Category Archives: food

Recipes, diet, wheat-free, nutrition, cooking and a few guilty pleasures.

May10

Jalapeno Cheddar Cornbread

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bread My advice: read this post all the way through before starting.

Cornbread making is a true kitchen art, and even the best cooks have to practice it.  So don’t freak out if your first attempts are disappointing.  The secrets include a hot oven, a hot skillet, and a moist batter.

These ingredients are liable to vary widely: the dryness of the meal, the moisture content of the sour cream, the size of the eggs. So you have to be willing to guess a lot. Eventually you’ll do this without using measuring cups or spoons. You’ll just throw everything into a bowl and mix it up.

I’ve never used anything to make cornbread but a large, well-seasoned cast-iron skillet.  You can certainly adapt this recipe to your favorite technique.

And it’s easiest if you mix all the runny things first and then add the dry things. But you want to start with eggs, then oil, and then milk. If you add pickled jalapenos and/or sour cream to your eggs it might curdle them.

Ingredients

2 large eggs
1/4 cup vegetable oil: see my note at the bottom***.
Milk, half&half or cream — whatever is on hand.
1/2 c sour cream
Self-rising corn meal mix (yellow is best, but white is OK. If you can get the buttermilk kind, that’s even better.)
1 cup grated cheddar cheese (sharp, medium or mild — your call)
Diced jalapeno pepper (I like the small cans already diced.  If you’re brave, you can dice your own fresh ones.)

Construction

Put 2 T oil in your skillet and put into the oven to heat at 400 degrees.  You want a hot oven and a hot oiled skillet to start with.

Crack the eggs into your mixing bowl and stir lightly with a fork.

Blend in 2 T canola oil and about 1/2 cup of milk. This isn’t precise and I’ll explain why in a minute.

Add in sour cream and a heaping cup of corn meal mix. Don’t be afraid.

Add cheese and jalapenos.  Start with 2 T of the peppers, unless they’re fresh or unless you’re new at this.

Finessecornbread-batter-l

Now here’s where the artistry comes in.  There’s almost no way to mess up this cornbread, especially if you have no preconceived idea of what it’s supposed to be when it’s done. But you do want it to be moist.

What you want is a batter that’s about like sour cream.  You want it to flow into your skillet with the help of a spoon, but you don’t want it to be too thick.  Nor do you want it as runny as pancake batter.  So here you’ll add a couple of tablespoons of milk to thin it down, or a couple of tablespoons of meal mix to thicken it up.

You can’t go wrong.  The worst thing that can happen is you’ll end up with too much batter, and that just means more cornbread.

When the oven has reached 400 degrees, remove the hot skillet.  Be very, very careful at this point.  Remove children, pets, and clumsy relatives from the area.

Gently spoon the batter into the skillet and bake for 10 minutes.  Then check the bread by jiggling the skillet handle.  If the top of the bread shivers, give it another 2 to 5 minutes.  The bread is ready when it pulls away from the sides of the skillet.

Finishing

If you’re happy with the way your bread looks when it comes out of the oven, or if the idea of flipping makes you nervous, you can just serve it straight from the skillet.  If you’ve used an aluminum pan for your baking or you’ve made muffins, you can just skip this part.

To finish the bread, you want to flip it out onto a ceramic plate, upflippedside down.  Then slide the bread back into the hot skillet, bottom side up, and leave it for a few minutes.  This gives the top a nice color.

Flip the bread back onto the plate right side up to serve.

Don’t forget to turn off the oven.

Serving

I always put butter and honey on the table.  But sometimes we just think they’re superfluous.

And if you’re easily distracted and tend to burn things, it’s a good idea to have a loaf of French bread on standby.

***A word on oils

Canola oil seems to be the food snobs’ latest whipping boy.  It comes from rapeseed, which gets people all aflutter.  Rape is the Latin word for “turnip” and is a plant from the mustard clan, which is high in erucic acid.  So somebody reengineered both the oil and the name to let folks know, hey, this is CANadianOilLow(erucic)Acid, abbreviated CANOLA.  My advice is to read both sides of the argument and shop carefully. A good organic canola oil is great in recipes where olive oil is just wrong.  Or you can pay more for something else if it makes you feel better.

 

Apr25

walking the dog

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So I have a regular gig about four times a year, spending time with Gustavo. He is an Italian greyhound who thinks he is actually reincarnated 17th or 18th century royalty. I haven’t quite pinned down the family yet, and I believe his demise was quite violent.  Hence he has alarming separation anxiety in this life.

However, he must have laughed a lot with his friends and family.  Stav has a great sense of humor and is the life of the party.  He’s a little subdued right now, because he’s trying to remember where he’s seen me before.  But it’ll come to him eventually.

So far it has been a bittersweet reunion.  We are both grayer and calmer than the last time I was here.  We both take more supplements with our meals.  He is positively portly and waddles when he walks.  I have acquired a muffin top from excessive use of chocolate to get me through the recent breaking news and subsequent long hours with CNN.

But somehow the heavens and the Mother called a truce with the calendar and gave me a glorious first day with Stav.  The sun was brilliant on our walk and the breeze just right, free of impertinent insects and subwoofers.  The sidewalk felt like carpet and my feet seemed to skate along the few blocks of our route.

I wanted more. I wanted to abandon work and throw my phone into the bushes and walk with Stav until we could walk no longer. But his folks left crab cakes in the fridge and experience has taught me I will eventually want my phone back.  So we’re back in the living room, sitting in the quiet that’s as rich and thick as cream cheese frosting.

It is enough. I am content.

Dec27

scandalous aging

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Tuesday and Wednesday I crash-watched two seasons of “Scandal” and I am lit up like a horny teenager. I was awake until 6 am — unheard of in the last three years.

There are all sorts of lights coming on and bells sounding and I’m not entirely happy about it. Life is so much easier when you have no sex drive.

Yesterday was full of hell and I went out on my own last night, drove to Collierville to the Mellow Mushroom and had pizza all by myself. Got exactly what I wanted and ate as much as I wanted and stayed until I was ready to go home.

Wondered where sober seniors go to hit on people. Figured at that time of night they were all in their recliners in front of the TV.

God, getting old really SUCKS.

Aug11

Eggplasagna

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Eggplant is just an amazing thing.  I love it breaded with cornmeal and fried, or made into a casserole with bread crumbs or even in chili.  But this may be my favorite way yet.  It makes being wheat-free a little more happy.

INGREDIENTS:eggplant
Olive oil
1 Vidalia onion, chopped
1 T. minced garlic
1 lb. fresh ground meat (pork, beef or turkey)
Seasoned salt to taste
1 T. chopped parsley
1 jar prepared pasta sauce (I used Classico Tomato & Basil)

1 large eggplant, peeled and diced
1 lb. sliced fresh mushrooms
1 large bag clean fresh spinach
1 c. grated parmesan
4-6 slices provolone (enough to cover pan)
2 c. grated mozzarella

Heat 2 T. olive oil in skillet and saute onion with garlic until onion is soft. Transfer to LARGE bowl (you will be adding other stuff to this).

In same skillet, brown ground meat until pink is gone. Drain fat if necessary and stir in seasoned salt and parsley. Add to bowl with onion and garlic, add jar of pasta sauce and stir until mixed well. This is your kitchen gravy and it’s great with pasta or French bread, too. But back to the plan.

Prepare a 9” x 13” pan. I lined mine with foil that I then sprayed with cooking spray.

Put enough gravy in the pan to cover the bottom and reserve the rest for the top.

Back to that skillet. Heat more olive oil if necessary, add eggplant and stir occasionally until eggplant begins to sweat and soften. Spread out on top of gravy in 9” x 13” pan. Layer mushrooms on top of this.

This is the last thing for the skillet: the spinach. It will be a huge pile but as it cooks it will shrink down to nothing. I promise you. Once the spinach is wilted and soft, stir in the parmesan cheese. Then spread this on top of the eggplant and mushrooms.

Cover with a layer of provolone cheese.

Then cover with the rest of the kitchen gravy.

Top with mozzarella.

You can put this straight into the oven or stick into the fridge and heat up later.  Either way, it takes about 30-40 min in a 350 degree oven.  You might need to turn on the broiler to brown the cheese on top if you’re in a hurry and you like it that way.

Serves four hungry people, more if you add sides/and or bread.  We had fresh corn on the cob with ours.

May16

Speedy No-Knead Bread

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Published: The New York Times, October 3, 2008

3 cups bread flour

1 packet ( 1/4 ounce) instant yeast

1 1/2 teaspoons salt

Oil as needed.

1. Combine flour, yeast and salt in a large bowl. Add 1 1/2 cups water and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest about 4 hours at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.

2. Lightly oil a work surface and place dough on it; fold it over on itself once or twice. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rest 30 minutes more.

3. At least a half-hour before dough is ready, heat oven to 450 degrees. Put a 6-to-8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex or ceramic) in oven as it heats. When dough is ready, carefully remove pot from oven. Slide your hand under dough and put it into pot, seam side up. Shake pan once or twice if dough is unevenly distributed; it will straighten out as it bakes.

4. Cover with lid and bake 30 minutes, then remove lid and bake another 15 to 30 minutes, until loaf is beautifully browned. Cool on a rack.

Yield: 1 big loaf.

May12

not long

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STRAWBERRY © Beata Wojciechowska | Dreamstime.com

I think to myself, I just want one night of love with you. Just one. Just one night. A few hours. One hour, maybe two. That’s all I need. Not long.

I think this and then I go back to work. I work for a while. Then I find myself thinking it again.

Then I go back to work some more, only now I am aching and wet. Thinking I will mow the lawn even if it doesn’t need it, so I can exhaust myself and maybe the fire in my knickers.

Salad. I’ll make a salad. I’ll use balsamic vinaigrette and strawberries and romaine and that will satisfy my need for wanting to lick you from neck to thigh.

Tears well up into my eyes and I wonder why. Maybe I’m so wet it’s leaking out from my eyes.

Jul27

There for the Taking

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Jones Orchard is just a nice drive into the country since they put Highway 385 into place. We, my daughter and I, had dragged her son along that afternoon to pick peaches with us. Elijah is a child of video games and books and the occasional jigsaw puzzle.  He wondered, as I would have at his age, why we were going to pick peaches when we could have bought some at the store and been back home in less than 30 minutes.

We prepared admirably for the excursion:  insect repellent, gardening gloves, a large Thermos full of ice water and plastic cups. Rachel slathered Elijah with sunscreen and I brought along a long-sleeved shirt just in case I was overwhelmed by sun, insects, peach fuzz or the outside chance of a cooling breeze.

What ensued was a memory in the making, the stuff of family folklore.  We had picked the hottest day of the season so far, and had gone out in the hottest part of the day. The Thermos had overturned en route and all our ice water was in the floor of my car. And somehow we’d managed to pick twice as many peaches as we could afford to take home. The guy in charge agreed to keep the ones we didn’t want. It seemed like he was getting a great deal. They were the prettiest peaches we could find among 50 trees.

We brought home 30 pounds of peaches. We’d eaten many, given away many more. Now we were down to the last bowlful, past their peak and facing a moldy demise without prompt attention.

During a summer of feast and famine we were solidly in the famine part. Pennies were scarce in the household, dollars even scarcer. We had slowly, slowly stopped treating ourselves to fountain Cokes and frozen custard.  We were trying to satisfy those cravings with PB&J and cereal.

The pantry was full of odds and ends that seemed mostly unrelated.  There was a Mason jar with a handful of old-fashioned oats, not enough for a decent bowl of oatmeal.  Some freakish sense of frugality had ensured the survival of a tablespoonful of butter-flavored Crisco. It was flanked by half a pound of flour, some sugar and some pancake mix.

While looking through the freezer for hope one hungry afternoon, I noticed a bag I’d stashed the summer before. It was a quart of wild blackberries.

Before moving in with my daughter, I lived near the University in a sweet old neighborhood.  During work breaks I’d walk to school and back to stretch my legs. I was keeping an eye on a clump of wild blackberry bushes growing at the edge of a campus parking lot.  One day when the mood was right I drove over to see them.

I stepped into the blistering sun wearing a dress shirt, jeans, tennis shoes and a baseball cap. I ignored the stares of passersby and picked as fast as I could, dark berries that bruised easily and bled purple onto my gloves. By the time I was dizzy from the heat I had a pailful, which I washed and promptly froze, forgetting all about them. And here they were, remembered on a day when I needed to remember them.

Cobbler takes hardly anything at all to be a wonderful dessert.  And we had plenty of hardly anything at all. But we also had hand-picked peaches, just waiting in the bowl, and wild blackberries.

In our refrigerator, amid two dozen jars of pickled and preserved things, I spotted a lonely pat of real butter.  And we had milk.  Thank God, we still had milk, for cereal and for coffee and today, for cobbler.

I set a pot of water to boiling so I could blanch the peaches, and filled the sink with ice water. I examined each peach for doubt. I melted the Crisco with the butter, and poured it over the oats. I tossed in enough flour to make a pea-sized meal. I padded this out with pancake mix and stirred in milk until I had a nice-sized ball of dough. Flattened out between two sheets of waxed paper it yielded a generous top crust.

I diced up the fresh peaches and sprinkled them with sugar, then added the frozen berries and added sugar to them as well. Something reminded me to throw in a little flour for thickening. This pile of fruit, shiny with its own syrup,  completely filled my old Corning casserole. The crust went on and curled up on the sides, almost running over the edge.

It seemed like a celebration sliding that cobbler into a hot oven. I reasoned that no matter what I did, I couldn’t have messed up such spontaneous bounty.  And cobbler is very forgiving, as long as you add enough sugar and don’t let the thing burn.

And so we were forgiven. The crust was perfect, rustic and crunchy, the berries and peaches singing with juice and sunshine. I may never make another such perfect dessert, because I may never again be so broke and bent toward improvisation. But I hope I remember that I was able to find everything I needed and more — it was all right there for the taking.

©27 July 2010 Stormy Bailey

Sep5

Marshmallows

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Image

 

One time Winky gave me a box of marshmallows.

“Here,” she said.  “These will make your panties too small.”

What she handed me was about the size of a corsage box and heavy as a grapefruit. I looked at the label.

“Handcrafted Marshmallows,” it said.

I wondered about marshmallows that weighed so much.  There must be a bunch of them in that box.  No chocolate or pecans, just pure marshmallows, except they might have had a chance encounter with peanut products.

It was hard to miss the price tag:  $18.50.  I knew Winky must have a good story yet to tell.  I already had a list of questions, beginning with:  “How did you happen to come by a $20 box of marshmallows?”

Williams-Sonoma’s ad agency certainly earned their paycheck.  The box itself was a work of art.  It told all about the marshmallows, how it took three days to make them.  I imagined an apple-cheeked man with a tall white toque, stirring a shiny copper cauldron with a big wooden paddle.

Sometimes when these fantasies erupt, it’s 1932.  But I digress.

First there was a heavy cellophane wrapper to peel off the box.  Then there was a wide cardboard ribbon to slide off.  The face of the box opened like shutters, and inside was another box.  But not just any box.  It was like a small safe.  It had a little hiding place for the marshmallows, which were also wrapped in more cellophane, not once, but twice.

I looked at the block of perfect marshmallow cubes, cut three-by-three like a nine-piece quilt square.  There were two layers of them. I pulled out the first marshmallow that would let go of its family.  It was like nothing I’d ever tasted.  It was light yet substantial, and you could taste something besides sugar and air. This was a marshmallow you could depend on.

As I chewed and chewed, I read the rest of the marshmallow story.  It said you could heighten your marshmallow experience with a cup of cocoa or a pot of chocolate fondue.  Was I supposed to wait for chocolate fondue?  I couldn’t think of anyone who might have some handy, so I took mine straight.  I would think about fondue another time.

Standing at the kitchen sink in near-dark, in my nightie and houseshoes, I popped a second marshmallow.  For just a minute, I thought about the unpaid bills I had on my desk, and the ones that I knew Winky also had on hers.  I thought about other friends and family who lately were adding more beans and rice and noodles to their meals. Here I was, eating a marshmallow that cost over a dollar.  Sometimes life is so wonderfully strange I have to write it down.

© 2008 Stormy Bailey.  Excerpt from “A Day with Gustav,” My Mother’s Sinful Child