- Getting into the flow of cooking / the beauty of restriction, rotating 

I wonder what the right balance of variety is in one’s diet. I’ve found myself to be quite the food hoarder this year. 

My pantry is over flowing with jars of nut butter, tinned sardines, bags of dried fruit and cashew, paper bags filled with flour and oats, not to mention counters lined with countless jars of dried goods: split peas, coconut flours, whole grain emmer wheat (which, until I decided to take a look at the bulk label I saved for this exact reason, thought was brown rice). My fridge, a bit of a murkier manifestation of my hoarding habit, filled with small-batch science experiments, like the preserved egg yolks and marinated anchovies I blogged about earlier, that looked so beautiful shaved atop and stirred into pasta, but now I can see them for what they really are: old jars adorned with masking tape.

This soup above was driven by the butternut squash no longer curing, but (if i’m being candid)  rotting atop my fridge. 

The recipe is borrowed from So Let’s Hang Out’s Roasted Kabocha Squash, Carrot, and Ginger Soup. I did make the lamb meatballs as well, but didn’t eat them the followed day for lunch (which is what’s picture above).

The hoarding habit made me realize lately how this is the opposite of metaphysical “flow.” 

Last week marked the first dollar I’ve ever made off of my “art”.

Okay, second, after the supper club I ambitiously started last year required some kind of return-on-investment to stay afloat (if only for a few months). Regardless, I’ve been working towards a side gig in private cooking recently. Despite it being a one-off job to fill-in for friend on vacation, I had my first client this week.

The client is on an incredibly strict diet (HcG – think Paleo, but fat-free) which tested both my creativity and confidence. On one hand, I was forced to keep meals mind-numbingly simple (good for someone with a tendency towards overcomplicating), but on the other hand, I couldn’t rely on recipes. This might seem contradictory considering I extol the benefits of improvisation, but – unlike home cooking – when you only have one shot at getting it right, tried and true recipes are a nice safety net.

Here are a few lessons I learned along the way: 

1. Identify your client’s priorities.

These might not align with your own. What’s their diet like? Are they on a budget? Do they care about sustainability enough to pay more for it? If so, would they prefer fewer meat-based meals, made with higher-quality ingredients, or vise-versa? 

2. Don’t worry so much about staying “on-brand”

As soon as you try to make money of the food you make, you’re at the mercy of the palate of whoever is eating it: client, patron etc. Pre-packaged chicken breasts are the antithesis of my own cooking, but when working for someone with a picky palate and a restrictive diet, they became a stalwart base for several of my meals. I also cooked with fruits + veg that were definitely not seasonal for this region. 

Staying true to your values is important, but being flexible, even more so.

3. Price out logistics accordingly.

I don’t have a car. Because of this, I needed to factor transportation into my costs. However, this extraneous cost can also help to sell clients on cooking at their respective homes, rather than me slugging and storing groceries at my own place (which puts strain on both your cookware and fridge space. Not ideal.)

4. You can never plan too much.

But you can be more efficient with how you plan. Next time I’ll try a digital tool like Parse.ly, or service (Huckle & Goose is a favorite) for sourcing inspiration and building shopping lists. 

I planned to set aside a few veggies and protein for myself when I shopped so that I could eat a portion of the meals I cooked for my clients, and this proved to be helpful since I was cooking while working a full-time day job.

Other planning tips I’d like to implement in the future: brief phone consults to review meal plans with the client, client deadlines for making changes to meal plans, color-coded storage containers that call back to the meal plan so I can digitize meal descriptions and reheating instructions.

5. Prep ahead.

It helps to have produce prepped ahead of time: do all of your chopping and arrange your mise en place first, so that you can focus on timing out cooking later. 

I also drafted a to-do list of cooking tasks day-of to automate my thinking. This allowed me to be more present with what I was preparing in the moment, rather than thinking about next steps. 

Key takeaway: Relax, but still have a sense of urgency.

There is always room to create greater efficiencies for yourself, but ultimately, you’e doing this because you love it. Bring that joy with you into the kitchen, no matter the circumstance.

Below are a few more meal snapshots. Excuse the tupperware containers (and condensation): I took the photos the following morning...

egg white omelet with onion, turkey bacon, blueberries, satsuma orange

spiced beef + lamb burger, local arugula, pickled beets + red onion, red wine vinegar with mint 

seared steak salad, bibb lettuce, red onion “jam”

egg white scramble with herbs, turkey bacon, blueberries + apple, satsuma orange

roasted parsnips and brussels sprouts, sliced chicken breast, local arugula, dijon “vinaigrette”

mini turkey meatloaves, roasted sweet potato, braised greens with garlic and lemon

Minimalism in practice requires a regular thinning out of relationships, not just things. 

I’m trying to trust that people traverse throughout my life intentionally; this makes that fragile act of letting go just a bit more bearable. When I start neglecting my duties as a good friend and human, I know I need to scale back. I evaluate and identify which relationships serve me right now; which bring me joy and inspiration, and which rob me of both. I had to let go recently and it hurt.

But then there are the relationships that endure despite distance & time. Those are the good ones, the gold ones. A friend of mine took the liberty of visiting me this past weekend, despite not having seen one another for three year. It felt a bit like falling in love. Our lives seemed to have been running in parallel in separate states – sometimes even countries – but decided to converge once we both shed the the weight of respective loves past.

And so we spent the weekend laughing and eating and wandering; discussing food, our philosophies on living, and fantasizing about opening up a bakery together (location to be determined). 

We also made this granola, after I told Audrey I had gifted personalized batches to each of my family members for the holidays.  

Not-too-sweet, Clumpy Granola

The Method:

When I cook, I think more in terms of formulas through (rough) ratios than set steps and quantities. I like to understand how each ingredient works in tandem so I can improvise with confidence later on. My basic granola recipe is made clumpy and subtly-sweet, not overly heavy, and with a bit of chew. 

For the base, blend three parts oats/rolled grain (I used one cup total) into a coarse meal; mix with an additional three parts unground oats. Meanwhile, beat one egg white until stiff peaks forms. Mix with base.

In a small sauce pan, mix one part fat to one part liquid sweetener (honey, maple syrup, agave, simple syrup). Add a pinch of sea salt.

Prepare your mix ins. Three parts whatever you like. I try to aim for a good balance of dried fruits to nuts (I like an addition of flax; if you enjoy your granola with milk, the seeds swell slightly and thicken the whole mess). Add in whatever spices you like, to taste (cinnamon, cardamom etc.). Pour in the fat/sugar and mix until combined.

Spread the mix evenly on a parchment-lined baking sheet (try to get it to take up the whole sheet- the more overlap, the more it steams rather than crisps) and bake at 350 for ten minutes. When the bottom is golden, flip the granola, careful to retain clumps, and return to the oven for an additional five minutes.

Let cool until crunchy.

Granola For Audrey:

Complexity from two styles of dried apricot, earthy, grounded tones of grassy olive oil, rosewater’s femininity, a fearless unruliness from loads of flaxseed, and the elusive provenance of bee pollen.

(Giving exact measurements because she asked)

Base: Oats (1 cup, half ground) + Barley Flakes (1 cup, half ground)

Fat/Sweetener: Honey (1/2 cup) + Olive oil (1/2 cup) + Pinch of sea salt  + Rosewater (about a teaspoon, or to taste)

Mix-ins: Flax seeds (about 1/2 cup) + Dried Apricot (both unsulphered and sulphured, about 2/3 cup) + Pistachio (1/2 cup, shelled and left whole)

The narrative of this dish began in Italy.

I was inspired by the small jars of oil-cured anchovies swimming in parsley and garlic I had at Osteria Murrivechia in Bra. This Northern-Italian style cafe was archetypal: a multi-dining room converted farmhouse with antique wood tables and servers in linen aprons spooning chestnut risotto out of steaming hot crocks. Quite romantic.

The prep for this dish began more out of necessity than desire: I was leaving for the holidays and had a few bunches of fresh herbs and loose egg yolks to use up. I minced and mixed the cilantro and parsley with olive oil, and froze them in an ice cube tray, and cured the egg yolks with salt and sugar (see earlier post).

To make the marinated anchovies/gremolata: 

Mix two generous handfuls of fresh, lemony herbs (I like cilantro and parsley) with a bit of salt and olive oil and a big clove of garlic. Mince finally with a mortar and pestle. I didn’t have one, so I just used a chef’s knife and a little repetition. You’ll want the mixture to mimic the texture of pesto. 

Place into a clean jar and add in the anchovies. You could use fresh for this, but I took a short cut and just added a tin of oil-packed anchovies instead. Simple. Top the whole mess off with a generous pour of olive oil – you’ll want the mixture to be fully covered. Feel free to use your good olive oil here, since it will eventually turn into your sauce. Let sit at room temperature for a few days to infuse before storing in the fridge.

Salt curing– the oldest known preservation technique known to man– involves using salt to gently pull the moisture delicately out of the yolk while retaining it’s shape and color. I wasn’t so delicate, as exhibited by the fourth picture’s mutated third yolk... However, I wasn’t going to let a broken yolk go to waste! 

The taste is both salts and creamy, not unlike the hard cheeses you’d use for grating, and as such, I’ll start there with how I use it: topping pasta, salads, and the like.

To cure the yolks:

I referenced Hapa Nom Nom’s guide, but I’ll sum it for you.

Mix equal parts salt in sugar in a sealable container. You’ll want enough to provide a nice bed for the yolks to rest on, and then some more to ensure they’re completely covered (about a cup and a half total per four yolks). Seal, and let sit in the fridge for a few days. 3-5 is recommended, but I was out of town for ten, so ten it was.

Once properly cured, the yolks should be firm to the touch. Rinse off any residual sugar/salt and any lingering white – the albumen and chalazae doesn’t take to the curing as well as the yolk, and will remain soft. 

Cold porridge, hot porridge: it’s how I do “cereal” in the morning. Even when time permits something eggy, I gravitate towards the soaked and stew-y six mornings out of seven. This is usually a product of how I slept the night before: too little, and I crave something on the sweeter side.

This one in particular utilizes some cooked grain I had on hand (though I’ve heard black rice is really a seaweed derivative). I simmered it like oats in coconut milk. I used diluted full-fat coconut cream, and the texture and flavor was almost buttery. It wasn’t thickening like I wanted it too, probably because of the starch content and the fact that it was pre-cooked, so I added in a pinch of arrowroot powder towards the end. And, because no porridge is complete without it, a pinch of sea salt.

Shown here topped with chopped toasted hazelnuts (my absolute favorite), and thinly sliced asian pear. Resist the urge to add sugar! The salt + coconut milk give it a slight sweet-cream butteriness you don’t want to masque.

Lots of purple, porridge things on the blog. Since blue isn’t a color that exists in nature, violet is perhaps the next-best things. And purple feels so oddly wrong, but right. An antidote to the beigeness of winter.

I picked up this stone-ground blue corn flour a while back and have been waiting for the perfect moment to unleash it’s brilliance. The grind was unfortunately too coarse for tortillas (even after having a pass through my Vitamix). Not being one for waste, I salvaged the wet, sandy dough by turning it into a porridge. Look out for pt. II of this post tomorrow, where I will attempt to repurpose the congealed remains into fried polenta.

Every corn-eating culture seems to have their own  version of a corn-based porridge: cornmeal porridge in Jamaica, grits in Southern USA, polenta in Italy, cremita de maiz in Puerto Rico – the list goes on and on. Native American cultures, where blue corn is the dominant variety grown, have a word for the violet variety: “chaquehue.” Although this depends on the variety grown, blue corn on the whole is more nutritionally-dense than it’s white and yellow counterparts, with 30% more protein per gram than other types of stone-ground flour.

Pre-soaking the grains, like I did here the night before releases anti nutrients in the grain, making them more digestible. It also ensures this can come together in less than 10 minutes. And it’s really as easy as mixing your liquid (opt for water if you’re soaking at room temp) with grains on the stovetop the not before, letting it sit out, then turning on the stovetop the following morning.

A porridge is really just slowly cooked grains made with water or milk, a bit of salt, and maybe some fat for a smoother texture. Most recipes call for 1:1 grains to water ratio, which is a good starting point. Cook slowly so that the grains have time to absorb the water, and add more as needed, or to desired consistency. Though I much prefer cold soaked grain porridges (like muesli) to hot, as the days get chillier I relish the ten minute of constant stirring over the stovetop that only a hot pot of creamy, cooked grains demands

Inspired by a soup I had at my favorite cafe in the city Cellar Door Provisions, I made a simple soup with a bulbous, knotty celery root. For sweetness, comparatively, turnip softens the flavor. 

To make the soup, I caramelized onion in a bit of butter and olive oil, then tossed in chopped celeriac and turnip (about equal parts) until they sweat. I added homemade chicken bone broth from last week’s whole roasted chicken and a few sliced garlic cloves let the whole mess simmer for an hour or so. Partially salt after adding in the broth to let it season fully throughout the salt. Taste once the broth has reduced and season additionally if necessary. Let cool.

Once cool, puree fully and mix in a bit of cultured dairy – I used kefir. Place in a jar and let ferment in a warm place for 1-3 days. Taste daily until it reaches your desired level of sourness. 

I prepared a control (a bit of pre-fermented soup set aside) so I could compare the lactic acid present before and after. I let mine go for three days and it was too bright for me. Next time I’d test after two and refrigerate. 

This simple braising technique heats leftovers without compromising moisture, and puts to good use semi-wilting produce. 

I took leftover dark meat roast chicken and nestled it a top a bed of hearty winter greens (kale and collard greens chiffonade), quartered lemon, shredded prosciutto, and leftover roast garlic. For a braising liquid,  I put a dollop of mushroom pan gravy on top with a bit of water and let it stew in the oven until I was ready to eat it (about 25 minutes).