Persian Split Pea Loaf / Grounds for Mother-in-law Divorce

Anyone who's been reading this blog for awhile may have noticed that the amount of "traditional Italian" recipes has dropped off sharply.  The reason for this is that I am running out of family recipes.  Believe me, I have pestered and pestered my family, because technically this blog is for them, but apparently they are just not buying into the whole "my recipes at my fingertips" thing.  So, I still cook Italian food, and when I make up an Italian recipe worth publishing, I publish it.  But sometimes I just cook straight out of a recipe book and, you know, I'm not legally entitled to "post" that on "the internet" so that "strangers" can access it "for free".  Especially now that I'm in the middle of Molto Batali by Mario Batali.  Sure, he's smiling on the cover, but he might just come kick my cute laptop across the room, all for the children's sake.  (His cookbook's proceeds go in part to this children's charity he started.) It's a good cookbook, although definitely not the kind of Italian food I'm used to getting from the Grandmom's kitchen.  I'd be willing to bet it's from a different region of Italy.  (The Canduci family is from Southern Italy/Sicily and Grandpop's mom couldn't cook, so it doesn't matter where she was from.  More on that later.)  So, the upshot is, when I have a recipe I made up myself, or is the intellectual property of my family, I'll pass it on to you.  But there are no guarantees about it being Italian!  Oh, why I am even worrying, the top three recipes on this blog are: Okra and Potatoes (Southern), Hot Dog, Pork & Beans, and Cabbage Casserole (from the Notorious Fifties), and Pizza Gein, the only Italian favorite.

Persian Split Pea Loaf

2 C. cooked split peas, drained
1/2 red onion, sliced
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. garlic powder
1/4 tsp. coriander
1/4 tsp. paprika
1 tsp. salt
2 TB. tomato paste
1/3 C. vegetable or chicken stock*
1/4 C. golden raisins
1/4-1/3 C. oatmeal**
2-3 TB. cooking oil
1 egg

Preheat the oven to 400F.  Heat the oil in a saucepan over medium heat.  Saute the onion until it's soft.  Add in the spices and let them sizzle around for about a minute.  Add in the golden raisins and stir to coat them in the spices.  Add in the tomato paste, salt, and chicken stock, and stir everything up so that you have a fairly thick broth in the bottom of your pan.  Let that bubble another minute or so.  Dump your split peas into a mixing bowl.  Add in the broth mixture, the oatmeal, and the egg, stirring everything well to blend it all together.  Pour the mixture into a lightly-greased glass loaf pan, then cover it with tinfoil.  Bake for 40 minutes covered, then remove it from the oven and check for doneness with a toothpick inserted into the middle of the loaf.  (It should come out moist but clean, with no crumbs or goo.)  Once you pass the toothpick test, remove the tinfoil and bake the loaf for another 10 minutes uncovered.  Remove it from the oven for good and let it rest 10 minutes before attempting to slice it.  Serve each slice drizzled with ketchup if you so desire.
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I have been trying to achieve this dish for a while now, in fact since the very beginning of my "almost vegetarian" attempt.  Finally, success!

*I used chicken stock, but it would probably taste just as good with vegetable.

**I used instant maple-flavored, and it really added something extra.  If you don't have a spare packet of maple-flavored instant oatmeal lying around, I recommend adding a little real maple syrup to the spice blend.
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Apparently I am now an adult enough for Grandmom to share with me her stories about her mother-in-law, whom she hated.  In Grandmom's defense, she loved her father-in-law, who was by all reports a lovely man.  However, Mrs. Chiarello was a whole other story.  One day over "The Bachelor", or some other equally awful tv show (what can I say, Grandmom loves reality tv) Grandmom unloaded to me about Assunta "Susan" Chiarello.  Crime the First: she couldn't cook.  According to Grandmom, this is what killed my Uncle Ron's namesake, her father-in-law Rafael Chiarello.  Grandmom also blames Grandpop's being such a picky eater, plague of her (Grandmom's) life (being just as adventurous in the kitchen as I am) on Assunta's lack of cooking ability.  Crime the Second: she did not have an appropriate respect for hygiene.  When Grandmom and Grandpop were first married, they lived with his parents until they could save up to buy a house, and you know this was in the fifties so that was only expected to be a couple of years.  Fast-forward to far longer than Grandmom wanted to live with her inlaws: the birth of the aforementioned Uncle Ron.  Grandmom comes into the living room one day and sees her mother-in-law laughing her head off.  She comes around the couch to see what it's all about, and it's my uncle, chewing on a house slipper.  The next day, Grandmom went out and bought a house.  Two doors down from her own mother.  And that is where she and Grandpop have lived ever since.  Crime the Third: she was a notorious liar.  After Grandmom and Grandpop moved out, word got back to her that her mother-in-law was passing it around that "she (Assunta) had kicked them out".  Later on, I guess Grandmom gained her approval, because when she went to nurse Assunta in the hospital at the end of her life, she discovered that Assunta had been telling all the nurses that she (Grandmom) was her (Assunta's) daughter.  Grandmom was incensed. How dare that awful woman be claiming her?  Have you ever seen an 80-year old woman say "ugh" out loud?  I have.

Tropical Boost Punch

By now you all (youse, ya'll) should know about my love for Boost! .  (And that I feel the need to say it with the exclamation point even if the sentence is not declarative.)  Oh, BTW, "youse" is not pronounced "yuice" like "juice", except by Hollywood, CA actors who are trying to pretend to be guidos.  It's pronounced "yews" like "Jews".  One: you.  Two: youse.  There you go.  Returning to the matter at hand, Boost! is high enough in calories and low enough (zero) in nutrition that I feel the need to mix it up in my Boost! consumption.  You would think that if I only drank it once a month I would want it to be the same time-honored Boost! plus water combo.  But remember, this is coming from the person who has to think hard to remember the last time she made the same thing twice.  It's a seriously bad week for me if I hit the kitchen and think "You know, what I really want is some high-carbohydrate comfort food."  Anyway, here is a Boost! mocktail that actually aids and abets the yummy Boost!ness while having an interesting combination of flavors.

Tropical Boost! Punch

1 12 oz. can coconut-flavored seltzer water (lemon-lime would probably be good, too)
2 oz. Boost! concentrate
2 oz. orange-mango juice blend

Mix all together.  Enjoy!  It's best if most of the ingredients are chilled (I don't keep my Boost! concentrate in the fridge), because, since Boost! is a concentrate, adding ice cubes kind of messes with the appropriate dilution.  (Ie, it's really easy to have watery Boost! if you're mixing it by the glass and using tap water.)

Stuffed Red Cabbage / Godzilla in the Kitchen

This is apparently the year I discover cabbage. It has also been the year I discovered eggplant. Two vegetables that I previously bore no ill will towards, but had no pressing need to eat. I had half a raw cabbage leftover from making the Blue Cabbage Pasta that I used instead of the green cabbage called for in one of the two seed recipes that inspired this, and I am so glad I did. (Incidentally, for those of us who do not have the free time to make homemade pasta, which is usually also me, Blue Cabbage Pasta would probably be pretty darn tasty with some high-quality dried egg noodles, or perhaps fresh asian egg noodles from the refrigerator case that some groceries stock).   I guess I should be more specific when I say that I am discovering cabbage.  I am discovering red cabbage. It holds its own in a pot of boiling water, makes everything it touches a beautiful, petroleum-dye-free blue that does not stain one's countertops, and has a mild spicy zip that mellows into buttery goodness when cooked. Yes, I have a crush on red cabbage. 

Stuffed Red Cabbage

1/2 head of red cabbage
3 medium-sized potatoes
1 parsnip
8 oz. ricotta cheese (I would make it fresh next time--store bought always seems so grainy to me)
1 red onion
2 eggs
oil for cooking
salt to taste
cayenne pepper to taste (a brief sprinkle was fine for me)
1/2 jar of good quality tomato sauce (yes I used sauce out of a jar, so sue me)
toothpicks (are nice, but you could get by without them)

This picture does not even do it justice.

Wash the half head of cabbage.  Put it in a pot, and fill the pot with water until the cabbage is covered.  (This, by the way, is also how you avoid setting your house on fire when you try to put the turkey in the turkey deep-fryer.  Planning ahead: a valuable skill.  Displacement: thank you, Science.)  Set the cabbage aside, add a little salt to the water, and bring the water to a boil on the stove.  Then put the cabbage in and cook it until it's tender, about 6-8 minutes.  Remove it from the water and put it in a bowl filled with cool water.  (Just tap water is fine, it doesn't have to have ice floating in it or anything.)  Anyway, while your cabbage is boiling, peel and coarsely chop your potatoes and parsnip.  Put them in some boiling water and let them cook until tender.  Drain and set aside.  Returning to the cabbage: gently peel off the cabbage's leaves one by one until you've either peeled them all off or discovered an uncooked inner core to your cabbage.  (This happened to me, but it works out in the end.)  Set the cooked and intact leaves aside (6-8ish of them).  Take the remaining cabbage and chop it finely.  Slice the red onion.  Heat some oil in a large skillet, and saute the onions for a minute or two, then add in the cabbage.  Let it cook until the chopped cabbage is soft.  While that's happening, mash your cooked potatoes and parsnips and add in a little cayenne pepper, salt to taste, and your ricotta cheese and eggs.  Preheat the oven to 425F.  When the cabbage and onions are cooked, fold them into the mixture of mashed potatoes and parsnips.  Get out a 9-inch x 13-inch glass baking dish.  One at a time, gently take a cabbage leaf and lay it on a flat surface.  (I just used the bottom of the casserole.)  Fill the middle with a heaping spoonful of mashed potato mixture.  (About the size of a stress ball.)  Fold the sides of the leaf over the top to make a packet, then either secure it with a toothpick or just lay it seam-side down in the dish.  Repeat until you've used up all your whole leaves.  If you have potato mixture left (I did), nestle the remaining amount in around the cabbage packets.  Pour the tomato sauce over the top of it all.  Cover the dish with foil and bake for about 30 minutes. 
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If it wouldn't give away too much secret information about my kitchen (like that it is small, and has appliances that are from the eighties) I would post a picture of it post-cooking all this business.  It looked like Godzilla invaded Tokyo ergo my kitchen with a willful need to leave vegetable peels all over the place, was surprised by a funny joke with a mouthful of cabbage juice, and also ate off every dish in my house.  Grandmom is way neater than that when she cooks.  Her kitchen looks like one of those photos from a ladies' magazine where they show the glossy-smiled famous person looking matronly as she pulls a perfectly-baked something out of the oven, with nary a sticky mixing bowl or bloody styrofoam meat package in the background.  I don't know how she does it, even after all these years of watching her cook.  I even have a dishwasher, and my kitchen is clean by the end of it all, but Grandmom, although she has one, does not actually use her dishwasher and her kitchen is still spotless even when she is frying those delicious porkchop cutlets.  I chalk it up to Grandmom being Martha Stewart's original inspiration.  It's true.  Grandmom may not handmake her own ricotta cheese, and has to be coaxed away from the can of cream-of soup, but she is the undisputed Queen of the Kitchen.  So much so that Great-grandmom even snookered her into "helping" her make homemade grape jelly one year.  Did I mention Grandmom has five siblings?  Who else helped?  Nobody.  Afterwards, Grandmom told Great-grandmom (who she lived two houses down from, by the way) to "find somebody else next year."  Great-grandmom said, "Who?"  Grandmom whipped back with "Julie!"  Great-grandmom protested that "she was the baby" (mind you, they were all married and had children of their own by this point), but in the end Grandmom never helped make grape jelly again!

Blackberry Ice Cream Cordial

Blackberry Ice Cream Cordial

1 pint good blackberry ice cream
blackberry jam
butter cookies

Soften the ice cream.  Spoon it into 4 teacups or, if you have them (I did) small dessert molds.    Smooth the top, then drop a heaping spoonful of blackberry jam down the middle.  Smooth the top again.  Freeze.  When you're ready to serve them, prepare a bowl of hot water.  Dip each mold or teacup into the hot water for just a few seconds, then turn it over a dessert plate to unmold the ice cream.  Stick 2-3 butter cookies at jaunty angles in the top.  Shazaam, fancy dessert!  Serves 4.
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In retrospect, it would have been pretty good, and also jammier, to fill half a mold up, spread a layer of jam, then top off the mold with more ice cream.  I guess it depends how much jam you feel like you need in your life.  I admit to eating spoonfuls of the leftover jam straight out of the fridge.  (It's really good jam!)
I called this "Cordial", not because it has any cordial (ergo, blackberry-flavored wine) in it, but because I made it for a small dinner party with some friends, and so it was a "cordial" dessert.  Ha ha ha.  C'mon, laugh with me.  Call it whatever you want, it's basically a fancy ice cream.  I created this dessert so that I could make it ahead of time AND so I would NOT be left with acres of cake or cookies after the fact.  That way I could dedicate my time on the day of the dinner party on the "real" (non-sugar-based) food.  The secret to it all is to use really good versions of each of the ingredients.  I followed both of these principles, and as a result the whole dessert cost me about $10 to buy the ingredients and tasted really good.

Getting Trashy and Playing Angry Birds

So, I try not to get preachy, and by "preachy" I mean "self-righteous".  Let me tell you, it is a struggle.   Self-righteousness is not a noble flaw (is there such a thing as a noble flaw?) and does not endear others to either yourself or your cause.  With that being said, I promise I'm not trying to be preachy right here.

You may remember the "worm bin experiment," which was a miserable failure.  All my worms died and I ended up with a compost bin, a smelly compost bin, on my patio.  When I finally conceded defeat and disposed of the erstwhile home of the worms yesterday, I even found the mumified remains of a worm who presumably died in the attempt to escape my awful worm bin.  (Note to potential worm husbanders: worms like surface area.  Do not put them in a well-aerated trashcan, no matter what any website said to you about it.  They need something flat.)  Admittedly, it's been a while since I suspected, and then confirmed that all my worms had died.  But I decided, for a short stinky while, to try and have just a compost bin on my patio.  Ugh.  Ugh, ugh, ugh.  Especially in an unusually warm spring.  However, it led me to a new appreciation for the "reduce" part of the "reduce/reuse/recycle" motto.  If I had to actually live with all the trash I produced, I would produce a whole lot less trash.  So, in fact, I'm going to try and do it anyway.  I already recycle, but after my sojourn with the failed worm bin, I'm actually motivated to take it one step further and bring reusable dinnerware to fast food restaurants, buy (or make) reusable grocery bags, and consider what product I'm buying based on the recyclability of its packaging.

On a related note, I'm now committed to purchasing fairly and humanely raised and slaughtered meat and animal products as much possible.  (I say "as much as possible" because it would probably be a full-time job to research the farming practices of every supplier of every restaurant I ever want to eat at now or may eat at in the future.  So I'll just try my best to make humane choices on that front.)  What brought about this, you ask?  Was it a well-placed factory farming documentary?  A highly judgemental conversation with the office vegan?  No, it was Angry Birds Rio and a very good lecture by Norman Wirzba.  The lecture was not very full of facts and figures.  In fact, I think it might have been completely devoid of facts and figures.  But it brought to the forefront the issue at hand: factory farmed animals aren't happy.  And shouldn't that be important to us?  Now, it might possibly be true that I play Angry Birds Rio every day.  For those that are unfamiliar with it, instread of "killing pigs" by breaking their houses, the goal of the Rio version is to free little cartoon birds from cages.  Now, I made it through about 16 levels before I noticed that all the little cartoon birds had sad faces while they were still in their cages.  And then suddenly, I got it.  Caged animals aren't happy.  Factory farmed animals aren't happy.  And shouldn't that be important to us?

Okra & Potatoes

Okra & Potatoes

1 large potato, cut into fairly small cubes*
1 lb of fresh okra, sliced fairly thinly into rounds
1/4 C.-ish of cornmeal (not cornmeal mix, just plain yellow, or, as my southern relatives would say "yella" cornmeal)
salt to taste
2-3 TB. oil for frying

Toss the sliced okra in the cornmeal, discarding any extra.  (Or just tossing exactly the right amount.  It's a knack that you acquire after you acquire the deep-seated loathing of throwing food away.  NO THROW AWAY!  MUST NOT WASTE!  Sorry, I'm turning into my Grandmom.)  Heat the oil in a large skillet or fry pan over medium-high heat.  Add in the potatoes and okra all together.  Cook longer than you think you ought to, until the potatoes are cooked through and browning. on the side nearest the pan.  (About 10 minutes.)  During this process, you can push the okra and potatoes around in the pan if you're afraid they'll burn.  It doesn't really do a whole lot, but it makes for peace of mind.  And cooking is supposed to be peaceful and relaxing, right?  When done, salt them in the pan and then remove them from the pan and drain them on paper towels or disposable napkins.

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Ever think, "Wow, I might love/like okra more/hate okra less if it weren't so slimy"?  Well, this recipe is the answer.  Somehow the combination of potatoes and cornmeal causes the okra to be crisp without being sunk into a Fry Daddy covered in fish fry breading.  It's nummy.  (Not that I'm biased or anything.)  Also, feel free to experiment with your okra : potato ratio.  My version is pretty heavy on the potatoes, being slightly more than half potatoes, because, you know, I love potatoes.  But I love okra too, and I've had this dish with way more okra and it was still good.

*How to Make Small Potato Cubes:
1)  Wash but do not peel the potato.  (It's not really necessary, as most of the potato cubes will be from the interior of the potato anyway and therefore naturally will be skin-free.  Plus the skin on the pieces that do have it will be relatively small and also make those pieces prone to extra-crispiness.) 

2)  Slice your potato longways into 4-5 slices.  How I do this is hold the potato awkward-side up.  That's the best way I can describe it.  The side that the potato wants to roll down onto to lay flat.  That's the side you want pointing up.  Now make slices that are about 1/2-inch (1 cm) thick.

3)  Cut each slice into strips about 1/2-inch thick. (Like thick-cut french fries.)

4)  Cut each strip into cubes 1/2-inch square.  The easy way to do this is to keep all the strips together after you slice each section from step 2, turn them as a unit like you would a deck of cards (aka still keeping the slippery little boogers all together) and then slice them into cubes end-on.  I'm obviously not a perfectionist.  Who cares if you have a few triangular pieces that are not exactly the same size or shape as the others?  They'll all fry up pretty much the same.

Thanks and Updates

It's time again for a thank-you.  I was writing a letter to Grandmom today, and thanks to you, I was able to tell her "people like your date-nut bread."  I'm sure that will make her day!

Also thank-you for liking my original recipes.  I am about to have another cooking extravaganza in the next few days, so I will keep you updated on any new creations that arise from that!

On a completely unrelated note, I am in the midst of another novel.  I know, the whole world is waiting with baited breath.  Anyway, in a few months (there I put it in writing, now I can't sit on it like an OCD chicken for the next two years) it will be up on the "Other Projects" page.

Beefy Pizza Gein

So I was so inspired by my Pascua Pizza Gein that I decided to experiment with making another version of it that followed the same general concept (slightly eggy meaty cheesy filling in a yummers crust) but yet that did not explicitly involve salami.  Although I do love the original Pizza Gein, salami, pepperoni, and all.  So here is the fruit of my effort and I think it is pretty delicious.  Also, I have discovered that it would be fairly easy to make any combination of ingredients Pizza Gein-style, so feel free to experiment.

Beefy Pizza Gein

Filling
8 oz. flank steak, cut into thin slices
12 oz. frozen peas, cooked in salted water
8 oz. white cheddar cheese, deli-sliced and then cut into squares
salt and pepper to taste
2 eggs

Crust
1-1/2 C. flour
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/2 tsp. pepper
1-2 TB.shortening
1/4 C. water

Mix the pepper and flour together.  Blend the shortening into the flour.  Add in the egg and then the water.  Turn out onto a work surface and knead 5-7 minutes or until smooth and elastic.  Let rest awhile.  In the meantime, preheat the oven to 400F.  Cook your meat in a little oil in the bottom of a deep pan until it is mostly done.  (Remember, it's going to spend time in the oven, too.)  Add in the peas and toss and let them rewarm if you cooked them previously.  Turn all into a bowl and blend in the cheese, then the eggs.  At this point divide your dough into two portions and roll out each portion so that it will fit into a 6-inch x 9-inch glass baking dish.  Lay the first portion of dough in the dish, then pour in the filling.  Top with the second half of the dough, sealing together the edges.  Put the whole shebang in the oven and bake for about 30 minutes, or until the Pizza Gein is set and the crust is lightly brown.  (By the way, I forgot to cut any vents in my crust and nothing bad happened.  I guess because the crust is so short it's not so prone to making large air pockets.  So feel free to also not cut vents into your own crusts.)  This makes 6-8 hearty portions.  Don't underestimate the meat pie; it's very filling, so a piece about the size of a generous slice of cornbread (ie 3 inches square or so) will be plenty as your main dish. 

Blue Cabbage Pasta / The Temptations of Cheese Powder

half a medium-sized head of red cabbage, washed and cut into thin strips
half an onion, cut into rounds
oil for cooking
salt to taste
1-1/2 C. flour
2 eggs
a rolling pin (seriously, you need one to make this)
1/2 C. fresh grated parmesan cheese

Ahead of time, combine the flour with a little salt, if you like (I used about 1/2 tsp).  Lightly beat the eggs in a separate bowl, then combine them with the flour.  Add in a little water for consistency-- around 1/4 C.  The dough will look pretty loose.  Wash your hands (do I need to say this?) and then stick them down in the bowl and squirsh the dough until it starts to come together, about three-four squirshes.  Yes, that's a word.  It's onomonopoeic, and it means what you think it means: "squishing with extra squish."  Once the dough is a single lump, turn it out onto a (clean) counter and knead it until it's smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes.  Set it aside to let it rest while you do other things.  (Your dough should be able to rest about 30 minutes.)  Get your pasta pot ready but don't turn the heat on: add in about 4 cups of water, 1/2 tsp. salt, and a splash of oil.  Heat some more oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat.  When it's hot enough, add in the onions and cook them until they're soft.  Then add in the cabbage and cook it until it's soft, stirring it as necessary.  (This takes a bit longer-- about 15 minutes.)  Salt to taste.  When it's ready, roll out your dough into 1/8th inch (3 mm) thickness.  Cut it into strips about 1/2 inch (1 cm) wide , then cut the strips about 3 inches (7 cm) long.  Set them aside on a plate.  For style points, twist each strip into a tight spiral.  Bring the cooking water to a boil.  Dump the fresh pasta into the water.  Remove it when it floats to the top.  Put the cooked cabbage into a large serving bowl.  Pour about 1/2 C. of the pasta water over top.  Put your hot pasta into the bowl.  Toss everything together to coat, including your parmesan cheese. 

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This is a labor-intensive but delectable dish that combines a healthy vegetable with the indulgence of homemade pasta.  I called it "Blue Cabbage Pasta" because red cabbage, when you cook it, ends up looking a beautiful purple-blue.  It makes a large serving bowlful (about 8-10 servings as a main dish), so cut the recipe in half if you're not so into leftovers.  By the way, I'm writing this while eating caramel and artificial cheese-flavored popcorn, and I just had to stop myself from wiping my hands on the carpet.  So please do not ever think I'm Martha Stewart.  I'm pretty sure Martha Stewart is never even tempted to wipe her hands on the carpet.  In my defense, that cheese powder is so sticky that you almost instictively want to get it off your hands, and no, I didn't actually wipe my hands on the carpet.  I just almost did.