Plenty

Well, the moment has come: I’m up, due to follow Janetta’s first post for Umami. Before I launch into my little piece, I must add what is no doubt abundantly clear: Janetta is a force, a wit, a talent: a mightily smart, sympathetic friend—a person I treasure. And she can cook: she can whip together a fabulous dinner party in the wink of an eye, and is, like me, joyfully obsessive in thinking about food.

Of course I agree with Janetta: food—the thinking about it, preparing it, and eating it—brings comfort. When those activities are shared, all the better; it’s sweet indeed. (See future posts about moments of sharing food on a medium to grandish scale, among them dinner parties with my friend Bob; my neighborhood’s Soup Night, inaugurated and hosted by my friend and neighbor Annie; and potluck suppers, which Janetta and I try to have with our friends Rebecca and Theo at least a couple of Sunday nights a month.)

So, I’ll be writing plenty about cooking and eating with my family and friends—probably the most satisfying way to enjoy the fruits of my labors and pleasures in the kitchen. But tonight, eating is about something different: One of my reasons for wanting—no, sometimes needing—food comfort is that peculiar arrangement familiar to many divorced moms: The Dad Weekend. When Sam is off for the weekend with his dad, even though I gain, I guess, some precious moments to myself, and, even, sometimes and, gloriously, a night out, I miss him horribly. Coming home to a quiet house, alone, after work on Friday evening can feel a mite solitary, even, especially in these late days of autumn, bleak. What to do? Cook something soothing, delicious, and, well, comforting. Being, occasionally, a pragmatist, I often try to arrange for my comfort to include ingredients that my fairly newly picky 10-year-old refuses to eat; things like mushrooms, artichokes, stinky cheese, and the like. I’m not above the occasional—in season, thank you—night of bingeing: say, a dinner of 3 artichokes, or 2 pounds of perfect asparagus. But I won’t bore you with those.

Tonight, it’s about what amounts to the ultimate comfort food for me: soup. (You’ll no doubt hear a lot about soup from me in this blog. Bear with me if you’re not of the brothy sort; I promise other tasty ideas down the road.) This soup boasts a few pluses for the solitary cook and eater—it’s simple, and offers an intriguing double personality: serve it upon first preparation, and the “patties” are initially crispy, solid, yummy, floating in the broth; on the second day, eaten as leftovers, the soup will be an entirely different experience, as the patties will have melted into the soup, creating a thicker, corny concoction quite toothsome on a coolish day. (You can also, of course, reserve the cooked patties on the side, adding and warming only as many as you will eat at that sitting.) And yes, I realize that it’s a tad funny for a vegetarian to be offering recipes from a book called The Chicken Soup Book; but it’s a lovely little book, full of deliciousness and charming illustrations… and easy enough to adapt for vegetarians by using veggie broth and leaving out the meat.

Nicaraguan Soup with Masa Harina Patties

(adapted from The Chicken Soup Book, by Janet Hazen)

Masa Harina Patties:

2 c masa harina (yellow, lime-treated corn flour)

4 oz. sharp cheddar cheese, finely grated

2 T unsalted butter, room temperature

1 ½ t kosher or sea salt

½ to ¾ c cold water

4 T olive oil

1 medium onion, cut into small dice

3 cloves garlic, finely chopped

4 jalapeño peppers, stemmed, seeded, and cut into small dice

1 red, 1 green, and 1 orange bell pepper, stemmed, seeded, and cut into small dice

3 T olive oil

8 c hearty vegetarian broth

Salt and pepper, to taste

½ c coarsely chopped fresh cilantro, for garnish

If you have a perfectly ripe avocado around, it’s nice to add a few slices to your bowl, as well

To make the masa harina patties: In a medium bowl, combine the masa harina, cheese, butter, and salt using your hands. Add enough of the water to hold the dough together. (In my experience, as with many doughs, the amount of water required varies quite a lot from time to time; just keep adding a little at a time until you’ve got the right texture.) Form dough into a disc, cover with plastic wrap, and let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes. Divide the ball into 4 equal balls and roll each into a long cylinder approximately 1 inch thick. Cut each cylinder into 6 equal pieces and shape each into a small patty about ¼ inch thick.

In a large, nonstick sauté pan, heat 2 T of the olive oil over moderate heat. When the oil is warm, add half of the patties. Cook until both sides are light golden brown, about 1-3 minutes per side. Remove from the pan and place on a large plate lined with paper towels. Cook the rest of the patties in the remaining olive oil. Set aside.

In a heavy-bottomed large saucepan, cook the onion, garlic, and jalapeño and bell peppers in the olive oil over moderate heat until crisp-soft but still brightly colored, for about 8 minutes, stirring frequently. Add broth and bring to a boil over high heat. Add the masa patties and reduce the heat to moderate. Simmer for about 5 minutes, or until the patties are warmed through. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish each portion with cilantro just before serving. Adding a few slices of avocado? Heaven.

Makes about 12 cups—enough to have a friend or three over if you just can’t stomach a solitary dinner, with some left over to put into your child’s lunchbox on Monday, when he’ll be back home.

***

Not wanting to leave the impression that my existence is a solitary vale of tears, I would like to share that I do occasionally, as they say, get out. (It’s what my parents seem always to be urging me to do.) Anyway, get out I did, last weekend. And it got me thinking….

Plenty. The word has been bouncing around in my head since I spent a beautiful Thanksgiving with friends last week. The day was long, some seven hours or so spent eating fabulous food, drinking lovely wine, and then lingering at the table to chat, pet the cat, admire the antics of charming, gamboling children, and play word games (fun, but challenging, at least for me, because of the no-blood-in-the-brain-because-it’s-all-busy-in-the-stomach, digesting thing). All utterly, abundantly, delightful. The affection and palpable love practically did me in—and I had just met a handful of these people for the first time that day. But sharing food, good food, with people has that effect on me. Food is love.

Fast forward to the next day, when, inexplicably, I felt ravenous, despite having eaten so much the day before. Joe took me to have a wander and a gander at the newish Whole Foods in Dedham (more another day on my complicated feelings about WF), where I was confronted, head-on and on a very large scale, with plenitude: dozens of varieties of potatoes, mushrooms, peppers, and so much more, arranged in harmonious, attractive tableaus of colorful excess and choice. The sheer scale of things proved tantalizing, but overwhelming—huge: not unlike the “Yeti” on the produce boxes that had me chuckling as I shot some photos of the store’s bounty.

My response? To want it all, then bridle at my wanting. We ended up with what is often my answer to an eating quandary, especially in the fall and winter: a one-pot meal, featuring colorful bits… but not too much of any one thing. We decided on a stewy concoction; Joe opted for Indian spices, and we were set: I would make a variation of one of my favorite recipes, based on an Indian dal, a lentil stew, incorporating our veggie choices of the day.

One of these days I will spend some time exalting and parsing the subtleties of the lentil; Sam and I love Indian food, and I never met a dal I didn’t like. We have this dish a couple of times a month at least, usually in Madhur Jaffrey’s simple, quite perfect version. During our trip through the produce section of WF, though, Joe and I selected a few choice items to add to the recipe: crisp green beans, a couple of perfect carrots, a handful of baby Bello mushrooms, a green pepper, and a sweet little Japanese eggplant; I blanched the green beans and sautéed the rest of the veggies on the side, with some canola oil and salt, then folded them in at the end, along with some cooked kidney beans—for more color and protein. Serve with basmati rice, and garnish with cilantro and an extra spritz of lime juice, as desired, and you’ll have a filling, balanced meal. Below, the basic recipe, ripe for improvisation—depending on your mood and what looks tasty at the store.

Red Lentils with Zucchini

Vegetarian Dalcha

(adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian)

1 c red lentils (masoor dal), picked over, washed in several changes of water, and drained

¼ t ground turmeric

Salt

¼ c canola oil

4 whole cardamom pods

1 cinnamon stick

2 bay leaves

½ t whole cumin seeds

1 medium onion, very finely chopped

2 t peeled fresh ginger, grated to a pulp

3 garlic cloves, peeled and mashed

1 medium zucchini, halved crosswise, then cut into 1-in rounds

Freshly ground pepper

¼ to ½ t cayenne

A few squeezes of fresh lime juice

Chopped cilantro for garnish, optional

Put the red lentils and 3-4 c water (depending on whether you like a light, soupy dal or a more stewy one—and know that it will thicken if left to sit for a while or overnight) in a heavy-bottomed pot and bring to a boil. Watch carefully so that the contents of the pot do not boil over, and remove the froth that rises to the top. Add the turmeric and stir once. Turn down the heat to low, cover but leave the lid slightly ajar, and cook very gently for about 20 minutes, or until the lentils are tender. Add 1 to 1 ¼ t salt and stir to mix.

Put the oil in a nonstick frying pan and set over medium-high heat. When very hot, put in the cardamom pods, cinnamon stick, bay leaves, and cumin seeds. Stir for a few seconds and then add the onion. Stir and fry until the onion pieces turn medium brown. Add the ginger and garlic. Continue to stir and fry for another minute. Then put in the zucchini, black pepper to taste, cayenne, and another ¼ t salt. Stir for a minute. Add ½ c of water, cover, turn the heat down to low, and cook for about 4 minutes. Uncover, stir gently again, and then empty the contents of the frying pan into the pot with the lentils. Stir gently to mix and cook on low heat for a minute or three. (If you’ve cooked some additional vegetables on the side, now is the time to add them.) Squeeze lime juice over the top before serving and garnish with cilantro if you like.

Serves at least 4… even 6-8 with additions like those I made last week. In other words, plenty.