Celebrating circles in the kitchen today. Happy Pi Day!
Cooking / Baking
Granola
The kids laugh at me, because I eat the same breakfast almost every day. It’s not that I don’t appreciate breakfast, but I guess I’ve found what works for me. Why change? True, I’d rather be eating pancakes, scones and muffins every day for breakfast, but who has time to bake every morning? I usually eat breakfast standing up in the kitchen while I pasteurize milk, make lunch, and wash dishes, so it’s got to be something easy.
Homemade granola fits the bill perfectly. Top it with unsweetened yogurt or whole goat milk, and just a little bowl can get me through the whole morning. It took me years to come up with the perfect granola. It was the addition of puffed grain that made the difference for me—before, I always felt my granola was too heavy, like I may as well have been munching on the grain I feed the goats.
So here it is, my daily breakfast granola. This recipe makes a lot—keeps me going for weeks, but it stays fresh in a tightly closed container.
6 cups old fashioned rolled oats
4 cups puffed wheat (unsweetened)
1 cup sunflower seeds
1 cup barley flakes (rolled barley)
1 cup rye flakes (rolled rye)
1 cup shredded or flaked coconut (unsweetened)
1 cup walnuts, chopped
ÂĽ cup vegetable oil
½ cup honey
1 cup dates, chopped
1 cup raisins
Mix oats, puffed wheat, sunflower seeds, barley, rye, coconut and walnuts in a large bowl. Combine oil and honey, and microwave for 30 seconds (I measure them directly into a glass measuring cup that I can microwave in), no need to actually mix them, just warm them. Pour oil and honey over the grains and mix well. Spread into two jelly roll pans and bake at 180°C (350°F) for about 30 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes or so, until the grains are lightly browned. When the pans come out of the oven, while still hot, sprinkle dried fruits on top. When completely cool, store in an airtight container.
Cheese Magic
Curds and whey
To be honest, until I had dairy goats, I don’t think I knew at all how cheese was made. Oh, I knew it was made from milk, but beyond that, I had no clue. I loved cheese, and I ate quite a lot of it, but how it came to be on the supermarket shelves, I didn’t know.
Truth is, cheese making is magic.
Well, OK, not really. It’s a simple matter of coagulating proteins, and the whole process is governed by the laws of chemistry. But it feels like magic.
Slow and painstaking magic, that is. Ignore for a moment the six months of planning and animal husbandry required to produce the milk itself, and let’s focus on the actual cheese making process. The process to make a simple farmhouse cheddar, one of the least time-intensive hard cheeses I make, usually starts at about 6.15 am. Two hours of heating the milk and adding cultures and rennet, and the first of the magic happens—liquid milk becomes a solid mass of cheese curds. I carefully cut the curd into small cubes, marvelling at its beautiful silky firm texture. Then I tediously stir for almost an hour and a half while I heat the milk to expel liquid from the curds. The curds finally go into the press at about 10 am. The “green” cheese doesn’t come out of the press until 11 pm. A week later, once the surface of the cheese has dried, it is waxed, and left to age for at least 4 weeks.
So, the fastest of cheeses is almost 5 weeks in the making. Other cheeses require much more active processing, and a much longer aging period (parmesan needs a minimum of 10 months, and is best after a year). Some cheeses aren’t waxed, and need daily or weekly washing for their entire aging period to avoid mould.
But once a cheese is ready, the second bit of magic happens, and it is my favourite part of cheese making–opening a new cheese. Only at this point do I know for certain how the cheese making months before actually went. Is it the right texture? Is it properly salted? Has it aged enough? Was I able to prevent unwanted mould growth? The whole family is drawn to the opening of a cheese. Everyone gets a slice, and weighs in on how good it is. This magical moment, standing around in the kitchen with the family is worth all the tedious stirring and waiting.
More Cake!
Last but not least! Ian’s cake ends my obsession with cake each year (well, OK, I obsess about cake most of the year, it’s true). Though I enjoy making the kids’ cakes, turning food to fantasy, I appreciate the opportunity to focus as much on flavour as presentation on Ian’s. (No, he didn’t ask for Smaug, or a Hobbit hole, or an ork, or anything else…) For many years, he requested cheesecake, but lately he’s been asking for carrot cake. It almost seems like a cop out to make such a simple cake for a birthday cake, but carrot cake dresses up well. Of prime importance to Ian is the cream cheese frosting. He’s not a fan of sicky sweet frosting, so the tart cheesiness of cream cheese frosting is perfect. I’ve been tweaking a recipe that calls for four cups of confectioner’s sugar, and have it down to 1 ½ cups. That’s about half a cup more than is necessary for flavour, but on a warm summer day, I needed the extra sugar to stiffen the icing.
In fact, in the cake, too, I reduced the sugar by half. It’s not that I worry about too much sugar in our food—we’re already on the low end of sugar consumption, so I don’t fret about the occasional treats. But I find too much sugar dulls the other flavours in cakes and other baked goods. Lightening up on the sweeteners allows the subtle flavours of nuts, fruit, and whole grain flours to shine through. This is especially important in a cake like carrot cake—so full of complex flavours it would be a crime to smother them with too much sugar.
I suppose that’s what my kitchen philosophy comes down to. A lot of people think I’m some sort of health nut, but the truth is I just enjoy flavours. Fresh ingredients, a light touch with sugar and salt, few highly processed foods…these choices are all about flavour.
So, let them eat cake!
There Will Be No Blog Today…
4.26 pm.
I sit, finally, to blog.
Do I blog of the cheese I made this morning, pressing on the kitchen counter? Do I describe the magical beauty of liquid milk congealing to a smooth, firm solid? The hours of tedious stirring? The firm, almost live feel of a new cheese?
Do I blog of the ten quarts of tomatoes, onions, peppers, tomatillos and spices I boiled down into ketchup today? Do I write of the bees that swarmed the kitchen when the vinegar was added, inexorably drawn to the sharp, spicy smell?
Do I blog of the corn and soybeans still awaiting me in the garden? Of the hours of steaming pots, and dirty dishes that still await me today?
No. I am weary of the kitchen. I am sick of its tantalizing fragrances and its steamy dishwater. I am irritated by the bees, who, once inside, can’t find their way out, and force me to watch every step for fear of ending my day with a trip to the hospital.
So there will be no blog post today, of the lingering smell of cloves and allspice, no detailed description of the art of cheese, no reminiscing of childhood afternoons shelling soy with my sister.
No. Instead, there will be 15 minutes of rest. A glass of wine. And then back into the fray.
The Exuberant Kitchen
My kitchen is a mess.
The stove, and the wall behind it is splattered with tomato sauce. The floor is littered with bits of onion skin, lost basil leaves, and sesame seeds. The backsplash behind the sink is splattered with dirt.
It’s not that I don’t clean. In fact, I’m a bit obsessed with cleaning. I’ve been accused (rightly, I’m afraid) of preferring to stay home and mop the floors rather than go out on a Friday night.
But I can clean constantly, and still have a messy kitchen, because the kitchen is in near-constant use. It’s a working space, and I’ve learned to accept it as such. Right now there is a vat of pasta sauce boiling down on the stove, and an hour ago, the kitchen was the scene of a massive vegetable preparation operation. There will necessarily be dirt, vegetables and tomato sauce everywhere. Earlier, it was being used for pasteurising the morning’s milk and for making mayonaise. Later, it will be covered in flour as I roll out homemade pasta.
Flipping through a Home and Garden magazine, you could be forgiven for thinking that kitchens are meant to be gleaming, spotless backdrops for perfect flower arangements. Ours, however, is usually a grubby setting for a pile of dirty dishes.
Our kitchen works hard. All five burners on our stove are regularly going at once, and some days, I swear we wash every pot, bowl and spoon twice. A space hosting so much activity can only be truly clean for brief moments—say, between midnight and 2 am on every fouth Tuesday.
But a kitchen like ours is also a scene of laughter, life, and love. It is steeped in delicious odours, and tantalizing flavours. It is where the produce of the garden is transformed into the fuel for our bodies and the treats for our celebrations. It’s not a messy kitchen, it’s an exuberant one.
Mum’s Fluffy Buns
We don’t ever buy bread; Ian bakes all the bread we eat…well almost all.
Most of the bread Ian bakes is sourdough. Wonderful, hearty, wholegrain stuff with dark, beautiful crusts. The kind of bread you want to eat, slathered with butter, for a late-night snack. Unfortunately, this toothsome bread makes lousy burger buns. It has too much body, doesn’t give enough under the teeth. The burger ends up squishing out the sides of a bun made of Ian’s sourdough.
Which is where Mum’s Fluffy Buns come in. This is what the children call my light and soft burger buns. Still whole grain, but made with commercial yeast, and baked only until the centres are done. They are soft and yielding—perfect for burgers.
I wish I could give you a good recipe for them, but I don’t follow one, and I tend not to measure the ingredients I put in. Here’s a rough approximation. This yields enough buns for several meals—they freeze and reheat well. Of course, they don’t last long if they’re left out—the kids love snacking on them.
4 cups lukewarm water
scant tbsp yeast
scant tsp honey
1 ½ tsp salt
2 tbsp ground flax seed
2-3 tbsp (25-40 g) butter
bread flour (high grade)
whole wheat flour (wholemeal)
Dissolve yeast in the warm water and allow to proof. Add honey, salt, butter and flax and stir until the butter is mostly melted. Add equal quantities of whole wheat and bread flour to make a dough of the right consistency for bread. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and knead about 10 minutes, until the surface springs back when touched. Work into a neat ball, and place in a greased or oiled bowl. Cover with a damp towel and allow to rise about 2 hours. Punch down and divide into pieces of about 100-110 grams (about 3 ½ oz). Work each piece into a neat ball and flatten onto a greased baking sheet. Cover with a damp towel and allow to rise as the oven heats. Bake at 210°C (400°F) until just barely beginning to brown (maybe 15 minutes).
The Harvest Hangover
The morning after
I woke this morning with a headache. It was one I recognised—the Harvest Hangover. It’s a combination of fatigue and dehydration that comes after a day of picking and preserving vegetables.
Back in the years B.C. (Before Children), I used to lose 10 pounds during harvest season. I’d forget to eat and drink as I picked and processed mountains of tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, beans, etc. Ironic, eh? After a night of canning, I’d wake with a Harvest Hangover. I’d stumble to work grumpy and groggy, as though I’d been out carousing all night.
As I age, I’m more moderate in my preserving. Instead of weeks of late-night canning sessions, I do two or three a year. It helps that I can’t grow the quantity of tomatoes I used to during the hot summers in Pennsylvania, but I’ve also rationalised my preserving. Here, where winters are mild, I can grow cool-weather crops year round, so winters aren’t the fresh vegetable desert they are in a harsher climate. If I don’t have 50 quarts of tomatoes in the cupboard for winter, it doesn’t matter—we can eat something else instead. I preserve only what I know we’ll eat, so I’m not throwing away old canned goods every summer. I’ve learned to better manage my planting so that I’m not completely overwhelmed with any one crop (usually). And I allow myself to simply give away extra produce when I am overwhelmed.
Perhaps it’s a sign of aging that I don’t wake with Harvest Hangovers very often any more, but I like to think of it as a sign of wisdom. As they say, know your limits!
Summer Soup
There’s no set recipe, but this year it went something like this…
After a hearty breakfast, assemble the family. Equip half with knives and cutting boards in the kitchen. Send the other half to the garden with buckets, colanders and knives to pick vegetables and ferry them in to the cutting crew. Pick and chop the following:
1 head garlic
12 ears sweet corn
7 onions
8 sweet peppers
8 jalapeño peppers
5 Thai hot peppers
3 large beets
12 carrots
3 cups fresh shelled soy beans
8 stalks celery
8 quarts tomato
10 bay leaves
3 cups herbs (basil, parsley, rosemary)
8 cups green beans
12 small boiling potatoes
5 medium zucchini
5 oyster mushrooms
As you chop, put all the good stems, peels, and over mature vegetables into a pot. Top with water and put on a back burner to simmer for stock.
Take a break for lunch, then send the kids outside to play.
In an enormous pot, sauté onion, peppers and celery until onion is translucent. Add garlic and cook another couple of minutes. Add remaining ingredients and enough water to call it soup. Bring to a boil. Meanwhile, prepare 24 quart jars and the pressure canner.
Separate off enough soup for dinner. Boil the rest 5 minutes.
Send your husband outside to play.
Pressure can the remaining soup. Strain the stock and can it, alongside the soup. Plan on 4 canner loads. While the third batch is in the canner, reheat the soup for dinner.
Sit down to soup for dinner, but don’t forget to keep an eye on the canner.
While the last batch is processing, pour a glass of wine, and blog.
Almost done…just a few more jars in the canner.
Pull the last batch out of the canner at 9.30 pm.
Go to bed and dream of all the wonderful canned summertime lined up in jars in the kitchen, waiting for those dark winter days when everyone comes home late and hungry.
Convergence of Chocolate
A few days ago, I made chocolate mint wafers—thin, heavily chocolaty refrigerator cookies with a hint of mint extract. Two days ago, Ian made chocolate ice cream. Yesterday, I discovered a small tub of leftover ganache from last week’s cake. What could we do but put them all together?
Robinne Weiss 