Retro Recipes and Traditional Fare

I make soup every Sunday. Along with my pre-made grains, a legume, some roasted chicken(or sauteed sausages), cleaned and prepped veggies, soup is always simmering on Sunday mornings. I meal plan. Shopping lists are written on Fridays, shopping is done on Saturday, thus the organization begins. Simply, it makes weeknight meals easier, quicker, and nutritious.

Soups are the best way to use up those veggies that get somewhat neglected or pushed aside in your vegetable drawer. Soup is one of those versatile meals, served with a salad one has the perfect meal. Barley soup is made with homemade chicken stock,prosciutto, leeks, potatoes, carrots, and celery. Before serving, I add some sauteed chicken sausage and chopped chard. Lentil soup is a staple and corn chowder is household favorite.

But, it’s my tortilla soup that is number one on the soup list. This soup was conceived over 20 years ago while spending weekends on a friends estate in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. In the winter months, I would occasionally ski, but it was nesting in their cozy home that I embraced most. Summers were spent on the lake, hiking, horseback riding, and eating; lots and lots of eating. It was one of those lazy days, reading and napping. Dinner was approaching so I accessed the provisions. Onions, garlic, tomatoes, chicken, stock, spices, tortillas, and an avocado. I started chopping, roasting, mincing and my tortilla soup was born.

I had a cooking breakthrough this past week that I want to share with you. Because Jill is eating more and more veganly and handling a lot of her own shopping and preparation, I end up cooking a lot of dishes for myself. And I’m finding this has liberated me in a number of ways.

Instead of measuring or checking the recipe for amounts, I just say to myself, “How much of that do I feel like today?” And I throw in just that much.

Without having to worry about this person’s salt problem, that person’s meat problem, this person’s wheat allergy, that person’s fat phobia – my dishes are turning out just the way I like them.

A recent carbonara is a perfect example: Carbonara is an emotional dish – it’s bacon and eggs, on pasta, with cheese, with lots of black pepper.

One theory is that the name “carbonara,” which means, “in the style of the coal-workers” really comes from the fact that the black pepper scattered on top looks like coal dust. I’m going with that theory. I think a lot of pepper makes this dish.

Allora.

From the LA Times

The first time I met chef Paul Prudhomme, he was peering over the stove in his narrow test kitchen, a converted shotgun house just outside the French Quarter in New Orleans. Chef was heating oil in a large cast-iron skillet, and when he saw me, he invited me over to watch him fix gumbo.

When the oil was smoking hot, he quickly whisked in flour to form a roux — "Cajun napalm," he called it — the bubbling mass darkening to a deep chocolate brown in minutes. He stirred a trinity of vegetables into the roux to stop the cooking — onions, celery and bell peppers — then added the roux to a pot of boiling stock. Chopped andouille sausage and garlic went in as he patiently watched the stew, tasting occasionally, over a slow, quiet hour while it gently simmered away. When the rich aroma was almost too much to bear, Chef added chopped chicken, and soon the gumbo was ready.

I can't say which I savored more: the depth of flavor from a seemingly simple dish or the unhurried quiet, almost sacred, time spent preparing it.

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I remember reading her words like it was yesterday. Molly once said that prunes were among the few foods with their own built-in laugh track. And gosh darnit, she’s right. I still giggle when I think about them, even when people were saying they were delicious and I should try them. And you know exactly what this boy is talking about, quit trying to be coy and pretend you don’t know.  We’re friends here.

Luckily I can now tell you that I no longer laugh as hard as I once did when I say the words prune and I can also tell you that I no longer put the palms of my hand to my lips and make mega-sounds.  And why? Because scattered among the yards and yards of breakfast items on the buffet table at Club Med in the Bahamas were bowls of stewed prunes.