A Mouthful of Marmalade

As you may have noticed, I'm running a bit late this week. I've been running here for dinner, here and here for meetings, and sneaking moments at the computer between meals and moments in the kitchen between assignments. And as my husband so aptly put it yesterday, we've generally been running around like two chickens with our heads cut off all week.

And yet I still found time to caramelize onions for an orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade; the mere memory of it was enough to make me put down what I was doing and pause for a good, long while over the stove.

I don't think orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade is this dish's exact name (nor should it be - it's a mouthful). But it does describe the exact mix of ingredients that come together to create the garnet-hued spread I first tried in the kitchen at Trellis. The chef uses this recipe as a way to preserve the many pounds of onions he harvests from his farm each year; for me, the girl without an onion patch to call her own, making this marmalade is just another excuse to go to my favorite grocer, unwind at the stove and then eat really, really well. 

This marmalade begins with slow cooking the onions, carefully as you don't want them to burn. Then you add a heap of sugar and, many minutes later, the wine, orange juice, honey and thyme that turn that pile of onions into a handsome spread.

You have to let it stew for awhile, and darn it if you don't take a taste now and then, just to see how the whole thing's progressing. Eventually, you'll pinch a piece from the pot and intuitively know that your work is done. Then you'll sample a larger bite, a spoonful maybe, just to make sure it's ready, and the flavors will jump out at you one after another - first the assertive orange, then the subtle thyme, the sweet, lingering honey and the softened wine, all clinging to a spoonful of silken onions as they slip across your tongue.

I wouldn't blame you if you ate that whole tangle of onions that way, spoonful after spoonful. But then you'd miss out on the meal I made: onion and pear topped flatbread. I didn't care to write down a recipe for it, as it's more a method than an exact science. First, I snatched off a bit of dough from the ball my husband made and formed it into a misshapen rectangle with rustic little rounded edges that I folded back over themselves to form just a hint of a crust. The marmalade, that went in the middle, topped with paper-thin slices of Asian pear. Then, I popped the whole thing in the oven and waited for it to crisp up. Granted, I should have been a bit more patient with my little pizette as it was disappointingly soggy in the middle. But with a mouthful of marmalade accompanying each bite, I barely noticed at all. 

Orange-Honey-Thyme-Onion Marmalade

If you are someone who wants a quick, 30-minute meal tonight, turn on Rachael Ray. This marmalade will take you a bit longer than that to prepare but then you'll have enough for a little pizette and a tiny jar of leftovers to accompany a cheese and cracker plate one night and garnish an arugula salad the next. 

1 pint orange juice

2 1/2 red onions, peeled and sliced into small slivers

1/4 cup olive oil

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 cup red wine

3 springs of thyme

Zest from 1 orange

1/2 cup honey 

In a small saucepan over medium heat, reduce the orange juice until you have 1/4 cup remaining.

Meanwhile, sweat the onions in the olive oil until they are translucent. Stir in the sugar and continue to cook the onions as they slightly caramalize. 

Add the red wine, orange zest and leaves from the thyme sprigs, and simmer slowly until the liquid is reduced by about half. 

Add the reduced orange juice and honey and simmer for 5 additional minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and cool. Store the onions in a lidded container in the fridge.

-Adapted from Chef Brian Scheehser of Trellis Restaurant

My Moroccan Mistake

I had meant to bring you something really special today, something exotic, something Moroccan, maybe, because up until now I've felt a bit like a cheat. Despite my self-imposed mission to start cooking better solo meals, I've played it safe; with all the salads, soups and scratch-baked treats I've been sharing, I haven't really branched outside my comfort zone. 

Yes, I've gone beyond the tried in true, substituting a composed salad for my traditional green salad or a tomato bread soup that, quite frankly, didn't differ much from my favorite fall fallback. But a salad is a salad and soup is a soup, and those muffins I told you about are a version of the same breakfast I've been eating for most of my adult life.

So this week, I really wanted to uphold my end of the deal. I took a midday work break, settled in with some books and started scouring them for a recipe that would teach me how to braise meat. Why braising? Visions of slow-cooked, fork-tender lamb shank, shredded and spooned over polenta had somehow wiggled its way into my head and I just couldn't let that image go.

Unfortunately, my exhaustive search yielded exactly one dull braised lamb recipe. But I did find a recipe for a Moroccan lamb so I combined the method from the first recipe and the spices from the later, and let that braising liquid bubble away for hours. 

When I opened that pot, the meat was indeed falling off the bone and the scent of cinnamon, cumin and coriander that perfumed the air set my mouth watering. The meat itself was a bit dull, so I reduced the braising liquid down, blended it together and poured it back over the now shredded lamb meat. The flavor was greatly improved but now - and forgive me for being graphic - it was the color of something you'd find in a diaper. Since it was just me, I ate that lamb and liked it, but I cannot encourage you to take so much time to make something so unappealing to the eye.

Fortunately, there was a savior in this whole, long braising experiment: the side of polenta. I have been making polenta off and on ever since I found a recipe for polenta corn cakes from a local inn. Before that, I had not known how easy polenta was to make - or how fun. As soon as you pour the corn grits into the pan, they start burbling and burping and letting off gusts of steam such that you'd think they were having a party in a pan as you stir them together. I promise, these silly little noises will stretch a smile across your face.

So too will the finished polenta. I recommend you make it now and then again and again for it is forever versatile. You might refrigerate it in shallow little pans and fry up slices in the morning to serve with a slippery poached egg on top. Or, you could spoon a large heap of just-cooked polenta onto your plate, and fan out some pale pink pork tenderloin around it. You can push the indulgence meter into the red by stirring in hunks of crumbly cheese, or leave the polenta plain to ground a dish like Steamed Eggs in a Nest of Greens (yes, there I go with that recipe, again).

Maybe you'll even find something exotic to pair it with - just not my Moroccan lamb shanks.

Polenta for One

The truly great thing about a recipe this simple is you can update it at will. You can chop up fresh herbs and toss them in the pot at the last minute, or add a crumbly cheese and watch it melt and make the polenta impossibly rich with a few turns of a mixing spoon. To make enough for leftovers, you can double or triple the recipe (don't worry, the math's easy) and chill the remaining polenta in a shallow pan. Then, all that's left to do is fry up the firm pieces for your next meal. 

1 cup low-fat milk (or water if you prefer)
A pinch of salt
1/3 cup stone-ground yellow cornmeal

Bring the milk (or water) and salt to boil in a heavy saucepan over medium-high heat. 

Once the milk is warm, add the cornmeal in a thin stream, whisking constantly as you pour it into the saucepan. Turn the heat to low and continue stirring with the whisk or a wooden spoon (constantly or it will get lumpy) until the mixture has thickened and starts to pull away from the sides of the pan, or about 10 minutes.

Stir in cheese, herbs - whatever you want really - and serve immediately.

-Adapted from The New Basics Cookbook

Soups On

When the first dark, drippy day of fall arrives and other people slip on their rain jackets and mourn the end of summer, I can be found peaking out my window with a smile spreading across my face for that day that announces the season for sweaters and scarfs, curbside puddles, falling leaves and weekends spent turning the dog-eared pages of my well-loved books.

And, best of all, it's also the season for soup.

From October through March (or sometimes April or May - this is Portland after all) soup is my constant mealtime companion and midday belly warmer. Though I love the rain, the chill that accompanies it creeps into my bones such that I can often be found writing at my computer in faux fur-lined slippers and a down jacket with a blanket draped across my lap. It's a ridiculous get up but that cocoon keeps me warm until it's time to eat soup.

I'm not very creative when it comes to winter soups, preferring instead to tweak my go-to tomato soup recipe just so, and just often enough that I don't get bored with it. Ever. And yes, despite the fact that I've already explained that I abhor tomatoes, I find no fault with the taste and texture of tomatoes when I eat them crushed, from a can.

That's where my recipe always starts, with a can of crushed tomatoes and a splash of chicken broth. In the "old" days, back when I was a penny-pinching studio dweller, I added little nuggets of herbed sausage and a handful of spinach to the soup. It was sort of like a meatball soup, but not quite. And though my husband loved this version (minus the spinach) I sought something more refined.

Over time, I've added bits of salty proscuitto to the pot, then topped my bowl with peppery arugula and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar. I've sprinkled it liberally with feta cheese (with poor results) and aged Parmesan (the perfect garnish), and often mixed in frozen shrimp or fresh fish to create a makeshift cioppino.

The version I'm certain will appear many times this year is my riff on Donna Hay's tomato basil-bread soup. All the recipe required was that I simmer the soup base for a time, then turn off the heat and add big chunks of soft, spongy bread and a handful of basil leaves. I know, soggy bread might not sound appetizing but the heft those little bread bits give the soup changes the experience of eating it entirely. Go ahead, give it a try. 

Italian Tomato and Basil Bread Soup
The original recipe called for stewing very ripe tomatoes down into a chunky sauce. Since good, local tomatoes are hard to find in Portland during the late fall and winter, I streamlined the recipe by using a can of crushed tomatoes instead. Crushed tomatoes usually come in 28-ounce cans; this recipe makes a bit too much soup for me to slurp up in one meal so I often reserve the leftover soup for "second rounds", adding more broth and fresh bread if I want to bulk it up the next day. 

1 teaspoon olive oil
1 clove garlic, smashed but left whole
1 can crushed tomatoes (unsalted if you can find them)
1/4 cup low-sodium chicken broth 
1 1-inch thick slice artisan bread, crust removed and torn into chunks
1 handful basil leaves, torn into tiny pieces
Salt and fresh cracked black pepper, to taste

Warm the olive oil in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the garlic clove and saute for a minute. Pour in the crushed tomatoes and the low sodium chicken broth, and stir the soup base together. 

Place a lid on the pot and simmer for approximately 10 minutes or until the soup is warmed through. 

Remove the garlic clove and simmer to taste with salt and pepper. Turn the heat off and add the bread and basil to the pot. Allow the soup to stand for 5 minutes, covered, then ladle into bowls and serve unadorned or garnished as desired.

-Adapted from Modern Classics by Donna Hay

An Obsession

I feel a bit like I've failed you this week. I should be reporting with tales of triumphant one person meals, maybe a rustic risotto, a heady French onion soup or a flaky fillet of white fish, perfectly prepared and prettily presented in a parchment paper packet.

But I've made none of these things this week because every time I go to open a cookbook or plan dinner, I decide I'd rather be baking. So I do. This week has been a flurry of flour and sugar and butter, all spun together in the bowl of my mixer to make lemon blueberry buckle, from-scratch granola bars pocked with half-moons of dried apricot and blackberry muffins that carry my summertime favorite into fall.

It's the muffins I want to talk to you about today. Anyone who knows me well, knows I am among the muffin obsessed. It started when I worked at a wholesome little bakery as the bleary-eyed countergirl (my shift started before six...on a weekend). Thoughts of their oatmeal berry muffins roused me from bed before sunrise, and eating one, or two, got me through many a shift. Years later, those muffins filled my freezer at college; I stocked up on a few dozen every time I went home, then rationed them throughout the term like a squirrel trying to make a nut stash last through the winter.

There were, of course, Muffin Mondays at the local bakery with two dear friends and muffin making mornings shared with my trio of roommates, who were only too happy to let me bake away. Even now, muffins are the baked good I gravitate toward because, like cookies and cupcakes, they are perfectly proportioned for one.

So every weekend of late, I've made a batch of muffins to freeze and then defrost and eat throughout the week. For awhile, I was trying different recipes on for size, to see which one suited me in the same way another woman might try this style or that one before deciding that her look was sporty chic. And eventually, I met a muffin that finally halted my search for the perfect one.

Appropriately, it called for the harbinger of spring, those skinny red stalks of rhubarb that fill the stands at the first farmer's markets of the year. When rhubarb season ended, however, I found that the recipe was equally impressive made with most any fruit. My preference of late has been the local blackberries my husband Jake and I froze on trays in our freezer, then tucked away in baggies for a rainy day.

I like to split these moist, sugar-dusted muffins in half and top the stump with a bit of jam, then save the best part - the muffin top - for last. Don't ask me why the top is the best part. I can't pinpoint why I like it best, but I know the muffin-obsessed among us will agree. 

Blackberry Applesauce Muffins
In my opinion, the best muffins have a lingering sweetness, which is best achieved with a dusting of sugar or crumbly topping of some sort. So while these muffins might taste fine plain, I can't say I've tried them that way. Instead, I always dust them with a bit of brown sugar and cinnamon before I pop them in the oven. 

2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 1/4 cups packed brown sugar
1 cup applesauce
3/4 cup canola oil
1 1/2 cup frozen blackberries (or fresh rhubarb cut into 1/4-inch pieces or a frozen fruit of your choice)
Cinnamon and brown sugar topping, if desired (I use about 1/2 cup of brown sugar and a teaspoon of cinnamon)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl, stir together both flours, the baking powder, cinnamon, baking soda and salt. Make a well in the center and set the bowl aside.

In a medium mixing bowl, beat the eggs with a small whisk. Whisk in the brown sugar, applesauce and oil. 

Pour the wet ingredients into the well you made in the dry ingredients, and stir until the batter is combined. Fold in the blackberries.

Grease a standard size muffin tin or place liners in each of 12 muffin cups. Fill each cup to the brim (to encourage a massive top) and sprinkle the batter with the cinnamon-sugar mixture if desired.

Bake for 18 to 20 or until the tops are golden and a toothpick comes out clean when you pierce a muffin in the middle. (If the tops start to look too brown but the insides still need oven time, cover the tops with a large piece of tinfoil).

Serve warm, preferably with berry jam, or cool and freeze to eat later.

Going Green

Since it is officially October, the season of falling leaves, rain storms and minimal sun, I think I can safely reflect on my summer goals. And more specifically, the goal I failed at reaching. 

You see, this summer I had planned to learn to love tomatoes. I didn't.

Now, I've always liked tomatoes in cooked, pureed form; I enjoy rustic tomato soups, pasta tossed with marinara sauce and, on occasion, a cheeseburger spread with liberal amounts of ketchup. But something about the texture of a fresh tomato has always made me push my plate away when I encounter it. No matter that the heirlooms looked temptingly beautiful with their glossy sheen and imperfect silhouettes at the market this fall, or that if I tried hard enough I could conjure a craving for a BLT or caprese salad. When I nibbled at a cherry tomato or tried to trick myself by hiding small slices of an Early Girl tomatoes in a panini sandwich, I discovered that my stomach would not concede to my wishes.

All of this throat-clearing is my way of saying I still don't like fresh tomatoes, and as such fresh tomatoes won't appear in this week's recipe. My tabouleh is all green.

The first time I made tabouleh - the popular Middle Eastern salad traditionally made from parsley, bulgur wheat, mint, tomatoes and green onions - it turned out ok. At that point in my life, I didn't own the modern kitchen workhorse, the food processor, and try as I might, I couldn't chop the parsley fine enough to help it meet my expectations for the dish. I ate that makeshift concoction - sans tomatoes of course - but quickly forgot about tabouleh until I ran into two recipes for this sprightly salad last week. 

So one night this week when I planned to eat alone (my husband also has particular food neurosis - he disregards hippie-dippie ingredients like bulgur with fervor), I gave generous handfuls of parsley and a few mint leaves a quick spin in the food processor. Then I tossed the chopped herbs together with the cooked bulgur, which is the easiest-going grain I've encountered yet. Making it simply requires you boil water, add the bulgur and wait for it to cook. That's it. 

Anyway, I then added some chunks of cucumber to contrast the soft grains with a crisp, clean bite and tossed the whole jumble in a simple vinaigrette of extra virgin olive oil and lemon. Then I piled it atop a bed of greens and sat down to a meal that was particularly lovely - tomato goal achieved or not. 


All Green Tabouleh 
If you're like me, you won't miss tomatoes in this recipe. But if you want to add them, go ahead. I imagine chopped tomatoes or plump little cherry tomatoes slivered in half would both work well here. Also, it's worth noting that you can adjust the amount of vinaigrette you use to suit your tastes. When I first made tabouleh, I used twice as much dressing. Now, I prefer it lightly dressed. 

2/3 cup water
1/3 cup bulgur wheat
1/2 cup parsley leaves
2 tablespoons mint leaves
1/2 small cucumber, seeds scooped out, peeled and diced 
1 scallion, finely chopped
1/8 cup lemon juice (approximately the amount from 1 small lemon)
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Red leaf lettuce

Bring the water to boil with a pinch of salt. Once it is boiling, turn off the heat and add the bulgur. Cover, and let stand for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, place the parsley leaves and mint leaves in the bowl of a food processor and pulse until they are finely chopped.

If necessary, drain the remaining water off the bulgur. In a small mixing bowl, stir the cooked bulgur, parsley and mint mixture, cucumber and scallion together. Add the olive oil and lemon juice and toss until well combined. Salt and pepper the salad to taste.

Pile the salad on a bed of red leaf lettuce and serve immediately.