Mushroom Barley Soup

Several years ago, the little hippie natural market down the street was going out of business. I must admit I wasn't terribly crushed to see it go — their prices weren't great, the in-house bakery didn't make the sort of breads and cookies I fancy, and they would never mark produce down to the half-priced bin until it was nearly in a state of active decomposition. But in addition to clearing the way for a less flawed grocery store to move in, their departure had another unexpected benefit: the Going Out of Business Sale.

I remember filling up a few bags of marked-down groceries, though all these years later I don't remember what they were. But here's what I do remember: an enormous, gallon-sized glass jar of dried porcini mushrooms.

Dried porcinis are the shortcut to deep, amazing flavor. They are also beyond expensive. So when I asked a clerk the price on the unmarked jar, I expected something ridiculous. "Um, $20?" he suggested. "But we're in our final days, so everything's half-priced. $10." I grabbed the jar, hit the checkout, and ran home before anyone reconsidered.

It's a deal so good I kinda feel a bit guilty. And it was quite the haul — although the dwindling supply has been transferred to smaller and smaller jars over the years, I'm still making my way through them. But that's okay. Because I can just keep making mushroom barley soup.  

Like many with roots in Eastern Europe, I grew up with mushroom barley soup. It's hearty, delicious, and perfect for these blustery days. This recipe comes from the lovely Zingerman's deli, and uses the dried porcinis to add some fusty oomph to the sliced fresh mushrooms. I upped the vegetable component, because that's what I do, and even stirred in a few ribbons of tender baby collards. Even if you don't have your own stash of dried porcinis, it's still likely a good soup. But with them, it's even better.

Mushroom Barley Soup

adapted from Zingerman's Deli, via Joan Nathan's Jewish Cooking in America
yields one enormous pot of soup (which also freezes well)

1/4 cup dried porcini mushrooms  
2 tablespoons butter, oil or margarine

1 large onion, diced
2 ribs celery with leaves, diced  
1/4 cup parsley (I swapped this out with a few leaves of young collards, as I love me some greens) 

2-3 carrots, peeled and diced  
3 cloves garlic, chopped  
1 pound fresh mushrooms (buttons or criminis), thickly sliced
1 tablespoon flour  
2 quarts broth or water  
1 cup whole barley  
bay leaf
salt

Bring a kettle of water to a boil. Place your dried porcinis in a small heat-proof bowl, and pour the hot water over them to cover completely. Let soak half an hour. Swish out any dirt from the dried mushrooms, transfer to a cutting board, and pour the soaking liquid through a coffee filter or cheesecloth. Reserve this mushroom liquid. Coarsely chop the dried mushrooms, and reserve those as well.

Melt the butter or oil in a large soup pot over a medium heat. Add the onion, celery, half the parsley, carrots, and garlic. Add a pinch of salt and saute, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened but not colored, ~5-7 minutes. Add the mushrooms, and cook until they give off their liquid and soften, another ~7 minutes. (If your pot isn't huge, you can split this process into two pots, and then combine at this point.)

When the mushrooms have softened, sprinkle on the flour, and stir until for a few minutes, until the mixture is well combined and beginning to thicken. Gradually add the broth or water, a cup or so at a time at first, stirring and raising the heat until it begins to simmer. Add all of the liquid, along with the reserved mushrooms and their liquid, and they bay leaf and barley. Stir well, add salt to taste.

Simmer, partially covered, stirring every now and then, for at least an hour, until the barley is tender and the soup is delicious (if you're a hippie like me and want to use some kale or collards, add them in for the last 15 minutes or so).  Remove the bay leaf, add the remaining chopped parsley, adjust seasonings and serve.

Late Summer Matzoh Ball Soup

There are so many little niceties that fall by the wayside of modern life. But really, they only take a few minutes, and they can turn someone's day around. Get-well cards. Sickbed food deliveries. And don't get me started on thank-you notes. Do I sound like a grandma? Well, let me make you a pot of soup.

I can get as wrapped up in my busy life as the next person. But lately, I've been trying to step up in these little ways. I happened to have a get-well card on hand the other day (because I could not resist a letterpressed illustration of a dog in the Cone of Shame), and so it just took a few minutes to write a note to a friend who broke her ankle (also, Portland has overnight local mail delivery, which always seems like something of a modern miracle). Then the other day, a friend posted that he had a miserably high fever (he described his state as 'writhing'). And since this is a friend who's helped me out many times, I couldn't sit back. So I channeled my inner grandmother, and made up some matzoh ball soup.

But there was one complication — despite what the calendar may say, summer is still kind of in effect. And, in the midst of hot, sunny days, a bowl full of my usual dill-and-garlic, parsnip-filled standard just seemed a bit too much. So when sickbed duty called, I gave matzoh ball soup a summer update. And it turns out to be delicious.

I threw my frozen bag of vegetable trimmings in the stockpot, with a few additions and subtractions to create a sunny broth heavy on the carrots, garlic and parsley. Then I shaved the kernels off a few ears of corn, and threw the cobs in to simmer as well. I used my standard matzoh ball recipe (also grandparental in origin), but gave it a similar summer update with a mix of chopped fresh parsley, dill and basil. I kept the simmered carrots for a bit of depth, but rounded the soup out with those oh-so-summer corn kernels, and a few halved sungold tomatoes, both floated in the soup right before serving. And then topped the whole summery mess with another dose of those fresh herbs.

The resulting hybrid is clearly matzoh ball soup, full of all that healing goodness. But it's lighter and brighter, perfect for a warm sickbed evening. My grandmother would be proud.

And speaking of trying to be half the people our grandparents were, I recently produced a radio story about learning to be a man in prison (and beyond). You can take a listen over at NPR.

Late Summer Matzoh Ball Soup

yields 1 generous sickbed delivery, plus a few bowls for yourself

Matzoh Balls:
5 eggs
1/2 cup neutral oil, like canola
~3/4-1+ cups matzoh meal
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
~2 teaspoons salt
pepper
a handful each chopped fresh parsley, dill, and basil

To Finish:
~2 quarts broth (homemade is nice, but if you've got a premade broth you can simmer it with the peelings from your carrots, a few garlic cloves, and the corncobs)
3 carrots, peeled and sliced into coins
corn shaved off of 2 ears
~12 sungold tomatoes, halved
a handful each chopped fresh parsley, dill and basil, mixed together

To make the matzoh balls: Whisk together the eggs and oil. Add as much matzoh meal as needed to make a texture somewhat like thick mud — you want it to have some body, but not thick enough to even mound on a spoon (the mixture will firm up upon standing). Stir in the baking powder, salt, pepper, and chopped herbs. Taste, and adjust seasonings as needed (it should be fairly salty). Chill for at least 10-15 minutes.

While the matzoh ball mixture is chilling, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Check the chilled mixture — if it's not firm enough to just scoop after resting, add more matzoh meal, and let rest a bit longer. Shape matzoh balls of your desired size with a small ice-cream scoop, two oiled spoons, or oiled hands, and plop them directly in the simmering water. Turn the heat down just enough to maintain a simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally to rotate, for at least 30 minutes. They're done when you can cut them open to reveal a ball that's fully cooked through. When done, turn off the pot, and let them cool in the water.

While the balls are resting/cooking, pot the carrot coins in a small pot, and add water to cover by a few inches. Bring to a boil, and reduce heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Cook until fully tender, ~20 minutes. Let cool.

To serve, add the carrots (and their delicious cooking liquid!) to the broth. Remove the matzah balls with a slotted spoon, and add to the broth. Heat everything up, and add the corn and tomatoes (just a small bit for each person) for the final minute or so, until just heated through. Ladle into bowls, and top each serving with a smattering of fresh herbs. If you're bringing this as a sickbed delivery, it's best to package the tomatoes and corn together, and the fresh herbs in a separate parcel as well, so that they each can be added later to preserve their fresh taste.

Chilled Cantaloupe Soup with Poached Shrimp

The heat continues! Temperate Portland has been in the 90s for weeks. Weeks! Yes, there are hotter places in the world. But for us, this is far from our usual no-need-for-air-conditioning state of affairs. I realize that even a functional planet has cycles and oscillations and all that, but it's hard not to feel like we're on a march toward some sweaty inevitable crash course with the sun. Or perhaps I'm being dramatic? I can't tell. It's hard to think straight, what with all this heat.

So yes, the world does seem to be on a path that ends in fire. But, on the bright side, I've rediscovered cold soups.

Now this may seem a strange combination. But it's not too far from gazpacho, a similarly sweet-savory blend of cooling summer produce. Also, it's dead simple, one of those dishes whose flavor and wow factor far exceeds the effort involved. Basically it looks like this: cantaloupe, cucumber, and a touch of onion get tossed in the blender, seasoned and smoothed with olive oil and vinegar. Then poached shrimp are tossed on top, and the whole thing is finished with a sprinkling of olive oil and chives. What more do you need? And, more importantly, on these tropical days, what more do you have the energy for?

Chilled Cantaloupe Soup with Poached Shrimp

adapted from A Day That is Dessert (thanks!)
yields ~4 cups, as small appetizer-y servings

1 small cantaloupe melon (or one large one, with about 1/3 reserved for snacking), ripe and fragrant
1 small cucumber or 1/2 large cucumber, peeled and roughly chopped
1-2 tablespoons chopped onion
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
salt and white pepper
~12 small or medium-sized shrimp (either standard or salad shrimp will work — I used a small bag of frozen spot prawns)
a small handful of chives, minced

To make the soup: Place the melon, cucumber, the smaller amount of onion, olive oil, and vinegar in a blender, along with a splash of water. Process until smooth. Add salt and pepper to taste, and adjust seasonings as needed, adding remaining onion if desired. Process again to blend, and add additional water if needed to create a smooth soup. Set aside in the refrigerator to chill while you prepare the shrimp.

To poach the shrimp: Bring a small pot of heavily salted water to a boil (I also like to throw in a pinch of sugar as well). When it's boiling, add the shrimp, then turn off the heat and cover the pot. Let sit until the shrimp turn opaque and pink, ~5 minutes (it will be more or less depending upon the size). While they're sitting, prepare a bowl of ice water, and when they're ready, drain the shrimp, and slip them in the ice water to stop the cooking. Peel the shrimp from their shells. If the shrimp are large, you can chop them, but if they're smaller you can leave them whole.

To serve, pour out a small cup of soup, and top with a portion of shrimp. Scatter on a drizzle of olive oil and some chives, and serve.

Chickpea and Kale Soup

In a lot of ways I am a big hippie. I store my bulk-bought rice in cleaned-out tomato sauce jars (poured through my trusty metal canning funnel, no less), and I sleep under a threadbare quilt stitched together from old fabric samples. But when it comes to food, hippies and I have some issues. Sure, I have eaten my share of tofu and tempeh. But there are so many areas where hippies are dead wrong. Like telling you that nutritional yeast is an acceptable substitute for grated cheese. And insisting that you should never, ever salt your dried beans until they're finished cooking.

A recent article helped bust open this hippie myth for me. Cooking beans with salt is my new favorite thing. And not just cooking them with salt — soaking them with salt. Although the good old hippie cookbooks warn that salt toughens bean skins, it's actually quite the opposite — advance salting helps soften bean skins, yielding beans that cook up evenly, consistently, and, most importantly, full of flavor.

Recently I put this newfound briny knowledge to good use by cooking up some chickpeas for a delicious soup. After a salty soak, beans are simmered with a bunch of aromatics and a glug of olive oil (and a bit more salt). A few of them are pureed with the two full bunches of kale, which yields a ridiculously green and flavorful base, and the rest of the beans bob along in the broth. It's clean yet satisfying, full of bright green flavor but also a protein-rich depth. So what turns such a simple preparation into one of the best soups I've tasted? Is it the kale? The olive oil (toned down from the original 1 1/2+ cups called for, but still)? Or is it the salt?

Chickpea and Kale Soup

adapted from Franny's: Simple Seasonal Italian
yields ~8 servings

2 cups dried chickpeas
1 carrot, peeled and cut into large chunks
1 celery stalk, cut into large chunks
1 onion, peeled and halved
11 garlic cloves
5 strips lemon peel
1 rosemary sprig
1 tablespoon kosher salt, or more to taste
3 quarts water
~1/2 cup olive oil (this is toned way down — if you want the full effect, throw in a full cup with the cooking beans)
¼ teaspoon  dried chili flakes
2 bunches Tuscan kale
Freshly cracked black pepper
Lemon wedges
Finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Place the chickpeas in a large bowl and cover with plenty of water and a hefty spoonful of salt. Let soak for 8 hours or overnight, then drain.

Wrap the carrot, celery, onion, 3 garlic cloves, the lemon peel, and rosemary in a large square of cheesecloth and secure with kitchen twine or a tight knot. Place in a large pot with the soaked and drained chickpeas, the additional salt, the water, and 1/4 cup of the olive oil (alternately, if you don't want to deal with cheesecloth, you can just float all the aromatics in the broth, and fish them out later). Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer until the chickpeas are tender, about an hour. Add more water if needed to cover.

While the chickpeas are cooking, finely chop the remaining 8 garlic cloves. In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons olive oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and chili flakes and cook until the garlic is fragrant but not golden, about 1 minute. Remove from the heat, and transfer the garlic to a blender or food processor.

Remove the center ribs from the kale (or not, if they're not too fibrous) and coarsely chop the leaves. In the same skillet you used for the garlic, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over a medium-high heat. Add enough kale to fill the skillet, and cook, tossing, occasionally, until tender (~3 minutes). Remove, and transfer to the blender or food processor with the garlic. Repeat with the remaining batches of kale until it's all cooked, adding more oil to the pan if needed.

When the chickpeas are cooked, add 2 cups of them to the blender along with the kale and garlic, and a cup or so of cooking liquid. Puree until smooth. Return the puree to the pot and cook over medium-high heat until hot. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Ladle the soup into bowls. Finish with a squeeze of lemon and some grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.

Chanterelle Chowder

I have been a good forager (or, if you will, scrounger) since an early age, impressing my fellow elementary schoolers with my ability to identify (and consume) onion grass on the playground. Or perhaps they weren't really all that impressed. Regardless, I love me a good free-growing meal. And such meals are easy to find here in Oregon, where persimmons, pears, figs and grapes can all be found within a single city block. But I must make a confession: when it comes to mushrooms, I stick to the markets.

I know, I know, that identifying mushrooms can be safely done with a wee bit of training, and a false morel doesn't really look much like its non-toxic cousin. But still. It'd be hard to tell the difference between the I-just-poisoned-myself-with-toxic-mushrooms stomachache, and the I'm-nervous-that-I-just-poisoned-myself-with-toxic-mushrooms stomachache. As someone who manages to spectacularly injure herself on a fairly regular basis (and is still waiting out the scabs from steering a bicycle directly into the lightrail tracks), I'm content to sacrifice my Northwesty cred and forgo the mushroom foraging trips. Which is something of a bummer, as I do love mushrooms. Well, mostly I love chanterelles.

These trumpet-shaped golden mushrooms are Oregon's crowning glory, poking through the pine needles as the rains roll in. But luckily, even at the grocery store they're not prohibitively expensive, especially now during high season. And a little goes a long way. Especially when you stir them into a rich autumn chowder.

This chanterelle chowder is fall perfection. Just a simple base of leeks and fennel, with a shot of booze and thyme and comforting glug of cream. But mostly, it's all about the chanterelles. And they do not disappoint. Meaty and rich, yet delicately tender. Even if you didn't pick them yourself.

And speaking of harvesting the fruits of the Northwest, I recently looked into the agricultural labor shortages that have been plaguing the region (and the country). You can hear my story about Northwest pears harvesters over at NPR.

Chanterelle Chowder

Inspired by the chanterelle chowder with bacon and corn on Not Without Salt, but, as you can tell by the absence of two of the three titular ingredients, tweaked a good bit.
serves ~6

2 tablespoons butter
1 large leek, sliced and washed

1 bulb fennel, finely diced

3 garlic cloves, sliced

1 scant teaspoon fresh thyme leaves

~2 cups chanterelle mushrooms, cleaned and torn into bite-sized pieces

1/2 cup sherry or white wine

2 1/2 cups broth

1 large yellow potato, cut into a 1/2-inch dice (swapping celery root would also be nice)

3/4 cup cream

salt and pepper

fresh lemon juice and fresh dill fronds for serving

Heat a soup pot over a medium heat, and melt the butter. Add the leeks and a pinch of salt, simmer for about 5 minutes until starting to soften, then add the fennel and garlic, and saute a few minutes more, until everything is well softened.

Turn up the heat to medium-high, and add the thyme and chanterelle. Cook until the liquid comes out and cooks off, and the mushrooms caramelize in parts, ~5-7 minutes. Add the sherry or wine, simmer a minute to cook off the alcohol, then add the stock and potato. Bring to a simmer, and cook until the potatoes are tender, ~15 minutes.

When the soup is done, add the cream, let heat through, and turn off the heat. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve, topping each portion with a squeeze of lemon to brighten the flavors, and a few fronds of fresh dill.

Noodle Soup with Salmon and Udon

It seems that the New Year often starts with a cold. We've been traveling and celebrating, and somewhere between the late nights and airplane germs, it catches up. I wisely decided to get my illness out of the way earlier in December, but many of those around me are snuffling through this first week of January. Which means soup.

I've already simmered and delivered a big pot of matzo ball soup this week, so I decided to try something a little different. We had a package of deliciously thick and chewy udon noodles in the fridge, after I stopped by an Asian market on the way home from the DMV (In related news, who steals people's registration stickers off their license plates?). There was some leftover baked salmon from a delicious Sunday Roast (more on that soon), and a few lonely scallions in the planter box outside. I briefly flirted with cooking up a proper Japanese dashi broth (there may be some kelp and bonito flakes knocking around the cupboard somewhere), but decided instead to go with a simple sunny vegetable broth, bolstered with a bit of garlic and ginger for some seasoning and magical healing properties. Add in a handful of fresh spinach, and it's perfect.

Although I am still a fan of the long-simmered soup, this clean, simple, and near-instant option is nice to have in the arsenal. I aim to share some with a recovering friend, and slurp up the rest to fend off whatever else is going around (as well as fortify me against tomorrow's terrifying forecast of "ice pellets"). Here's hoping 2013 is a healthy and delicious one for all of us.

Noodle Soup with Salmon and Udon

serves 4

This is a fairly basic brothy template, easily adapted to whatever you may have on hand. I almost feel silly writing it up.

6 cups vegetable broth
1 inch ginger, scrubbed or peeled and cut into coins
4 cloves garlic, sliced
1/2 pound udon noodles (these can be found in the refrigerated section of Asian markets)
several handfuls fresh spinach, washed and trimmed of tough stems
1 cup cooked and flaked salmon
1 scallion, thinly sliced
1 handful cilantro leaves
sesame oil and/or hot sauce, to garnish

Place the broth, ginger, and garlic in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer ~20 minutes, to cook the garlic and infuse the broth with the ginger.

While the broth simmers, heat a large pot of water, and cook the udon noodles according to package directions (or, if your package has no directions, until done). Dump into a colander, and rinse to keep them from clumping.

Ladle out a tangle of noodles into each bowl, and top with a handful of spinach and salmon. Pour some of the hot broth and garlic (but not the inedible ginger) over the top, heating and wilting everything deliciously. Garnish with scallion and cilantro, and top with a few drops sesame oil and/or hot sauce, if desired. Slurp.

Couscous Salad with Spinach, Feta, Cherry Tomatoes and Herbs

Sometimes I'm all over the perfect dish for the season, anticipating things a few weeks out. These past few weeks I've been chafing at the bit with a lovely concord grape recipe, calling a circuit of grocery stores every few days to ask Are they in yet? How about tomorrow? Maybe Monday? I'm surprised the produce departments keep answering the phone. But other times, well -- not so much. And so, as the cold and windy rains roll into Portland, I present to you the perfect picnic dish. On the bright side, it'll still be good for Autumnal potlucks.

As I've mentioned before, I'm a sucker for the combination of spinach and feta. But instead of a warm and uber-cheesy casserole, this is a light, herb-studded couscous salad (even healthier if you, like me, go with whole wheat couscous), with bright and juicy cherry tomatoes offsetting the small amount of briny feta. The spinach is just slightly wilted enough to be manageable and allow you to stuff copious amounts of it into the finished salad (using the residual heat of the couscous along with the old Mediterranean trick of rubbing it with salt), but it's still bright green and fresh-tasting. Thanks to a sweep at the farmer's market I used a combination of fresh basil, dill, parsley and mint, but it would be good with a few handfuls of whatever fresh herbs you have.

And speaking of things you think of just in the nick of time, here's an article about matzo ball soup, in honor of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year that begins tomorrow night. Perhaps getting a bit more on top of things will be one of my resolutions.

Couscous Salad with Spinach, Feta, Cherry Tomatoes and Herbs

makes a sizable picnic or potluck contribution, or serves ~6 as a light main dish

2 1/2  cups water or broth
2 cups whole wheat couscous
~1/4 cup olive oil, divided
1 bunch spinach, washed and chopped fairly small
3 scallions, thinly-sliced
1 large handful fresh dill, chopped
1 large handful fresh parsley, chopped
1 large handful fresh mint, chopped
1 small handful fresh mint, chopped
juice of 1 lemon
scant 1/4 cup crumbled feta
1/2 pint cherry tomatoes (I'm currently obsessed with sungolds), halved, or quartered if they're large
salt and pepper

Heat the water or broth (salt it if you're using water) to a boil in a pot. Add the couscous and a dollop of olive oil. Stir and bring it back to a boil, then turn off the flame and let sit, covered, for five minutes.

While the couscous is sitting, place the spinach in a large bowl. Sprinkle it with a bit of salt, then scrunch it in your hands to distribute the salt and cause the spinach to wilt slightly. Top with the scallions.

When the couscous is done, fluff it with a fork, and tip it on top of the spinach and the scallions, letting the heat of the couscous soften the greens. Let sit a few minutes while you chop the remaining fresh herbs.

After the couscous has sat for a few minutes, add the remaining herbs along with the remaining olive oil and the lemon juice. Toss, mixing the ingredients well (which will also cool off the couscous a bit). Add the feta, cherry tomatoes and a few grinds of pepper, and toss gently to combine. Taste and adjust seasonings and olive oil/lemon juice balance as needed. Serve warm or cold.

Creamy (or not) Carrot Fennel Soup

At various times in my office-bound life, I have been part of lunch collectives. I got the idea several years ago, when I was working at NYU and watched some of the grad students in a neighboring lab try to save their meager grad student wages by having lunch together every week. Each day, one student took a turn bringing in food for the group, and then the five of them would cycle through again the next week. Cooking for five twenty-something mouths is definitely a big undertaking. But when you average it over the week, you ultimately end up cooking less, saving money, and eating better.

In years since, I've brought this practice to bear in a couple of my workplaces. Usually it's been limited to once or twice a week, to accommodate varying schedules and available leftovers. But it's still a win-win proposition: after establishing the initial ground rules (various food allergies, restrictions, and common definitions of healthy food (we end up being fond of both fruits, vegetables and butterfat)), you sit down with your coworkers to enjoy a delicious glimpse into someone else's kitchen. Even if the meal is nothing more than a homemade soup and salad, it's still miles better than the greasy takeout options in walking distance. But for me, really, it comes down to something else: an excuse to indulge in some dairy.

Living with a someone who's lactose intolerant, I'm probably much healthier than I would be if left to my own devices. But I'm also left with a powerful craving for cream. Last week I made this soup for lunch club, which fulfills both dietary preferences at once: on its own, it is vegetal and lovely, with sweetly soft-cooked fennel and carrots touched with a bit of fresh orange juice. But for others (like myself and my lunch club), stirring in just the tiniest bit of sour cream gives it a lovely, complex, barely-there tang, giving its lightness a bit of balancing heft. I felt compelled to round out my lunch club contribution with a batch of broccoli-cheese knishes and some cookies (we're still in the impress-the-co-workers first round), but it would be lovely on its own, with just a bit of crusty bread and a salad if you want.

And I must belatedly amend last week's post: I talked about a dramatic chocolate dessert, and lamented that, barring this confection, my life tends to be free of sitcom-worthy drama. But while away at the beach this weekend, I was reminded of a jaunt to a friend's parent's beachfront cottage last year, wherein one of the guests used hand dishwashing soap instead of the meant-for-machines version in the dishwasher. Acres of suds spilled across the floor. To be fair, the machine didn't walk itself across the kitchen, nor did this occur as we were frantically trying to clean up after throwing an ill-fated party while our parents were out of town. But still: drama!


Creamy (or not) Carrot Fennel Soup

tweaked from Amanda Hesser in The New York Times
yields 2 quarts

2 Tbsp olive oil
2 medium fennel bulbs, washed and thinly-sliced
3 lbs carrots, peeled and sliced into fat coins
2 cloves garlic, thickly sliced
~ 6 cups water or stock (or half of each) - honestly I forgot to measure this ingredient, and details on freestyling are below
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup fresh-squeezed orange juice
dash maple syrup
1/4 cup sour cream
salt and white pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a large soup pot over a medium flame. Add the fennel, carrots and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until they soften and just start to color (~10-20 minutes, depending on how large your pot is). Add the water/stock until it just covers the vegetables. Bring to a boil, and then lower the heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Simmer uncovered until the carrots are meltingly tender, ~45 minutes. Longer doesn't hurt.

Let the soup cool slightly, and puree in batches (I prefer it just shy of smooth). Place it back in the pot, and add additional broth/water as needed to get a nice consistency. Add the orange juice, maple syrup, sour cream, and salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.

Vegetarian Wontons

There are days, especially when deadlines are piling up, that I try to minimize my kitchen time. I give myself license to get take-out burritos, eat insta-meals, or thaw a container of soup that I tucked in the freezer and forgot months ago (hello, borscht!). And then, when deadlines have been dealt with, I return to my kitchen with a vengeance. I forgo take-out burritos for handmade tortillas. I make a full batch of chocolate chip peanut butter oatmeal cookies (and eat a frightening amount of dough in the process). And I fill my freezer with vegetarian wontons.

It's always so nice to welcome back a food you thought was gone forever. Take-out Chinese food was a part of our regular dinner rotation when I was growing up, as it is for many New Yorkers. Greasy lo-mein noodles, gooey shrimp in lobster sauce, and countless cardboard containers of wonton soup. I loved wonton soup as a kid -- just a simple broth, with maybe a chunk of pork or sprinkling of scallions for accent, and then the slippery, savory dumplings -- and reluctantly said goodbye when I went vegetarian. But recently, with a package of wonton wrappers and a free evening to reconnect with my kitchen, I came up with a vegetarian version that brings back all those delicious memories.

These dumplings do take some effort, but with pre-made wrappers and an uncooked filling, they're definitely a bit easier than others of their species. The protein of your choice (I favor a chicken-style patty) is ground up, and given savory heft from soy sauce, sesame oil, and rice wine. Minced water chestnuts provide crunch (the few that I managed to not eat right out of the tin), and scallions, ginger and cilantro provide a bit of spark. As an added bonus, they freeze (uncooked) beautifully, and can be stashed away as an insta-meal for those days when you are, sadly, separated from your kitchen. Although with a freezer full of these dumplings, you really won't miss cooking much at all.

And speaking of things that have kept me from the kitchen, here's a recent article about all the many delicious savory dishes you can make from jam. I spent an afternoon with the amazing Marisa from Food in Jars, hearing about many of her delicious recipes, and sharing some of my own. If your jam-filled pantry looks anything like mine, I recommend checking it out.


Vegetarian Wontons

adapted from numerous sources and my memories of Ho Yen restaurant
yields ~4-5 dozen wontons

8 ounces faux meat (preferably chicken-style or pork-style), roughly chopped
2 stalks scallions, finely minced
1 Tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp rice wine vinegar
1/2 tsp cornstarch
1 tsp sesame oil
pinch sugar
~2 Tbsp water chestnuts, finely minced
1 handful cilantro, finely minced
1/4 tsp white pepper
1/2" minced ginger
2 Tbsp xiaoxing rice wine or sherry

1 package wonton wrappers
broth for servings
1 scallion sliced, and a handful spinach, washed and chopped (optional)

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil, and heat up broth for serving. Add spinach to broth if desired.

Place the faux meat in a food processor, and pulse until it is reduced to small bits. Turn out into a bowl, and add the remaining filling ingredients. Taste, and adjust seasonings as needed (different proteins come with different seasonings, so feel free to tweak to best season your wontons).

Open the package of wrappers, covering with a dishtowel when not using (they can dry out quickly). Grab a small dish of water with a pinch of cornstarch, and lay out a few wrappers on your work surface. Place a scant tablespoon of filling in the center of each one, and moisten the edges with your cornstarch water. Fold each wonton in half to form a triangle, pinching or pressing the edges so that they seal. If desired, take the edges of the smaller corners of the triangle, and pinch together to join. Repeat until you've formed all of your wontons. Make sure your work surface remains relatively dry, so that you don't accidentally glue down your wontons. If you would like to freeze any wontons, place a plate of them in the freezer at this stage. When par-frozen, move to a sealed container.

When your wontons are shaped, place a batch of them in the boiling water and simmer, gently, until they rise to the surface and the wrapper is cooked (it should only take a few minutes). Remove with a skimmer or slotted spoon, and repeat until they are all cooked. To serve, place a few wontons in a bowl, add the broth, and top with a few scallions.

Carrot Fennel Parsnip Soup

I don't always travel well. I try to be game for life's adventures and experiences, but more often than not find myself overcome for a powerful longing for the pleasures of home -- namely my dog and my contoured neck-supporting pillow. And fresh vegetables.

I just returned from a lovely road trip of the Southwest with my dear friend Katie and her 5-year-old son. Between hiking the true-to-its-name Grand Canyon, checking out centuries-old cliff dwellings, meeting up with old and new friends, comparing hotel fitness rooms and singing lustily along with the Glee soundtrack (whilst dodging tumbleweeds on the abandoned highways of the Texas panhandle), I barely had time to miss anything. Except vegetables.

With the exception of the chili pepper, vegetables don't seem to feature too prominently in that part of the country. A squirt of lime into my nightly cocktail ensured I wouldn't get scurvy, but some lower-on-the-food-chain options would have been nice. I was ecstatic to see a wealth of sides listed at this gem of a roadside restaurant we encountered on our last night, but discovered that pork was a fairly liberally-used condiment, and my vegetarianism ruled out the turnip greens, cabbage, green beans, and even the potatoes. Ah well. I enjoyed my catfish, and resolved to cook some veg-heavy dishes upon my return. Like this soup.

This creamy carrot-fennel-parsnip soup tastes rich and satisfying, but is really nothing more than a whole mess of vegetables cooked down and blitzed into a delicious puree. The carrots, fennel and parsnips are all both earthy and sweet, given a slight edge with a glug of white wine. It has an elegant sophistication for any dinner party, but is easy to throw together any night of the week. The loss of vegetables was a small price to pay for all that I saw the past week. But still, it's good to have them back.

Carrot Fennel Parsnip Soup

yields 1 large pot

inspired by Amanda Hesser, but rendered nearly unrecognizable through my incorrigible tweaking

2 Tbsp butter or olive oil

1 leek, cleaned and sliced in thick rings

1 bulb fennel, cut in thick slices (use it up to where the stems get fibrous)

1 large or 2 small parsnips, peeled and cut in thick slices

1 1/2 lbs carrots, cut in thick slices

1 clove garlic, thinly sliced

1/2 cup white wine

~6 cups vegetable broth

salt and white pepper to taste

Melt the butter (or heat the oil) in a pot over a medium high flame. Add all of the vegetables, and stir occasionally for several minutes until they begin to lightly caramelize on the outside. Add the white wine, and allow to boil off for a minute. Add enough broth to cover by an inch or two, raise the heat until it comes to a boil, and then reduce the heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Cover and simmer until everything is very tender, ~half an hour. Puree in batches in a food processor or blender (I like a nice smooth puree, but feel free to leave it chunky if you prefer). Return to a pot, add additional broth as needed to get a nice soup consistency, and adjust seasonings to taste.

Kreplach Redux

It seems I've been somewhat remiss this Rosh Hashanah. Yes, I told you about a galette that played on the traditional flavors of the holiday, mixing crisp apples with rosemary-infused honey. But I somehow forgot to tell you about my kreplach. I wrote about kreplach here last year, when I first figured out how to make the lovely wonton-like packages on my own (thanks, egullet!). But last week I ran a story in our paper plumbing the history, significance and technique behind this delicious-yet-unfortunately-named dumping, and somehow I forgot to tell you all about it. Oops! I'm atoning for it now -- you can follow the link and read the details in The Oregonian.

Acorda (Portuguese Cilantro Bread Soup)

The majesty and impact of some images can be difficult to capture on film (or its digital equivalent). The soul-stirring drama of a sunset, for example. The misty rush of a waterfall. Or, in this case, cilantro soup. This soup, loosely adapted from a Portuguese recipe by the lovely Tea and Cookies, tastes like spring itself. It's kind of unfortunate that the picture looks like a bowl of mulch.

If you can't trust the image, trust me: this soup has a brothy, herbal lightness, but also a depth of flavor from the leeks and hefty dose of garlic. And two secret weapons: a crusty slice of garlic-rubbed toast at the bottom of the bowl, and a poached egg on top. If you, like me, are thinking that a slice of soggy bread doesn't sound like the most awesome idea, I ask you to think again. It's lovely. The original recipe called for white beans, but I opted for a can of the similarly-Iberian garbanzos. It's sort of like the best of garlic bread, soup and salad all in one bowl.


Acorda (Portuguese Cilantro Bread Soup)

adapted from Tea and Cookies, as inspired by San Francisco Magazine

serves 4

2 Tbsp olive oil
3 leeks, washed, dried and chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced, plus 2 whole cloves
8 cups stock (vegetable or chicken)
1 bunch chard, washed, dried and coarsely chopped
1 can garbanzos or white beans, rinsed and drained
~2 cups cilantro, washed, dried and coarsely chopped
4 large or 8 small slices peasant-style crusty bread
salt and pepper
4 eggs

In a large pot, heat the olive oil over a medium flame. Add the leeks and a pinch of salt, and saute until softened. Add the minced garlic, and saute until the garlic is soft but not brown. Add 6 cups of the stock, the chard, and the beans. Bring to a gentle simmer, and cook for a few minutes to soften the chard.

While the soup is simmering, puree the cilantro with the remaining stock in a food processor until it's fairly smooth. Pour this into the pot, continue to simmer to blend flavors.

While the soup is on its final simmer, Bring a pot of water to boil to poach the eggs. In the meanwhile, toast the sliced bread until lightly browned. Take the remaining whole garlic cloves and run them over the toasted sides (toasted bread does a remarkably good job of grating the garlic into a fine paste to coat). Place a slice of toasted garlic bread at the bottom of each of 4 bowls.

Poach the eggs in the boiling water (if you're not an experienced poacher (hee), you can find a nice tutorial here). Season the soup to taste, and ladle a serving over each bread-filled bowl. Top with a poached egg and serve.

Tom Kha (Thai Hot & Sour Coconut Milk Soup)

I'm generally something of a wuss when it comes to chili-spiced food. I like complex seasonings, sure. But too much heat, and I start to break a sweat and grab for the water glass (I've heard that dairy is a better foil for the volatile oils, but water's usually closer). I think there might be an actual physiological component to my wussiness, as my lips often redden and swell to pouty bee-stung proportions. Whatever the reason, I'm not one to prove my machismo when it comes to chili-eating. But there are some exceptions.

Well, maybe one exception: tom kha soup. This Thai recipe is a ridiculously herbal-fragrant hot-sour soup, with a coconut milk background. It's sour from lime juice, sweet and creamy from coconut milk, salty and pungent with fish sauce, and piquant with lemongrass, galanga root and lime leaves. And in addition to that, it's spicy. Breaking-a-sweat spicy, cutting-through-congestion spicy. Somehow, in this context, I can't get enough. (A big scoop of rice to balance this out doesn't hurt either.)

The chili heat I use in this soup is Nam Prik Pao, a sweet and spicy paste made with dried pods that are toasted, soaked, and blended with ingredients like garlic, shallots, and dried shrimp. It can be so intense that neighbors called the cops on a London Thai joint that was cooking up a batch, mistaking the chili fumes for a chemical attack. Seriously. But in Tom Kha, it's well balanced by the other ingredients. If you don't have Nam Prik Pao, you can substitute some red Thai curry paste, or other asian chili paste, to good effect. The most distinctive element of the soup's taste comes from the galanga root, an Asian rhizome with a difficult-to-describe lemon-ginger-piney flavor. You can substitute standard ginger, but this one's worth seeking out.

I realize that this recipe may seem somewhat daunting: the ingredients are unfamiliar to many cooks, and the amounts are very imprecise. But these obstacles can be easily overcome. The galanga root, lime leaves, and lemongrass can be easily found at most Asian markets, and can be stored in your freezer until you make the soup again (and you will want to make it again). As for the amounts called for, you're going to want to play around with these to your taste. Chili pastes vary in heat levels, just as individual palates vary in heat acceptance. Some love the funk of fish sauce (me!), while others might just want a salty whiff. As a general rule, I find that the final seasoning of lime juice/fish sauce/chili paste should be tinkered with delicately, tasting as you go. But as for the lime leaves, galanga, and lemongrass that form the basis of the broth? Those are pretty much impossible to overdo.

Tom Kha

adapted from a combination of several sources, including the Tom Kha Goong from The Asian Grandmother's Cookbook blog, the Tom Kha Gai from Chez Pim, and a recipe from a Minneapolis restaurant I learned many years ago at the Carleton College Tofu Festival

serves 6

4 cups stock (vegetable or shrimp)
1 large handful kaffir lime leaves
4" chunk galanga root, hacked into thick slices if possible
4 stalks lemongrass, peeled of tough outer layers, cut into chunks and whacked with knife to bruise
1 can coconut milk
juice of 2-3 limes
2-4 Tbsp fish sauce
1-4 Tbsp Thai roasted chili paste (Nam Prik Pao), or other Thai chili paste or red curry paste
1 pinch-1 Tbsp sugar
1/2 lb mushrooms, sliced in halves or quarters, depending upon size
1/2 head cauliflower, broken into florets
2 small broccoli crowns, broken into florets
3 shallots or 1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 cup grape or cherry tomatoes, if it's the season
1 large handful mint leaves (optional, but nice)
1 lb shrimp, peeled
1/4 cup cilantro leaves, coarsley chopped

rice for serving (preferably sticky rice or jasmine rice)

In a large soup pot, combine the stock with the lime leaves, galanga root, and lemongrass. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat until it's just enough to maintain a simmer. Simmer for 30 minutes to infuse the broth with the flavorings.

After 30 minutes, pour in the can of coconut milk. Add the lime juice, fish sauce, chili paste, and sugar, starting with the smaller amounts and tasting until you like the balance of hot, sour, salty and sweet flavors. The soup will be served with rice, so you can go a little heavier with the heat than you might otherwise. Add the mushrooms, cauliflower, and broccoli, and simmer for a couple of minutes, until a little shy of tender-crisp. Add the shallots or red onion, tomatoes (if using), and mint leaves, simmering another minute or two until the vegetables are just shy of done. Add the shrimp, and cook another minute until pink (they'll continue to cook in the residual heat, so err on the side of underdone). Turn off the heat.

Taste again to finally adjust the seasonings, add more lime juice, fish sauce or chili paste if needed. The inedible lime leaves, galanga root and lemongrass can be fished out, or left in to further infuse (just make sure diners know to set them aside as they eat). Serve in bowls with rice, topped with the fresh cilantro.

Manny's Matzoh Balls

My grandpa Manny owned a series of Jewish delis, in New York and New Jersey. I'm not sure exactly when he sold the last one and finally retired, but I definitely had a few years of childhood deli visits. I'd love to say that I remember slurping matzoh ball soup at the counter, but I don't. Most of my memories of the deli are full of the things that most interest a little kid -- playing with the carbon paper on the waiters' order pads, squirting drinks from the magic soda fountain, and stuffing my cheeks full puckeringly sour-salty pickled green tomatoes. Matzoh ball soup was something we made at home.

But even at home, we'd use my grandpa's deli recipe for matzoh balls. And we used it all the time. Matzoh ball soup wasn't just trotted out at the Jewish holidays -- it was the default chicken soup whenever someone was sick, or needed warming up, or just happened to have brought home some fresh dill. I've made it so many times that it no longer conjures up singular childhood memories -- it's hard to be nostalgic over something you've eaten a half dozen times in the last six months. Even so, it's still my go-to comfort food.

A good recipe is an important first step in good matzoh balls. But, ultimately, the end product is more of an art than a science. Eggs vary in size and absorption, and individual tastes vary between craving featherlight "floaters" or toothsome "sinkers." I favor something in between. It might take a few tries to find the perfect matzoh ball for you. But it's a pretty delicious process.


Manny's Matzoh Balls

adapted from Emanuel Prichep

yields enough balls for a large pot of soup

5 eggs
1/2 cup neutral oil, like canola
~3/4-1+ cups matzoh meal
1/2 tsp baking powder
~1 tsp salt
pepper
a handful chopped parsley

Whisk together the eggs and oil. Add as much matzoh meal as needed to make a texture somewhat like thick mud -- you want it to be just a bit too soft to mound on a spoon. If you favor firmer matzoh balls, add enough matzoh meal so that it is almost scoopable. The mixture will firm up upon standing. Stir in the baking powder, salt, pepper, and chopped parsley. Taste, and adjust seasonings as needed (it should be fairly salty). Chill for 10 minutes.

While the matzoh ball mixture is chilling, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Check the chilled mixture -- if it's not firm enough to just scoop after resting, add more matzoh meal. Shape matzoh balls of your desired size with a small ice-cream scoop, two oiled spoons, or oiled hands, and plop them directly in the simmering water. Turn the heat down just enough to maintain a simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally to rotate, for at least 30 minutes. Take a ball out of the pot and cut open, checking to see if the center is fully cooked, and no longer of a discernably different texture. Scoop out into a bowl, top with broth (preferably with carrots, parsnips and a bit of fresh dill), and serve.

Marmitako (Basque Potato Tuna Soup)

The words "summer soup" conjure up different pictures in different parts of the world. In some places, it's a chilled and dilled borscht. In others, a cooling, smoothie-like mix of fruit and dairy. And in the Basque Country, it is a simmering stew of potatoes and tuna.

Okay, I know this sounds like the last thing you'd want on a hot day. But the timing makes some bit of sense: summer brings the new potato harvest, as well as the annual tuna run. Even so, it's not quite what I look for on a sunny afternoon. But on chilly winter nights, like the ones we've been having recently, it's perfect.

Every coastal region seems to have its own version of fish stew, from a rustic chowder to a layered boulliabaisse. Marmitako is on the surface a simple soup, but has a surprisingly satisfying depth. The aromatics and potatoes are cooked together for well over an hour to develop the flavors, and the tuna is stirred in at the end to add a briny note without becoming overcooked.

Marmitako was traditionally made right on the tuna boats themselves, simmering the day's catch with potatoes that had been brought on board. It can take many forms, some using dried peppers, others with onions or tomatoes. This particular version was adapted by my friend Iñaki, who's been schooling me in Basque cuisine for the past few months. He's sadly heading back home next week, and shared this recipe during our final cooking session. It's a hell of a parting gift.


Marmitako

as adapted by Iñaki Guridi

yields one large pot

As with the Basque soup porrusalda, the potatoes aren't cut with a knife, but broken into rough-edged pieces that release more starch to thicken the soup. To do this, slide a paring knife halfway through a peeled potato, about 1.5" down. Press the potato between your thumb and the knife, and twist to free a chunk roughly 1.5" square. Repeat until the whole potato is reduced to rough chunks.

2 Tbsp olive oil
1 red pepper, finely diced
3 cloves garlic, finely minced
6 medium (or 4 large) waxy red or yellow potatoes, peeled and broken into chunks (see above)
2 Tbsp tomato paste
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 1/2 lb fresh tuna (albacore, if possible), cut into 1" cubes
salt and pepper

Heat the 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large soup pot over medium heat. Add the pepper, garlic and potatoes, and saute for several minutes, until the pepper and garlic have softened. Add the tomato paste, and enough water to cover everything by about 2". Season with salt, bring to a boil, and simmer, covered, for at least an hour and a half, until quite tender and flavorful.

When the soup is about 20 minutes from being done, heat the remaining tablespoon olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the tuna, season liberally with salt, and saute for 3-5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until firm but not fully cooked. Add the cubes to the soup pot, and simmer gently for another 15 minutes to meld the flavors.

Turkish Red Lentil Soup

If I needed to describe the lentil soup of my youth in one word, it would probably be brown. Brown lentils, a few aromatics and stewed tomatoes, and just a smattering of vegetables. I've learned to add a bit more interest to the Italian-style lentil soup, stirring in some kale or spinach, and a bit of vinegar at the end to lift the flavors. I still like that brown lentil soup, and make a pot every so often. But this soup, this Turkish-inspired red lentil soup -- I love it. It's made of the still-virtuous-but-less-earthy red lentils, and brightened with some warm spices and a splash of lemon juice. On the days after I have over-indulged (something that certainly happens this time of year), it's a great recovery meal. It's got fiber and vitamin-rich vegetables, and yet it's light and smooth enough to soothe ragged stomaches.

Traditional Turkish red lentil soup can take a variety of forms. Some are simple purees, while others feature sprinklings of mint or dried bulgar. My version contains rice and a handful of spices, with a heaping of carrots to lighten it and give a bit more vegetal taste. The recipe is flexible, and can be easily adapted to your tastes and pantry availability: I've stirred in a few handfuls of spinach or a sprinkling of cilantro at the end (neither terribly traditional, but both delicious), and added extra tomato paste when I didn't have a fresh tomato on hand. Once you try this, you'll want to keep some red lentils on hand to be able to make a pot whenever you like. Especially after Thanksgiving.


Turkish Red Lentil Soup

makes 1 pot

2 Tbsp olive oil
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp coriander
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp paprika
pinch cayenne (or more, if you like it spicy)
1 Tbsp tomato paste
1 tomato, small dice
1 1/2 cups red lentils
1/4 cup white rice
2 carrots, cut in 1/2" dice
6-8 cups water
salt and white pepper to taste
juice of 1 lemon, plus additional lemon wedges for serving
yogurt for serving (optional)

Heat the oil in a soup pot over a medium flame. Add the onion and garlic, and saute until softened but not browned, ~5 minutes. Add the coriander, cumin, paprika and cayenne, and stir for a few minutes to toast the spices in the hot oil. Add the tomato paste and chopped tomato, and stir to combine. Allow to cook a couple more minutes, until the tomatoes soften around the edges. Add the red lentils, rice, chopped carrots, and water (start with the smaller amount). Bring to a simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until the lentils have broken down into a rough puree, the rice has started to lose its shape, and the carrots are very soft, ~45 minutes. Add more water as it cooks, if needed.

When the soup has cooked down, season to taste with salt and pepper, and stir in the lemon juice. Serve hot, with lemon wedges and a dollop of yogurt if desired.

Porrusalda (Basque Potato Leek Soup)

There is something of a debate about cooking technique that occasionally rears its head in our house. On the one side, there is the practice of long, slow cooking. Soups and sauces are simmered for several hours, developing surprisingly deep flavors and smooth textures. On the other, there's the desire to cook fast and furious over high heat, and take the soup pot off the stove because come on it's done enough and I'm really hungry! I'm embarrassed to say that I represent the latter camp.

Whenever I manage to quiet my impatient grumbling and let something simmer for the alloted time, I'm usually floored by the results. This soup is an especially good example of the startling transformation that can be achieved through slow cooking. As in much of Basque cooking, the emphasis isn't on a handful of spices or flashy additions, but on a careful treatment of fresh vegetables. The ingredients are as humble as they come -- just a handful of root vegetables and some water -- but the resulting soup is full of flavor.

Porrusalda (Basque Potato Leek Soup)

as interpreted by Iñaki Guridi
yields one large pot

Traditionally, the potatoes aren't cut with a knife, but broken into rough-edged pieces that release more starch to thicken the soup. To do this, slide a paring knife halfway through a peeled potato, about 1.5" down. Press the potato between your thumb and the knife, and twist to free a chunk roughly 1.5" square (although, of course, it won't be square). Repeat until the whole potato is reduced to rough chunks.

2 Tbsp olive oil
1 clove garlic, sliced into thick rounds
3 waxy red or yellow potatoes, peeled and broken into chunks (see note above)
4 leeks, washed and sliced into 1" rounds
4 large (or 6 small) carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/2" rounds
water to cover
salt to taste

Heat the olive oil in a large heavy soup pot over medium heat. Add the garlic and potatoes, and saute for a few minuts. Add the leeks and carrots, and saute for another minute. Add water to cover by 1", and a bit of salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer. Simmer, covered for about 2 hours (or, ideally, longer), stirring occasionally. Season to taste with additional salt.

Spicy Vegetable Matzoh Ball Soup

There are many reasons to embark on cooking projects. But last week, as unseasonable wintery winds were whipping through the cracks in our house, I had one main motivation: to cook meals that kept the stove and oven on as long as possible. Time for slow roasting, and batches of cookies. And soup.

Matzoh ball soup has a heavy rotation in our household, especially during the winter months. The traditional version is fairly simple: dumplings in a clear dill-scented broth, with just a few carrots and parsnips and a handful of noodles. It's delicious, and especially welcomed when you've got a sore throat or some sniffles. But sometimes you want something a bit more interesting. This matzoh ball soup is chock full of vegetables and spicy with chile flakes. It's like your favorite vegetable soup, with the added bonus of some delicious dumplings.

This batch makes a huge amount (I usually split it between two pots). Feel free to halve it, if you're not feeding an army, or make the full amount and freeze some.


Spicy Vegetable Matzoh Ball Soup

adapted from a recipe developed by Gillian Rosicky, via her sister

yields two large pots

There is an ongoing debate in the matzoh ball soup community about floaters vs. sinkers: whether your dumpling is tender or toothsome. These fall on the latter side of the spectrum. I think that a more substantial matzoh ball makes a nice complement to the vegetables in this soup, but if you favor a lighter dumpling, just reduce the amount of matzoh meal by a few tablespoons.

Soup:
2-3 Tbsp olive oil
2 onions, chopped
4 shallots, minced
6 cloves garlic, minced
3-4 carrots, sliced
1 sweet potato, peeled and cut in a 1/2" dice
1/4 tsp cloves
a few hefty pinches chile flakes (depending on how hot you like it)
1 28-oz can chopped tomatoes
12 cups vegetable or chicken broth (more, if needed)
3 small zucchini, sliced into thick half-moons
8 shiitke mushrooms
2-3 cups broccoli florets
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil (optional)
salt and pepper to taste

Matzoh Balls:
3 Tbsp butter or oil
5 scallions, chopped
2 Tbsp broth
4 large eggs
1 1/2 tsp coarse salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 cup matzoh meal

Heat the oil in a medium skillet. Saute the onions, shallots, garlic, carrots and sweet potato until the onions are soft and translucent. Add the cloves and chile flakes. Pour in the broth and tomatoes, and simmer for about 15 minutes.

When you add the broth to the soup, prepare the matzoh balls: warm the butter or oil in a skillet over a medium heat, and cook the scallions until softened (this will just take a minute or two). Let cool somewhat. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs and broth with the spices, baking powder, and matzoh meal. Add the onions and their butter/oil, and chill in the refrigerator.

Return to the soup: after the onions and such have been simmering in the broth and tomatoes for 15 minutes, add the zucchini, broccoli and shiitake mushrooms. Add more broth if needed. Simmer another 15 minutes. Take the matzoh ball dough out of the refrigerator (it will have been chilling about half an hour), and shape into small 1" balls, using either a small scoop, two spoons, or your hands (use some oil to keep it from sticking if you go this route). Plop these in the simmering soup as you shape them. Simmer another 30 minutes or so, stirring occasionally. You want the matzoh balls to be light and puffy and cooked through, and the vegetables to be very tender. When the soup is done, season to taste, and top with the fresh basil.

Kreplach (aka Jewish Wontons)

My friend Sarah and I share a Jewish heritage, which can be hard to find in the Portland area (where there are more bicycle commuters than Jews). I usually end up at her house for the holidays. These tend to be table-groaning feasts, short on ceremony but long on delicious food. Most recently, these dinners have tended to be from the Sephardic tradition; the foods of Jewish populations in the Iberian Peninsula, and, post-Inquisition, Italy and North Africa. Sarah observed, "I find I like the food of Spain better than the food of Poland." After a few amazing meals full of saffron and artichokes and lemon and almonds, I'm inclined to agree with her.

But while I've enjoyed our olivey tagines and pomegranate fish and orange couscous, every now and then I get a hankering for the heavier, simpler foods of Eastern Europe. Part of it is nostalgia, memories of meals with my Russian Jewish grandparents. But part of it results from the basic charms of peasant food, the allure of what we like to call A Thing Wrapped in Dough.

Kreplach are silky, meat-filled dumpling, similar to wontons. They seem to be the very definition of village cooking, creating a delicious holiday meal out of humble ingredients. You take chicken left over from soup-making, after it's dried-out and spent. You grind it up with mashed potatoes and broth to add back in a bit of moisture, and caramelized onions to reintroduce some flavor. Then you gussy the whole thing up inside a jacket of silky-smooth dough, and float them in some chicken soup. Among Jewish families of Eastern European descent, they're traditionally eaten as part of holiday meals, usually on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Since I stopped eating chicken, I've had to say goodbye to traditional foods like this. But, amazingly, you can make vegetarian kreplach. No, really. Here's the beauty: any vegetarian knows that chicken substitutes are often a bit short on authentic flavor, and the texture's all wrong. But kreplach are built around chicken that's already been boiled in soup, and has lost its moisture and flavor. The meat is ground up, hiding any textural shortcomings. And it's mixed with caramelized onions and potatoes, adding the flavor and moisture that are usually lacking in faux-meats. We've made the chicken and vegetarian versions side-by-side, and even my friends who would sooner gnaw their own finger than try a veggie burger have declared that both versions are delicious.

A bit of warning: like any dumpling, kreplach do take some time. They're best made when you've got an empty afternoon, or an army of kitchen monkeys to help you. But they also freeze beautifully, so you can get the most out of your efforts by making several batches at once. They are most definitely worth it.

Kreplach

adapted from the amazing caterer Pamela Reiss, via a tutorial she gave on egullet
makes about 4-5 dozen dumplings

Dough:
3 cups flour
2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
1/3 cup canola oil
1-1 1/4 cups warm water

Add the dry ingredients to the bowl of a food processor or mixer, and blend until well-mixed. With the blender going, drizzle in the oil, and then the smaller amount of water. Mix until smooth. Check the consistency -- it should be soft and smooth, but not too tacky. Add the remaining water if it's not smooth enough (or more flour if it's too sticky). Place the dough in a covered container so it doesn't dry out, and allow it to relax at room temperature for least 1 hour.

Filling:
2 Tbsp oil (or rendered chicken fat)
1 small yellow onion, peeled and diced
1 small red potato, peeled and cut into chunks
1/2 lb boiled chicken (or chicken substitute, either gluten or a product made to resemble chicken breast)
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
up to 1/2 cup stock

Heat the oil (or chicken fat) in a cast iron or saute pan over a medium heat. Add the onions, and cook until well-caramelized (aka just the good side of burnt). This will take about half an hour. Turn the flame down if they're going too quickly -- a nice slow cooking will yield the best flavor.

While the onions are cooking, toss the potato chunks into a small pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil, and simmer until they're tender.

When the onion and potato are ready, put them in a food processor or meat grinder with the chicken. Process until everything is broken down into a rough puree. If you're so inclined, you can also add some of the skin from the boiled chicken, which gets chopped up and contributes a luscious richness to the finished dumplings. Mash the ground chicken and and potatoes and onions together with your hands or a wooden spoon, seasoning to taste with the salt and pepper. Add stock if needed for moistness -- you want to make sure it's not too moist, or else it will soften the dumpling dough. Add just enough stock to make it like a spreadable pate. If you use faux meat, you might not need any stock at all.

To Assemble and Cook the Kreplach:

Take the dough that's been relaxing, and roll it out on a floured countertop to a thickness of 1/4" to 1/8". With a 2-inch round cutter (or drinking glass), cut out as many circles as you can. Pull up the remaining dough scraps, and re-knead into a ball (it's best to do this step now, so that the dough has a chance to relax before being re-rolled). With a tiny ice cream scoop, or two spoons, place a ball of filling (about a tablespoon) onto each dough circle. Fold the dough around the filling to make a half-circle, pressing the edges to seal. Take the two corners and press them together, creating a tortellini shape. Place shaped dumpling on a well-floured cookie sheet. Roll out remaining dough scraps, and repeat the process.

When the kreplach are all shaped, bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Throw in a dozen or so kreplach. They will sink to the bottom, but then float to the top fairly quickly. Once they've all floated to the top, simmer for an additional minute. Remove with a slotted spoon, toss with a bit of neutral-flavored oil (like canola), and spread on a cookie sheet or plate. Repeat until all kreplach are cooked. At this point they can be either frozen for future use, or floated in a bowl of soup and served.