Something bold

Dear reader, it’s been a long while since I’ve waxed on longingly about a fruit. In the early days of Aubergine, the yearning was a bit of a constant. Red currants and Montmorency cherries provoke immense excitement, the likes of which may end in you riding mechanical bulls or jumping out or airplanes. Unlike red currants and cherries, though, my lemon love is big. It began somewhere around lemon meringue pie and swerved around the dinner table during the fourth grade, where I’d bite down into the sour flesh and bitter pith with astonishing regularity (I have the poor enamel to prove it – an interesting badge of honour.)

Lemons make for a beautiful and inexpensive table display. Their juice brightens soups and stews. Salt-cured (otherwise known as preserved), they’re fantastic in African tagines. And quite frankly, while I love chocolate as much as the next girl, hand me over a lemon-flavoured dessert and I’m as good as yours. I should probably keep that last tidbit to myself.

And so this weekend I went about making lemon curd, and the following Lemon, Almond & Cornmeal cake. When I first removed the cake from the oven, I thought the recipe had called for entirely too much butter. The parchment was drenched in grease and the cake seemed perhaps too moist. But trust me, it dries out, and the butter ensures it stays moist (does anyone actually like this word?). The crumb is loose and seems to dissolve on the tip of your tongue, and the lemon is obscenely bold. I’ve eaten this cake warm and alone (the cake, I mean) and I’ve eaten it in the company of co-workers, dressed with a dollop of crème fraiche. I’ve eaten it for dessert after dinner and with afternoon tea. It’s the kind of recipe you want in your repertoire, the kind of thing you’d serve to good friends on a Saturday, the kind of thing you fall in love with whether you are ten or twenty-six.

Find the recipe over here at Simple Bites (I used regular lemons in place of the Meyer ones.)

Things that are good

I’ve been trying to write for a while. I’ll be honest. I’ve started and scratched out an embarassing number of entries. Some emotions or experiences are tricky to put into words. A long weekend spent in Amherstburg drinking fabulous wine and margaritas out of mason jars, eating great food and laughing with my family. Reading a wonderful book in bed with a cup of fresh coffee beside me, the sun rising. A Tuesday off work to putz around the city. A short work week. Steel cut oats with frozen sour cherries and shredded, unsweetened coconut. Going out with co-workers. Believing in the good in people.

What have you been up to lately? Dear readers, I’ve missed you.

I haven’t been cooking much lately (gasp.) Pasta with an egg and homemade lemon artichoke pesto, quick red lentil soups and a crustless quiche with Gruyère and cremini mushrooms. I've been loving meals that come together easily but that are still big on flavour; subtle hints of anything need not apply.

At the same time, some of these things -- notably the quiche -- have been a bit heavier than I'm accustomed to. Unintentionally, I gravitate more toward vegetable-laden dishes full of pulses and fresh ingredients where animal products appear secondary instead of taking a starring role. Every once in a while I cook up something a little indulgent. It's great, but I'm happy to be back to lighter fare.

These meals have been both satisfying and nourishing, and I'm glad for it.

A red lentil vindaloo with potatoes and green beans, served on brown rice.

An enormous chopped green salad with French lentils. Have I told you how much I love French lentils? Well, a lot. I would happily sit and eat an entire bowl of them, tossed with a red wine vinaigrette and garnished with a bit of goat cheese and possibly a hardboiled egg.

And an amazing lemon tart. Umm...a different kind of satisfying and nourishing, really. I don’t have pictures because it was devoured too quickly over the long weekend. This makes me sad, but then again, I tend to think it was a bit of a clever move on my part. It’s just an excuse to bake another one, no?

Lemon Tart of My Dreams
(Barely) adapted from Elana’s Pantry and Laura Calder

Yields about 8 slices

1.5 C almond meal
1/4 tsp fine grain sea salt
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 tbsp sugar

1/4 C vegetable or neutral tasting oil
1 tsp real vanilla extract

2 whole eggs
4 egg yolks
3/4 cup sugar*
2/3 cup sour cream (low-fat is fine)
3/4 cup fresh lemon juice

To make the crust, combine the first four ingredients (dry ingredients.) Whisk to thoroughly combine. Make a well and slowly add the vanilla and the oil. Continue  to whisk until absorbed. Pre-heat the oven to 325F. Grease a 9.5" ovensafe pie plate and add the almond "batter", smoothing with your hands if necessary to even it out. Bake for 15-20 minutes until slightly browned.

To make the filling, blend the eggs, yolks and sugar together until emulsified. Slowly whisk in sour cream and lemon juice; it will yield quite a thin filling. Once the crust is finished cooking, fill with the lemon mixture and bake at 325F for 30-35 minutes until set. Refrigerate and cool for at least two hours. Serve chilled.

*Despite the amount of sugar, this recipe yields quite a tart pie. If you prefer a sweeter lemon tart, I would up the sugar to a full cup or even 1.25 cups.

A taste of the tropics

I don't know how to begin this other than to say, "I baked! Woo! Come and git it!", which could mean I desperately need to get out more often or I've been listening to entirely too much Gretchen Wilson lately. Next I'll bust into work muttering that I'm here for the party while rocking a pair of cowboy boots and a denim mini, and nobody wants that.

I wonder about myself too sometimes.

I don't remember when I first ate banana bread. I might as well have been in the womb. All I know is that everyone has a recipe for it, much like its more refined cousin, zucchini bread, and most people like it well enough. Growing up, I ate mine slathered with margarine. It was great for breakfast or a mid-day snack, and up until yesterday I hadn't had any in far too long.

Now listen: I am not, unlike some people, the biggest banana lover. I like bananas, sure -- whipped with milk, sliced into a cold bowl of cereal or with toast and peanut butter. But there they wallow away at the bottom of the fruit bowl whenever I buy them, their skins having turned as brown as paper lunchbags by Friday morning. I sense it's a bit of travesty to confess this, but there you have it.

Armed with a loaf pan and several flours, I went to work on adapting Joy's lovely recipe for healthy banana bread. I'm not sure what I expected, but what I got surpassed my expectations. The loaf is slightly sweet from the brown sugar, with tiny pockets of moistness from the dates and a crispness from the oats and coconut. This version is delicate and falls away in large pieces with a gentle nudge, but that's not a problem in my book. This bread is delicious -- a party in your mouth, perhaps, but you may need to double check with Gretchen on that one. As for me, it's about as close to a real, tropical vacation as I'm going to get right about now.

Banana Bread with Dates and Coconut
Adapted from Joy the Baker

Yields about 10-12 slices

1/4 cup pure cornstarch
1/3 cup quinoa flour
1/3 cup brown rice flour
1/3 cup buckwheat flour
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

3 tsp plain yogurt (not nonfat)
1 large egg, gently beaten
2 egg whites, beaten
3 large ripe bananas
1 cup uncooked rolled oats

1/2 cup roughly chopped dates (optional)
1/4 cup unsweetened shredded coconut (optional)

Pre-heat the oven to 350F and grease a standard-sized loaf pan (I always use unsalted butter for this.)

In a small bowl, mash the bananas until smooth and add in yogurt, egg and egg whites. Mix to combine.

In a larger bowl, combine all dry ingredients -- constarch, the flours, salt, baking soda, baking powder, oats, nd ground cinnamon -- and whisk to combine. Slowly add the wet ingredients and (you guessed it) continue to mix together. When the wet ingredients are well incorporated, add in the chopped dates and coconut. Stir again. Expect the mixture to be fairly thick. Pour into the loaf pan and bake for about 50 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean and the bread has almost doubled in size. Allow to cool in the pan for at least ten minutes, preferably longer, and remove. Let cool completely before slicing.

Getting out of Dodge

Oh goodness.

I must say, October, you certainly charged in like a lion of an unprecedented sort. Just weeks ago I was eating birthday cake and enjoying my since-deceased leisure time. These days are as long as the limbs of 100-year-old trees, which is to say very long indeed. So when this past weekend popped up on my radar, rife with time for -- dare I even mutter the word? -- relaxation, I embraced it whole-heartedly. A schedule packed with work and social gallivanting is very fine, but sometimes a girl just needs a glass of wine, a warm bath and a good book.

This weekend offered a literal breath of fresh air as I abandoned the city and travelled north to my uncle's cottage for a glorious Canadian Thanksgiving. I mean, just take a look at the view I had as I walked into the living area that first morning, cup of high-voltage coffee in hand.

If you're offended by what I'm about to say next due to its utter fabulousness as a friend of mine was -- truly, for he has informed me we are no longer friends due to my goings on -- let me pre-empt this by saying I'll happily extend chocolate and wine as a peace offering. For three days (!), I sat on the beach with a book in hand, drinking wine and soaking up the last of the sun's brilliant rays. I helped roast a turkey to perfection in an old, apartment-sized oven, and ate myself stupid as one is wont to do during the holidays. There was a few games of Mexican Train, a wildly affectionate Golden Retriever,

pumpkin-carving (and therefore the ingestion of deliciously toasted pumpkin seeds), Motown and Jazz, Dionne Warwick murmuring softly from the boombox -- "ain't no mountain high enough, to keep me from you" as my uncle and I got started on the stuffing. Marshmallows were roasted over a "two-storey bombfire". We kayaked through still waters. There was bird-watching, a lot of sleep, and long, less-than-sober conversations -- though it's worth mentioning I left the politics at home this time. The pine trees have shed many of their needles, all of them landing amongst the lily pads in the lake. That's something to see in and of itself. I'm not much of a camper, but there's something about a weekend at the cottage that is so lovely -- particularly with a couple episodes of Modern Family thrown in for good measure.

I might owe many people wine and chocolate now.

It was so nice, in fact, that a woman in one of the neighbouring cottages strolled out in a bikini and dove straight into the lake. I'm still shivering at the thought of it.

Readers, I even made a cake for the occasion, though I'm embarassed to say it was gobbled up before I could snap a picture. I even brought leftovers home and ate them at work, forgetting all about you! I apologize. But you'll forgive me when I share this recipe with you. The texture is swoon-worthy, I think, and it makes a lovely accompaniment to a rich, big meal. Personally, I'm not such a fan of heavy desserts in the evening, the way they sit at the bottom of your stomach like devious sugary bricks. A veritable Goldilocks, I declare this cake not too too heavy, not too light -- it is just right.

Pumpkin is the epitome of autumn in my mind; the leaves can morph from green to vibrant reds and yellows and oranges, they can scatter themselves amongst the yellowing grass, cider donuts can be fried and eaten, apple picking season can spring itself upon us, hot cider can be consumed, but it just isn't truly autumn until I've eaten pumpkin. 

I do often prefer its savory applications, though puréed pumpkin is oft-considered a dessert sort of thing with all of our pumpkin pies -- undoubtedly an emblem of good old-fashioned Americana. It's true that a good pumpkin dessert is generally irresistable, and will in time convert the most skeptical of Sweet Tooths. However, because I'm not much into sugary desserts, don't expect a sugar high and ensuing crash out of this recipe. You could easily eat this torte for breakfast. According to Laura Calder, it's inspired by the French tortes that litter the countryside. With such an enchanting back story, it quickly (and quietly) became the perfect way to cap off a Thanksgiving dinner among a more intimately acquainted Group of Seven. 

I go weak in the knees for anything that sounds both rustic and foreign, so you can well imagine my delight when the torte came out much the same way -- a little homely, but sophisticated in its simplicity; good enough to mark the end of a holiday dinner, but not so over-the-top that it couldn't be enjoyed on any old day. And really, that's what Thanksgiving is really about, anyway: being thankful for the autumn harvest, communing together, enjoying a sunset -- the ultimate laissez-faire holiday if there ever was one.

Squash Cake (aka "Thanksgiving Torte")
Adapted from Laura Calder, French Taste

Yields 8-10 slices

2 cups puréed pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)
3 eggs, separated
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
1/3 cup corn starch
1/4 cup fine-milled cornmeal
3 tbsp pumpkin pie spice
1/4 cup rum (preferably dark)
Zest of one large orange

Pre-heat oven to 350°F. Grease and line a springform pan. Combine yolks with sugar and beat until light and pale. Whisk in cornstarch and cornmeal until smooth, followed by the pumpkin, rum, pumpkin pie spice, and orange zest.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites until they form soft peaks. Bringing the egg whites to room temperature will render this task infinitely simpler.

Gently stir half the egg whites into the batter and fold in the remainder. Pour into the pan and bake until a toothpick comes out clean -- this took a full hour in my gas oven. It will be very moist, but if it's still sticky to the touch, it hasn't finished baking. Serve slightly warm with sweetened whipped cream. Perfect as an afternoon accompaniment to a cup of coffee or tea, or as a lighter dessert. Consume within three days and avoid refrigeration if possible, which will render the cake soggy.

"But, oh my dear [chocolate], our love is here to stay, together we're going a long, long way..."

Readers, I intended to write an entry extolling the virtues of dark chocolate, really I did.

I was going to mention how I contemplated pairing my morning cup of coffee with a square of dark chocolate (which I suppose I've just gone ahead and mentioned regardless), and how being an adult is sometimes marvelous, particularly when you live by your lonesome, as it means few obstacles stand in the way of your eating chocolate before breakfast.

I was doing well in terms of fanciful thinking: there was my short-lived romance with Ruth Reichl and my living vicariously through her via Garlic and Sapphires. I danced for a while with a Mark Bittman title. In the last few days alone, I yearned to be a restaurant critic for The New York Times, a cultural anthropologist, Amanda Hesser, and a journalist.

I'm still fairly determined to take cooking classes eventually, or, on the rare occasion I indulge my fantasies, attend culinary school by taking night and weekend classes and eventually go on exchange in Italy. You might think such fancies would interfere with my thoughts on chocolate, but readers, they did not. And then I made the mistake of getting into this, and, well, all bets were off. In my hands was a book about a very serious matter, and poof, out went all thoughts of a fluffy love poem devoted to deliciousness. Consider yourselves saved -- imagine an entire entry devoted to lines like, I go loco over cocoa. I can't.

I digress. I intended to write about chocolate, you see, but reading a somewhat historical account of marriage as institution over the last couple of days got me thinking again about the restorative properties of food, and how food and eating might serve as a sort of litmus test for our relationships, romantic and otherwise.

I admit fully that I really know nothing about food and cooking, that there is really so much to know, but I think that's okay. As Ruth Reichl points out in Garlic and Sapphires, ethnic food -- apart from your typical Americanized, greasy Chinese food -- didn't really gain any notoriety until the late 90's, so I don't feel so guilty that, apart from the odd Ethiopian stew or Indian lentil dish, I don't dabble so much in ethnic cuisine. It's okay that, relatively speaking, I've yet to dabble in much of anything. I like food, and I like eating. I like people, and I like their stories. I like it best when I'm let in on a cherished family recipe. That's really the essence of this site.

I don't have any of those to offer myself, I'm sorry to say, but here, sipping on hot tea and contemplating in great wonderment what it means to be human, I can't help but think what my own family has passed on to me: the belief that cooking is a very beautiful passion indeed; that making a meal for someone else constitutes an enormous act of love; and that through good, whole food, we can restore our health.

Yes, this entry has little to do with chocolate, but it does have something to do with adulthood, and with taking -- ohh, that wretched phrase that tempts adults to crawl back into the shell of childhood! -- taking responsibility. In Committed, Elizabeth Gilbert discusses how a couple who entered into a pragmatic marriage came to love one another, slowly and surely, over the years, and how in the end, when his wife no longer knew herself as her mind continued to deteriorate from Alzheimer's, the husband dressed her nicely and took her to church every Sunday because he knew she would've liked it and appreciated it had she been cognisant. He fed her, he bathed her, and he took care of her.

I remembered a moment when I worked at a restaurant a couple years ago. A husband was helping his wife to eat because she was disabled and could not do it herself. That's love, really -- the underbelly of infatuation, the act that can't be proven with promises but must instead be demonstrated over the years, chosen repeatedly over time. What a scary, amazing thought. Whether it's re-heating a pot of spicy chili over a hot burner on a cool January night, baking up an enchilada casserole for my family, or preparing roast sweet potatoes in a brown butter vinaigrette, that's my way of saying, I choose to love you again today.

In the name of love and assistance, I'm giving you my recipe for homemade Larabars. There's dozens of these floating around the Internet, but this is the one I've been using. When I first got sick and became someone with inconvenient dietary restrictions, I started buying Larabars. They're portable, they're healthy, they're delicious, they're filling -- I could go on all day about the amazing thing that is a Larabar. Fortunately, the recipe is easy and the bars keep for a good long while so long as they're refrigerated. It's the single person's way of saying to themselves, okay, I guess I'll love you again today, even if you leave the bowl of the food processor in the sink all night because you're super lazy and awfully forgetful.


PS. They contain chocolate.

Chocolate Ginger Date (Lara)bars

Adapted from Clothilde Dusoulier at Chocolate and Zucchini, and Samantha Menzies at Bikini Birthday

Yields about 9 bite-sized bars

Heaping 1/2 cup of pitted dates, roughly chopped (about 200g)
1/4 cup walnuts
10g dark chocolate (I used 2 squares of Lindt's 85% cocoa)
2 tbsp crystallized ginger
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
Scant 1/4 tsp sea salt

Combine all of the ingredients in a food processor and pulse until the ingredients are all very finely chopped and clump together. At this point, you can roll the mixture into balls, bars, or do as I did -- flatten the mixture using a spatula, and slice into bites.

*The title of this entry comes from "Love is Here to Stay", lyrics and music written by Ira Gershwin and George Gershwin, respectively.