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Pasta with Sicilian Cauliflower

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On Mother’s Day, The Child and I brunched at a waterfront cafe; we sat outdoors and enjoyed the sunshine and the view, if not the speedy service. We were in no hurry, and slow service has benefits for conversation, leaving you with more space to fill, bringing up topics that might not have occurred to you if the waiter had remembered to bring milk and sugar for your coffee the second time you asked for it, rather than the third.

It was around the time we had to ask for salt – isn’t that standard on restaurant tables anymore? – that the conversation turned to The Departed, and how unpleasant a dinner table could be with him at it, no matter how good the food. The Child and I don’t eat at the table anymore; even though we’ve replaced the table and the paint and the wall decorations we still cannot seem to relax and converse over dinner in our home, although it never seems to be a problem when we go out to a restaurant. We discuss that fact, and then talk about The Departed’s children, and their table manners, and his eating habits, and then we are back to admiring the beautiful weather and joking that he can now enjoy it more, since he doesn’t have to spend his days in a cubicle anymore.

The Child mentions his girlfriend, the one she had contacted on Facebook, the one she tried to warn. After that incident, I visited his Facebook page a few times, and noticed the girlfriend was still liking and commenting on all his posts, although she had indicated to The Child that she had doubts about him, planned to break up with him.

She’d had a change of heart, apparently, and messaged The Child to let her know: She ended things with The Departed. As it happens, she ended them right around the time he lost his job.

We both smirk a bit, and the fact that the coffee I am sipping is now cold from its long wait for cream and sugar suddenly doesn’t bother me at all.

What things appear to be versus what they are: It isn’t always easy to sort out, but a little patience and being open to all the possibilities seems to go quite a long way.

A few months ago, I ran across a recipe in the New York Times for Braised Chicken Legs, from a new cookbook by Cal Peternell called Twelve Recipes. I made the chicken that night, because it had the one key ingredient I required at that moment: everything I needed to make it was somewhere in my house. The Child devoured the chicken, then a second helping, and then complained bitterly that I’d made something so delicious in such a small quantity. I made the chicken again a few days later, and again a week later, and for a while, once a week until I’d exhausted the supply of frozen chicken thighs in my freezer.

Then I thought, if this Peternell guy’s chicken is that good, I wonder what the other eleven recipes in that book are like? So I actually ordered a copy of the cookbook, something I usually avoid doing, since if I bought every cookbook that piques my interest I’d be featured on a special episode of Hoarders. The book arrived, and I loved it, and marked off a dozen recipes, which sounds like I marked off every recipe in the book, except that the book – by my math – has far more than 12 recipes in it.

No, I don’t know why this is. California math, maybe?

It doesn’t matter: the cookbook is wonderful, offering up base recipes in a relaxed conversational style, and encouraging the home cook to use what’s at hand or what takes their fancy. If you’ve got a little of this or that, throw that in. If you’re in a mood for French style, omit this and add that. He doesn’t offer quantities when he does this; taste the food and when you like it, you’ve got it right. The book is also chock full of handy cooking tips, like heat the pan first, then add the oil – it reduces scorching. Basically, Peternell is offering not so much recipes as cooking lessons: here are some guidelines, but where you go with them is up to you.

After marking off the recipes, I proceeded to make the chicken several more times, and then, finally, we were chickened out, so I moved on to the section on pasta.

I started with the recipe for Cauliflower, Sicilian Style, because, as with so many things I do, I had everything on hand, and in this case, I was looking for new ways to serve cauliflower, which is healthy and hearty and doesn’t deserve to be steamed all the time just because I can’t come up with a better idea.

In this recipe, cauliflower gets the Brussels sprout treatment, in which it is pan-roasted to sweet perfection. I loved the “Sicilian” treatment, with the addition of pine nuts for crunch and bits of sweetness from the raisins. The Child didn’t care for it, mostly because of the raisins. The recipe can be made luxurious with the addition of some saffron, which I planned to do, but then missed the step where I was supposed to add it, so I simply left it out. If you go this route, add the saffron to the onions.

Since The Child didn’t care for this dish as much as I did, I didn’t end up making it over and over. But I did discover there’s a much better way to cook cauliflower than the way I have been cooking it, and since it’s so simple and requires no real recipe,  pan-roasted cauliflower has been making regular appearances at dinner.

 

Pasta with Sicilian Cauliflower

Pasta with Sicilian Cauliflower
 
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Ingredients
  • Salt
  • Olive Oil
  • 1 yellow onion, diced
  • I head cauliflower, cut into florets, florets cut into ½ inch thick pieces
  • 1 lb spaghetti
  • 1-2 garlic cloves, minced
  • crushed red pepper flakes
  • ¼ cup raisins, soaked in hot water to plump, then drained
  • ¼ cup pine nuts, toasted
  • parmesan cheese
Instructions
  1. Put a pot of salted water on to boil.
  2. Heat a skillet over high heat, and when hot, add 3 tbsp olive oil, then the onion and a pinch of salt. Once the onion gets going, lower the heat to medium and cook until soft, stirring occasionally to prevent browning, up to 15 minutes. Set the onions aside.
  3. Wipe out the pan, then place back over high heat, and when the pan is hot, add some oil, the cauliflower, and a heaping pinch of salt. Stir to coat the cauliflower with oil, but then let it sit, untouched, until it browns on one side, then turn and let it brown on the other.
  4. Hopefully by now your water is boiling, so add the pasta and follow the package directions to cook.
  5. When the cauliflower is well-browned and tender, push it to the sides of the pan, and add the garlic and red pepper flakes to the center, with more oil if needed. When the garlic releases its fragrance, add the onion, and once it's heated through, stir in the cauliflower. If it seems dry, add some of the pasta cooking water. Add the raisins and pine nuts.
  6. When the pasta is ready, drain it and stir it in. Add salt and pepper to taste; serve with parmesan cheese if you like.
Notes
For a luxurious touch, add a pinch of saffron when cooking the onion. You can also toss in fresh parsley and oregano, at the end of the cooking.
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Pinto Beans with Bacon and Red Wine

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My Father stayed with me for a month, maybe more, when The Departed left. He changed the locks and helped me sell my car and drove The Child to school and walked The Dog, slowly. He baked bread regularly, and made us dinner, and complained about the state of my kitchen.

You don’t have any staples around, he said. No beans, no rice, no bouillon.

He had a point: I was endlessly at the supermarket, and it seemed like every time I wanted to cook something resembling dinner, I had to go the store yet again.

There was another point, though, and it was something I picked up from Mr. Faraway: I did not know how to make meals that worked for several days, so for every meal, I had to cook something. There was no pot to nibble from, no leftovers to reheat.

It didn’t take long to fill the pantry with dried beans, but it has taken longer to find the standby recipes I needed. The Garlicky Lentil Soup certainly has the potential to be one of those recipes. Boulangerie Beans has been one of those recipes for a long time. And after sampling several pinto bean recipes, I finally came to the conclusion that Melissa Clark’s recipe for Pinto Beans with Bacon and Red Wine, published in the New York Times, is another fallback meal.

It meets all the requirements: It makes quite a bit, it includes ingredients generally found in a well-stocked pantry, and it involves two of my favorite things to cook with, Bacon and Wine. I swapped out dried rosemary for the fresh that was called for in the original recipe, because my rosemary plant seems to be struggling lately and I didn’t want to give it any more trouble. Fresh is always wonderful if you have it, but dried works well too. It is smoky and wine-y and very filling, especially when served with a nice crusty roll.

I love this dish for being a sort of classy “pork ‘n beans” – much nicer than that stuff that comes in cans, of course, but then again I always loved that stuff in cans when I was a kid (and well through my teens). This keeps well in the fridge so you can make some on a Sunday, and just warm some in a bowl when you’re feeling hungry.

 

beans with smoky bacon

Pinto Beans with Bacon and Red Wine
 
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Ingredients
  • ½ pound smoky bacon, diced
  • 1 large onion, peeled and diced
  • 2 celery stalks, diced
  • 2 medium carrots, peeled and diced
  • 4 garlic cloves, minced
  • 1 tsp dried rosemary (or a couple sprigs fresh, if you have it)
  • 1 pound dried pinto beans, soaked overnight
  • 1 tbsp kosher salt, or to taste
  • 2 cups red wine
Instructions
  1. In a large pot over medium-high heat, brown the bacon and render the fat, 5-10 minutes. Stir in onion, celery, carrots, garlic and rosemary. Cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are tender, 5 to 7 minutes.
  2. Add the beans, drained, to the pot, along with the salt and water to cover (I used about four cups). Bring to a boil; reduce heat and simmer gently until beans are just tender, 45 minutes to 1 hour. Check the pot periodically and add water if needed.
  3. Meanwhile, in a small, uncovered pan, simmer the wine until it is reduced by more than half.
  4. Add the wine to the beans, and continue simmering, uncovered, another 10 to 20 minutes to thicken the broth and meld the flavors.
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Garlicky Lentil Soup with Chard and Lemon

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The Child and I flew down to California to visit my father and stepmom last week, an experience made easier by direct flights and a funny coincidence: On the TSA screening line, I noticed that the agent testing people’s hands for explosives residue looked familiar. By the time I was close enough to read her name tag, she had recognized me, and threw her arms around me, and admired how much The Child had grown, before finally swabbing our hands and wishing us safe travels.

Seven years ago, she was the dog rescuer who saved The Dog – the first dog she rescued – and helped me adopt him. I’d kept in touch with her sporadically since then, through Christmas cards and the occasional email. Lately, she has struggled with multiple jobs to make ends meet, and more recently, a divorce.

I want to tell her things get better, but for a moment, they are.

For our return trip, I foolishly select a 6 am flight, and since my father’s house is not actually very close to the airport, the night before the flight, The Child and I stay in a nearby motel with 24-hour shuttle service. The motel was nice, and the shuttle picked us up right at the door of our room, saving us the trouble of hauling our luggage across the parking lot.

The driver loads our bags, heads for the airport, and after a few minutes, turns on the radio to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing.

It is the second time I’ve heard this song in two days. The first time, I sat with The Child on Universal Studios CityWalk, and as it played on the loudspeakers, explained to her why every time I hear this song, I think of the final scene of The Sopranos. She couldn’t follow what I was saying, since she’s never watched the scene or the series, and so when it played again on the bus, she didn’t even notice. I did, though, and brooded about death symbolism as the bus passenger next to me asked me where I was flying, and why; as The Child was selected for the speedy TSA precheck line, and I wasn’t; and as the plane took off, and I placed my feet flat on the floor and reminded myself, again, how to breathe.

That’s right.

I didn’t do much on our first day back, but made up for it on the second by unpacking, rearranging my closet, and running a host of uninteresting but useful errands like stocking up on groceries, and filling my car’s gas tank.

Then, finally, I made a simple dinner to end my simple day: I made soup.

I’ve made lentil soup a couple of times, and though I like lentil soup when I eat it elsewhere, I’ve never managed to make one at home that I enjoy. My lentil soup efforts can be summed up in one word: bland. This time, though, I got lucky, with a review copy of Rose Water and Orange Blossoms by Maureen Abood. It’s a collection of recipes from Abood’s Lebanese-American childhood; more recipes can be found on her blog of the same name.

I enjoyed the cookbook, with its lovely photography and intriguing but accessible recipes for things like yogurt marinated chicken skewers and fig jam with anise (doesn’t that sound lovely with cheese?). But the recipe that appealed to me most was Abood’s recipe for garlicky lentil soup with lemon, which, it seemed to me, might be the solution to my lentil soup woes.

It’s pretty close.

The soup is simple enough to make – cook the lentils in one pot, while cooking the garlic, onions, and chard in another, then mix it all up at the end. I loved the garlic, chard, and onion mixture, and could have eaten that by itself. I’d happily have it any day as a side dish, or perhaps underneath some baked eggs for breakfast. The lemon adds a delightful brightness to the soup. Abood uses 1/2 cup freshly chopped cilantro, which I’m not sure I’d do again, but mostly a personal issue as I was unable to locate fresh cilantro and had to use some “fresh” from a tube, which isn’t quite the same thing, especially when used in such quantity in a recipe.

The recipe claims it makes ten servings; I suppose that’s possible if you have a thimble collection you want to show off at mealtime. I found it made four bowls of fairly thick, satisfying soup; there wasn’t much in the way of leftovers, so next time, I’ll double the recipe.

This soup is a little adventurous, in its way, but also safe and soothing, the way soup should be.

garlicky lentil soup

 

Garlicky Lentil Soup with Chard and Lemon
 
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Ingredients
  • ½ cup lentils (brown or green)
  • 4 cups water
  • 1 tsp salt, divided
  • ¼ cup olive oil
  • 1 large onion, finely diced
  • 1 bunch chard, any type, cleaned, trimmed, and cut into 1-inch pieces
  • ¾ tsp ground coriander
  • pepper to taste
  • 4 large garlic cloves, minced
  • ¼ cup fresh cilantro leaves, minced (optional)
  • juice of ½ lemon
Instructions
  1. In a large pot, bring the lentils, water, and ½ tsp of the salt to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until the lentils are just tender, about 20 minutes.
  2. Heat a large saute pan, and when hot, add the olive oil. Add the onion, chard, the remaining ½ tsp of salt, coriander, and pepper. Saute over medium heat until the chard stems and onions are soft, but not brown, about 5 minutes.
  3. Add the garlic and saute until fragrant, another minute or so, then add the cilantro, if using.
  4. Add the chard mixture to the lentils, stir in the lemon juice, and continue to simmer over medium heat for a few minutes.
  5. Turn off the heat and let the soup sit about 10 minutes. Taste and adjust seasonings, as needed.
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