ramps across the pond: wild garlic and cheese scones

 

Ramps are wild leeks. Bärlauch is wild garlic. But are wild leeks Bärlauch? This is where I get confused. It is like the whole sweet potato versus yam distinction all over again, but now in two different languages and on two different continents. 

From afar, a patch of wild garlic blanketing the ground looks nearly identical to a patch of wild leeks. Both have a fragrant smell and, to the enthusiastic forager, bring the same exciting gift that is free! wild! organic! food! The leaves are nearly identical. However, the ramson of North America is Allium tricoccum and the ramson of Europe is Allium ursinum, two different species. In North America ramps have stems that are a mix of purple and pink. They have a small bulb that is also edible. In Europe ramps have white stems and a much smaller bulb. 

Allium ursinum, the European variety, translates as bear's garlic which is one of the translations that came up when I was first trying to figure out the relationship between Bärlauch and wild leeks. I find this quite charming. We've all heard of bears loving honey and now I like to imagine them pawing up some wild fish and eating said fish with both honey and wild garlic. An elegant wild meal, indeed. 

As if the smell alone wasn't enough incentive to start picking bunch after bunch of wild garlic, it has a delicate white flower. You can forage for food and for table decor all with one plant.  

I don't ever recall eating ramps in Canada. I might have left before they became standard farmers' market fare, but in Germany Bärlauch is well loved. It is a spring classic and wild garlic pesto is a typical way to eat it. 

Now that I think that I've finally conquered the formerly confusing relationship between wild garlic and wild leeks, I can tell you about wild garlic scones. These scones are so good that I would actually be confused if I found any left-over. I made a batch last week and they were gone, completely gone, crumbs included, within 24 hours. Actually, it was probably closer to 12 hours and we are only 2. We have no pets, no dog to gobble up the crumbs. Instead, it was us gobbling up the crumbs after we ate all of the scones.  

Since I live in Germany I used wild garlic, but I suspect that wild leeks would also work just fine. I used a combination of parmesa and aged cheddar. The two were quite happy to share the same stage, but feel free to use on or the other or a different combination of hard cheese. 

Lastly, if you're anything like me, you might want to consider doubling the recipe. Or, just don't let anyone know that you've been baking. Seriously. Try at least one first to make sure that you are willing to share. 

Wild Garlic and Cheese Scones 

adapted from Delicious Days

makes 8 scones

ingredients

200 g flour (I used light spelt)

15 g wild garlic, chopped

10 g parmesan, finely grated

15 g aged cheddar, finely grated

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp fine sea salt
60 g butter, cold

135 g full-fat milk

for brushing

1 tbsp milk
3 tbsp grated cheddar 

Preheat oven to 425 F / 220 C / gas mark 7. Line a baking sheet with baking paper.

In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, salt, chopped garlic and grated parmesan and cheddar. Cut the cold butter into small chunks and add it to the bowl. With a pastry cutter or two knives, cut the dough until the pieces of butter are no larger than a small pea. Stir in the milk and mix until combined and you no longer see pockets of flour. 

Alternatively, you can do the above in a food processor. 

Sprinkle a large cutting board or a clean counter top  generously with flour. Dump out the dough and knead shortly. Do not over-knead or else you'll end up with tough scones. However, give the dough a few good kneads so that you're able to shape it.

Shape the dough into a circle that is about 3 cm (1.25 inches) thick. Cut the circle in half and then in quarter and then in eights so that you have eight scones. Place the scones on the baking sheet lined with baking paper, leaving space in between. Brush each scone with milk and then sprinkle cheese on top.

Place the baking sheet in the middle of your oven and bake the scones until they are nicely browned, about 12-14 minutes. Remove from the oven, let cool for a minute or two and then transfer to a wire rack.

 Serve warm or at room temperature.

Guten!

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treating vegetables like vegetables: rhubarb and lentil salad

 
By now we all know that rhubarb is a vegetable. We hear it spring after spring, year after year, but does that stop us from cooking it into jam or baking it into cake? Certainly not. 

I haven't stopped treating rhubarb like a fruit, but the past few springs I have been embracing its vegetable side. I'm making baby steps and those baby steps have been with lentils and spices. My first rhubarb-as-vegetable act was making Mark Bittman's Lentil and Rhubarb Stew with Indian Spices. He was bang on with pairing rhubarb with spices. I mean rhubarb and vanilla is as classic as classic gets and vanilla is just a hop, skip and a jump away from cardamom and ginger. From there, it isn't that much further to cumin and turmeric. In the stew, the rhubarb melts right it and makes it's self feel at home. You might not even guess that it is there if you haven't been told. 

Convinced about the lentil-rhubarb-spices trinity, this spring I've approached this combination slightly differently. Instead of making a stew, I made a salad. And then I ate it day after day. For someone who isn't always so thrilled about meals on repeat (with a few exceptions of course, mainly breakfast exceptions), I didn't complain. 

Spring took a while to arrive in Germany and I hope that it doesn't plan to leave too soon. I don't mind waiting for summer if it means that I have a fair chance at making the most of rhubarb season. Produce that is just as home in sweet recipes as it is in savoury, such as rhubarb, is really the best kind of produce there is.  

Black Lentil and Maple-Roasted Rhubarb Salad

serves 4

ingredients

salad

1 cup black lentils
1 small red onion, thinly sliced
2 large rhubarb stalks, sliced into medium-to-thin chunks
arugula, a handful
1/3 cup almonds, coarsely chopped and toasted
1 tbsp maple syrup
goat cheese, to taste (I used two small rounds)
pinch of sea salt

vinaigrette

5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp apple cider vinegar
1 tsp sea salt
black pepper
1/4 tsp cardamom
1/4 tsp cayenne
pinch of nutmeg
pinch of ginger
1/2 tsp cumin
1/4 tsp turmeric
1 tsp dijon mustard

Preheat oven to 200 C / 400 F / gas mark 6.

Wash and slice rhubarb into medium-to-thin chunks. Place in a baking dish, drizzle with 1 tbsp maple syrup and then toss well. Roast for about 10 minutes or until the rhubarb is soft but not mushy. Once soft, remove from the oven and let cool.

While the rhubarb is roasting, rinse lentils well and put in a pot with 2 cups of water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to a simmer and cook for about 20 minutes. After 15 minutes check to see if the lentils are cooked. They should be al dente. Do not overcook!

While the lentils cook and the rhubarb cools, prepare the vinaigrette. Place all ingredients in a jam jar and give the jar a rockin' shake until everything is well combined. Set aside and then toast the almonds (or walnuts), wash and dry the arugula, slice the onion and let the goat cheese warm to room temperature. 

Once the lentils are cooked, drain and then run them under cold water to stop the cooking process. Place in a bowl and add a pinch of salt. Add the vinaigrette and mix well until the lentils are well covered. Add the almonds, red onion, and rhubarb (with the pan juices). Season to taste and then toss with arugula and crumbled goat cheese. Serve.

If you want to make this salad ahead of time, just wait until serving to add the arugula. Everything else is fine to mingle, covered, in the fridge. 

Guten! 

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where fields are with lavender and crêpes are with chickpeas

Even if you don't live to eat (and instead eat to live), it is more or less compulsory to be swept up by food when you travel to France. Even if you're don't devoutly praise the simplicity and brilliance of bread and cheese France might change that. Even if you claim you don't have a sweet tooth, a rainbow coloured macaroon can prove you wrong. Needless to say, it is a country that I find easy to feel at home in. In France good food is a way of structuring daily life. A local market can remind you what day of the week it is. A market where shop venders are packing up the rest of the artichokes and putting away bowls of olives can remind you what time of day it is. Food in France acts as a keeper of time. It signals the season, the day and the hour. And if you happen to lose track of the roads that you're driving on or the train stop you've gotten off at, food will always let you know where you are. The regional dishes of France are the only compass you'll need.

Although I always feel slightly at home in France - I speak the language, have adequate knowledge of yogurt flavours and cheese, and know how to keep my elbows up at the post office for when people, especially older women, try to bud me in line - my relationship to the country is of the classic love-hate variety. It is where I learned how to feel comfortable in my own skin, as well as how much some people will challenge that. It is where I learned to love, but also where I experienced what rock bottom feels like. Perhaps this is why it feels a bit like home. Even though I lived there for a rather short time, it feels like where I grew up and learned how to keep my elbows up. I associate the country with my youth-on-the-verge-of-adulthood. I associate it with learning how to really shop for vegetables and then how to cook those vegetables. With learning to sit down to eat a pain au chocolat as opposed to rushing my bites to be in synch with my feet. And, of course, with wine. I also learned that even rock bottom can better with a pain au chocolate and some red wine.

My experience with France is more emotional than it is geographical. The truth is that I know only small pockets of the country. It was my first time in Provence a few weeks ago. I expected olive oil - and very good olive oil - but it was still a surprise to see just how many olive trees there were. The region is as romantic and fertile as I imagined it to be. Bushes of rosemary grow on top of strong looking villages built on stone. Even the smallest of villages carry the basics of fresh oysters, cheese, honey and rosé.

From a good meal to a big city, Provence is a region where nothing is ever far away. You can stay in a small village and still end up city hopping, which is what we did. In addition to eating cheese at least twice a day everyday for a week (and drinking plenty of rosé of course), we got a taste of some of Provence's well-worn towns and cities. Steak-frites in Vence on the way to the Matisse chapel. Pizza at Chez Etienne in Marseille. Grapefruit gelato in St Tropez. Macaroons from La Durée. Socca in Nice at Bar Rene Socca (well worth the epic wait in line). Then vanilla and rose pepper ice cream at Fenocchio in Nice. And then an accidental four-course vegetarian lunch at La Zucca Magica, also in Nice (the best kind of lunch if you ask me). 

In case you're not familiar with socca, it is a famous street food from Nice. A few years ago, recipes for socca were making their way across different blogs. I was living in Sweden at the time and had not yet traveled to Nice and so I made chickpea flour, mixed up a batter and made socca in my oven at home. It was good, but I didn't make it again. David Lebovitz warns that even though you can make socca at home the homemade version is comparable to baking S'Mores instead of making them over a campfire. Close, but not quite there. Now that I've been to Nice I entirely agree. 

Related to the edible but not actually edible itself, a visit to Maison Empereur in Marseille is well, well worth it. You know what they say about feeling like a kid in a candy store. Well that is exactly how I feel seeing rooms full of wooden spoons and Le Creuset pots and pans. 

In fact, I find that one of the greatest joys about traveling to France isn't eating out. It is shopping out and then eating in. My better half's family lives right at the German-French border and when we go home to visit we always try to make a trip over that border to go grocery shopping. The supermarkets in France alone are pretty spectacular, I think, but the fresh produce markets are so inspiring that they make it easy to write poetry with vegetables. Even simple meals at home in Provence sound like short poems. Lavender honey with yogurt each morning for breakfast. Radishes rolled in butter and sprinkled with sea salt. Artichoke ragout that makes even the toughest of thistles melt. Melon, cut in half and filled with port.  

It was too early for lavender, but nonetheless the mere thought of fields and fields of purple inspired me. When I got back to Munich I bought a lavender plant that is now perking up my balcony. Its label even came with a recipe for lavender panna cotta. Yes please. When I make it, I promise to let you know if it tastes as dreamy as it sounds. Oh, Provence. Even without the lavender you made me swoon.

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where spring means white asparagus + battle of the hollandaise sauces

Spring has only arrived in Germany once white asparagus has taken over markets, lunch menus and shopping baskets. Rhubarb and wild garlic are other signs of spring, but no other vegetable is as loved as Spargel. Luckily white asparagus is finally everywhere. I, too, am smitten with this edible ivory and like many Germans I can happily eat it everyday it is in season. The French seem to love it too as when I was in Provence it was the front-row attraction of many market stalls.

Last year I went a nontraditional route by roasting it and serving it with sun-dried tomato pesto. Delicious? Yes. German? No. More often that not Germans boil their white asparagus and then serve it with hollandaise sauce and lots of it. In fact, many Spargel stands at farmers' markets sell packages of hollandaise sauce. As much as I like to match different flavors and think about ingredients beyond tradition, every once and a while it is worth giving into it and who am I to argue with the creamy goodness that is hollandaise? As a breakfast baby, I will always think of it fondly.

For my first white asparagus (actually it was purple) purchase of the year, a few weeks ago, I decided to follow tradition. I'm not really into packaged sauces so I rolled up my sleeves and decided to make hollandaise sauce from scratch. It was my first time. I grabbed my cooking bible, Mark Bittman's How To Cook Everything Vegetarian, looked up a recipe, unrolled my sleeves and got out my blender. He offers two recipes. The first uses the classic stove-top technique and the second lazier version replaces the hand whisking with a blender. Because hollandaise sauce requires a low heat, I went the blender route. My gas stove just doesn't know low heat. That and I was lazy. And curious. Hollandaise sauce has the reputation of being high maintenance and tricky so I was curious to see if Mark had cracked the code. And being the inspiring (and sometimes lazy) food genius he is, he certainly did.

To give the classic hollandaise sauce made with egg yolks and butter a bit of an identity crisis, I decided to make a vegan version as well. Considering that hollandaise sauce has only four ingredients and two of them are certainly not vegan, I was curious to see what some cashews and turmeric can do. Inspired by vegan sour cream made with cashews, I soaked cashews overnight, blended them in a blender and kept adding things until it was good enough to lick off the spoon and not just taste observantly. 

So here it is Cashew "Hollandaise" versus Mark Bittman's Blender Hollandaise: battle of the sauces. Although they are similar in colour, they tasted differently. But I think this is a good thing. Difference keeps things interesting. The cashew version has more flavour; whereas, the butter and egg version is creamier and richer. And both versions get along famously with white asparagus which when it comes to spring / Spargel season is what matters the most.  

To prepare the white asparagus, bring a large pot of water to boil and salt it generously. Snap off the woody ends of the white asparagus and peel it. Boil the asparagus until tender and then drain. Season with salt and, if you want to take after the Germans, drown it in hollandaise. 

Trick challenge! Can you guess which is which in the photo?  

Cashew "Hollandaise"

ingredients

1/4 cup cashews, soaked overnight or for at least 4 hours

1/4 tsp turmeric

pinch sea salt

pinch cayenne pepper

2 tbsp + 1 tsp lemon juice

3 tbsp water

2 tbsp olive oil

1/2 tsp apple cider vinegar

Soak cashews for at least 4 hours or overnight. Drain and rinse and then place the cashews in a blender with the rest of the ingredients. Blend until smooth. Season to taste. If you desire a thinner sauce, add a bit more water a tsp at a time.

Heat the cashew hollandaise over the stove or in a microwave or oven until warm and serve immediately. Any leftovers can be stored in the fridge for a few days.  

* * * * *  

Mark Bittman's Blender Hollandaise

from 'How to Cook Everything Vegetarian'

ingredients 

3 egg yolks

1/2 tsp salt

1 stick (85 g) butter

1 tbsp lemon juice

pinch of cayenne pepper, optional 

In a small saucepan melt the butter. Do not allow it to brown. 

In a blender combine the egg yolks and lemon juice. Drizzle in the butter and blend. The butter will both thicken and warm the mixture. Season to taste, adding more salt, cayenne, or lemon juice as desired. Serve immediately. 

Guten! 

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artichoke fields, Bollywood style: take one

Last week I snuck off to France, to Provence. 

Although I lived in the South of France for nearly a year a long time ago, Provence is one region that I had never been to. It was too early for blooming fields of lavender and dramatic Bollywood inspired runs through them (my stepmom says that all Bollywood films have a scene of a woman running through a mustard field, her hair the object of the wind's desire, but her face ruffled because of heartbreak), but the amount of artichokes more than satisfied my craving for beautiful plants that happen to be both edible and purple. I was still able to stock up on some lavender honey though, that and enough inspiration to certainly want to make plans to go back.

I promise to tell you more soon, but for now I'm just popping in. I'll be back with both tales of la belle ville en Provence as well as two simple recipes, one vegan and one not, for hollandaise sauce just in time for Spargel season. In other words, spring has finally reached Germany.

 À bientôt. 

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black coconut rice with mango

Today is my grandfather's 93rd birthday. Ninety three. It is hard for me to imagine what that feels like. I can't even find a pair of nail clippers that don't break after a few months. And to think how old his bones are, his skin, and his heart.

I call him Poppy. I don't know exactly where this name comes from. I actually don't even have the slightest clue. As a child I had difficulty pronouncing Grandad and thus the name Poppy was born. The name doesn't have a story beyond that, but it stuck. Once Poppy reached his late 80s he started to begin sentences with "Well, dear, you know when you get to be older than God . . ." Once he reached 90 he started referring to people in their 70s as teenagers. He's a pistol, that's for sure. Last year when I was talking to him about graduating and applications and how difficult it is to find a job he told me not to worry; he still doesn't know what he wants to be when he's grown up and he is happy nonetheless. He is probably the origin of a) my sense of humour and b) my tendency to be a smart-ass. 

He lives in Vancouver and if I was there today with him to celebrate I would make him this black coconut rice with mango. The man is 93. He's eaten a lot of cake. What is new about cake? Even though you and I both have probably had our share of this Thai inspired dessert, I'm quite certain that it would be new to him. And that he would like it. 

One thing that I've really enjoyed about getting older is cooking for the people who used to cook for me. I have years and years of memories of going over to my Nana and Poppy's for lunch, tea, dinner, or all three. The food was rarely fancy, but it was always good. Lunch was a sandwich affair with a side of potato chips. Pickles too. Dinner was classic meat and a few veg, but my favourite was a marriage of the two: a stew of slow cooked beef, sometimes with barley, and collapsing vegetables. Pure comfort food. Dessert was always (and I mean always) cookies and sherbert. It felt like comfort food too, less for the food and more because I knew that there would always be dessert and what would it be. 

When I was visiting my grandparents a few years ago, I cooked for them for the first time. Both of their bodies were getting frail. They didn't cook the way they used to, or eat that way either. There was sherbert or cookies, but not both. A lot of meals came from the freezer via the microwave. After our first dinner together of boxed salmon, I went grocery shopping and filled that kitchen with fruit and the smell of garlic roasting. Each visit since, I've looked forward to cooking, to taking care of the people who for so long took care of me. 

One thing that I remember making was a green salad with mango, avocado, tomato and shrimp. I made it one night and the next day my Poppy requested it again. I happily obliged. The fresh mango made that salad memorable and that combination of flavours appetizingly sweet. That is one reason that I think he would like this dessert. The other reason has to do with tea. That same visit, I was brave and introduced some new tea to their cupboard: chai. It was also a hit and sure enough every day my Poppy would ask for some, but for some reason the c part of the chai didn't stick in his head so he would always ask me to make him a cup of "Thai" tea. I thought it was pretty sweet. He has positive associations with Thai food thanks to Indian chai and so I'm sure he would be interested in such a classic Thai dessert. 

However, my version isn't quite classic. First off, I didn't use sticky rice. I know that few things are sweeter than coconut sticky rice, but I decided to go with plain rice instead and I don't think that this was a mistake. Because of the creaminess of the coconut sauce, I appreciate a rice with a little more substance. The second variation is quite obvious by now: black rice. Healthier than white rice and sexier than brown rice, it is even nicknamed forbidden rice. It is as if it belongs in a dessert. Birthday or no birthday, this is the first thing I'm making for my Poppy the next time I visit him. 

Because it is Alphonso mango season (woot! woot!) and these mangoes are so sweet, I only added a tad of sugar to the coconut sauce. Feel free to add more if you like. I steamed the rice until nearly cooked and then cooked it briefly in coconut milk. For steaming, I went the good ol' strainer over a pot of water with a lid on it route.

Black Coconut Rice with Mango

serves 2

ingredients

1/2 cup black rice, soaked overnight or for a few hours
1 ripe mango
1 tbsp sesame seeds, toasted
1/3 cup coconut cream *
1/3 cup coconut milk
1 tsp coconut sugar
pinch of fine sea salt
1/2 tsp arrowroot powder
fresh mint for garnish

*Before you make the dessert, preferably the night before, put a can of coconut milk in the fridge. This will cause the milk to separate so that at the top of the can you will have coconut cream and at the bottom you will have milk.

After soaking, rinse rice well and then steam until nearly cooked, about 20 minutes. Remove rice from steamer and then transfer to a small sauce pan with the coconut milk. Cook, with a lid, over medium heat until the rice absorbs the milk and is completely cooked, about 5-10 minutes. 

While the rice is steaming, cut the mango into strips and toast the sesame seeds. When the rice is cooking, make the coconut sauce by heating the coconut cream with the coconut sugar and a pinch of sea salt in a sauce pan. Once warm, remove from the heat and stir in the arrowroot powder and continue to stir until the powder is absorbed and the sauce is slightly thickened.

Divide the rice amongst two bowls, top with coconut sauce, fresh mango and sesame seeds. Garnish with fresh mint.

Guten!

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postcards from munich IV

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When you live in a city, it is easy to forget to see it from those blissed-out-tourist-eyes with which you first arrived. You see your ever day life, the ordinary, as opposed to those small things that make one city different from the next, the extraordinary. I find that postcards help to rekindle some of that bliss and these ones from Munich never fail to make me find the city I live in a little funnier and a little more handsome than usual. 

The postcards above are also from Munich; however, they have less to do with the city as such and more to do with one particular art project in it. These postcards are a part of an art project by Munich based artist Kirsten Kleie. She has gathered a collection of postcards that she has stumbled upon randomly and has then photographed them elsewhere and made these photographs back into postcards. The ones she makes she then distributes randomly, with a return address on the back, with the hopes that they will find a homecoming of sorts by either finding their old home or by being welcomed into a new one. I now have a few keeping my bookshelf company. 

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