these days were made for cookin'

Friday night, I made Molly's Braised Onion Sauce with Pasta (originally from James Beard). I adapted it to meet our own taste; we've been dairy-free for three months now, so instead of butter, I used a few tablespoons of canola oil. We didn't have any Madeira, so I used 1/4 Chardonnay, and it was just amazing. I made a pound of pasta to go with it, so we had a lot left over (not as much as should have been; we kept going back for just one more bite), and it was so good reheated the next day, too (it made for a nice, comforting lunch at work on Saturday, paired with a great book and a quiet corner in the library).

Last night I made brownies. we should be ashamed there aren't more left. but we're not! oh, so brazen.

Today was chilly, windy, and felt like March or April. I hadn't spent a day in the kitchen for a while, but this one seemed made for it. I made two loaves of my French bread this morning; it's loosely based on a recipe I found at recipezaar, but changed to gluten-free, dairy-free, and with various other changes to certain ingredients, and also in handling. Today it turned out the best that it ever has, and unlike regular gluten-free bread, it also rose. This is amazing, because usually, gluten-free bread benefits from relaxing in a warm oven for a while before baking, but it doesn't rise, due to the lack of elastic gluten strands in the dough. I almost fell over when I opened the oven to check on it after 20 minutes nestled in the oven; I couldn't believe that it had risen as much as it did! It's light, chewy, has a crispy crust, and still, tonight, is moist; generally, gluten-free breads dry out and become crumbly quite quickly. I'm going to make two more loaves tomorrow, slice them, and put them in the freezer for sandwiches and toast. Yay!

Tonight, partially because I was so happy with how the bread turned out, and also because I was chilly in here, even with jeans and socks on, I made minestrone soup.


Minestrone Soup
(adapted from Vegetarian Times Complete Cookbook)

2 T extra virgin olive oil
1/4 c water
1 large onion, chopped
4 cloves of garlic, minced
2 carrots, thinly sliced
2 large or 4 small celery stalks, sliced
1 T dried basil
3/4 T dried oregano
10 oz fresh mini portabella mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
1 c chicken stock (I used 1 c hot water and one "Not Chik'n" boullion cube)
7 c water
1/2 head green cabbage
1 large potato, cut into small dice
1/2 zucchini, sliced lengthwise and sliced into thin semi-circles
2 14.5 oz cans of petite diced tomatoes, with juice
1 14.5 oz can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
Bragg's Liquid Aminos

1.) In a large pot, heat the olive oil and 1/4 c water; add onion and saute until translucent. Add the garlic, carrots, and celery until they're soft. stir in the herbs, a little salt, and pepper (if the mixture is getting too dry, turn down the heat and add 1 T water). add the mushrooms; when they're soft and have given up their juices, add the 1C water and boullion cube, and simmer until there's half the liquid.

2.) Core the cabbage; slice half of it into thin shreds. Add the water, cabbage, potato, zucchini, tomatoes, and chickpeas; simmer until the vegetables are tender. Splash in a tablespoon or two of Braggs, rather than salt; this adds a deeper flavour to the soup.

Feeds an army.

(I think it's even better the next day, after the flavours have blended overnight.)

sunday morning 2.0

monday dinner - after

Feed yourself well.

I love cooking. I don't think "love" is too strong a word; time to cook is one of the three things I look forward to the most about the weekends: Time with John, sleeping in, and cooking (may or may not be in that order).

For months before I graduated college, I was subject to the whims of a disturbingly bare, lackluster, outdated dorm kitchen, shared with dozens of girls who didn't clean up after themselves, and frequently stole bowls, pots, pans, and items from the refrigerator. Because I lived on the third floor, and the kitchen was in the lower level, I ended up trudging up and down four flights of stairs whenever I wanted to cook, arms piled high with pans, bowls, and ingredients. And besides, there was an odd smell emanating from the northwest corner - I investigated once, with almost suffocating trepidation as I checked behind the movable cabinet, suddely sure I would find a decaying corpse (I didn't, of course, but welcome to my imagination).

I hated that kitchen. I longed for my own space, one filled with light, beautiful colors, and smells -- delicious smells, this time around. No microwave from 1970, no gunky stove splattered with Rice A Roni from other residents two weeks ago, no pots with mysterious remnants stuck inside. Light, beautiful light. Colours - no more institutional decor! And beautiful foods releasing their scent into the air.

Ever since we moved here, nearly four months ago, I've been cooking, cooking, cooking. My favourite dimension of cooking, though, is sharing it with John - filling our house with amazing, warm, comforting smells, and nourishing the one I love.

And a few days ago, after a Festival of the Nations at work, I saw a thin strip of paper lying on the floor in the foyer. I picked it up, and it was the fortune from a Chinese Fortune Cookie:

Today is a day to nourish yourself.
Feed yourself well.

Our house smells amazing this afternoon. A large kettle of potato leek soup, simmering on the stove, redolent of warm bacon, thinly sliced leeks, chunks of potato, and white wine; it fills our home with the most cozy, lovely smells. It's almost time to take the pot off the heat - the potatoes are falling apart - let it cool, then puree it. It's been tantalizing us for about forty minutes now, and we can hardly keep away from it; we hover over it, spoons dipping repeatedly, tongues a little wrinkled from the hot broth.

I made a roast a few nights ago; nothing showy, but lovely - fresh rosemary and a little thyme breathing a delicious layer into the beef, red wine and smashed garlic adding another dimension; sunny carrots and earthy potatoes completing the dinner. I brought it to the table on my favourite platter, and then the apartment was silent except for the rapid clinking of knives and forks as we tucked into our food. A few minutes later, we surfaced. John was reaching over for another slice of beef, then paused, looking at me. "I wish you could make this for people back home. So they could taste the amazing food we get to eat." And my heart sang.