Neither Rain, Sleet, Hail Nor Snow, And Coconut-Peanut Tofu With Veg

Do you see this? Do you see what lengths I will go to in order to bring you some good food? This is a picture of a really great dinner I made the other night. Only I was so desperate to photograph this meal without flash, my kitchen being filled with the overcast grey light of the rainstorm occurring outside, that I decided to photograph my dinner outside, in a rainstorm. That is rain in the background, mere inches away from my plate.

Sometimes the stars just won't align. The pictures of food ingredients don't really inspire ooh's and aah's, the natural light is uncooperative, or non-existent. A charming story to attach to the recipe fails to present itself. And the blogger is impatiently hungry but refuses to settle for a sandwich or a bowl of cereal instead of making a three-step meal. So I pour myself a beer, put 'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme' on the kitchen stereo and struggle to grasp why Garfunkle is dressed so contemporary when Simon, in his ridiculous man-blouse, looks like he's about to hold court with Louis XIV.



I cut up some extra-firm tofu, having rediscovered my love for its pale, blank adaptability, and toss it in a mixture of flour, cayenne pepper and ginger.


I quickly pan-fry it in some veg oil, sesame oil, a hearty pinch of red pepper flakes and a dash of soy sauce, till it turns out like this:

















Then some carrots are shredded, a tin of peas opened and a tomato gutted and robbed of almost all likeness to a tomato. It is the only way I can contemplate eating tomatoes.













These ingredients are then pan-fried in some oil and soy sauce till softened, and taken outside into the rainstorm to be photographed. The old man sitting under his grapevine structure next door must think I'm bonkers. But really, he's the one who randomly blows a whistle hanging around his neck and then falls asleep, face first, on the picnic table in the middle of the day, so I figure the Pot really shouldn't be calling the Kettle anything.



I make some rice. A delicious sauce from a pictureless cookbook called 'Quick-fix vegetarian' that I'd bought several years ago is whizzed up in the food processor; a coconut-peanut sauce that is sweet and salty and spicy and highly addictive.

A big plate is dished up and I settle into Husband's tatty, cat-scratched armchair, where I embark on a Coronation Street marathon via CBC online. The food tastes amazing. I can hear the rain pounding on the rooftops outside; the dog and cat have hunkered down to keep me company in Husband's absence. And as I fret over why I am feeling sorry for evil murderer Tony Gordon and continue to intensely dislike Molly Dobbs, I realize I am so, so cozy and warmed from within. I'm exactly where I want to be.

Tofu And Veg With Coconut-Peanut Sauce, adapted from 'Quick-Fix Vegetarian' by Robin Robertson:

1 package of extra firm tofu, pressed of any extra liquid and cut into 1" cubes
2 tbsp flour
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1 tbsp neutral flavoured oil (veg, canola)
a few drops of sesame oil
a few dashes of soy sauce
a pinch of red pepper flakes
2 large carrots, peeled and grated
1/2 cup of peas, fresh, canned or frozen
1 tomato, chopped
A large handful of fresh cilantro leaves, rinsed and torn

Directions:

1. Put on the rice according to package instructions. Toss cubed tofu in large bowl with the flour, cayenne and ground ginger till well coated. Heat the oils, soy sauce and pepper flakes in a pan over medium heat, then shake the excess flour mix from tofu cubes and toss into the pan. Stir often and cook the cubes till browned. Set aside in large serving bowl.

2. In same pan, heat up some oil and a dash of soy sauce and quickly pan fry the carrots, peas and tomato till softened, about 5-7 minutes. Add to the tofu cubes in serving bowl. Rice now ready, put some on a plate, top with the tofu and veggies, and pour a generous serving of the Coconut Peanut sauce (recipe below) on top. Garnish with the cilantro and salt and pepper if you like. Eat immediately!

Coconut-Peanut Sauce:

1/3 cup creamy peanut butter
3 scallions, chopped (I used 2; 3 seemed excessive)
2 tsp fresh minced ginger
1 tsp minced garlic
3/4 cup light unsweetened coconut milk
1 tbsp freshly squeezed lime juice
1 tsp light brown sugar
1/4 tsp cayenne
1 tbsp tamari or soy sauce

Directions:

1. In food processor, combine all ingredients and process till smooth, adjusting ingredients to your taste.

The Pod People, And A Fresh Pea Tart.

A lot of people say that when folks start coupling off, they tend to stop socializing as much with their friends. They become more insular, happy to shrink their universe down to two. Well, there are lots of ways to be a couple, I suppose, and none of them are wrong. Husband and I have never really subscribed to the universe-shrinking practice, though. We have some separate friends and interests and we don't really believe we've become 'one mind, one heart' or morphed into a singular organism now that we're married. We've always been keen to maintain not just a tiny sense of personal autonomy within our relationship, but a small sense of belonging to the world beyond the 'Us'.

But as expansive as this makes our lives seem, we're curiously underactive when it comes to socializing with others. It's not out of lack of want. It's just that miraculously, two lone wolves found each other and formed a pack, where the love of one's own company was no longer a personality flaw or social disorder. It was a trait indicative of an independent streak and an imagination vivid enough to cure any fever of boredom. So our default location is home. And our default company is our own.




For Canada Day, we had a plan to go and hang out with some acquaintances of Husband's whom he'd known over the years through a mutual love of music. One of them was in a band that was playing a free concert at a park in the east end. The day before, we'd surprised ourselves by accepting the invitation, a preventative action taken to avoid becoming Crashing Bores Who Never Do Anything. We'd both been looking forward to it, but as the hour of departure approached, I found myself doing that thing, that "I'm tired, and my stomach feels funny...maybe we should just stay in?" thing. That I do every time there's a social engagement, because I'm shy and can't help getting nervous.

But somehow, we found ourselves in the car, driving on a road that seemed designed for car commercials, with canopies of tall trees overhead and smooth asphalt curves to glide around. We arrived at the house of the musician friend, only in time to drink half a beer and head over to the park; the band was going on shortly.

A brief walk later and we were there. And wouldn't you know it; the Lone Wolves separated from everyone else. We found a spot near the bandstand and sat on the damp grass, taking in our surroundings as the country music started. Teenagers walked several paces ahead of their parents, the girls flipping their hair incessantly and tugging their tops down over their midriffs, wondering if anyone was noticing them. A group of toddlers held hands with each other and jumped up and down to the music, unbearably endearing in their pure expressions of delight. The smell of hot dogs, burnt sugar and fried dough mingled with the fresh air as the setting sun gilded everything in its wake.

I was near-drunk on the wholesomeness, the beauty, the innocence of it all. I felt weepy with joy.

We left shortly after; Husband was getting cold and Home, Home as always, beckoned us back. But the best had yet to come. After a dinner of hot dogs and beer, we stood out on our balcony watching the neighbourhood fireworks, our heads turning this way and that, trying not to miss any of the colourful sneezes being fired from all different directions. And then, suddenly, as we looked to our left, there it was. A clear view of the professional fireworks show down by the lakeshore; a half hour spell of the most spectacular explosions the night sky could hold. Husband put his arms around me, and we felt like kids again, oohing and ahhing at the magnificent display. It was a night I suspect will forever linger around the edges of my memory.





In the spirit of finding myself one of the two peas in a rather content little pod, (and also, for getting a huge pile of fresh peas in my Good Food Box) I decided to make a pea tart from a recipe I found here at 101 Cookbooks, with a few additions and changes of my own.

I wasn't as adept at shelling those peas as I thought I'd be. It took a while. And peeling the skins off canned chickpeas? Never. Again. When I whirred the peas and green onions, chickpeas and pistachios together in the food processor and poured the mixture out into a bowl with a light dusting of cayenne, well, I discovered something:





Blue, you've been bumped as my favourite colour. Green has stolen my heart away from you.

I used puff pastry for the first time ever. I asked myself why it was the first time ever. It's so easy! You just thaw and unroll a sheet, singular! No bumbling about with a billion delicate layers, butter and damp towels! (that means you, phyllo) I grated a generous handful of Parmesan and Swiss cheese, smoothed the pea mixture out onto the dough and surveyed my handiwork...Not bad.




Despite sweltering temperatures inside the apartment, I popped the tart in Demonic Oven and sipped a glass of white wine as I waited. And what came out was a sublime taste combination of flaky, buttery crust and a salty, earthy, nutty filling with a tiny bit of heat. I loved every bite. As I dusted the pastry flakes off my chin and top and skirt, I wondered whether there were lots of other homebodies out there like me. I wondered if I'd be able to pick you out on the street, from a tentative smile, or maybe a radiant sort of quietness.

I think I could. And I bet I'd like you.














Fresh Pea Tart, from 101 Cookbooks, with some adaptation from me:

Approximately 1 1/2 cups of fresh shelled peas
Approximately 3/4 cup of chickpeas (I used canned, rinsed and skinned)
2-3 green onions, finely chopped
1/3 cup pistachios
zest of 1/2 a lemon
juice of 1 lemon
2 tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper
a pinch of cayenne pepper
loads of fresh ground pepper, a touch of salt to taste
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/2 cup finely grates Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup grated Swiss, Emmenthal or Gruyere cheese
1 sheet of thawed puff pastry

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Bring a saucepan of water to boil. Add the peas and boil for about 30 seconds - they'll all start floating to the top of the pan. Remove from heat and drain. Put in the food processor with the chopped green onions and the juice of 1/2 a lemon and pulse till well combined. Add the pistachios and pulse till they're in small pieces. Add the juice of the other half lemon, along with the olive oil and pulse till the mixture is smooth. Turn out into a bowl.

2. In the food processor, pulse the chickpeas till they're coarsely chopped. Add them to the bowl and stir till well combined. Add the cayenne pepper, salt and fresh ground pepper and taste. When it's seasoned to your liking, add the egg and stir till combined. Then put in the Parmesan cheese.

3. Unroll the sheet of pastry and place gently on a lightly oiled baking sheet. Fold the edges up a bit, so they make a bit of a barrier for the filling. Smooth the pea mixture onto the pastry and top with the Gruyere cheese. Bake for about 25-30 minutes, or until the filling is firm and the pastry is golden brown. Remove from oven, top with more cheese and a few pieces of chopped green onion if you like. Allow to cool for a few minutes, then serve!

Recession Fever and The Reviled Vegetable Bowl

Question: Who goes to a vintage clothing shop and gets more excited about the used cookbooks than the clothing?

Um...Hopefully more people than just myself?

Last week, a friend and I went out to browse the vintage shops along Bloor and Lansdowne. We went to Vintage 69, a multi-level collective of preloved goodies with a gorgeous, airy and bright feel to it. We made our way upstairs and I eyed several pretty sundresses that I knew wouldn't fit me. I didn't try them on; I figured it was better to picture myself in them, in my mind, rather than actually disappointing myself in 3D.

We got to chatting with the saleslady, who was obviously very keen to make a sale. I noticed a purse hanging up; it had a lovely embroidery which had caught my eye.

"Oh," she said, noticing my interest, "that's a vintage Fendi. My friend got it for me, and she doesn't do knock-offs, that's the real thing. I'll give it to you for $40."

I took it into the other room to look at it carefully. Now, I'm no expert in bags, in fact, up until I was in my early 20's, I used an old, stained liquor store tote as a 'purse'. So maybe I'm wrong here, but I'm pretty sure Fendi didn't go through a 'pleather' period. The stitching inside was coming out and I felt in my gut that if I were in the presence of a vintage Fendi, if I was about to be gifted with the kind of shopping horseshoe our sartorial urban legends thrive on, I'd know, right?


Anyways, I DID find this fantastic cookbook by Madhur Jaffrey, who is a renowned author of Indian and Far East cuisine. Score. We then went to eat at Nazareth, an Ethiopian restaurant that is one of the hidden gems of Bloorcourt Village. It more than lived up to its reputation for incredibly tasty food, served in massive quantities for very few dollars.


And speaking of massive quantities, guess what I got in my CSA food box yesterday? And guess for how much? No, seriously, guess, because you won't believe that this horn-a-plenty of fruit and veggies only costs me $12 every two weeks. I still, after almost a year of getting a food box, cannot believe that such a system exists, where I pay my $12 and get a heap of local-grown food bought directly from the farmers. It's like a produce Costco with a conscience.

If I seem obsessed with money and not spending large amounts of it, it's because I am. I have no job, no prospects and the one freelance job I was doing went atomic on me last night. Husband is having to pay for just about everything right now, and honestly, I will never be comfortable with that. I had read all about the recession and understood that it happened to 'other people'. I just didn't think it would reach me too. But here I am, contemplating the fact that I'm not owed anything by life, not job stability or even decent wages. And I'm going to have to just suck it up.

So, in my efforts to not waste either money or food, I decided to use up the cauliflower that was sitting in my fridge. I found a recipe for Cauliflower Bhaji in my new, used cookbook. It's a funny vegetable. Everyone seems to hate it. In fact, I did a Google search using the words 'Cauliflower' and 'Hate' together, and it came up with over 2 million hits. There is even a "Cauliflower Haters" Facebook group. Crazy.














Well, for such a widely despised vegetable, it sure is pretty. I cut it up and threw it into the colander for a rinse, and the stalks turned this incandescent sort of green, like it had stored up the daylight and was glowing just for me.














And finally! A use for the insanely hot dried chilies I'd bought a big bag of, thinking I could crush them with mortar and pestle and use them instead of ready-made chili flakes! Only to realize they're so hot, it's instantaneous evacuation of your nasal cavities and vaporizing of your taste buds! Get me some milk, please! Quick!














It was a really easy recipe to follow, and without a picture of the finished product prepared by the talented Jaffrey to daunt me, there was no pressure, no expectation of the end result. Oh sweet Lord, it was good. Yes, it was really spicy - there is, after all, 1/2 tsp of cayenne pepper and 2 Insane-o dried chilies; if you make this yourself, you may want to adjust the amounts. But it was also incredibly tasty and, served on some basmati rice, or with a naan bread (my next project from the cookbook) and tzatziki or baba ganoush, it is just the thing to warm the belly and sweat out your recession blues.


Cauliflower Bhaji, with a couple of add-ins by me, by Madhur Jaffrey a la From Curries To Kebabs:

1 tsp ground coriander
1 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp ground cardamon (my addition)
1/2 tsp ground turmeric
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp mustard powder (my addition due to lack of mustard seeds)
3/4 tsp salt
3 tbsp corn, peanut or olive oil
1/2 tsp mustard seeds (I didn't have them, so I used fennel seeds instead)
1/2 tsp whole cumin seeds
2 whole dried hot red chilies
1-inch piece of ginger, first cut into thin slices, then stacked and cut into thin slivers
1 cauliflower head, cut into smallish florets, about 1 1/2 inches wide.
1/2 cup peeled and finely chopped tomatoes
1/2 peas (my addition)

Directions:

1. Combine the coriander, cumin, turmeric, cardamon, cayenne, mustard powder (if using) and salt in a bowl. Add 4 tbsp water and mix. Set aside.

2. Pour the oil into a large pot or pan with a lid and set over medium-high heat. When oil is hot, add the mustard seeds (if using) cumin seeds and chilies. Once the seeds start to pop, which doesn't take long, put in the ginger, stir and then the cauliflower. Fry the cauliflower till it starts browning, stirring continuously, about 5 minutes. Reduce the heat to low and stir in the spice paste; cover and let simmer over low heat for about 5-10 minutes.

3. Stir in the tomatoes and peas, replace the lid and cook for another 6-10 minutes, or until cauliflower is tender. Serve with a large dollop of plain yogurt and salt and pepper to taste.