Baked-Minestrone-Soup

Can we talk about soup? Old man winter has overstayed his welcome; the only benefit being that we have carte blanche to continue those stewing, braising and baking activities that have kept us busy all winter.

I’ve seen the restaurants waving their bundles spring vegetables in the air chanting “we have ramps!” My answer: too soon! I’m not ready for ramps, or fiddleheads, or even asparagus. If it’s below freezing, I don’t want to see any of those tender shoots. What good does it do me to devour a lightly dressed spring salad when I’m wearing two sweaters and a pair of mocs?

Back to that soup.  I’ve waxed poetic on this blog about my days as a ski racer, growing up on Canadian slopes from the mountains of BC, to the Laurentians of Quebec. Our home base was Ontario, so we spent the bulk of our time racing in Quebec.

Our trips happened frequently throughout the winter months. In the hours before dawn, we’d load our skis and poles into storage boxes built on top of our vans and start our slow trek East. My preference was to ride in the red van that we fondly referred to as The Big Cheese. It had modern day conveniences, notably a reliable radio station and a functioning heater.

The Big Cheese was named after our head ski coach, a man by the name of Jurg Gfeller, a former skier on the National Swiss Team who’d started our school in tiny Collingwood, Ontario.

Rodney had the chance to meet Jurg last year when for the first time in 20 years, I returned to Collingwood for a friend’s wedding. We stopped by the Ski Academy so that I could show Rodney a little of my roots including the dorm room where I’d ingest late night brownies and the words to every Indigo Girls song.

As luck would have it, Jurg was at the house that day, just as I’d left him 20 years before. Despite a lack of ski conditions (this was October), he was dressed for the season in a snug Descente vest.

He gave me a teasing but hard punch on the shoulder: “Vee gonna get you out on da slopes dis year Jesseeca?”

I was too ashamed to admit that I’d only been on skis a handful of times since I’d quit the sport in 2000.

“That’s the plan” I responded. I then launched into a lengthy description of my present-day nightmares, which are entirely skiing-related. Skis that won’t carve a turn; a pole dropped from the chairlift right before my start, and the most frightening of all: slipping off the chairlift and spending the remainder of the ride clutching the base for dear life.

Rodney shot me a look that suggested that I was barreling out of control into my gray zone of unproductive tangents. I’m working on it. No stranger needs to learn about my insomnia, and Jurg certainly didn’t need to know that my days as a skier under his tutelage contributed to some sort of athletics-related PTSD.

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There were fond memories too. Yes, the trips were long; 8 hours in a crowded van to get us to Mont Tremblant or Mont Sainte-Anne – with limited stops for food. But when we did stop, if it wasn’t a hit & run at a roadside McDonald’s, it was real food. French food.

Anticipation would build as we neared Montreal. The Pirelli Pneus billboard was my signal, answering that crucial “are we there yet?” question. Finally, I could visualize stretching cramped legs and indulging in some stick-to-your ribs Quebecois cooking.

One of my favorite dishes was, soupe a l’oignon au fromage, French onion soup. Onions slowly-cooked in a hearty beef stock, served in a crock with a thick layer of melted Gruyere cheese. Not to be confused with the gimmicky versions you’ll find in nondescript cafeterias, delis and dives. This stuff was the real deal – real beef bones, authentic French cheese.

I don’t think I’ve had soup that good since.

We were experiencing another cold snap last week, and I was digging around my fridge for inspiration. It was Saturday, and I was on a comfort food mission, but lacking a solid plan.

In one of those scenarios presented on cooking competitions, I faced an odd yet promising bag of mystery ingredients: a package of Sunday bacon, some collard greens, an onion, canned tomatoes, a sack of dried chickpeas. Minestrone? The wheels were turning.

As it was early in the day, I figured I’d put my slow cooker to work so that I could lazily attend to other things, namely lying flat on the couch, coffee in hand, dog curled and wedged into my crotch.

Jack

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broccolini

Before we start, let’s not get into any arguments about whether I’ve already covered this vegetable. That was broccoli rabe, which for the record, is not the same thing as broccolini.

I actually had to check myself because although the flavor profile is different, they have a similar appearance.  Incidentally, I learned that broccoli rabe is not the same thing as rapini, who knew! They’re almost identical, so the rapini police don’t trouble themselves with corrections. Now you can bring up your newfound knowledge at your next cocktail party. Cross your fingers that you’ll be talking to the only person in the room who’ll appreciate your wisdom.

If you’re looking to branch out from broccoli (excuse the horrible pun) I recommend getting your kids to try broccolini. They might even like it better than broccoli. The color stays more vibrant green when you cook it, and it has a sweeter, milder taste.

ME: The mystery food that I have for you this week is…..

SAM: Bread.

ME: Is…

SAM: Yeast.

ME: Broccolini.

SAM: I said yeast.

ME: Yeast?  It’s not yeast.  Broccolini.  Do you remember when we tried broccoli rabe?

LAUREN: No.

ME: It kind of… Well, I’m not going to tell you.  Here you go.

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It began with a series of emails:

Rihanna > Me, Jan 27, 1:38PM: It’s totally last minute and I didn’t ask before because you’re still a vegan, but Roby and I are taking a home brewing class on Thursday night in Brooklyn at Bitter and Esters. Having dinner at Marco’s after at 9. Interested in one or both?

Rihanna > Me, Jan 27, 2:03PM: Oh crap. It’s sold out now. I swear it was open this morning.

Rihanna > Me, Jan 27, 2:36PM: So I was like “Hey I’m throwing a great party, you should come!”
And you’re like “Awesome!”
And then I’m all “Oh never mind you’re not invited anymore.”

Me > Rihanna, Jan 2:37PM: And I’d already called two babysitters, canceled plans with a secondary friend, and started searching on Piperlime for an appropriate “brewing dinner” outfit.

A few lucky cancelations later, Rodney, Roby, Rihanna and I found ourselves speeding towards Brooklyn’s Bitter & Esters to take our highly-anticipated brewing class. As one might expect, it involved learning a foreign language and guzzling beer, two activities that shouldn’t co-exist.

After our class, the Bitter & Esters team offered a discount on supplies, which we readily accepted. Masquerading as a professional brewer in his plaid shirt and trucker cap, Roby investigated our hops options, while I took some tipsy pictures of the frightening display of powders, tools and tubing that we’d need to bring our beer to life.

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Beer-tools

We set a date for a few weeks out, and so began the process: a boiling vat of water for the adults…. And a decoy cookie platter for the kids…

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cookies

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Pomegranate molasses
Not long ago I was scared of pomegranate molasses.

It’s not a common ingredient, and to be perfectly honest, anything with the word molasses makes me just a little bit hesitant. My mind jumps to baking and Southern cooking, neither of which are strengths.

Combine my aversion to molasses with pomegranate molasses packaging, which is often entirely in Arabic, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

I’d bought a jar years ago when I’d seen it used in recipes from my Middle Eastern and Mediterranean cookbooks. Paul Wolfert, Yotam Ottolenghi, Claudia Roden, all repeat offenders.

But I’d hidden it in the back of my cupboard, along with the Vietnamese rice papers, and there it remained until last year. When for obvious reasons, I pitched the dust-covered bottle into the trash, horrified by its 2010 expiration date.

But I do love sweet & sour flavors. It’s a perfect marriage; Chinese restaurants have made a fortune singing its praises.

A few weeks ago I came across a recipe for sticky Moroccan chicken, and there it was – pomegranate molasses – in all of its glory, with the promise of a gooey, slick, finger-licking sauce.

Seeing that I’d already pitched the bottle of pomegranate molasses, I figured I’d pass on the recipe. But when I peeked into the fridge that morning, I was happy to see a full, unopened container of pomegranate juice. Hmmm…perhaps all was not lost. The wheels began to turn.

One thing I’ve learned in the kitchen is that when you don’t have the right ingredient, improvise. Lime instead of lemon, brown sugar instead of white, and most important, homemade when you don’t have a packaged version. You won’t get the exact same result, but you’ll get something similar. Which unless you’re trading baking powder for baking soda, will still be pretty delicious. Sometimes even more so.

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Before long, I was nose deep on a pomegranate DIY mission, surfing through online recipes and getting excited about the prospect of making some at home.

I found what I needed, cracked open the pomegranate juice, added some lemon juice and a hint of sugar, and I was off to the races.

I don’t know why I was so nervous about pomegranate molasses. It’s one of those simple, flavorful ingredients that every cook should have in his or her arsenal.

Bobby Flay will flay you for not keeping it on hand. (Cue the laugh track, I needed it there). But seriously, he’s crazy about this stuff. Here’s proof. It tastes good on everything. Including straight off the spoon.

Check out some of my favorite ways to eat it, starting with the chicken of course…

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And if you read this postabout my love for kitchen alchemy, you’ll know that the pomegranate molasses has made its way into quite a few cocktails…

Here it is paired with Chambord, key lime and blood orange juice with a hint of soda…

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Endive

Endive lettuce had one taker this week. Lauren’s our resident salad eater, so it came as no surprise that she loved it. Sam wanted nothing to do with it and Emma was fixated on our Pandora reggae station, likely because of all of our recent rum talk.

Would we get it again? Uh, that would be a yes, because it has a built in scoop. Pretty much the coolest vegetable ever.

ME: What is this?

LAUREN: Salad greens!

ME: Weeeelll, these are actually not salad greens. Salad greens are not a vegetable. There are many different vegetables that fall within the salad greens category. Do you guys know what they’re called?
(Sam and Emma run for the hills)

ME: Sam and Emma, come here! Look, you can break them in half!

EMMA: This is reggae.

ME: This is endive.

EMMA: This is reggae.

ME: It falls into the bitter category of greens because they’re a little bitter. Sometimes people like to pair bitter and sweet. It’s pretty bitter right?

LAUREN: Whoa, can I have one more? I like it, I like it. Even though it’s bitter.

ME: Do you remember what it’s called?

LAUREN: Gerdive?

ME: No.

LAUREN: Perdive?

ME: No. Endive.

ME: What do you think guys, should we get it again? You know the cool thing about these is that because they’re scoops you can scoop dips with it. You could do guacamole or tuna salad or chickpeas with this. Different kinds of things. Sam can you not tie a rope over the stool please? Emma can you not jump off the couch? So what do you guys think, should we do endive again?

LAUREN: Can I have one more scoop to scoop something?

ME: Sure, what do you want to scoop.

LAUREN: Lemonade.

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