I just made something delicious, and inspired, if I do say so myself. Though it’s true that my cooking is in the vein of the Mediterranean, I find that I oft avoid the clichés of this region, and as such have unwittingly eliminated olives and sun-dried tomatoes from my cuisine. Quelle domage, I know. This happened quite by accident, I’m sure, and my discovery of the offense was as serendipitous as it’s origins unintentioned. You see, I was sent a recipe for Panisse the other day, of which I made a giant batch and have been dining on ever since (panisse is the true term for chickpea fries, another food that has, to my chagrin, become trendy in America.) I studded my panisse dough with black olives, and served it with a tomato & pine nut relish, redolent of garlic. I shall post that recipe, which in fact precedes this one in conception, later. A few days ago I splurged and bought some frozen, wild caught Yellowfin tuna. If you are recoiling from the screen in horror, I am with you in spirit. Frozen meat is a colossal tragedy, frozen fish condemnably so. But, voiyez kind people, I am landlocked, in ze middle of Texas, so one does what one can. Needless to say, the texture of the fish was less than pleasing, and the taste unremarkable. Turned off by this, I ignored the fish for a few days and feasted on the leftover offerings of the restaurant (and yes, even though I declared to my kitchen crush that nothing must transpire between us, he still makes me food constantly. I am developing a roll, and a double chin! I wonder how long I shall remain appealing to him?) This morning, I once again returned to thoughts of tuna, and what to do with my thawed,old, less-than-delicious extravagant expenditure. Confit! Indeed, the French, particularly in the region of Landes, in Southwestern France, have made preserving meats by pre-salting them and then slowly cooking them in fat, in which they are stored, a defining culinary tradition. So, pourquoi pas? I gently poached my tuna in the olive oil I’d retained from a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, so that it would infuse it’s flavors into the fish, added a couple slivered garlic cloves, some lemon zest, two handsome sprigs of rosemary, and some chiles. And now, back to what I was saying before: having again recaptured the romance of Mediterranean clichés, I finished the dish with diced sun-dried tomatoes, black olive tapenade, and a sprinkling of pine nuts. C’estait delicieux! What more could a girl ask for?
Last night, as I contemplated vegetable options for my dinner party, I was overwhelmed by the unmistakable craving for sweet potatoes. It had been a chilly day, overcast and predictive of rain, and by the time evening rolled around my hankering (yes, I use this word. And almost in earnest, too) had built to such a mighty intensity that I spared myself any futile efforts towards other vegetables. I find the almost shocking sweetness of these tubers, as a palatable indication of the complex carbohydrates and dense nutrient profile they offer, to chase away the cold with singular efficiency. Bored with the terribly overdone idea of sweet potatoes roasted with brown sugar or male syrup (of which I am admittedly a fan,) I desired a more savory rendering to accompany my rosemary- marinated pork loin. Sweet potatoes are one of the very few exceptions I make in my culinary life, preferring them cooked in butter than in olive oil. The damages created by holiday feasting in full evidence, however (bursting buttons and split seams, anyone?) I wanted them to be less… excessive. No butter, no sugar. Not wanting to compromise their lushness either, I realized the following: though they aren’t related to potatoes, we treat sweet potatoes in exactly the same way as les pommes de terres. The French are very much in the habit of cooking potatoes in duck or goose fat, and I find this to be the only potato preparation that actually tempts me. So why not? Sweet potatoes tossed in a smidge of duck fat, with salt and pepper. A bit of animal fat, yes, but of the healthful kind (ducks and geese contain an amino acid that we lack, and which therefore makes their fat extremely beneficial to us.) I roasted them as plain medallions, but they’d carry the flavors of either rosemary, thyme, or sage delightfully. If my pork hadn’t been so thoroughly perfumed with rosemary, this is the one I would have chosen.
If you have any leftovers, cube them and toss them into warm quinoa! Add pecans and you have a lovely lunch, add chickpeas and you have a one-pot veggy dinner.
To Form the Dough:
To Mold the Quiche:
The variability of ovens, altitudes, and length of cooking for different filling ingredients prevents me from providing a specific time. But this is good: I have found that since I liberated myself from strict adherence to cooking times, the quality of my baking has improved remarkably. In France, pastry chefs never pay heed to times or even specific temperatures. Most things are baked within the realm of 180 degrees celsius, and cooked for 20-25 minutes. Miraculously, this inclusive frame is effective in baking almost anything to golden brown perfection. The moral of the story here is not to feel beholden to pre-specified requirements; cooking is forgiving, baking a little less so, but with practice it is a science than can become increasingly artistic and personal. Rely on your senses more than anything: you can see when a crust is golden. Removing it before this point just because a recipe says you should is useless, and letting it bake more, to a crisp, is a waste. You will smell doneness, and hear the bubbling of filling that is ready.
For the Mushrooms:
For the Filling:
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Tapenade, and Pine Nuts