Spaghetti al limone

A classic from Genoa. Simple as all out, and perfect for summer.

Ingredients

spaghetti

juice of 3-4 lemons
extra-virgin olive oil
parmigiano-reggiano (freshly grated)

lemon zest (grated)

sea salt
black pepper

1 cup basil leaves (chiffonaded)

Recipe

Cook the spaghetti in heavily salted water till al dente.

Meanwhile, whisk the lemon juice, olive oil, salt, pepper and the grated parmesan. The parm will "dissolve" in the mixture.

Add to the cooked spaghetti and mix thoroughly with the lemon zest and the basil.

Machine Madness

Nothing inspires the purchase of a gadget than the daunting task of having to do it by hand.

In a spirit of exuberant culinary madness the CC purchased a few pounds of cherries at the farmers' market.

The object? Cherry granita.

After pitting the first four cherries by hand, the CC went out and purchased a cherry-pitter.

The same thing happened a few years ago when the juice of 40 lemons beckoned. After the second lemon, it sank in really quickly what one was up against, and a juicer was purchased.

Reality has a rude tendency of intruding on culinary flights of fancy.

Cherry Granita

Ingredients

2 lb cherries (pitted)
1 tbsp sea salt
2 tbsp lime juice (read below)

Recipe

Blend the cherries in a blender. Pass through a fine sieve.

Add the salt, and the lime juice depending on the tartness of the cherries. You want the final mixture to be quite liquid, slightly salty, and on the tarter side.

Put it in the freezer. Every hour initially, break up the ice as it forms. After a while, you will need to break it up every half hour or so, and then every fifteen minutes. Takes about 6-7 odd hours in summer (which is when you want it anyway.)

Labor of Love

Ever had a cookbook which while not that compelling is impossible to throw away? Perhaps, it's the book you learnt from, or a book so heavily annotated with your notes that there's no replacing it? There are even cookbooks which you absorb completely but are completely unable to discard for sentimental reasons.

The strangest category must be cookbooks that are clearly labors of love. They may be far from perfect; they are almost certainly filled with historical nonsense; they may even be variations on a single theme that could easily be condensed into far fewer pages. And yet, try as you might to get rid of them, you can't help holding on to them.

Maybe next time.

And next time comes and goes, and then the next, and the next, and you know in your heart of hearts you're never going to discard this tatty old book but you keep putting it on the discard pile, and just as impulsively removing it before the cull.

The CC has an Iraqi cookbook. Horribly edited, and endlessly repetitious, this is clearly the work of an amateur. And yet, it has all the hallmarks of a life lived. Flipping through the pages, you get the sense that this is nothing more than a notebook of a truly excellent cook, hurriedly edited and published, quite possibly with private funding.

Another is a book on Indian breads. What little there is to know about the variety of Indian breads can be taught in an extended afternoon or two. Perhaps three. What matters is the stuffings, and one doesn't need to list the basic technique repetitiously just the elaborate insides. Also, clearly, a modest personal notebook but badly edited, this time by an editor trying to expand modest material into a whole book.

Strange beings these works.

What makes these books so compelling? They are not failures; far from it. Perhaps they are reminders of a journey of knowledge that we once embarked upon, that we too were stupid and naïve once.

Or the strange leap of the heart when you flip through one and an old favorite reappears. Haven't made that in years, must do that someday soon, and look here's the one we made back then when ...

Most likely, it's the realization that cooking for all its flairs and fancies is ultimately rooted in the physical reality of people cooking for other people. And what could be more lovely than that?

Two Italian Salads

Summer's here, and here are two classic Italian salads to go with it.

Panzanella

Basically a salad to use up dried up bread.

Ingredients

2 cups dried bread (cubed)
1 lb tomatoes (peeled, cored, cubed)
1 small red onion (thinly sliced)
1/2 English cucumber (peeled, cubed)
2 ribs celery hearts (cubed)
1/2 cup pitted green olives (sliced in half lengthwise each)

1/2 cup basil (torn loosely)
2 cloves garlic (minced)
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
3 tbsp olive oil

fine sea salt
black pepper

Recipe

Please read this post on salt first. Recipe should be pretty obvious.

Insalata di rucola, pignoli e parmi

Ingredients

1/2 cup pine nuts (toasted lightly)
arugula leaves

parmigiano-reggiano (read below)

1 tbsp red wine vinegar
1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

fine sea salt
black pepper

Recipe

The only trick here (besides toasting the pine nuts) is to use a vegetable peeler to shave paper-thin slices of the parm.

Atlantic Surf Clam

You may have seen this on sushi menus as "giant clam" or "surf clam" (hokkigai sometimes spelt hokigai.)

The red tip color is characteristic. Delicious beyond words.

Down and Across : The Solution

The crossword was published here.

Geoduck

The CC is sure everyone can figure out what it resembles.

It's a giant edible clam which you may have eaten if you've ever ordered mirugai in a sushi joint.

The Food Business in America

While walking towards a Midtown Indian takeout (Kati Roll), the CC tried to pre-order using his cellphone:

CC: I'd like ...
Her: Sir, we'd need your number. Please may we have it.

(The CC tried to give his number. She's clueless.)

Her: ...
CC: I'll be there in less than 5 minutes. You won't lose any money.
Her: ...
CC: Just take down the damned order. I'm walking there.

(She takes the order.)

When the CC gets there, he watches the boss berate her for not understanding "anything".

SUCCESS!!!

Transforming the Indians into capitalists. One storefront at a time; it's your own friendly neighborhood CrazyChef.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Day Blooms Agen

Once again, on Bloomsday, an excerpt from the CC's beloved Ulysses. This time from Joyce's wonderful take on the Lestrygonians.

After all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic, of course, it stinks Italian organgrinders crisp of onions, mushrooms truffles. Pain to animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobble lights. Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don't maul them pieces, young one.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up, smoking hot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.

Ah, I'm hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.

What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?

-- Hellow, Bloom! Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

-- Hello, Flynn.

-- How's things?

-- Tiptop... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and... let me see.

Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants mustered and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree Dignam's potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend Mr MacTrigger. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.

-- Have you a cheese sandwich?

-- Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy; take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber. Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.

…

…

…

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can. Six, six. Time will be gone then. She...

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins, sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters? Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red bank this morning. Was he oyster old fish at table. Perhaps he young flesh in bed. No. June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it? No. Yes, or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course, aristocrats. Then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap. No one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The élite. Crème de la crème. They want special dishes to pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon. High sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted chef like a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten too many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive: Do ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney I remember. Du, de la, French. Still it's the same fish, perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of making money, hand over fist, finger in fishes' gills, can't write his name on a cheque, think he was painting the landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha. Ignorant as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs In the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky grumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman s breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Alan Davidson's Seafood Trilogy

Completely indispensable. For seriously whacked-out food geeks only.

Line diagrams (!) not pictures. All good academics understand why, of course.

Many moons ago, the CC knew a wonderful line artist who was fought over by both the Paleontology and Egyptology Departments(!) She could go places in Egypt that few others were allowed to. Eat your heart out, Indiana Jones!

The CC bonded with her on the obvious need for line art (you can "highlight" certain details and "suppress" others in a way that a photograph cannot because it gives equal importance to everything.) We bonded over the obviousness of the argument, and that it didn't matter that the world refuses its obviousness as long as she gets paid a lot, and tons of ice-cold Polish vodka.

But back to the trilogy. Completely indispensable guide. Everything you ever wanted to know about edible seafood.

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse

A certain William Makepeace Thackeray was certainly a food lover. We've already met his Ode to Curry.

A Street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is-
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case--
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is--
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terre's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terre still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse.

We enter; nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?"
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulders ;--
"Monsieur is dead this many a day."
"It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terre's run his race!"
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;
"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?"
"Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal."
"So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustomed corner-place;
"He's done with feasting and wine drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."

My old accustomed corner here is--
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James' head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we sat the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place--but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me.
--There's no one now to share my cup.

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!

Risotto Verde

Literally what it sounds like. A "green" risotto.

Delicious beyond words. Summer delight in every creamy mouthful.

Ingredients

The "greens" (verde)

1 lb spinach
1/2 cup peas
1 cup mint

1 red onion (finely diced)
2 garlic cloves (smashed)
2 stalks celery (thinly sliced)
1/2 cup peas

2 cups rice (carnaroli or vialone nano)

2 cups broth (homemade)

rosemary
parmigiano-reggiano (grated)

sea salt
black pepper

Recipe

Blanch the spinach. Blanch the peas (if using frozen.) Blend the spinach, peas, and mint in a blender.

The rest is obvious. We've done enough risottos on this blog.

Fry the onions, the celery, the rice until translucent. Add the rosemary, sea salt, black pepper, second batch of green peas.

Add the broth and "green stuff" alternately so as to not drop the temperature. Stir, stir, stir.

No, that picture hasn't been doctored nor have any artificial ingredients been added. It really looks that color of "radioactive green".

Add the parm at the end for the mantecura. Serve piping hot with some black pepper on top.

Risotto verde

Zuppa di farro con borlotti cannellini e ceci

A wondrous medley of textures and tastes. A bit of work to prepare but unforgettable.

Tastes wonderful when reheated, and served at room temperature barely warm.

Summer's just around the corner. Why not make it?

Recipe

1 cup farro (emmer wheat, substitute with spelt)
1 cup borlotti beans
1 cup cannellini beans
1 cup dried chickpeas (ceci)

10-12 tomatoes (yes 10-12, read below)

3 cloves garlic (crushed, CC used spring garlic)
3 sprigs rosemary

sea salt
freshly ground black pepper

olive oil

dried bread crusts (one/few per guest)

Recipe

Soak the beans and the farro SEPARATELY for at least 12 hours.

Cook them separately in lots of water until al dente. Cooking times vary. This is the hard part.

(If you have a pressure cooker, cook the beans for 10-11 minutes, basically just barely under par-boiled. You must still cook the farro separately, and skim it.)

Meanwhile, bring water to a boil, and dunk the tomatoes until they "float" (10 minutes roughly.) Pass them through the finest sieve of a food mill to get your tomato pulp.

Fry 2/3rds of the garlic; add the tomato pulp. Cook at a low heat for 30 minutes. Regular readers of the blog know the drill. Skim, baby, skim.

Add the rest of the garlic, the rosemary, salt and pepper, and cook for an additional 5-10 minutes.

Add the beans and the farro. Cook for 15 minutes or so until the flavors "blend". You may need to add some water to replace some of the reduction.

Serve over dried bread crusts drizzled with extra virgin olive oil.

Food Art?

Super kitschy perhaps, but made entirely out of food so there seems to be a vivid imagination at work.

Artist called Carl Warner.

The last one reminds the CC of The Owl and the Pussycat.

Honesty

More than one reader has commented that the CC doesn't quite make the same recipe that he posts when cooking either at his home or away, and the CC feels that he should address this fact.

The history of food and cooking is, quite literally, littered with misinformation.

Great chefs throughout history have always witheld key pieces of ingredients or recipes largely to suppress the competition, more often than not from their own students. One must consider this as the oldest form of IP.

Thankfully, the CC doesn't subscribe to this notion because largely he believes in openness. Openness fosters competition, competition keeps the CC on his toes looking for better recipes, better ingredients, better technique.

In any case, the truth will out. This stuff is hardly rocket science (and even there, the truth will out.)

Citius, altius, fortius. (in the spirit of the upcoming Olympics.)

So what explains the variations?

The answer is shockingly simple, my fellow readers.

When, the CC cooks in foreign kitchens, and more importantly, foreign locations, the ingredients aren't the same. Even the burners aren't the same. As for the equipment the CC has to put up with, well, the less said the better.

So whether the CC likes it or not, he has to modify the actual recipe to fit the milieu.

Think of it more as exactness of intent rather than exactness of technique. Some stuff will get elongated; others which is much more amenable will get shortened.

The goal has always been to achieve an exact final product not to replicate a set of instructions.