Tag Archives: Canadian culinary classics

Grainews: First We Eat: Sourdough’s Mysteries

Grainews

Gluten and wheat intolerance has been on my family’s radar for decades. My sister Lee gave up eating all wheat-based foods in her early twenties after a childhood and teenager-hood filled with bellyaches and gastrointestinal distress. Fifteen years ago,  my own body started to experience similar negative reactions to bread. But according to food writer and historian Michael Pollan, bread is both the product and the enabler of civilization, the bedrock food of many countries. Bread shortages have led to riots and wars. So bread was not something I was willing to let go of lightly.

Bread-making has changed from its peasant origins. Between the original flour, water and salt that made the first loaves and modern industrially-produced bread lie what Pollan says are as many as 37 additives. Agreed, white bread is cheaper to produce and less perishable, made with mass-produced roller-milled flour instead of stone-ground whole-grain flour. But it’s also less nutritious. So the big bakeries fortified breads by adding vitamins, minerals, dough conditioners, stabilizers, amino acids, preservatives. Do those additives upset my gut?

In my own kitchen, I switched to making and eating only sourdough bread made with local organic flours after my own evidence convinced me that somehow, sourdough bread was easier on my belly than store-bought. But I had no proof of why. So I looked around for clarification.

In “Air,” Episode 3 of his Netflix series, Cooked, Pollan turns his analytical mind to the most ephemeral of the elements in his exploration of bread-making. Air adds gases and other flavours as well as lightening bread’s texture. Gluten is the balloon that contains the bubbles of gas and air in bread.

Why can I eat sourdough? I read studies showing that sourdough bread’s slow fermentation process reduces the amount of FODMAPs (fermentable oligosaccharides, disaccharides, monosaccharides and polyols), types of carbohydrates that are present in bread but are not well absorbed in the small intestine and cause bloating and flatulence. But Pollan suggests that just as important is the long slow fermentation inherent to sourdough bread-making. Fermentation is key to health: wheat is hard to digest. That long fermentation allows bacteria to fully break down wheat’s carbs and gluten strands and releases its minerals for easier absorption.

Using commercial yeast gives bread a faster lift but overlooks the rest of fermentation’s role. With no breakdown of carbs and gluten, that bread is harder to digest.

I feel vindicated. And I keep baking. Sourdough bread is the most satisfying food in my kitchen. I went back to my battered copy of Tartine by Chad Robertson and kept at it, varying what I had to to suit my circumstances.

Ask your artisan baker for a cupful of starter (or make it yourself.) Then get out the bread knife and the butter. First we eat, then we talk about bread.

Sourdough Bread

For best flavour, use locally raised flours. (I use Red Fife flour for no more than half my total flour.) Makes 2 loaves

1 c. starter

milk or water as needed

flour as needed

3 1/2 c. all-purpose flour

1/2 c. whole wheat flour

2 T. kosher salt

warm water or milk to form a dough

Put your starter in a clean jar or glass/ceramic bowl. Leave the bowl or jar on the counter for a day, uncovered.  For the next 3 days, add 1/2 cup flour and 1/2 cup milk or water morning and evening. Discard half of the mix each time or it will become the monster that ate Pittsburgh. Transfer half the starter to a clean jar and refrigerate as your new mother.

Put the remaining starter in a mixing bowl. Add flours, salt, and water or milk. Mix to form a dough, by hand or machine. Knead until soft, smooth and supple. Return to the bowl, cover with plastic wrap and let rise in the fridge until doubled in bulk.  Every half hour, use one hand [dipped in water] to pull the dough from the bottom of the bowl to the top, working all the way around the bowl. Be patient. This stage could take a day in the fridge. If you leave the bowl on the counter, it could be 4 hours.

Turn out the dough and gently shape it into a round, pulling it taut. Dust with flour and cover with a kitchen cloth. Let rest for 40 minutes.

Cut in half with a pastry cutter. Gently shape into two taut rounds or oval logs. Place on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Dust with flour and cover. Let rise for 4 hours at room temperature.

Preheat oven to 450°F. When you turn on the oven, put an empty pan on the lowest rack and fill it with water.

Slash oval loaves across the top in parallel lines with the tip of a sharp knife. Slash round loaves on the sides in curving Cs or a square. Spray the dough with water. Immediately slide the bread onto the upper racks of the oven. Bake until crusty and baked through, about 30 minutes, depending on the size  of the loaves.

 

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Grainews: First We Eat: Learning to Love Eggplant

Grainews

Like many Canadian children, my early experience of eggplant was anything but remarkable. My mom, a staunch Prairie cook, first encountered eggplant on her travels to Europe as a young mother with an Air Force husband. On her return to Canada, she did her best: she grew or bought globe eggplant, sliced them, dredged the rounds in flour, fried them and put them on the table unadorned. Undercooked, they were woody, chewy, entirely unappealing.

I didn’t learn to love eggplant until I was a young adult, living in Calgary where I met eggplant of varying pedigrees. At dim sum, we ate thin wands of eggplant, skin-on, stuffed with shrimp and pork; in the Pekinese palace, sweetened with hoisin sauce beside duck. In the Middle Eastern bistro we loved, it was baba ganouj, slightly chunky, succulent and smoky, with pita to mop it up. My European chef friends introduced me to moussaka, the Greek classic, and to Italian eggplant Parmigiana. Years later, my favourite chef from Naples taught me to suffuse cooked eggplant batons with a spice-and-herb dressing balanced between hot and sweet. Then I met the glory that is Indian eggplant, seasoned with cumin, ginger, coriander, turmeric, star anise, fennel, anise.

Despite its appearance on so many stages, eggplant is not an easy vegetable to know. It is round, oval, or elongated; black, purple, white or green, hiding its inner nature within an innocently simple shape. In the cook’s hands, a wide array of choices arise. Braise? Grill? Smoke? Fry? How best to celebrate its nature? At its worst, undercooked eggplant is woody and boring. At its best, cooked to tender and soft, eggplant boasts an unctuous, melting texture and subtly earthy taste. It just takes a bit of know-how.

Shape dictates cooking method. Use the tiny egg-like ones for stuffing or baking whole. Any eggplant can be grilled and served with a vinaigrette; any eggplant can be cooked whole on the open flame, then peeled, chopped and seasoned; or diced and braised, maximizing its tendency to absorb flavours.

Be warned that the spongy eggplant will soak up all the oil in a pan and beg for more! No matter the method, cook eggplant to well-done and soft. For a layered classic, start by grilling or oven-roasting lightly oiled slices, turning once when the slices are brown. Then stack up with other ingredients and sauce.

Alternatively, season those cooked slices with salt, pepper, mint, cumin, malt vinegar, garlic, coriander, smoked paprika, a drizzle of honey, a generous pour of olive oil, good enough to eat standing up in the kitchen, even better a day later. Now that’s something even my Mom would love. So first we eat, then we compare notes on our fave eggplant dishes.

Moussaka

For a richer dish, before baking top with a thick béchamel sauce enriched with nutmeg, Parmesan and feta cheese. For a lighter finish, simply sprinkle with feta.

Serves 8-10

4 large globe eggplants

½ c. all-purpose flour, for dredging

2-3 T. olive oil

2 lb. lean ground lamb or beef (optional)

1 large onion, diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 bell peppers, diced

2 zucchini, diced

2 bay leaves

1 cinnamon stick

4 whole allspice

½ tsp. ground nutmeg

4 c. diced tomatoes

1 c. dry white wine

4 T. tomato paste

kosher salt and freshly cracked black pepper

2 c. crumbled feta cheese

2 T. minced fresh parsley

Peel the eggplant and slice it into ½-inch slices. Lightly coat with flour, shaking them in a plastic bag and discarding the excess. Line a baking sheet with parchment and place the eggplant on the baking sheet in a single layer. Drizzle with oil and bake at 375 F until brown, about 15 minutes, turning once. Remove the eggplant from the oven and set aside.

Heat a heavy sauté pan. Add the oil, then brown the meat. Add the onion, garlic, peppers, zucchini, bay leaves, and sauté to tender. Add the cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, tomatoes, wine and tomato paste. Simmer, covered, for 35 minutes, or until thickened. Remove the bay leaves. Season with salt and pepper.

Spoon a thin layer of sauce to cover the bottom of a 9” x 13” casserole. Lay half the eggplant slices on top of the sauce. Sprinkle with half the feta cheese, half the remaining sauce, the rest of the eggplant, then sauce, then the rest of the feta. Bake for 30 minutes, or until hot. Let stand for 10 minutes before slicing. Garnish with parsley.

 

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Grainews: First We Eat: Let Us Eat Cake

Grainews

Cake is an important part of my family’s birthday rituals. When I was a kid, Mom made birthday cakes that contained coins wrapped in wax paper – for her five kids, but also for my dad, but always chocolate for him, and no coins.

I began to bake as a youngster, and in later years, as a chef, restaurateur and caterer, I made many cakes. My small restaurant in Calgary had a name for good desserts, among them one I dubbed “the Queen cake,” a luscious chocolate angel food filled with fruit and chocolate whipped cream. It became the favourite of my youngest son, who requested it each year for his birthday. (This year, he made his first ever for himself and his partner. Still his fave.) Back in the day, my eldest son begged me through a catechism of ever-changing-but-always-chocolate cakes that peaked with a five-layer extravaganza – a cake that took me three days to make and assemble. (“Never again!” I told my son.) So I thought everybody celebrated with cake.

My marriage ended in 2000, and a year later, I took up with a wonderful man. My birthday arrived. My new man brought me books, jewelry, clothing, wine, glorious presents I opened after a home-cooked dinner. But no cake. I was surprised by how deeply disappointed I felt, and my sweetie was appalled at the oversight, and my response. But I hadn’t mentioned it, and he – a diabetic – didn’t have any attachment to cake. So no cake. He hustled out next day, and bought cake, but it wasn’t the same. (The relationship didn’t last. Not the cake’s fault, although sometimes a critical thing’s absence brings home other lacks. )

I learned. Early on in our relationship, I told Dave that I wanted cake on my birthday – even last year, when I marked 60 years on the planet. Fortunately, the cupcake craze has stuck, and my non-baker Dave happily brings home cupcakes when we require cake not made by moi.

Over the years, I have acquired a wide cake repertoire, and am happy to make cakes for special occasions, especially when my friends and extended family will consume the leftovers. Because my sister and I have wheat intolerances, some of my fave cakes are flourless or low-flour: angel food cake; flourless chocolate torte; nut torte filled with citrus mousse; cornmeal and nut torte  flavoured with lots of lemon and cardamom, and totally outrageous with simmered apples, pears or quince and whipped cream.

When I first met Winnipeg’s favourite dessert, the schmoo cake, it didn’t take me long it realize it too could be flourless or close-to-flourless.  I adapted my angel food and my torte recipes, added a salted butterscotch sauce, and wowee, I fed my father and family schmoo cake for this year’s annual wintertime joint birthday party. Here it is. First we eat, then we weigh the merits of other celebratory sweets.

Schmoo Cake with Salted Butterscotch Sauce

Wowee Winnipeg! This is a dynamite cake with a murky past. Here’s my version, adapted from a blend of my angel food cake and flourless nut torte. If you wish, eliminate the flour and up the nuts to 4 cups.

Makes 2 9” spring-form pans; serves a crowd.

Cake:

12 whole eggs, separated

1 ½ c. white sugar, divided in half

¼ t. cream of tartar

1 t. vanilla extract

1 c. all purpose flour

1 ½ t. baking powder

2 c. finely chopped toasted pecans

 

Filling and topping:

3  c. whipping cream

Icing sugar to taste

 

Butterscotch sauce:

1 ½ c. brown sugar

1 c. whipping cream

2 T. salted butter

A pinch of kosher salt

 

Set oven to 325 F.

For the cake, beat yolks and half the sugar with the cream of tartar until thick, pale yellow and tripled in volume. Add the vanilla. Set aside.

In a clean bowl, beat the egg whites and the remaining sugar – added slowly – until stiff peaks form.

Stir together the flour, baking powder and pecans. Fold into the yolks, then fold in the whites. Divide among the two pans. Bake for 55-60 minutes or until a toothpick inserted comes out clean. Cool completely.

Whip the cream and icing sugar to taste. Slice each cake in half. Place one half on a flat plate, add whipped cream, a second layer of cake and cream, then third and fourth layers of each. Cover outside with whipped cream. Chill.

For the butterscotch sauce, combine all ingredients except salt. Bring to a boil. Simmer until the sugar is completely dissolved. Add a pinch of salt. Transfer to a jar. Let cool before using to generously garnish each slice of cake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Grainews: First We Eat: Sausage-making

Grainews

Sausages used to be the great unmentionable, made from things no one wanted to know about, never mind eat. But although they began as the thrifty butcher’s way of using up trimmings, sausages have gone uptown.

Making your own sausages, like anything homemade, means the cook controls everything, from the selection of meats, salt and spices to the amount of fat.

Begin at the butcher’s. I buy pork trim, cut it up myself, and grind it as well. If you don’t have a meat grinder, ask the butcher to grind it medium or coarse, or a mixture, if you like a coarser-textured link. It doesn’t have to be just pork, although German and Alsatian pork sausages are justifiably famous. I like to make sausages from pork, turkey, chicken, lamb, beef, or game, but often add ground pork to the mix, especially with game, which is extremely lean. (Hunters take note: the butcher will need your animal’s provenance, so take along the tag – or the information on it – when you take your game to the butcher to be ground.)

Order pork fat from the butcher as well. Old-style sausage-masters will tell you that the best sausages are made with 25 percent fat – for tenderness, mouth feel and flavor. But I drop that figure and add other ingredients – apple, pear, carrot, onion, leek, peppers, mild cabbage – without sacrificing any of those critical elements to keep my sausages’ fat content manageable.

Buy casings too. Natural pork casings are carefully washed intestines, if you must know. Synthetic casings are sometimes available, but really, do you wanna do that? Back in your own kitchen, thaw the casings.

Add salt and seasonings to the meat and fat. Some cooks find that sautéing, roasting or grilling any vegetable additions makes a milder sausage. Please yourself. If you are grinding your own, cut ingredients so they fit in your meat grinder’s feeder tube. Season and chill the mixture overnight before grinding it all. Next day, add ice, cold beer, wine or juice, or ice water to help the mixture develop a sticky texture.

Put the casings into a bowl of water, using a clothespin to clamp one end of a casing onto the edge of the bowl. Remove the clothespin and hold the casing open under running water. Use shears to sever a length several feet long. Re-pin the new end to the bowl, and drain the detached piece.

(To store unused casings indefinitely, drain well and add several large handfuls of kosher salt. Mix, wrap and refrigerate or freeze.)

Sauté a few patties and taste for seasoning. When the blend is balanced to your taste, set up your stuffer with the right size of “horn.” Slide the casing onto the horn. Yes, you can make jokes.

Like some stage productions, stuffing sausage is a four-hander: one person fills the hopper and runs the controls; the other uses both hands to pack the sausage as it fills. Leave a few inches empty at the beginning of the casing so you can tie it off later. Decide on a sausage length, and twist the casing as it fills or afterwards, to create separate sausages, alternating directions, three complete turns each time, to ensure the whole thing doesn’t unravel like a Slinky losing its kinks.

Use a large needle or hatpin to prick any air bubbles as the casing fills, and leave some room at the end. Knot both ends. Repeat. When you are done, don’t wait for dinner. Strike up the grill to celebrate. And congratulations. You have just contributed to an enduring culinary tradition. First we eat, then we talk about how many other ways there are to season sausages.

Turkey Apple Sausages

These sweet links are great with arugula salad, lentils, grainy mustard and crusty rolls. Serve with lightly chilled rosé or German beer.

Makes about 24 sausages

2 lb. white/dark raw boneless turkey

½ lb. pork fat, diced

2 tsp. curry powder or Chinese 5-spice

1 lemon, zest only

2 T. minced fresh thyme

2 T. minced chives

2 T. kosher salt or to taste

black pepper and hot chili flakes to taste

4 apples, peeled, diced and sautéed

¼ c. cooked black beans, chopped

½ c. cold water or white wine

12’ hog casings, as needed

Dice the meat and fat. Combine all the ingredients except apples, beans and water/wine, mixing thoroughly. Chill, Grind. Add remaining ingredients. Test for seasoning before stuffing sausage casings.

Cook on the grill, in a hot oven or under the broiler until the juices run clear, about 8-10 minutes, depending on the size of the sausages.

 

 

 

 

 

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