Tempeh Sausages

The word "hippie" gets bandied about a lot at my house, mock-branding various offenses against the sensibilities of our modern and disposable culture. Washing and reusing plastic bags, for one. Bringing one's own pyrex containers for leftovers to a restaurant (because, as I like to tell people, I am just that cool). Applying curry powder to any dish that doesn't really warrant it. There's a chance I'm over-applying the term.

But every so often I make a dish that is truly, undeniably deserving of the hippie label. Like these tempeh sausages (or, if you will, "soysages"). Their offenses are numerous: they're a mock meat, involve use of inappropriate seasonings (although that's partially my fault), and, most damningly, were developed at an actual honest-to-juice commune founded in the 1970s. Also? They're pretty darned good.

If you're looking for a vegetarian breakfast accompaniment, these are hard to beat. To be fair, my heart does belong to the Morningstar Farms veggie bacon, but every now and then it seems like a good idea to consume breakfast foods that don't feature disodium guanylate and artificial flavors (from non-meat sources, they point out, but still). At those times, I heartily recommend these tempeh sausages. Tempeh is steamed and grated, then mixed with a series of seasonings that give it a somewhat meaty depth. It's formed into patties and pan-fried, perfect for accompanying your waffles. Let it be known, I have no illusions that anyone would confuse these soysauges for the real thing. But I think they're pretty great in their own right. Yeah, I know I'm a hippie.

And if you're hungering for food that you wouldn't be embarrassed to serve to company, I present instead a dispatch from a Sephardic-style dinner party a friend recently hosted. The recipes are drawn from several sources, and together make for a menu that would be perfect for a sunny Passover Seder. Or any celebration of spring, really. You can read the details at Mix Magazine.


Tempeh Sausage

adapted from The New Farm Vegetarian Cookbook
yields ~12 sausages, depending on size (serves ~4)

8 ounces tempeh
1/2 tsp dried sage
1/2 tsp thyme
large pinch asafoetida (this is my addition, and optional, but it gives a nice funky depth if you've got it)
2 Tbsp flour
2 Tbsp warm water
2 Tbsp oil (I use canola)
2 Tbsp soy sauce
oil for pan-frying

Steam the tempeh over simmering water for 15 minutes. Let cool slightly, then grate on the coarse holes of a box grater. Add dry ingredients (sage, thyme, asafoetida, flour) and stir to combine, then add liquid ingredients (water, oil and soy sauce) and mix until combined. The finished product should be neither too wet nor too dry, and easily hold a shape when squeezed together.

Heat a small amount of oil in a skillet over a medium flame. Pinch off small amounts of the sausage mixture (a tablespoon or two), and press into thin patties. Pan-fry the patties until brown, and then flip and brown the other side (they should only take a few minutes per side). Serve hot.

Cinnamon-Chocolate Chip Sour Cream Cake

One of my favorite treats as a kid was a basic homemade fudge made of cream and baking chocolate, grainy with undissolved sugar. The memory seems cloying to my adult palate, but as a kid I was capable of downing a whole plateful on my own. One afternoon I decided to make up a batch for myself, but found we were out of baking chocolate. So I pulled down the box of cocoa powder, which helpfully told me that 3 tablespoons of cocoa powder, along with a spoonful of oil, was just the same as a square of baking chocolate. As I simmered and simmered a gross, grainy mixture that refused to come together, I realized I'd been duped. Sometimes there just is no substitute for the real thing. This is true of confections that rely on the solidity of cocoa butter to set up (which, it just so happens, is stripped from cocoa powder), and it's equally true of this luscious, dairy-rich cake.

This cake, taken from the ever-wonderful Smitten Kitchen, is truly lovely. It's unabashedly buttery, but at the same time impossibly light, with a wee bit of tang and lots of moistness from the sour cream. Cinnamon, which is normally overdone in breakfast pastries, does a lovely job of subtly setting off the chocolate chips (and, as a bonus, you have an excuse to eat chocolate before noon). I generally pass on morning sweets, but a square of this cake made a lovely coda to a recent brunch of huevos rancheros (a course my 7-year-old nephew refers to as "breakfast dessert"). I wouldn't change a thing.


Cinnamon-Chocolate Chip Sour Cream Cake

yields 1 9x13 cake
adapted, but hardly, from Smitten Kitchen

3 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 stick (4 ounces) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 1/2 cups sugar
3 eggs, separated
1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
16 ounces sour cream

12 ounces chocolate chips (usually one package)
1/2 cup sugar mixed with 1 tsp cinnamon

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees, grease and flour a 9x13 cake pan.

Sift together the flour, baking powder and baking soda, and set aside. Whip the egg whites into stiff peaks, and set aside as well.

Cream together the butter and sugar until it's light and fluffy. Add the egg yolks and vanilla, and beat until well-incorporated. Gently mix half the sour cream into the batter, then half the flour mixture, then repeat with the remaining halves (being careful not to over-mix). Mix in about a third of the egg whites to lighten the mixture, then gently fold in the remainder, again being careful not to over-mix.

Pour half the batter into your prepared cake pan. Sprinkle on half the chocolate chips, and half the cinnamon-sugar mixture. Gently spread the remaining batter on top, and finish with the remaining chocolate chips and cinnamon-sugar. Bake until a tester comes out clean, ~40-50 minutes. Let cool slightly, then devour.

Vegetarian (or not) Stuffed Cabbage

Usually Portland's temperate climate is pretty inviting. Sure, we get rained on in the winter. But other parts of the country get blizzards. At least when the clouds part here, it's fairly balmy. Well, usually.

Recently it looks like the rest of the country is warming up to spring. But here in Portland, we've been getting dumped on by daily rainstorms, and the ground has sogged up to a muddy sponge. It's like it's winter or something, I keep telling friends (to nobody's amusement). Our downtown farmer's market just opened for the season yesterday, but I'm not really thinking about tender green shoots. I'm thinking about stuffed cabbage.

I never liked stuffed cabbage all that much as a kid, mostly because I'd only tasted versions that played up the sweet'n'sour Eastern European flavoring a bit too much (I'm of the firm opinion that meat and raisins should never play together). But a few months ago I was filling up a friend's freezer during a visit, and figured stuffed cabbage would be a great dish for cold storage. I came across a lovely version from this lovely blog, which lightens up the filling with sweet and earthy carrots and parsnips. I made a beefy version that my friend loved, and have since twice made it vegetarian by swapping some faux chicken for the meat. It's a great veg-packed all-in-one meal, and does a lovely job of getting you through the last soggy days of winter.



Vegetarian (or not) Stuffed Cabbage

yields 1 large tray (the exact number of rolls will vary, depending upon the size of your cabbage)
adapted from Smitten Kitchen, but baked instead of simmered, green instead of savoy cabbage, and a different sauce

1 large head green cabbage
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 onion, finely diced
1-2 carrots, shredded
1-2 parsnips, shredded
2 Tbsp tomato paste
1/2 cup rice, uncooked (or 1/2 cup brown rice, par-cooked for 20 minutes and drained)
1 lb beef, or grated vegetarian beef substitute (I've used chicken-style patties to good effect)
2 cups tomato sauce or v8-style tomato juice
1 cup vegetable broth
1-2 Tbsp cider vinegar
1-2 Tbsp sugar
salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Prepare the cabbage by cutting out the core (without cutting into the leaves too much). Place in a large pot, and cover with boiling water. Let sit in the water to soften ~10-15 minutes (the cabbage will float, so try to spin it around a bit to ensure it all comes in contact with the water). Alternately, you can soften the cabbage by placing it in the freezer the night before and allowing it to thaw (the ice crystals will do enough damage to the cell walls that the thawed cabbage will be limp enough to work with), but I never think of this in advance.

Heat the oil over a medium flame in a large skillet. Add the onions, and saute until translucent and softened. Add the carrot and parsnip, and saute for another minute or two, until softened. Remove from heat, and season with salt and pepper (season a bit heavily if using beef, just to taste if using a pre-seasoned meat alternative). Add the tomato paste, rice and meat (or meat substitute).

Drain the cabbage, and pull off the leaves. If the center rib of any leaf is big and unwieldy, you can cut it out with a v-shaped slice (but this isn't necessary). Take a leaf, and scoop 1/4-1/3 cup filling in the center (the exact amount will vary based upon leaf size - no need to overstuff). Fold the sides of the leaf around the filling, and roll up the remainder. Place the stuffed leaf, seam side down, in a large casserole dish. Repeat with the remaining leaves and filling. If you have leftover leaves, you can chop them finely and scatter them over the top, although that sadly distracts from your neat little packages.

In a separate bowl, mix together the tomato sauce, broth, vinegar and sugar. Season to taste with salt and pepper, adjusting the vinegar and sugar as needed to make a sauce that is just a little bit sweet and tangy. Pour the sauce over the stuffed cabbage (you may need to wait a few moments to make sure it settles into all of the nooks and crannies, depending on how densely you've got them packed). Cover tightly with a lid or foil, and bake until the filling is set and the cabbage is totally soft, ~ 1 hour. Enjoy right away, or let cool and freeze.

Hamantaschen Redux

This Sunday marks the Jewish holiday of Purim, which marks the baking and distribution of hamantaschen. Although some have debated otherwise, I'm of the opinion that these cookies can be one of the loveliest examples of Jewish cuisine -- a flaky, tangy, buttery little hand-held jam tart. Except often, they're not. If you'd like to avoid dry, chalky cookies, and bake up hamantaschen that can win any debate hands down, click on over to the The Oregonian and pick up my recipe.

And if you're looking to burn off calories (rather than piling them on in a fit of jammy comfort-food deliciousness), I recently produced a radio story about exercise equipment that can turn your sweat equity into electricity. You can listen over at NPR's All Things Considered.

Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache and Almonds (aka Almond Joy Cookies)

I recently received a package from a friend who is traveling in Africa. The brightly-colored fabric-backed painting was lovely, but honestly I was probably just as thrilled by the basic fact of the envelope as by its contents. Care package! Foreign stamps! Hand-written letter! Getting mail is so exciting!

These days, it's possible to go years without receiving a little homemade postal love. Unless you're sharing grocery lists, you might not know what someone's handwriting even looks like. There's the mass-produced holiday card, or the wedding thank-yous written out by the dozens, but honestly it's not the same. A care package, lovingly assembled in another city and posted out to you, is such a thrill. I give and receive them all too infrequently.

But when I do, the question remains: what to send? The shelf-stable particulars vary based upon the recipient, but I'm almost always looking to include a little handmade sugar as well. Unfortunately, it can be hard to find the right cookies to send. Chocolate chip cookies and brownies are great fresh from the oven, but unless you're a starving college student, you're probably not going to want them six days later. Things like gingerbread or biscotti, dried out to a long-term-storage crisp, work well. But recently I pulled together a package for someone in need of a little pick-me-up, and demure crunchy tea cookies weren't going to do. I wanted something a little more gooey, more chocolatey and indulgent, but still delicious after spending the better part of a week in transit. Fortunately, I discovered these macaroons.

This recipe produces a showstoppingly good cookie. Fresh out of the oven, you're struck by the moist, rich coconut filling, gently toasted to a crisp on the outside. And to make matters even better, this richness is offset by a bittersweet fudgey ganache. I was compelled to take it even further, adding a sprinkling of toasted almonds, and the lightest dusting of coarse salt to bring out the sweetness. They ship well (having no delicate edges to break off in the mail), and even a few days later still taste like a candy bar. If you really want to play up the similarity, you can omit the chopped nuts, and hide a single toasted almond beneath the ganache. These macaroons are my new favorite for shipping off across the country (or hiding away in my very own freezer).


Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache and Almonds (aka Almond Joy Cookies)

adapted from a recipe that Bon Appetit adapted from Marigold Kitchen, with thanks to Orangette for flagging
makes ~ 4 dozen

Cookies:
3 cups (lightly-packed) sweetened shredded coconut
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup egg whites (about 6)
pinch salt
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp almond extract

Ganache and Topping:
9 oz bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
6 Tbsp heavy whipping cream (if shipping, reduce to 3 Tbsp for a firmer set)
1 Tbsp corn syrup (optional, but gives a nice gloss to the finished ganache)
~1/4 cup chopped and toasted almonds
coarse salt for sprinkling (optional)

Mix together the coconut, sugar, egg whites and salt in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly once it warms. The mixture will gradually dry out and become less loose and gooey, and more of a sticky paste (~12 minutes). Remove from heat, and stir in the vanilla and almond extracts. Spread out in a thick layer on a cookie sheet, and refrigerate until cold, ~1 hour (you can also place in a sealed container and allow to sit in the refrigerator overnight).

When the dough is chilled, preheat the oven to 300, and line a couple baking sheets with parchment.

Take the chilled dough, and shape into packed, mounded heaping tablespoons (a mini ice-cream scoop is ideal for this). Place the cookies on the prepared baking sheets (they won't spread, so you don't need to space them too far apart). Bake until the coconut on the outside begins to get golden, ~20-30 minutes. Remove, let set on the sheet for a few minutes to firm up, and then transfer to a rack to cool completely.

When the cookies are cool, prepare the ganache. Place the chocolate, cream and corn syrup in double boiler, and heat until the chocolate is almost entirely melted. Remove from heat, and whisk until smooth. Spoon the glaze over the macaroons, allowing it to form little chocolate hats and drip down thickly over the sides. Sprinkle with toasted almonds, and, if desired, just a few grains of coarse salt (you can lightly press down any sticking-up almonds to make sure they are fully anchored in the ganache). Refrigerate until the ganache fully sets (at least two hours), then transfer to an airtight container. Store in the refrigerator or freezer, or ship off to the loved one of your choosing.

Kale Pizza with Blue Cheese and Walnuts

During a college car trip back in the 90s, a friend put on a cassette from the band Mazzy Star. It was a nice album, every song awash with a thrummy base of swirling guitars, and sleepy, slurry vocals layered on top. After a few songs that riffed on this theme, my friend Noah turned to me. "You know," he observed, "they have a really good sound. But the problem with having a particular sound is that all your songs, they kinda sound the same." I think his assessment is pretty spot-on for that particular flavor of early-90s alternative rock. And it's also pretty much how I feel about kale.

To back up, I am a big fan of kale. Huge. I think it's lovely, and I think everyone should eat a lot of it (as I try to advertise). It's got a really good sound, so to speak, all full of nutrient-rich dark-green leafy goodness. But the thing is, I'm not always up for that big pile of brassica. And for a while, that's all I thought kale could be. But recently, I've learned how to make kale sing a different song.

The secret turns out to be balance: pairing kale with ingredients that don't overpower it, but join forces to steer it in an interesting new direction. In this case, kale is sauteed up with some olive oil and garlic, and then laid down on top of an uncooked pizza crust (I find that a whole wheat dough is particularly good at standing up to the strong flavor of kale). It's then topped with walnuts to give a nutty depth, funky blue cheese to spark it up, and a handful of thinly-sliced onions that will soften invitingly. All of these strong and pungent flavors hold their own, and combine with kale to make a beautifully balanced pie. While I easily get overwhelmed by pots of plain kale, I could eat this pizza every week -- it's a song I never get tired of hearing.


Kale Pizza with Blue Cheese and Walnuts

yields 2 pizzas

2 balls pizza dough (~10 ounces each, preferably whole wheat)
2 Tbsp olive oil, plus more for drizzling
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 large bunch kale, or two smaller bunches (I like Red Russian), washed and dried and roughly chopped
wedge of lemon
flour or semolina for dusting
~1/3 cup roughly chopped walnut halves (do not toast, as they'll brown in the oven)
~1/4 cup crumbled blue cheese
1/2 red or yellow onion, sliced into thin half-moons
salt

Preheat your oven, with a pizza stone if you have, to 500 degrees for an hour. If your pizza dough has been refrigerated, let it sit, covered, at room temperature for about the same amount of time.

While the oven is preheating and the dough is warming, prepare the kale. Heat the olive oil in a large pot over a medium heat. Add the garlic and saute until starting to brown. Add the kale along with a pinch of salt, and saute until softened, covering the pot between stirring to help the kale wilt. When it's almost done, squeeze the wedge of lemon over the top and stir to combine. Turn off the heat and set aside.

Place one ball of the pizza dough on a lightly-floured counter top, and press outward into a thick disk (leaving a 1" unpressed area along the edge as the crust). Pick up the disk and let it drape over the backs of your hands, letting gravity help you stretch it into a 12-14" circle. If the dough resists, let it relax for a few minutes, then try again. Place the stretched dough on a peel (or overturned cookie sheet or cutting board) that's lightly dusted with semolina or other type of flour.

Take half the sauteed kale, and sprinkle evenly over the dough. Scatter half the walnuts, half the blue cheese, and half the onions on top. Drizzle lightly with olive oil, and sprinkle with a pinch of salt. Slide the pizza onto the preheated stone in your oven, reduce the heat to 450, and bake ~7-10 minutes, until the crust browns. Remove the pizza from the oven, let cool for a moment, and slice and serve.

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.