When I was a kid, I wasn’t much of a rulebreaker. In fact, I pretty much did what I was told. Homework done, chores accomplished, goals met: I was regular and plodding as bleached white bread. Well, not entirely. Not internally, where I lived a wild life. But on the outside, I was the model student and model daughter.

Believe it or not, I actually waited to start drinking alcohol until I was 21, just like the law said I should.

Oh my.

It’s only as an adult that I’ve learned how to make trouble. Now that I’m the loudest one in the room (at least when I laugh), my friends don’t believe me when I say I suffered from mortifying shyness through most of my high school years. And when we used to go out for drinks, and I’d be sipping at my inch of dark-amber Scotch, no one ever believed I’d been such a goody two-shoes, waiting, primly, until the state said I could imbibe.

I’ve always been a Scotch girl. Actually, that isn’t specifically accurate, because that lovely slithery liquid is only allowed to be called Scotch if it’s entirely distilled and aged in Scotland. I love Irish whisky, with its beautiful blends - it always makes me think of green fields, rousing good music in crowded pubs, and James Joyce. So I should say I’m a whisky girl. But really, with apologies to the memory of dear, obfuscating Mr. Joyce, I do prefer Scotch.

The first whiff rushes at the back of the nose. Sniff too hard and take a big cough -- this stuff could eat right through you, if you’re not careful. Peer into the clear brown liquid and take a moment to pay homage to the journey it has taken from its barrel to your hands. It must be aged for at least three years before it’s allowed to be called Scotch. (And I have a feeling that no Scotch lover would ever drink a three-year-old spirit.) Depending on how old you are, this Scotch may have been maturing with you, half your life, just to reach your lips.

And when it does? That first little sip of Scotch prickles at the edges of the tongue. Immediately, heat rises up. What was clear and thin suddenly fills the mouth. That sharp bite at the back of the palate. There’s a slight sweetness, but only so slight, followed by an insistent angularity that spreads over the tongue. Everything burns for a moment. Everything widens. The lips tingle. And then there’s that slow, cool burn, down the esophagus. It fills the entire chest, which feels as though it’s breathing Scotch. A pleasant warmth, everything soft and sharp at the same time. And the tongue darts out, over the lips, for one last taste. Until the next sip.

Ahhh.

The word whisky comes originally from a Gaelic word, meaning breath of life. Indeed.

As someone has written on a website called Whisky Web:

"Of all the spirits mankind has distilled, refined and enhanced from nature’s huge store of goodness, Scotch whisky is the noblest. It is a natural drink, a distillation of the riches with which Scotland is so abundantly endowed - of fields of golden barley and wheat; of clear waters tumbling down glens of granite and over moors of peat; and of the cool, pure air of Scotland."

Wait, say that again? Golden barley and wheat? Wait a minute. I have celiac disease. I can’t drink Scotch anymore.

Or so I thought. Like that long-ago good girl, I followed all the rules laid before me. I’ve never “cheated” on my gluten-free diet. That’s never made sense to me. Who am I cheating but myself? So, following the tenets written in the celiac literature I had read, I resolved to cut whisky and beer out of my diet for the rest of my life.

Beer truly wasn’t much of a loss. I liked a good beer, on a hot day, particularly an Alaskan Amber. But drinking beer always meant a nap afterwards, and an overly full stomach. Until my celiac diagnosis, I thought everyone in the world grew red-faced, bloated, and really, really sleepy after drinking beer. Now, I know it’s the gluten. So, no more beer. And no more gluten reaction.

But Scotch? That was a loss. Now, before you start forming the wrong idea of my alcohol habits, you should know that I’ve only been truly drunk about three times in my life, and each time was increasingly unpleasant. Apart from one glass of full-bodied red wine with a great meal, which I have three or four times a week (as recommended by the medical field now), I just don’t drink. But there are times of the year, or certain people, that make me want to sit in a capacious bar, laughing hard and sipping my inch of great Scotch, neat. (And it always seems to impress the boys, when a girl drinks her Scotch neat, no water, no rocks. Just straight up Scotch.)

Oh well.

But no more. What's wonderful about the increasing awareness of celiac disease is the increased research on what we can eat as well. A friend of mine, about a month ago, listened to me say that I can never drink Scotch again, and was appalled. In fact, he went home and spent some time researching on the internet. He found out some good news for me. My non-Scotch diet was now outdated. Here’s part of what he sent me on a BBC site on the gluten-free life:

Beers, lagers, stouts and real ales must definitely be avoided by coeliacs. However there are a number of gluten-free beers and lagers now on the market. Wine, champagne, port, sherry, ciders, liqueurs and spirits, including whisky, are all gluten-free. Although whisky comes from barley initially, the distilling process involved in its production means it is suitable for coeliacs to drink, as there is not
gluten present in the end product. Of course, as with everyone, coeliacs should only consume alcohol in moderation!

I stared at my computer screen when I read his email, then whooped out loud. Of course, before I went out to buy a bottle, I did my own internet research, and found this little ditty from celiac.com:

"The new standards set in this publication conform more closely with current international standards. Included on their safe list are items that have been on Celiac.com's safe list for over five years, including: amaranth, buckwheat, distilled vinegar (no matter what its source), distilled alcoholic beverages (including rum, gin, whiskey and vodka), millet, quinoa and teff."

Hooray!

So, to celebrate, another friend of mine brought over a bottle of Macallan. We ate my homemade shepherd’s pie with ground lamb and poured ourselves stiff drinks of Scotch. Gad, but it tasted good.

Of course, tonight, I hope that no one drinks too much. That’s no way to celebrate the start of a new year of our lives, everyone. And please, don’t drive if you’ve been drinking. Just don’t.

But, I have to say, when I’ve tried to adust to not having many foods I took for granted, and overcome that with joy, it’s wonderfully unexpected to have something given back. My life feels even richer now.

Cheers to that.

Braised Chicken with Scotch and Major Grey Chutney



If you don't like drinking Scotch, I'm sure you wouldn't mind eating something simmered in it. Last week, when some friends came over for dinner, I made up this recipe, using what I had in hand. In joyful experiment mode after finding out I could drink Scotch, I splashed some of the amber liquid in the pot and came up with this. Two of my guests were under twelve, but I felt fine serving them this, since the alcohol burns off in cooking.

More and more, I'm cooking meals based on what's fresh that day, and what my internal taste sense tells me should go together. Earlier that day, when I was strolling through the aisles of my favorite food store, I reached for a jar of Major Grey chutney. Made with mango and ginger, this has been a standby of Indian cuisine for decades. It's slightly sweet, slightly hot, and a surprising combination of flavors. And this brand I bought is gluten free. This chutney, along with Scotch and wasabi mustard, works beautifully with chicken.

eight chicken thighs, preferably organic and locally produced
two tablespoons high-quality olive oil
one medium onion, diced
four cloves of garlic, finely minced
one cup of Major Grey chutney
one tablespoon wasabi mustard (I use Amy's organic) or a good Dijon
one cup of Scotch
one cup good chicken stock
salt anc cracked pepper to taste

Preheat the oven to 350°. Heat the olive oil in a medium-sized, cast-iron Dutch oven, then throw in the diced onion on medium to medium-high heat. Sautee the onion until it starts to soften. Add the minced garlic and stir it all with a wooden spoon, continually.

Lay the chicken thighs on the sizzling onions and garlic and brown them on one side. Turn, then brown on the other side. Set them aside in a large, wide-mouthed bowl. Spoon the onions and garlic on top of the chicken thighs, then add the chutney and mustard. Stir to mix it all together, until the chicken is coated.

Return the chicken thighs to the pan, then splash in the Scotch and chicken stock. Put the lid on the pan and put it in the oven for one hour, or until the chicken is tender at the bone, and the liquid has simmered into an intoxicating concoction. Serve immediately.

...donde no estoy comiendo sino morfando como Guy Monod, le digo a todos los amigos de Duelos y Quebrantos:

¡FELIZ AÑO 2006!

Last year one of my colleagues brought back Sri Lankan Christmas Cake from her holidays. It was soo yummy I decided to try some this year, as an alternative to regular Christmas Cake. Even Caribbean Black Cake is kind of time consuming, although delicious. Apparently you are supposed to wrap each piece individually but a drunken attempt at an artistic ribbon is the closest I got to that.

The recipe also calls for chow chow - which is some kind of chinese fruit preserved in syrup. Luckily I realized this before adding the caribbean style chow chow - which consists of hot mustardy pickled vegetables.



Sri Lankan Cake

Sri Lankan Christmas Cake
(I omitted the vanilla essence, and added dried mango, pawpaw and melon for about half the raisins, sultanas and currants. I would probably add abit more raisins etc next time but I like the combination)

This cake combines traditional ingredients with exotic fruits and spices. In Sri Lanka, a marzipan made of cashewnuts is the only icing used.

(Preparation time 55 minutes. Cooking time 1 hour 15 minutes.)

INGREDIENTS Makes 2 cakes.

50g (2 oz) candied peel (use whole pieces chopped)

100g (3.5oz) chow (without syrup)(chop chunky)

100g (3.5oz) stem ginger (without syrup)

100g (3.5oz) raisins

300g (10oz) sultanas

125g (4oz) currants

225g (8oz) candied ash pumpkin or crystalised pineapple

225g (8oz) cashew nuts chopped

50g (2oz) almonds chopped

100g (3.5oz) glacé cherries (chop by hand leave chunky)

3 tablespoonsful brandy

3 tablespoonsful rose water triple strength

2 tablespoonsful honey

1 tablespoonsful vanilla

1/2 a nutmeg grated

2 teaspoonsful ground cinnamon

1 teaspoonful ground cardamom

1/2 teaspoonful ground cloves

225g (8oz) semolina

225g (8 oz) butter at room temperature

12 size 2 eggs

400g (14 oz) soft brown sugar



METHOD

1. Finely chop the fruit and the nuts (the first 10 ingredients). Put into a bowl together with the honey and essences (the brandy, rose water, vanila) and the spices (nutmeg, cinnamon, cardamom and cloves). Mix thoroughly and leave covered for 24 hours.

2. Double line 2 cake tins of diameter 20 cm (8") with lightly- oiled greaseproof paper. Put the oven on to 140oC (275oF)

3. In a medium-sized bowl, mix together the semolina and the butter. Separate the eggs. In a large bowl, beat the egg yolks together with the sugar until pale. Mix in the semolina. Add the fruit, a little at a time using a cutting motion, to make sure that the cake batter is thoroughly mixed in with the dried fruit. This movement provides a lot of wrist exercise!

4. Whisk half the egg whites until stiff. (The rest can be used for meringues.) Add 4 tablespoonsful of the egg whites and beat into cake mixture to slacken it. Fold the rest of the beaten egg whites and mix thoroughly. Put the cake mixture into the two tins and cook for about 1½ hours, or until a skewer when inserted comes out clean. Cool the cake on a wire rack. Once cold prick the surfaces with a skewer and pour two tablespoonsful of brandy over each cake. Cover with foil, place in an airtight tin and leave for a week before icing.

Triple strength rosewater is available from chemists shops. In Sri Lanka the christmas cake is cut into pieces and individually wrapped and served during the festive season. The marzipan is made from ground cashew-nuts.

Today is the darkest day of the year. Outside my window, rain splashes down in furious puddles on the Seattle streets. People walking by look harried, clutching packages and bags with fraying handles, their hands loaded down by last-minute presents. We’re all fighting the darkness with lights and action. And what am I doing to deal with the shortest day of the entire year?

I’m staying in and baking.

Actually, that’s not all. I’m working on an enormously important writing project. School’s finished for two weeks, which means I can sleep in and really dive into my writing. So I pace around the living room, looking at the Christmas tree, and humming, words thrumming through my mind. When I’m in this space, all is right with the world. The dishes may be undone, the bills are yet to be paid, the presents I’ll need under the tree in four days remain unknown —— never mind. What does any of that matter when I have the entire day to create?

And when I’m writing, doing the work I love, I suddenly feel even more of an urge to cook. Cooking is a deeply creative act, after all. When I’m stirring something in a deep pot, the smells wafting up to my nose, it feels the same as the pen drifting across the page. Deciding what to cook, then watching it emerge from underneath my hands feels like something from the deepest part of me, where it’s dependent on my awareness and entirely out of my control. Washing the dishes feels like scratching out the unnecessary words.

These days, I’m cooking less often with recipes. For months, I studied every good cookbook I could find with a fervent attention normally only reserved for the work of scholars. And then I’d try to replicate the vision I had formed in my mind on the plate. I’m glad for all that time trying to follow other people’s minds, because it led me to mine. Now, more and more, I imagine a taste, and then throw in ingredients that feel right. What happens if it all falls apart? Oh well. It couldn’t taste too terrible. Even if it does, I have a garbage disposal. But I’m finding, again and again, that trusting my foodie instincts leads me to places I never knew existed. If I needed it all to be perfect, I’d be doing something else. It’s the experimentation that I remember best.

“The only stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.”
--Julia Child

And so, with a what-the-hell attitude firmly in mind, I decided this morning to make some banana bread. With teff flour.

Teff (also spelled tef or t’ef) is the staple grain of Ethiopia. Packed with protein, calcium, and iron, tef is also one of the gluten-free grains, along with amaranth, buckwheat, millet, and quinoa. In fact, one cup of cooked tef contains as much iron as the USDA recommends for adults in one day. It’s nutritionally rich because most of the grain is made up of bran and germ, where the nutrients live. The whole grain is made into flour. It takes 150 teff grains to equal the weight of a single wheat grain. The name, in Amharic, means “lost,” perhaps because each individual grain of tef is so small that, if dropped on the floor, it would be lost. Perhaps this explains why it’s so soft in the mouth, almost melting away immediately.

Teff was almost lost to the world. Grown exclusively in Ethiopia for thousands of years, teff was cultivated by Coptic Christians in Ethiopia. Isolated by their geography and religion from the rest of Africa, the teff farmers did not trade their grain, which is also quite labor intensive to grow. After the death of Haile Selassie, in 1974, the socialist military government insisted that the farmers grow less labor-intensive crops, such as wheat, to export to other countries and make more money for the state. Teff farming was beginning to die out. An American from Idaho, Wayne Carlson, was working as an aid worker in Ethiopia in the 1970s. Fascinated by the growing practices he witnessed, and having fallen in love with Ethiopian food, he took some of the teff seeds back home with him when he left. From there, he started growing teff in Caldwell, Idaho, then selling it to the Ethiopian communities in US cities. Today, the Teff company has a thriving business. I can find bags of teff flour fairly easily in Seattle.



And thank goodness for that. I adore Ethiopian food. We have a number of Ethiopian restaurants in this fair city, and I have visited most of them. My brother and sister-in-law and I have come to rely on Amy's Cafe on 29th and Cherry, which looks ramshackle, and even boarded up, from the outside. Inside, the windows are steamed up from the cooking, and almost everyone at the tables is Ethiopian. They don't even offer menus. You have to know what you want, or ask the kind waitress to explain in her broken English what she thinks you should eat. When I introduced a new foodie friend to his first Ethiopian meal recently, he couldn’t believe the taste. “It’s fantastic. And it doesn’t taste like anything else I’ve ever eaten. The spices are just different.” He’s right. In case you have never eaten Ethiopian food (and you must rectify that soon, if it’s true), you should know that various spiced lentils and vegetables arrive arrayed on a large platter, which is covered in injera bread. Injera, which has a slight sourdough taste, and a texture like a yoga mat, is made from teff flour. (Gluten-free readers beware: at some Ethiopian restaurants geared toward typical Americans, they might mix the teff with wheat flour. Be sure to ask.)

In order to reach the tiny little cafe (six tables, no more) at Amy's, you have to walk through the Ethiopian grocery store. All the spices you could need to make your own veggie combo at home, plus big bags of pure teff flour for $5.99! Plus, Ethiopian dvds, should you want them. All of it enshrouded in clouds of incense smoke.

I’ve eaten so many warm, beautifully spiced Ethiopian meals that I cannot imagine my life without them. It’s a communal eating experience, because there are no forks involved. Instead, everyone tears off portions of the injera bread and pushes it into the cooked cabbage or spicy lamb. All formalities disappear. You can’t help but talk and laugh as you bump fingers over the Ethiopian cheese or chicken wat or beef kitfo. The bread satisfies, deeply. And after a few moments, it’s all gone. And you feel wonderfully sated.

You should find an Ethiopian restaurant today.

So I knew about injera bread before my celiac diagnosis. But it wasn’t until I was told I had to go gluten-free that I realized I could buy teff flour, or that I could make other foods with it. Nutty in flavor and fine in texture, teff actually makes an excellent baking flour. I’ve been eating it for months. Teff makes an excellent pie crust, when you cut it with another gluten-free flour. In fact, it might be the best pie crust you’ve ever tasted.

This morning, revved up from writing, and eager to begin cooking, I noticed some bananas growing soft on my windowsill. And somehow, I realized I had never written about teff here before. Oh, I wrote about a sweet corn quiche with a teff flour crust, based on a recipe from 101 Cookbooks. But I barely knew how to post photographs then. (The dark days of this website.) Shame. And I knew I had to rectify that situation, immediately.

I’ve grown comfortable enough with gluten-free baking that I felt safe making up my own recipe. I threw together some bananas and plain yogurt, butter and eggs. And in a separate bowl, I stirred in half gluten-free flour mix, half teff flour. Plus, unsweetened cocoa powder. And plenty of cinnamon. Other stuff too. You’ll read it in the recipe. I was just throwing in food that felt right, in the spirit of that “what the hell” quote I have stuck to my refrigerator door. Humming along, eager to see what would emerge, rather than worrying about following a recipe correctly.

Would it be terribly gauche of me to say that it turned out spectacular?



Teff flour, being so soft, and slightly gelatinous when it cooks, makes a perfect ingredient for baking quick breads. This one tastes a little like a cake, in that way. A touch of cinnamon. Dark chocolate threading through. And the bananas emerging, bright, but not too much so. A good crumb, solid structure. And mostly, just a brilliant taste of something light, on the darkest day of the year.

You see what happens when you throw caution to the dark, rainy winds and just cook?


Chocolate Banana Bread with Teff Flour

In making this bread, I used a round enamelware pot, instead of a loaf pan. This lent itself to the cake-like quality of the bread, which I found I loved. If you want a more traditional quick bread texture, then try the loaf pan.


1 cup of gluten-free flour of your choice
1 cup of teff flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons high-quality, unsweetened cocoa powder
2 teaspoons cinnamon
4 overly ripe bananas
1/4 cup plain yogurt (make sure it's gluten free)
2 large eggs
6 tablespoons melted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract


Preheat the oven to 350° degrees. Move the rack to a position in the lower half of the oven. This will prevent the crust of the bread from burning. Grease the pan you intend to use.

Stir together all the dry ingredients, making sure to tame the lumps of cocoa powder with a fork. Set aside.

With a standing mixer or hand mixer, beat the eggs lightly. Then, add the yogurt, vanilla extract, and melted butter. When this assemblage is completely mixed, then gently add in the dry ingredients. Using a rubber spatula, fold in the dry ingredients until they are just mixed.

Scrape the dough into your pan. Pat down the top to make a flat surface. If you wish, toss a few pecans or walnut halves onto the top. Place into the oven and bake for about forty minutes, or until the knife you insert gently into the bread comes out again clean. Let the bread sit in the pan for five to ten minutes, then turn it over onto a wire rack. Serve warm, with cream cheese, if you wish.

En français

Pâte a choux, lionesa, puff pastry... Profiteroles o bombitas. Llamémoslas como sea, tanto a la masa como al resultado.
Hace meses, más de un año incluso, que tenía ganas de probar esta pasta en su versión con cacao. La idea la tomé de uno de los programas Patisserie de Ramón Morató en el canal El Gourmet. Cómo me gustaría que los repitiesen! Una de las cosas que más me gustan de este maestro chocolatero es la capacidad de explicar con claridad y en manera simple las técnicas que está usando. Transmite además una curiosa combinación de pasión y serena felicidad por su trabajo.
Cuando vi el tema del Kikiveut en el sitio de Dorian me dije: ésta es la oportunidad! Usando las proporciones de la receta por él indicada:

PROFITEROLES CON CACAO



180 ml agua
pizca de sal
60 g manteca

75 g harina
15 g cacao

3 huevos (2 1/2 según el tamaño de los huevos)

dulce de leche repostero

El primer tentativo fue siguiendo al pie de la letra las instrucciones (cuándo se ha visto!). En fin, no fue tan terrible, pero me tendría que haber detenido mientras agregaba el último huevo, como me indicaba la intuición... La masa me quedó demasiado chirle, así que terminé haciendo unos largos, larguísimos eclairs y unas pocas bombitas.



Después en la versión definitiva agregué solo la mitad del último huevo.
El procedimiento es el clásico de la masa bomba. Se pone a hervir el agua con la manteca y una pizca de sal. Cuando llega a ebullición se retira del fuego y se agrega de golpe la harina (en nuestro caso harina+cacao). Se mezcla con cuchara de madera hasta che la masa se despega de las paredes de la olla. Se deja entibiar y se pone en una procesadora. Se agregan los huevos de a uno mezclando continuamente hasta que la masa quede lisa. Con una manga se formas las bombitas bien separadas sobre una placa (usé el silpat). Con el dedo húmedo se alisa ligeramente el copete de la superficie.
5 minutos en horno fuerte y después unos 20-25 en horno moderado a bajo hasta que se sequen.
Rellené simplemente con dulce de leche. Nada de salsas, que me gusta comerlas con la mano. Glaceado tampoco: período minimalista. :D


Gracias a Dorian:
Pâte a choux, lionesa, puff pastry... Profiteroles o bombitas. Appelez-les comme vous voulez, tant les choux que le résultat.
Il y a des mois, peut-être plus d'un an, que j'avais envie de goûter cette pâte dans sa version avec du cacao. Cette idée m'est venue d'un des programmes de Pâtisserie de Ramón Morató sur le canal El Gourmet. Comme j'aimerai qu'ils le repassent ! Une des choses que j'aime le plus avec ce maître chocolatier c'est sa capacité à expliquer clairement et de manière simple les techniques qu'il est en train d'user. Il transmet en plus une curieuse combinaison de passion et de sereine félicité par son travail.
Quand j'ai vu le thème du Kikiveut sur le site de Dorian je me suis dit : c'est l'opportunité ! j'ai utilisé les proportions qu'il a indiqué pour cette recette:

Profiteroles au cacao



180 ml d'eau
une pincée de sel
60 g de beurre

75g de farine
15g de cacao

3oeufs (2 ½ selon la taille des œufs)

de la confiture de lait

Lors de la première tentative j'ai suivi les instructions au pied de la lettre (quand ça c'est vu!). Au final, ce ne fut pas si terrible, j'aurais dû me retenir pendant que j'ajoutais le dernier œuf, comme me l'indiquait les instructions… La pâte resta trop fade, en fin de compte je finis en faisant des longs, très longs éclairs et quelques choux.



Après dans la version définitive j'ajoutais seulement la moitié du dernier œuf. C'est le procédé classique de la pâte à choux. On met à bouillir l'eau avec le beurre et la pincée de sel. Quand l'ébullition démarre, on retire du feu et on ajoute d'un coup la farine (dans notre cas farine+cacao). On remue avec une cuillère en bois jusqu'à ce que la pâte se détache des parois de la casserole. On laisse tiédir et on met dans un récipient. On ajoute les œufs un par un en mélangeant continuellement jusqu'à ce que la pâte soit lisse. Avec une poche on forme des choux bien séparés sur une plaque (utilisez du silpat). Avec un doigt humide on lisse légèrement la houppette sur le dessus.
5 minutes à four fort et après 20-25 minutes à four moyen jusqu'à ce qu'ils sèchent. Remplissez simplement avec de la confiture de lait. Pas de sauce, j'aime les manger avec la main. Pas de glaçage non plus: période minimaliste.