12 test tubes into a full-fledged laboratory. I mistakenly bought into the idea that being a good cook meant having every imaginable flavor at my fingertips, and paid dearly for the presumption. When I finally felt at ease in my kitchen, I purged my cabinets and only restocked staples I use regularly. Today, the colorful array largely reflects my love for Indian, Italian and Asian cuisine. The glass-windowed metal jars hang on magnet sheets installed into our cabinets, and look more like an eyeshadow display than foodstuff. Each tin is labeled on the back, and I try mostly to rely on color and texture for identification. My spice rack marks me as a culinary adventuress and a bit of a show-off. I’ve come to terms with that.

Just as the clothes hanging in your closet reflect your personal style, the tins and jars inside your cupboard speak volumes about your nature, your culture and your culinary influences. Here are a few tips to help revamp your culinary style; they may even inspire you to clean out your closet.

Don’t be a Slave to a Label
Don’t pay supermarket premiums for bottles and labels. Be thrifty and eco-conscious by refilling your empty bottles with loose herbs and spices. Buying spices “in bulk” is substantially cheaper than buying prepackaged jars. You can easily refill the typical 2 ounce spice bottle for less than 50 cents. When my husband and I moved into a house, we replaced all 30 of our “staple” spices for under $20 at our local food co-op. Spices bought in bulk are usually fresher than their bottled counterparts, and are increasingly organic. You can also buy salt-free versions of popular spice blends, which allows you to control your family’s sodium intake.

Toss Everything You Don’t Love
There’s a time to say goodbye to things that no longer serve you. If you don’t see yourself using an item multiple times in six months, kick it to the curb. If it isn’t in high rotation in your kitchen, it’s wasting space, just like those shoes you bought for your sister’s wedding that are squatting in the back of your closet.

Keep Your Staples in Stock and Fresh
I keep all the seasonings for our top 10 dishes in the house at all times, because they are the foundations for my comfort food. Since they’re my culinary equivalent of my favorite pair of jeans, I’m vigilant in their upkeep. If I open the canister, and I’m greeted by any sort of dull mustiness, I dump it and start fresh.

Accessorize
Sometimes, all it takes is a scarf or a stunning piece of jewelry to revitalize an outfit. If you’re interested in trying a new recipe or a type of cuisine, exploit the bulk spice aisle and buy exact amounts of the herbs necessary for the dish in question. It’s easy to be a daring cook when you have very little to lose. If you enjoyed the results, you can always make it a staple.

Work What You’ve Got
You don’t have to be a model to wear things well, and you don’t have to be a celebrity chef to feed your friends and family. Whether your style is mac-and-cheese or haute cuisine, your food will taste better if you play to your strengths.

This piece originally ran in the Jackson Free Press