Earlier this month I posted a recipe for Creole Jambalaya with this introduction to the subject:
Classic Louisiana jambalaya comes in two basic varieties, Creole and Cajun, the former being the original dish adapted from the paella of their native land by Spanish Creoles; the latter is probably a rustic variation on the more urban Creole jambalaya. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word jambalaya comes from a Provençal French word, jambalaia, meaning a mish-mash. Traditionally the Creole version contains tomatoes while the Cajun does not. And while Cajun jambalaya usually includes Andouille sausage, the Creole jambalaya recipe in The Picayune’s Creole Cook Book (New York: Random House, 1989) calls for chaurice which is similar to fresh chorizo or Portuguese chourico.
This recipe is an adaptation of a brown Cajun jambalaya with a few twists. First, when I started prepping the ingredients I discovered that I had absentmindedly made mire poix instead of the Cajun trinity; that is, I had used carrots instead of bell pepper. Well, there is no way to unchop a carrot so I left it in and added the pepper. Second, I decided to make it with brown rice instead of white. (I used medium grain because that is what I had on hand but I recommend long grain.) Ideally one would use Andouille sausage in this dish but it is very difficult to find in most places (but it is easy to make) so I used chourico instead. Any smoked sausage would work but I avoid commercial kielbasa because it is so fatty. The real secret to Cajun jambalaya is to brown the meats and vegetables thoroughly because that is what gives it its rich dark color. Allow about 45 minutes to get everything ready for the stock. Finally, the best implement by far for cooking this jambalaya is a cast iron Dutch oven. If you do not have one, you can use any heavy pot but be careful that you do not scorch it.
Rinse the rice and leave to soak in cold water.
Melt the fat in a cast iron Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Brown the sausage slices thoroughly on each side without burning. Remove to a bowl.
Put the chicken cubes into the pot allowing them to stick to the bottom before turning. Brown them well on all sides. Remove to the bowl with the sausage.
Add the carrot, celery, bell pepper, and onion to the Dutch oven. Sauté, stirring often, until the onions are begin to brown. Add the garlic and hot pepper. Continue to cook; now stirring almost constantly, until the vegetables are caramelized but not burned, about 20 to 30 minutes all told. Pour in the chicken stock and, with a wooden spoon, scrape all the burned bits from the bottom fo the pot. The stock should turn a rich dark brown.
Return chicken and sausage to the pot. Stir to combine and bring to a boil. Drain the rice and add to the pot along with salt and pepper to taste. Reduce heat to low and simmer until the rice is done, 30 to 40 minutes. If jambalaya is a little soupy, let it stand uncovered for a few minutes to thicken. Stir to fluff up before serving with a bottle of Lousiana hot sauce on the side.
Sometimes called peameal bacon after the traditional practice of rolling it in ground yellow split peas, Canadian bacon is made from lean center-cut pork loin rather than the fattier belly meat used for American bacon. Unfortunately, real Canadian bacon is not commonly available in the United States: much of what passes for Canadian, or Canadian-style, bacon here is actually a formed product made from chunks of ham with corn syrup solids and other additives. (If that were not enough reason to make your own, consider the cost—real imported Canadian peameal bacon cost about $25 a pound online; the domestic formed product is around $10 a pound at my local supermarket. I can make it at home for around $2 a pound.) This recipe is not entirely authentic because I left some fat on loin rather like Irish bacon and I used a savory curing rub a bit like pancetta. Although Canadian bacon is not usually smoked I added a bit of smoked salt to the rub to give the finished product a hint of smokiness that I prefer. One more difference between American and Canadian bacon is that while the former is almost exclusively a breakfast meat, the latter is often served for dinner or in sandwiches. (And it also is an essential part of a “full Scottish breakfast” along with eggs, potatoes, baked beans, toast, and perhaps kippers.)
Rinse the meat and dry well. Optionally cut it in half crosswise. Weigh out the salt and brown sugar into a small bowl. Combine with the curing salt, smoked salt if using, pepper, nutmeg and cloves. Add the bay leaves and juniper berries—I grind them in a spice grinder first. Mix the rub thoroughly.
Coat the pork generously with the rub then wrap tightly in two layers of plastic wrap. Place in a container suitable to catch any liquid that leaks from the package and place in the refrigerator. Turn daily for five to seven days.
When the cure is complete, remove the plastic and rinse the meat under cold water. Pat dry and return to the refrigerator, uncovered, for a day or so to dry somewhat. To make it into peameal bacon, rub the meat liberally with the yellow corn meal. Store, tightly wrapped, in the refrigerator for up to a couple of weeks or freeze for later use.
The traditional way to prepare Canadian bacon is to slice it ⅛-inch thick and fry it at low temperature for 8 to 10 minutes. Canadians sometimes coat the sides with cornmeal after slicing.
A couple of weeks ago, on September 5, I published blog post on the benefits of cooking by weight rather than by volume. By coincidence, the New York Times published a similar article just over a week later that included recommendations of inexpensive digital kitchen scales. I assume that by now you, my loyal readers, have seen the light and rushed out to procure such a scale. (Mine is a Slater that I bought for under $30 several years ago. I have seen it online for as little as $16.) Now I would like to demonstrate the further benefit of adopting the metric system in your cooking. (You will not be alone if you make the switch, every country except the US, Liberia, and Myanmar uses the metric system. Ironically, the metric system has been legal for trade in the US since 1866.) Many cookbooks today list both English and metric units. The digital scale you bought can be converted by the press of a button and nearly all measuring cups sold in the US are calibrated in both systems. To convert this recipe from the traditional one in the cookbook that came with my KitchenAid® mixer I simply measured ingredients out the usual way but weighed them before addition. You can also find a useful tool for converting units online at traditionaloven.com.
Yield: one 14-inch pizza crust, enough to serve four
Dissolve the yeast in the warm water in the mixer bowl, if using the mixer, or in a large bowl otherwise. Measure out 350 grams of the flour. Add about ¼ of it to the bowl along with the olive oil and salt. Stir with a large spoon to combine.
If using the mixer fit the dough hook and start to knead on the recommended speed setting (2 on a KitchenAid®). Add the flour a bit at a time until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl. If making by hand, stir the flour in a bit at a time until you can no longer stir the dough, then turn it out onto a floured counter and knead well between additions of flour. Continue until most of the flour is incorporated and the dough is smooth and elastic, about 5 to 10 minutes. Form into to a ball.
Warm a large glass or ceramic bowl with hot water and dry thoroughly. Pour a bit of olive oil into in it and add the dough, turning to coat it evenly with oil. Cover the bowl with a clean kitchen towel and set aside in a warm, draft-free place to proof until doubled in bulk, about one hour.
If using a peel, place your pizza stone in the oven. Preheat to 450°F (230°C). Lightly coat a pizza pan or a peel with cornmeal. On a floured counter, stretch or roll (or toss if you are brave) the dough into the desired size pizza crust. Place in the pan or on the peel. Top with your favorite sauce and toppings. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes or until brown and crispy.
Although goulash is considered the Hungarian national dish, versions of it are common throughout the Carpathian Mountains. In Hungary it is almost always made with beef and served with small egg noodles while in Poland pork is the meat of choice and the stew is served with buckwheat kasha. In fact, the Polish name of this dish, Gulasz Wieprzowy, literally means pork goulash. I especially like the flavor of the sauerkraut and the smoothness of the sour cream. The nutty flavor of the kasha rounds out a splendid meal.
Note: I use hot Hungarian paprika whereas in Poland a milder version would likely be used.
Season the flour with black pepper and dredge the pork cubes shaking off any excess. Set aside.
Melt about a tablespoon of the lard in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat and render the bacon until crispy. Remove from the pot, leaving as much fat behind as possible, and set aside.
Reduce the heat to medium and adjust the fat in the pan with lard or oil to a depth of about ⅛ inch, about 3 tablespoons. Sauté the onion in the hot fat until soft and translucent but not browned, 5 or 6 minutes. Add the garlic and continue sautéing for a minute or two. Stir in the paprika and cook for yet another minute.
Off heat, add the pork cubes to the pot and stir to coat evenly with the onions and paprika. Pour in the beer and enough stock to cover the meat by about ½ inch. Bring to a boil, cover, and simmer over low heat about an hour, less if you are using loin.
Drain and rinse the sauerkraut. Add it and the caraway seeds to the stew. Adjust the liquid with stock or water if needed and simmer over medium-low heat for another 15 to 20 minutes.
Just before serving, stir in the sour cream and adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper. Serve over prepared buckwheat kasha garnished with the reserved bacon.
Kasha
Most often in the United States kasha is most often synonymous with buckwheat kasha, but that is not the case in Eastern Europe where the word means simply porridge. Nonetheless here is a simple recipe for buckwheat kasha that makes a tasty alternative to rice or other grains. Called kasha gryczana in Polish, it is the authentic accompaniment for pork goulash, gulasz weiprzowy.
Note: you can usually find buckwheat kasha in the bulk foods section of any health food store or in your supermarket’s kosher foods section (although the latter is likely to be much more expensive). Be sure to buy the whole grain version; others will give you a mushy dish. Oh, and do not confuse kasha with the brand name Kashi, which is the plural.
Rinse the kasha and let it drain. Melt the butter in a saucepan with a tightly-fitting lid. Fry the kasha in the butter over medium heat until you can just start to smell its aroma, perhaps 2 minutes. Pour in the water, bring to a boil, cover, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 20 to 30 minutes. Fluff with a fork and season to taste before serving.
Since I began this blog more than a year ago I have written 250 posts, most of them recipes. In that time I have learned a great deal about writing recipes. As I look back at the earliest ones—and some more recent ones as well—the deficiencies are glaring. So, I plan to take a while and update them, in no particular order. As always I welcome feedback and suggestions for improvement. If there is a particular recipe you would like me to revisit, please let me know. And because I intend to delete the original as I post the update, please let me know if there are any that I should leave intact.
Not only is this classic French braise a wonderful way to make a tough old chicken tender but it is best made with a tough old bird full of flavor. (I used a retired laying hen from Sunny Hill Farm that had been languishing at the bottom of my freezer longer than I care to admit.) Use a full bodied dry red wine like a cabernet sauvignon or a merlot. Although some insist that one must use a good wine for cooking, I find that a reasonable box or jug wine is just fine. (I use Corbett Canyon cabernet sauvignon.) Pearl onions are best in this recipe. If you don’t feel like peeling dozens of tiny onions just use frozen ones. But don’t be tempted to use anything but fresh mushrooms. Traditionally the sauce was thickened with chicken blood mixed with pounded liver and brandy; modern recipes use beurre manie. Rice flour works well if you can to make the dish gluten-free. Be sure to allow plenty of time for the chicken to cook, especially if you are using an old layer otherwise it will be tough.
Note: coq au vin is almost certainly a peasant dish made from a young rooster (coq) or an old laying hen. It would have been made in a large cauldron over an open hearth and once an ingredient went in it did not come back out until the dish was done. Similarly the wine would probably have been rather rough and a few days past drinkability. I have tried to find a middle ground between the farm and the haute cuisine restaurant.
Preheat oven to 325°F.
Cut the bacon into lardons, i.e. pieces ¼-inch on a side and 1 inch long. If you have sliced bacon cut the slices in half lengthwise and into 1-inch long pieces crosswise. Heat the fat in a Dutch oven over medium-high heat and render the bacon until crispy. Remove to a bowl leaving as much fat behind as possible.
Turn the heat up a bit and, working in batches, brown the chicken pieces well on all sides. Remove to a plate and set aside.
Reduce the heat to medium. Sauté the onions, carrots, and celery until they begin to soften. Add the garlic and mushrooms. Continue to cook until the onions begin to brown and the mushrooms give off their liquid.
Return the chicken pieces to the pot and pour in the brandy. Turn off the vent hood if it is on and light the vapors with a long match. When the flames die down, add the wine and enough stock to just cover the chicken. Return the lardons to the pot and season everything with thyme, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil, cover, and place in the hot oven. Bake for about 45 minutes for a young bird or at least 1½ hours for an old one.
At the end of the baking time return the pot to the stove top. Combine the butter and flour into a smooth paste, beurre manie. Stir into the broth and bring to a boil to thicken.
Serve hot over noodles or potatoes. Or, best of all, by itself with some crusty French bread.
A while ago I bought a retired laying hen from my friends at Sunny Hill Farm. It languished at the bottom of my freezer for longer than I care to admit until I decided the other day that it would be great for coq au vin and removed it to the refrigerator to thaw. I confess that I had never had a free range laying chicken before and it was quite a revelation. To start with, like most of us who have reached a certain level of maturity, its skin had a few brown spots—beauty marks I like to think. And like our cohort it had quite a bit of fat; beautiful golden yellow fat. The white meat was deep pink and the dark meat almost mahogany like duck meat. This, I thought, is what chicken is supposed to look like as I set about breaking it down.
The first thing one does with a chicken after rinsing and drying it is to remove as much fat as possible from the inside and around the rear opening. Do not throw it away! Set it aside to make schmaltz: more about that later. With a sharp knife cut away the skin between the thigh and side of the chicken then pop the hip joint. Use the knife to cut away the entire leg. Repeat on the other side. Next remove the wings using the same technique. The hardest part is removing the back. Slit the skin on either side of the backbone and, using chicken shears or large kitchen shears, cut out the spine. The next step is a bit trickier with an old layer than with a young supermarket chicken because the rib cage of the former is somewhat narrower, supermarket chickens having been breed like Hollywood starlets, if you know what I mean. Put the breasts ribs down on a cutting board and, using the back of your hand, press down until the sternum cracks. Turn them over and split with a large knife. Or, you can do as I sometimes do and just cut the breast meat from the bones without separating the two. Now cut the drumsticks from the thighs—I like to skin them first—and cut off the wing tips. You should have eleven pieces: two thighs, two drumsticks, two breasts, two wings, two wingtips, and one back. The first eight will go into the coq au vin while the last three will make the stock.
About the fat that we saved: you may think that schmaltz is overly sentimental music but if you are an Ashkenazi Jew or a native German you will recognize it as rendered chicken fat. Sometimes flavored with onion, sometimes not, schmaltz is an essential ingredient chopped chicken livers and in many kosher meat dishes where butter is forbidden. Now I know that many of you are thinking, “but isn’t chicken fat bad for you?” No, not really. In fact chicken fat contains 30% saturated fat, 45% monounsaturated fat, and 21% polyunsaturated fat (I suspect that free range chickens have even less saturated fat but can’t prove it). Compare that with butter which is 63% saturated, 29% monounsaturated, and 3% polyunsaturated.
To make schmaltz, cut the fat and the skin with a lot of subcutaneous fat into one-inch pieces. Put into a small sauce pan and just cover with water. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat and cook slowly until the water has evaporated. Strain into a jar and store in the refrigerator for up to a month or freezer for later use.
So there you have it. All goodness of a veteran chicken. Sometimes age has its beauty.
When I was an Air Force Russian language student at Indiana University some 45 years ago, I enjoyed visiting a restaurant called The Gables that, besides being on the site of the former Book Nook where Hoagy Carmichael claimed to have written “Stardust,” served a delicious Salisbury steak at a price consistent with my $100 a month airman’s pay. At this remove I can honestly say that I do not remember what it tasted like but I have had a soft spot for Salisbury steak ever since. The dish itself was invented in 1888 by Dr. J. H. Salisbury, a physician from Cortland County NY, just south of Syracuse, who was an early promoter of a low carbohydrate diet—in fact he recommended eating his steak three times a day. During the World War I mania to remove German names from common items, Salisbury steak became nearly synonymous with hamburger steak. Today while the US Department of Agriculture mandates that hamburger steak be made of 100% skeletal beef, i.e. no organ meat, commercially prepared Salisbury steak may by law contain up to 25% pork, beef heart meat, and up to 30% fat. This, if nothing else, should convince you of the wisdom of making it from scratch.
Note: I make this recipe gluten-free by using corn flakes chopped in the food processor in place of bread crumbs and rice flour instead of wheat flour.
Preheat oven to 375° (350° for convection).
Sauté minced onion and garlic in 1 tablespoon oil in a 10-inch non-stick frying pan over medium heat until translucent. Set aside in a bowl to cool. In the same pan melt the 1 tablespoon of butter and sauté the minced mushrooms until softened and slightly browned. Remove to the bowl with the onions and garlic. Set the pan aside but do not wash it out.
In a large bowl combine beef with cooled onion mixture, the egg, bread crumbs, parsley flakes, and salt and pepper to taste, about ½ teaspoon of each. Form into two equal oblong patties about ½‑inch thick. Heat a grill pan or heavy cast iron skillet over high heat and brown the meat for about 2 minutes on each side. Place in the hot oven to cook to an internal temperature of 160°, about 15 minutes. (If you used a cast iron skillet to brown the meat, remove it to a rack over a baking sheet to allow the fat to drain.)
Return the frying pan in which you sautéed the onion and mushroom to medium heat, add 1 tablespoon of oil, and cook the sliced onion until soft but not browned. Add the tablespoon of butter and sauté sliced mushrooms with onions until they are nearly browned. Sprinkle on the flour and cook for about minute, stirring constantly. Slowly add the stock a bit at a time stirring constantly. Be sure to let each addition come to a boil before adding the next otherwise you will not know just how think the gravy is becoming. Keep adding stock until the gravy is the consistency you like. Stir in the dried thyme and season with salt and pepper to taste.
Serve the steaks with mashed potatoes and the gravy accompanied by green peas.
Ever since I was a boy and my mother put it into her pea soup I have loved hominy. It has been a Mesoamerican staple for more than 3,000 years. Pozole, a stew built around hominy, is probably nearly as old. You can use canned hominy for this dish but I like the firmer texture that comes from cooking the dried product. The latter is also much less expensive. I use a pressure cooker to reduce the cooking time for a couple hours to less than 30 minutes. And I do not bother soaking it. However, it you do not use a pressure cooker soak it overnight. I serve this as meal all by itself but you could ladle it over Mexican-style rice if you wished.
Rinse the hominy well and put it in the pressure cooker with the water and a bit of salt if you wish. Cook at high pressure (15 psi) for 25 minutes. Let cool for 5 minutes then release the pressure. Drain the hominy, reserving the cooking liquid.
Arrange the pepper, jalapeño, and tomatoes on a baking sheet and put under a preheated broiler. (Omit the tomatoes if using canned.) When their skins have charred, remove the tomatoes, peel, and coarsely chop them. When the peppers are charred wrap them in a kitchen towel for about 15 minutes then peel and dice them.
Melt the lard in a heavy Dutch oven or similar pot over medium-high heat. Render the bacon until it turns crispy. Remove to a bowl leaving as much fat behind as possible. Brown the chicken pieces in the lard and bacon fat then remove to the bowl with the bacon.
Turn the heat under the pot down to medium and give it a couple minutes to cool a bit then sauté the onion, pepper, and jalapeño until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for a minute or two then stir in the tomatoes, oregano, and cumin. Return the meats to the pot along with the hominy. Add enough of the hominy cooking liquid to just cover everything. Season to taste with salt, stir, bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 30 minutes. Check the seasoning once more before serving hot.
This recipe is an elaboration on Eggplant and Shrimp Bake from Emeril Lagasse’s Louisiana Real & Rustic (New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1996) 90. While the original is a side dish my version is a meal in itself. It is intentionally lacking in starch so as to be low in carbohydrates. If you wish you could add rice and more stock but then you would have something more like jambalaya.
Serves 2 generously
Preheat oven to 375° (350° for convection).
Pour ⅛ inch of oil into a 12-inch frying pan over medium-high heat. Add the sausage and brown well. Remove to a bowl leaving as much oil behind as possible. Put the shrimp into the pan and cook quickly until pink. Remove and set aside.
If needed, add a bit of oil to the pan then sauté the eggplant for about 3 minutes or until just beginning to soften. Season with a good grind of black pepper then add the onions, celery, bell pepper, and chili. Cook, stirring often, for another 3 minutes. Add the tomatoes, garlic, and dried herbs to the pan. Toss to combine and sauté until the tomatoes are just soft, about 2 minutes. Pour over the stock and bring to a boil. Remove from the heat and stir in the bread crumbs and parmesan. Turn into a suitable casserole dish and bake for 30 to 45 minutes or until bubbly and golden brown.
