The first few days home after a gorge fest of any kind—a trip, say, to somewhere like Spain, where every meal comes with enormous amounts of delicious fried potatoes, pools of green thick olive oil, bottles of irresistible wine, and coffee with brandy to follow—we’re both very inclined to high vegetable, low fat dishes of all kinds. (A frequent First Night Home meal is steamed broccoli on brown rice, which shows you how extreme the cure has to be.) So one of our favorite First Lunches At Home is a lentil and tuna salad with whole wheat pita bread. Easy. Delicious, too.
And this is how:
For four people (or two people with leftovers to be doctored into new freshness for another lunch):
One cup of lentils, preferably Puy lentils, which hold their shape. Pick over for stones and rinse. (Don’t skip this step. Every so often I get cocky and do skip it, and I always regret it when somebody finds a rock in their soup. So to be careful, I let the lentils run slowly through my fingers into a colander, eyeing them closely for foreign objects as they go.)
Put lentils in a pot with an unpeeled garlic clove and bay leaf, cover with a little water—about up to the first knuckle of your finger, if your finger rests on the top of the lentils. Bring to boil, turn down heat but still cook briskly.
Meanwhile, dice a carrot. Add that as you finish dicing, to cook with the lentils.
Now put in a salad bowl:
Two stalks peeled and thinly sliced celery.
Two sliced scallions.
As much chopped parsley as you like.
A tablespoon of rinsed and chopped capers.
A can’s worth of drained, flaked tuna.
Make the dressing:
1 garlic clove mashed with pepper and salt. 1 tablespoon sherry vinegar. 3 or 4 tablespoons olive oil.
When lentils are tender—after about 20 to 30 minutes; if there is too much liquid, boil it down rapidly or drain it, but probably you won’t have much left at this point—add them to salad bowl and toss with the dressing. Correct the seasoning, as they say . . .
Serve on a bed of mesclun lettuce, or shredded other lettuce, with warmed whole wheat pita breads to scoop up.
If we eat that, both of us drinking water and reading our various luncheon reading materials, even though we both think it was great walloping through a week’s worth of wine and olive oil soaked meals, we know in our hearts it’s even greater to be home . . .
( . . . and for lunch the next day, I added fresh grated carrot and mesclun lettuce to what was left, tossed it all together and served it with warmed whole wheat tortillas, with lemon halves on the side to brighten it up. Even thinking about that lunch makes me glad to be home all over again.)
Did I mention I like coming home?
After, say, two weeks of questionable food values taken in at a variety of restaurants (don’t get me wrong, some of those questionable food values can taste awfully good . . . but still . . .), it’s always a pleasure to be back at the stove. We eat a lot of vegetables before we get back to feeling halfway normal. Of course the first, easiest, most comforting dish to eat in those circumstances is vegetable soup.
Like this:
Melt a tablespoon of butter over low heat in a medium sized pan. Mince an onion and sauté it until it’s soft. Meanwhile, dice a carrot, a stalk of celery, and a potato. Add them and 1 teaspoon of curry powder (or to taste) to the onion. Sauté for a bit while you slice a few mushrooms, mince some parsley, maybe dice a summer squash. Whatever veggies you have about—a turnip is nice, in which case, add with the potato. Add the other veggies. Salt. Add about three cups of water, a little white wine if you have some open, and simmer for about a half hour, till the vegetables are done and have traded flavors with the soup. Taste for seasoning. Serve with toast, or croutons, or a piece of toast with melted cheese floated in the bowl.
There should be enough for 4 moderate eaters, but since we’re immoderate, there’s usually about one serving left. But no problem. For example, the next night, we had baked potatoes, creamed chard, gingered carrots, and tomato salad. I baked the potatoes alongside a big pan of apples sprinkled with brown sugar and a little water in the pan. The apples, cooled down, were my breakfast the rest of the week—sometimes with cream, sometimes with yogurt . . . depended on the day. The leftover potato peels went into the dog’s food. The leftover potatoes got mashed with garlic and cream and covered with shredded Swiss cheese, for the start of a dinner later week.
And for lunch the day after that—I added the water that I used to steam the chard and the carrots for dinner the night before to the one helping of leftover soup. Then I added the leftover creamed chard. I cooked that for awhile to mingle flavors. Serve with butter sautéed croutons—the last of the bread.
As MFK Fisher says, and now I know I’ve dined.
Then there’s how good it is to get home after a rather intense day. We had one that included our little dog biting the chunk out of the ear of a dog he was being introduced to at the pound as a possible pal. True, the other dog started it, but it still was embarrassing, as you can imagine. When we got home, I just wanted to have a glass of red wine and something very easy to cook and easy to eat. Something basic. Something involving Dawn’s eggs and the just out of the oven whole wheat sourdough I bought from the bread truck in the store parking lot before the guy even wheeled the bread in. But I didn’t just want eggs. When I feel a trifle stressed, I always want cheese. Apparently, this is common: we want full fat when we feel down. I don’t know why the full fat I always crave at these times is either really aged Cheddar or Gorgonzola, but as a neighbor of mine once theorized, “That’s because even when you’re stressed, you’re still discriminating about your cheeses.”
Nice theory, anyway.
I thought about Welsh Rabbit, but I didn’t want to make anything with beer, and it seemed like too much hoopla.
Another parameter: I had these nice asparagus, which I really wanted to eat as salad.
(I’ve discovered that the near perfect dressing for asparagus is white truffle oil, a sprinkling of flaked salt, and a big spritz of lemon juice. You dress the hot spears the minute they come off the stove, and let them sit till you’re ready to eat, occasionally basting them with their own juices. Really fabulous. The white truffle oil, of course, was a gift from a dear friend a Christmas or two ago, and I puzzled over it for some time before realizing that this was the use it was meant for.)
What would go with the asparagus, on the same plate, so the dressing running under whatever it was would add to its taste, rather than making me wonder why everything was so soggy? Using, might I add, a wonderfully aged Tillamook Cheddar, eggs, and some sourdough whole wheat bread?
As often happens when I narrow it down like this, I found the answer while browsing in the indexes of cookbooks.
(This, mind you, is my way of winding down after putting the groceries away—I figure out which books are closest to the style of how I feel like eating, then I get my glass of wine, and go sit in my big armchair with a stack of my cookbook picks on the ottoman, reading my way through and considering and discarding various possibilities before I figure out which one is closest to what I want. Then, when I’ve got a little guidance, I begin the fascinating process of modifying it further to the circumstances. I know, I know, it sounds like a daft hobby, but, as I point out to my film mad husband, who knows everything there is to know about spaghetti westerns, my way of relaxing does result in something good to eat.)
This time I found what I wanted in a Deborah Madison cookbook. I go to her, and to Marion Cunningham, when I want something sensible and straightforward and delicious. I can count on them. They both give the strong impression of being just the woman you would want living next door when your husband’s having a midnight heart attack, or your daughter’s about to give premature birth, or a bat’s got into the attic. That’s the way they both read. I trust them.
Anyway, Deborah Madison did not let me down. She had, in her index, something called “Baked Cheese on Toast,” and when I got there, I found it was pretty much what I wanted, except for using Gruyere rather than Cheddar. So big deal, I just substituted, and added a couple of dashes of hot sauce, too.
This was how, for the two of us.
Preheat the oven to 400°. Lightly beat two eggs, add two cups grated sharp Cheddar, and a quarter cup of white wine. Add a dash or two of hot sauce. Spread on four pieces of rather thickly cut bread, whole wheat sourdough for choice. Paprika the top, if you’ve got any paprika handy.
In a pan big enough to hold all the bread flat, melt 2 tablespoons of butter. (I do this by just shoving the pan into the oven as it heats up; by the time I’ve mixed everything else the oven is hot and the butter is melted.) Then swirl in the pan another quarter cup of white wine. Lay the bread in the pan, and bake till the cheese melts, about 12 minutes.
Serve on the same plate with asparagus dressed with white truffle oil and lemon juice. Another wedge of lemon on the side does not come amiss.
Any kind of wine you fancy—I had red, the Husband had rosé.
No muss, no fuss. And we laughed while we ate, and decided our dog was going to have to be an only dog for a little while longer—at least until they’d forgotten about his disgraceful behavior at the pound.
Then there was the night a board meeting for the local fire department ran overtime, and all the way home my brain seethed with plans for a quick platter of eggs (creamy scrambled with white wine and garlic), warmed whole wheat tortillas, sliced avocado and lettuce leaves with lime. I could have that on the table in fifteen minutes, even allowing for careful maneuvering around the dog.
But when I got home, I really, really wanted to sit down with a glass of wine first, and tell the Beloved Husband all the gossip I’d picked up at the fire meeting. And if I was going to sit down anyway . . . then I remembered the two Portobello mushrooms still tucked away in the fridge.
I love Portobello mushrooms. There’s one store around here that sells them relatively cheaply, and whenever I’m in there I buy enough for a couple of meals. They were a huge hit at a carnivorous Thanksgiving dinner I made for my brother and sister in law and their kids—my nephew and niece ate everything in sight, and very satisfyingly said that the vegetables were the best part. I stuffed the mushrooms that time, which is kind of gilding the lily, though easy enough.
(For 2 mushrooms, about a half cup bread crumbs tossed till golden in a skillet with a good wodge of butter, chopped garlic, chopped scallions or shallots, lots of chopped parsley, the minced stalks of the mushrooms, a little cream or sour cream or mayonnaise to bind—if I make four or more mushrooms, I increase the stuffing and add a beaten egg to bind the whole thing, but with the smaller amount of stuffing these others work fine—, salt, pepper, baste the mushroom caps in melted butter, stuff, bake them at 375° for about thirty minutes, or at whatever you’ve got everything else in at until they’re done . . .)
Easy. Not easy enough, though.
This is the easiest way to cook Portobello mushrooms. And it may be the best. It’s a tweaked idea of Nigel Slater’s, and this is how it goes: in a dish big enough to hold the mushrooms, put them upside down. (Leave the stalks on, though you must trim off the dirty bits at the bottom. Our dogs love those cooked in their food later.) Chop a garlic clove or two and sprinkle in each. Dot generously with butter, about a tablespoon—if not more—for each. Then splash in a good capful of balsamic vinegar. More if you like it. Salt. Shove in a 400º oven for twenty, twenty-five, minutes. Baste every so often if you think of it, but you don’t need to be fanatical about it. If you’re comfortable sitting on the couch, don’t bother getting up, is what I mean. They’ll taste just fine anyway.
Not only are they delicious, but they smell great while they’re cooking. Always an added bonus, I think. And they gave me an extra fifteen minutes to put my feet up, before I went back to the kitchen to put the tortillas in to warm, and cook the eggs—a ½ cup of white wine with chopped garlic and a tablespoon of butter cooked on high heat till it reduced down to a few tablespoons, then taken off the heat to let cool. Then I cracked eggs into it, put on LOW heat, gave it a stir, halfway into cooking add Swiss cheese in a small dice, when almost done added a handful of chopped parsley, salt and pepper to taste. Poured onto warmed tortillas when the eggs were as creamy as I liked, taking care not to overcook—sliced the avocado, piled it on lettuce leaves, spritzed lime over all and added extra lime wedges to the plates. Put the mushrooms nestled up on the lettuce leaves.
That done, I poured myself another glass of wine, and we sat down to eat. And it felt like a luxuriously leisurely dinner, rather than one rushed because I got home too late. I think that might have been the mushrooms. And they were so easy, too.
So I was home after Christmas, full up to here with cooking and eating and watching the levels of the See’s candy boxes drop radically between the hours of six and nine p.m., and I wanted to make something for dinner that didn’t exactly say, “It’s the end of the holidays and I’m sick of them,” but didn’t exactly say, “I never want the holidays to end,” either.
The perfect solution was potato soup.
Of course I always have potatoes. And so do you, if it’s after Christmas. Don’t tell me you didn’t get in a five or ten pound bag for the inevitable mashed extravaganza. I know you did.
So. If it is after Christmas, and you and your digestive system are tired out with partying, do what I did: get on the phone to have a chat with some friend who was too busy on the day itself to talk. Prop the phone between shoulder and chin. And get chopping.
For four people:
A blurb of butter in a big pot—about 2 tablespoons. Melt gently.
Mince an onion, a big stalk of celery, a little parsley, and three or four or five potatoes—depending on size and your own capacity. Add the onion and celery and parsley to the butter. Crumble in some thyme, dried or fresh; add a bay leaf and some salt and pepper.
Cook gently till onion is opaque. Add a cup of water. Cook, still gently, for about ten minutes.
Add potatoes, and another little bit of water—about a half cup. Cover and cook for another ten minutes. Then add 2 cups of milk and cook till it’s all falling apart in the pan.
Let cool for a moment (this is your opportunity to stop saying, “mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hhmm, he DIDN’T! What did you do then?” and take over the conversation for a time while your friend does some chore on her end and listens to YOU.)
Put some of the chunky vegetables through a food mill, if you have one, or in a blender, or just mash them into the soup with a potato masher. Add back to the pot with a half-cup of cream, if you have it.
Correct seasoning.
When you’re ready to serve, say good-bye to your friend, hang up the phone, and then heat soup gently back to steaming.
Serve with toast and Gorgonzola cheese. The Husband crumbles the cheese into his soup and then makes contented noises all the way till the salad.
(Did I mention the salad? It’s particularly good with this soup with a lemon/thyme/garlic dressing.)
Afterwards, you might even feel enough courage to face the tin of candied walnuts and ginger shortbread. I generally force myself. After all, it’s that time of year.
I can’t be the only one who arrives at the holidays to the parental home and finds herself unable to stop eating cookies, candies, cakes and various festive oils, butters, meats, as well as a staggering variety of carbohydrates. Something about the Great Return always involves a great lowering of the fruit and vegetable intake. Now this is very pleasant. There’s nothing like a cookie with a picture of Santa somehow mysteriously implanted right in its very center eaten right after a leftover pot roast sandwich. Or even before it. But coming home to one’s own normal habits, well, that’s something of a relief to the stomach and the central nervous system after all that celebrating generally. You have to heal up from the holidays. If you can find time to do this in their very midst, so much the better.
Here is one of my holiday healing meals, generally taken the very day I come back to my own dear home:
Steamed broccoli.
Added butter, soy sauce, Thai hot sauce, and squeezed lemon to taste.
Then, in the evening, feeling virtuous and like I might be easing back into my normal groove, I often notice that there is, say, a pint of milk left over from the week before in the fridge. Likely to go bad. And I’m usually quite hyped up after trips, and don’t sleep my usual sleep of the just. So I make Hot Milk and Honey and sip it by the fire, with the dogs snoring soporifically at my feet.
Here’s how:
First, and this is perhaps the most important part of the recipe, pick your mug. This should be a wide, thick walled mug, the one that reminds you the most of the most pleasant days—fantasized or otherwise—of childhood. I have two or three I eye at these moments. For some reason, they all have rather goofy flowers on their sides.
Now heat your milk. Add a spoonful of honey and a glog of vanilla. Then, right when a bubble or two begins to appear, and it starts to steam, add a glup of heavy cream and a capful of Irish whiskey. Pour into your mug. Take your mug to a strategic position where you can enjoy it in peace.
Whenever I do this, I’m glad to be home. And the dogs are glad I am, too.
There is, after all, no place like it anywhere else in the whole wide world.