Holiday Cocktails

Every girl should be skilled in the art of the cocktail. Good food feeds the soul, but a good cocktail embodies spirits. Holiday celebrations are always a good time to channel your inner bar tender. Let’s get pouring, shall we?

The Bellini is traditionally a summer drink made with white peach puree and Prosecco; a sparkling Italian wine. It is the Italian answer to the Mimosa. In summer months, this drink is best made with fresh white peaches, while they are still in season. For this time of year, frozen peach puree is your best bet. (If you can’t find white peach puree, a yellow peach puree will do) The crisp bubbles and bright peach flavor are indicative of summer. Adding pomegranate to this classic will make it a welcome addition to all of your winter festivities; perfect for brunches and desserts.

Pomegranate Bellini

2 bottles of chilled Prosecco

1 package (2.2 lbs) frozen white peach puree, thawed

2 cups chilled pomegranate juice

Chill a large glass pitcher and several champagne flutes in the freezer 1 hour prior to making this cocktail. It is best served cold.

Combine all ingredients in the pitcher and serve in chilled glasses. Make sure to hold your glass at an angle when pouring to prevent overflow.

No one loves a good accessory or a good drink more than I do. When I can get my accessories in the form of a drink, *Le sigh*

Raspberry Beret

2 pounds ripe raspberries (fresh or frozen)

Zest of 2 oranges

1 qt. good quality vodka

Triple sec

Orange zest curls for garnish

Combine raspberries, orange zest and vodka in a large jar with a tight fitting lid. Refrigerate for one week. The raspberries will break down, infusing the vodka with flavor and a blushing red color.

When ready to serve, shake the jar to evenly mix the flavors. Coat the rim of several martini glasses with sugar. Fill glasses 1/4 of the way with triple sec. Fill the rest of

the way with the raspberry vodka and give a light stir. Hang an orange zest curl from the edge of each glass and serve.

I realize that not everyone indulges in alcoholic bliss during the holidays. Whether you’re the designated driver, or you just don’t want that infamous drunk relative passing out under your Christmas tree, I’ve got you covered. Here’s a non-alcoholic cocktail that still manages to pack a punch.

Cranberry Ginger Fizz

1 can frozen cranberry juice concentrate, partially thawed

1 chilled bottle of ginger beer

1 chilled bottle of ginger ale

2 limes juiced 

Lime wedges (and fresh cranberries, optional) for garnish

Follow the instructions for mixing the cranberry juice, but substitute the ginger beer and ginger ale in equal amounts, for the water. Add the lime juice and stir. Serve over ice with lime wedges for garnish.

Stock Options

Craving seafood? The next time you make shrimp, don’t throw away those shells. Whenever I cook shrimp, after peeling and cleaning them, I reserve the shells to make shrimp stock.

Depending on how much shrimp you’ve cleaned, the amount of shells of course, will vary. Rinse the shells well and place then in a large stock pot. Fill the pot with enough cold water to cover the shells by an inch. Bring the water to a rapid boil then reduce the flame to low heat and let simmer covered for one hour. The shells turn pink as they cook, giving you a beautiful blush colored stock. When the stock is done, allow it to cool completely. Strain stock through a sieve, into a plastic container. It can be refrigerated for up to a month, or can be frozen for future use.

Shrimp stock can be used as a base for soups (bisques, chowders and gumbos especially), sauces and gravies that accompany any seafood dish. It can also be used for rice dishes like paella and risotto. The possibilities are endless. The same can be done with fish, using the head, spines and fins, if you are in the habit of buying whole fish. A lean fish like bass or cod are recommended, rather than oily fish like salmon or mackerel.

These are ideal if you want robust homemade flavor added to your dishes, but have limited time. Other stocks like chicken and beef need hours for all the flavors to come together. The likelihood that you will be fabricating entire sides of beef or multiple chicken carcasses at home, are slim to none. Unless you just enjoy the extra work and long hours, buying chicken or beef stock is a better bet.  

I find that the shrimp shells are potent enough in their flavor. However, if you’d like to layer the flavors in your stock, you can add the following:

• 3 lbs. shrimp shells or fish bones
• 2-3 Tbsp olive oil
• 2 cloves garlic, smashed
• 1 shallot, roughly chopped
• 1 inch piece of ginger, cut into thin rounds
• 1 cup dry white wine

Bouquet Garni (garnished bouquet):

• 1 Tbsp black pepper corns
• 1 sprig fresh thyme, or 1 tsp dried
• 2 bay leaves

Cut a length of cheese cloth long enough to double it and place the herbs and peppercorns inside. Gather the cloth up into a pouch, and tie it, using cooking twine, leaving a lengthy piece of string. This will make it easy to remove from the pot when the stock is done.

Heat the oil in the stock pot over a medium flame. You only want enough oil to coat the pan. Sweat the ginger, garlic and shallots until they are fragrant and translucent. (do not brown). Add the shrimp shells (or fish bones) and toss until they are coated and begin to perfume the pot. Pour in the wine, and reduce by half. Add the bouquet garni, tying the long piece of string to the handle of your pot for easy removal later. Pour enough water into the pot to cover the shells by one inch. Increase to high heat and bring to a boil. Once the stock is boiling, reduce to a simmer and cook covered for an hour. Let cool, then remove the bouquet and strain into containers.

*Tips: if you’re freezing your stock, using an ice tray can be helpful. Fill your ice tray with stock and freeze overnight. When you remove the cubes, place them in a sealable freezer bag. When you want to cook something that requires stock, you can use as little or as many cubes as you need, rather than waiting for a large container to defrost.

If you’ve ever wondered what the difference is between stock and broth;

Stock is made from the bones (or seafood shells) of an animal.

Broth is made from the meat of an animal.

Vanilla Memoirs

Nothing compares to the scent of freshly washed clothes floating on the breeze and dancing the tango with sweet red Georgia clay. You are in the back yard, hanging soon-to-be-crisp white linens, pastel curtains and your family’s Sunday best. The occasional butterfly flits about, its flight pattern erratic, while your children play in the distance. You snap up one piece of damp fabric after the next, securing them to a network of lines, with wooden clothes pins. You are lost in the rhythm of this task, until a familiar scent tugs at your nostrils, jarring you from reverie to a state of alert. The sweetness of the red clay dirt splayed around for miles, is made yet sweeter by something masked but familiar. Now, you’re paying attention. You are remembering exactly how many rug rats you left unattended while you hang the laundry – and the ring leader is in your kitchen.

My father was head rug rat in charge, out of seven children. As the oldest, naturally, the other children took his lead. At the time, he may have been about five years old and only had a couple of cohorts in his younger siblings. He and his oldest sister were thick as thieves and did everything together. This day, they decided to make mud pies. They had an impressive list of real ingredients. The base of any good mud pie of course, is quality dirt. Rural Georgia, like many places in the south, is chock full of red clay dirt that has a sweet aroma. There was plenty to go around, so pies were the obvious choice to little tykes that watched their mother in the kitchen, making everything from scratch. They raided my grandmother’s pantry like bandits. The little scamps made off with sugar, milk, (maybe an egg or two) and PURE vanilla extract. Keep in mind; this was the deep south in the 1940’s. My grandparents were financially challenged before the depression made it fashionable. No one could afford to throw away food.

Bless their little hearts, big brother and little sis set their mud filled pie pans out in the sun to bake. I’m not sure why they didn’t try to use the oven, but I can only be grateful that they didn’t. Imagine my grandmother’s shock and dismay when she found her children filthy, her food wasted, and her very expensive vanilla extract nearly depleted. Of all the things they thought to mimic, using measuring spoons wasn’t one of them. The facts on how she handled this discovery have been muddled over the years, but I’m guessing the little ones didn’t do much sitting the rest of that day.

Today, an eight ounce bottle of vanilla extract, purchased at retail price can easily cost you fifteen dollars. If you love baking, it is a necessary expense. Pure vanilla extract, much like salt, is a flavor enhancer. It’s the kind of ingredient that you may not know is there, until it’s missing. Imitation vanilla flavor is subpar by comparison, and not worth sacrificing the quality of your food.

Vanilla beans are even more expensive, but extremely potent. They are economical because of their multitude of uses. Once the seeds have been scraped from the inside of a vanilla bean pod, the pod can be saved and put into a tightly sealed canister of sugar in order to infuse it. The pod continues to release flavor. Good deals can be found online for purchasing vanilla beans in bulk. Otherwise, you may want to go to a spice shop or gourmet market, where they are typically sold in pairs.

One of the most invaluable skills I’ve acquired in cooking is how to make my own vanilla extract. The initial cost is always worth it because extracts have no expiration date. Homemade vanilla extract improves with age because the entire bean is used.  There are numerous variations on formula and ratio, but through trial and error, I’ve found one that works for me. Vodka, rum or brandy can be used, but I prefer vodka for its neutral flavor. Essentially, you want vodka that falls between the 35% and 40% alcohol range. This is called B grade vodka and is perfect for extracts as it won’t overpower the vanilla. Eight vanilla beans to every one cup of vodka makes a wonderfully aromatic extract. The vanilla flavor can never be too strong; the more concentrated the better. It is used in small quantities.

You will need a glass bottle or jar with a tight fitting lid, and a funnel. Dark glass is recommended to protect the extract from light, but is not a must. Start by splitting the vanilla beans lengthwise leaving the stems in tact. Tuck the beans into the bottle. Fit the funnel into your container and pour the vodka through the funnel. Seal tightly and\store in a cool place. Easy, right? The hardest part is waiting eight weeks until the extract has reached minimum potency. Ever so often, shake the bottle to distribute the seeds evenly. Over time you will see the extract darken. The darker the extract becomes, the fuller the flavor will be.

Homemade vanilla extract makes great gifts for friends and family if they like to cook.

Decorative bottles/jars with a bow or label give it that homey Mayberry feel. Won’t they just be so impressed with you?

Banana Muffins Gone Nuts

There’s a snap in the air that comes with the sepia toning of leaves. My mind travels to the warmth of a cozy kitchen, and the comforting scent of autumnal goodies. It’s the time of year when your kitchen is perfumed with spices like cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and clove. When this kind of chill settles in the air, I feel compelled to have something sweet baking. It’s the culinary equivalent of incense. The infusion of buttery spiced carbs is just a no brainer. This go ‘round I decided on banana muffins. Quick, simple, and because bananas are so perishable, it’s a good way to make use of your fruit if they ripen too quickly. You can also make one large loaf or mini loaves with this recipe, to share with friends. What is better than good food and good company?

Banana Muffins

8 oz (2 sticks) softened butter

2 cups sugar

2 large eggs

1 tsp vanilla extract

2 bananas mashed or pureed

2 ½ cups all purpose flour

2 tsp baking soda

½ tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

1 cup sour cream

*1 cup of any of the following, depending on the variation you’re making:

Chopped nuts of your choice / chocolate chips / butterscotch chips

Prep:

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Line two 12 cup muffin tins with muffin liners, and spray pan lightly, so the edges won’t stick when the muffins are done.

Sift the flour, baking soda, salt and cinnamon together in a bowl and set aside.

In an electric mixer, on high speed, beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy.

Beat in eggs, one at a time, and vanilla extract, until blended. Add banana puree gradually, until it us fully incorporated. (The mixture may appear to separate, but will come together as you add the dry ingredients)

Mix:

Switch your mixer to medium speed. Alternately add the flour mixture and sour cream in thirds. Using a rubber spatula, scrape down the sides and bottom of your bowl as you go along, to ensure that everything is evenly incorporated. Mix until well blended, but do not over beat. Over beating will result in a dry and tough product.. The batter should have a rich, silky texture. Fold in nuts or chips with spatula distributing them evenly throughout the batter.

Bake:

For muffins: spoon batter into cups, filling them half way. Yields 2 ½ dozen muffins

Place muffin tins in the center of the oven rack. Bake for 25 minutes, or until inserted pick comes out clean..

For loaves: pan sizes may vary, but the rule of thumb is to fill loaf pans no more than 2/3 full. The size of the loaf will also determine the baking time. Start at 25 minutes as a guide line, and adjust time accordingly. Insert a tooth pick in the center of the loaf to test doneness. When the pick comes out clean, remove from oven and let cool.

*Variation: can be served with cream cheese icing

8 oz softened cream cheese

¼ cup softened butter

4 cups 10x sugar

1 tsp vanilla extract

In a mixer, on high speed, beat butter and cream cheese until smooth. Blend in vanilla.

On medium speed, beat in 10x sugar until blended, stopping occasionally to scrape down the bowl.. Mix on high speed until mixture is smooth. If you prefer a thinner icing, add 1 tbsp of milk while mixing. Frost cooled muffins with icing and serve.

Basic Training

When I was a child, one of the worst offenses I, or my siblings could commit, was wasting food. I didn’t see what the big deal was, at the time. Why should I have to eat something that I had had enough of, or didn’t want in the first place?  I was always being reminded that there were children in other countries who didn’t have enough food to eat. I was convinced that the television networks were in cahoots with my parents. I’d be shuffling green peas around on my plate, strategically spreading them out so it would appear that there were far less than there really were on my plate. Just as I seemed to be making some headway in making my plate look semi empty, a commercial would come on, showing impoverished children with distended bellies and emaciated frames.

This was all my parents needed to corroborate their stories of world hunger. They always seemed to be able to pin point a country where hunger was prevalent. Since they knew so much about this problem, I wondered why they didn’t just send the peas and other loathsome foods I so dreaded, directly to these kids. Naturally, I pondered this to myself. Something told me they wouldn’t appreciate my diplomatic solution.

My parents grew up in the rural south and both came from rather large families. Survival was on their minds at all times. They lived in agricultural communities and were intimately acquainted with making every meal stretch to feed the many mouths in their households. This was something that I knew of in theory, but hadn’t experienced in practice. I didn’t quite grasp the importance of the lesson I was learning, even as I plotted to clear my plate through osmosis. Waste not, want not. Thankfully, not every lesson was as painful as the consumption of peas. Being my mother’s right hand in the kitchen had its benefits.  

On a regular basis, I watched my mother the alchemist, turn leftovers into shiny new aromatic works of art. Stale bread was whipped into stuffing or bread pudding. Overly ripe bananas were reincarnated as banana bread. Sunday’s roasted chicken would experience rebirth as chicken salad by mid-week. She was never at a loss for recreating a meal, and making you feel like you’d never had it before. What was old could be made new again by her nimble fingers.

Between watching my mother and experimenting on my own, I learned the invaluable science of food alchemy. Every ingredient in your kitchen has multiple uses. If I have citrus fruit on hand, I’ll zest it before eating or juicing it. I love making my own bread crumbs, simply because I can. If I find myself with an excess of bread, I’m always sure to make a batch. Around the holidays, I’ll buy a loaf of white bread specifically for making seasoned bread crumbs or stuffing cubes and croutons. Of course, all these things are readily available in the market, but there is something more intimate about my cooking when I do these things myself. My mother was thinking of nothing more than making sure we were well fed, but she taught me that you could communicate with food. All of the tedious tasks that can be eliminated with store bought items become meaningful when you know that people you care about will be eating something you prepared from your heart.

Sometimes I’ll cook with my mother. I can see her watching me. She’ll ask why I’m making extra work for myself. No point in telling her that she drummed this neurosis into my very young and pliant mind, singlehandedly. She will disagree; it’s what she does. I smile, because I know better. Learning how to make a meal from bare essentials is a source of pride for me. It’s a survival skill. I didn’t grow up in the same times or conditions as my mother, but she’s passed along her instincts to me. I am a girly girl, with modern day conveniences. I have an excessive love of shoes and all accessories, but I know that if I chip a nail or find my cupboard nearly bare, I won’t starve.

I am my mother’s child.

Greek Phyllo-sophy

There are few things that I find as relaxing as a good market.  I don’t mean your run of the mill market, like the A&P or Pathmark. I like ethnic markets that carry authentic ingredients from all over the world. When I’m in an exploratory mood, and want to cook something from another culture, one of my favorite markets to visit is the Essex Market, on the Lower East side of Manhattan.

120 Essex Street houses an eclectic roster of culinary delights, amd

can be described as 'a taste of home', no matter where ‘home’ is for you.. There are lots of small stalls under one roof, carrying everything from seafood, meat, poultry and produce, to artisan cheeses and hand-made chocolates.

The charm of a place like this is, getting to know about the different grocery items first hand. Because many of the stalls are run by immigrants, you can sometimes encounter a language barrier. However, more often than not, there is someone on staff who can tell you how a particular item is traditionally used in their native land. Shopping there is a crash course in international culinary education.

During one of my more recent excursions to Essex Market, I stumbled onto a happy surprise, called Boubouki; a bakery dedicated to making fresh Greek food daily.  This bakery is an intimate affair. It is take out only. The stall contains a small counter space on which the food is displayed. In addition, there is a sink and small refrigerator against one wall. Another small work counter and an oven with a beautiful chrome finish, occupies the rear wall. It is bare bones, beautiful and rustic.

While there, I had the opportunity to speak with proprietor, Rona Economou.

Rona’s passion for cooking shows in the smallest of details; from the way she handles a fresh-from-the-oven piece of spanakopita, to wrapping her baked goods to go. She proves everyday that, to make great food, you only need the basic elements of water and fire, fresh ingredients and divine inspiration.

Boubouki’s menu is rather small. It features spanakopita (spinach pie), cheese pie and baklava, in addition to upcoming seasonal inspirations, shrouded in yet more phyllo dough. I was drawn to the intimacy of a place with such old world charm. Customers are engaged and regarded as old friends. I found myself intrigued by the history and beginnings of this place. Rona was obliged to sate my curiosity.

When I asked what Boubouki means, Rona informed me that it means “flower bud” in Greek. Appropriate, I thought, for a newly sprouting business that has the strength to take root, given a little love from its community.

Rona is one of two children born, in the Bronx, to Greek emigrant parents. While Rona and her sister were still babies, their parents moved the family to Astoria, Queens (incidentally, the most culturally diverse of all five boroughs).Like many that seem to come by cooking naturally, her love and skill for cooking came from watching her mother and grandmother cook. There is this flinty spark in her eye that all home-bred cooks recognize within themselves: kismet. You know, before you understand that you know, that you are meant to use your natural gift to communicate with people and touch their lives. When she speaks of her culinary predecessors, she beams with pride.

“My grandmother is an amazing cook who made her phyllo by
hand.  She lived in a small village in Greece until she came to the
U.S. as an adult- she farmed, raised animals etc. and knows how to
tend to a chicken from raising it, to slaughtering it, to plucking its
feathers and roasting it.  My mom also is a great cook.  No one beats
her Greek soups.  But she's lived here for so long that her cooking
has evolved- it's not 100% Greek.  I think that has influenced me as
well.”

If you have ever cooked with fresh phyllo dough, you understand that it is a labor of love.

While it is not the most difficult of procedures, whatever it lacks in complication, it makes up for in tedium. There is such delicacy involved, handling dough that is thin enough for you to read your morning paper through. Oh, the repetition. Laying out a single layer, brushing it with melted butter, or olive oil, and repeating…until you are old and grey, or the recipe tells you to stop; whichever comes first. In between oiling the layers, you have to keep the dough that hasn’t been used yet, from drying out by covering with a damp cloth/towel. Then of course, there are the varieties of fillings, depending on what dish you are making. I’m a girl that will try anything once, just to be able to say I did it. It has been five or so years now, since I’ve made homemade spanakopita or baklava.

I’m glad I learned how to make them, but the experience makes me rejoice that places like Boubouki exist! I’m not so sure I’ll be taking those two recipes out for a gallop anytime soon, if ever. I do however, have a new addition to my list of places to go whenever I get a craving for either. Once you’ve tasted the spinach pie at Boubouki’s, you appreciate the love that’s gone into the process. Make no mistakes kids; only love can produce something that tastes like this. Spinach pie was the only way to ensure that I ate all of my spinach when I was a kid. I was soooo not buying into that Popeye crap!

If you are as curious as I, about Rona's beginnings in her career, you might be surprised to know that, Rona  was once a litigator. Naturally, I wondered what made her stray from the beaten path, into the culinary field.

“I never thought I would cook professionally.  But I was laid off
and realized I had been given a chance to start doing something that
I loved.  I'm very grateful that I went on the path that I did,
though.”

There is something to be said for a dream deferred, or an unexpected dream, for that matter.

What I always want to know from authentic cooks, professional or not, is what their most valuable tool is in the kitchen. I’ve found that you can learn a lot about a cook and their process by the answer they provide. When I presented this question to Rona, she told me, with no hesitation,

 “Most valuable tool- for sure, is my chef’s knife”

Some call the knife the original food processor. Much like her kitchen set up, her answer was short, sweet and to the point, with no unnecessary additives.

Undoubtedly, whenever we eat anything prepared by anyone other than ourselves, there is a conversation taking place, whether we take the time to acknowledge it or not. Cooks have a language all their own. Every ingredient adds a layer to that discourse.  We all want to convey something to the person that consumes our hearts and souls presented on a plate. Rona’s take on her communication with her customers is rather simple.

“What I hope people feel when they eat my food is that they're
being nourished.  That's the most important thing to me.  I try to
make dishes that are balanced and natural and light- I don't want one
flavor to overtake a dish.  My goal is to bring a few ingredients
together and make something that reveals its flavors after a few
bites.”

I enjoyed the food at Boubouki a great deal. I hope to see this flower bud into its full and ripe potential. 

The Tell Tale Sazon

Growing up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan afforded me great cultural exposure. Chinatown and Little Italy were nearby. I lived in a neighborhood that was largely African American, Asian and Latino. Just a stone’s throw away, was the famed Bargain District, peppered with Jewish merchants and low rise tenements.

When I was a little girl, the building that I lived in had seventeen floors, with ten apartments per floor. My biological grandparents lived in the south, but I was blessed with extra grandparents close to home. I had kindly older people in my life that were close enough to be considered family. This had advantages and disadvantages. The disadvantage, as I saw it back then, was that I had better not get caught stepping out of line. My parents had eyes everywhere. I was always amazed at how they seemed to know what I was doing, when they were nowhere to be seen. Parenthood was steeped in mysticism that I’d never understand. The advantage was that spending time with this surplus of grandmas and grandpas exposed me to their wisdom and knowledge. I grew up in a time where adults were still community oriented and youngsters minded their elders. People looked out for each others children and that concept was respected. 

One of my next-door neighbors was an elderly Puerto Rican woman named Vicky, whom I considered my honorary abuela. Sometimes when my mother had to work late, or had an appointment, I would go to Vicky’s after school. She always had Stella Doro pastry and Savarin or Bustelo coffee in her cabinet. Whenever I see either of those brands anywhere, a smile crosses my lips. While wonderful aromas wafted from the kitchen, I’d sit on her zip locked couch, my eyes glued to a Spanish soap opera on the Telemundo network. I tried to move as little as possible, so the plastic covering the couch wouldn’t crinkle in surround sound. I didn’t want to miss a single word or bitch slap in the story line. So what, that I didn’t know what they were saying? The bitch slap is universal, and transcends all language barriers.

When I wasn’t engrossed in a self-taught Spanish course via television, I’d go in the kitchen and watch Vicky cook. She’d work magic, with four burners going at once. My mother could throw down in the kitchen, but it never smelled like this. My mother’s southern cooking was one thing, but this was another affair entirely. There was always the fragrance of garlic, peppers, onions and tomatoes dancing vapors through the apartment. There were also scents of herbs and spices that I didn’t recognize by name, but were as familiar as home, because when I was at abuela’s, I was home. Vicky had a little wooden bowl that sat on a ledge above the sink. Inside it was something that looked like a miniature baseball bat. When I asked her what it was, she explained to me that the bowl was a mortar and the little bat was a pestle. She showed me how she used it to grind up her spices and mash her garlic to a pungent pulp.

I watched her make many dishes, but arroz con pollo, and red beans were my favorites. I figured anyone could duplicate this recipe. Well, maybe anyone armed with the right ingredients could, but I was still trying to piece together the puzzle.

At home, I was always around my mother in the kitchen. She would let me help her cook, giving me one task or another. She used garlic, peppers and onions too, but it didn’t smell like Vicky’s food. Whenever I was craving Spanish food, I’d make it my business to chop up the vegetables that I thought Vicky used for seasoning. No matter what I did, the end result was never the same. I was looking to get this Latin flare to my food, but no dice.

I was an adult before I learned how to make some of the basic staples in Latin food.

I’m the type of person that will go to a restaurant, order something and then analyze a dish to death until I’ve picked apart the ingredients. Then I’ll go home and make it, just because I can. It bothers me when I can’t figure out the ingredients. I feel like I’ve somehow failed as a cook. I’d been going to Spanish restaurants all my life and hadn’t nailed it yet. It was like The Tell Tale Sazon. It was keeping me up at night.

One day, I was watching a cooking show on PBS called Daisy Cooks, hosted by Latina chef extraordinaire, Daisy Martinez. This particular day, she made sofrito, which is the Holy Grail of Latin cooking. I learned how important herbs like cilantro and culantro are to the most basic dishes. I am not in the habit of measuring when I cook. The only time I adhere to strict measurements is when I’m baking. You really don’t want to eyeball baking soda or baking powder…not pretty, I can tell you. I blame this bad habit on my mother. I learned all my cooking basics from her. Whenever she made any of her best dishes, she’d just add ‘some of this, and some of that’, and it was always fabulous. I never saw this woman use a measuring spoon or a measuring cup, but her food always tasted the same. I can pretty much eyeball most ingredients and taste as I go along. I force myself to measure ingredients now, because I enjoy creating recipes. Once I get the perfect recipe, I write it down. I watched Daisy make sofrito once. I ran out to the market, got everything on the ingredients list. I came home and made a batch. Well, I had to test it out on something, so I decided on red beans and rice.

As my beans cooked, all the familiar smells from my childhood excursions in Vicky’s kitchen, wafted from that pot. It was a cloudy day. I can remember the clouds parting. As the skies cleared, a holy light shone down directly on my pot of beans. When I lifted the lid from the pot, the beans glowed. Okay…maybe not ALL of it happened that way. The East River might not have parted, but it wasn’t for lack of will on my part. Do you see though, what I’m saying about the importance of sofrito? It is a must have in your kitchen. I couldn’t believe how much of a difference sofrito made in a simple pot of beans. They actually tasted the way I remembered them as a kid. I had been using packaged sazon all along, but the sofrito was what had been missing. After that, I started learning how to make other staples like recaito, adobo and mojo. Once I learned to make these seasonings with fresh ingredients, I could immediately taste the difference in the food I cooked. No store bought sofrito for me honey. Blasphemy!

I am no guru of Latin food, but I’d make Vicky proud, as a student. I’ve made my own seasoned salt before, so getting the right measurements for a dry adobo wasn’t too difficult. I’ve also played around with different recipes for mojo until I found one that worked for me. Though it nearly killed me to break out the measuring utensils, I’ve measured out both recipes, so the uninitiated can try it at home. Both seasonings are great on meat, poultry and fish. The mojo makes an exceptional marinade on pork chops/loins and beef steaks. I’d like to think Vicky would give me a pat on the head, with a “good job mija” and a Stella Doro cookie for both of these recipes.

Dry Adobo

4 Tbsp salt

4 Tbsp garlic powder

4 Tbsp onion powder

2 Tbsp black pepper

2 Tbsp ground cumin

2 Tbsp dried oregano

1 Tbsp dried citrus zest

Combine ingredients thoroughly and store in a tightly sealed container. Keep in a cool, dry place for up to 3 months. Yields approximately 1 ¾ cups of seasoning.

*You can add 1 Tbsp of one or all of the following to personalize your recipe:

Dried cilantro, coriander, turmeric, and/or paprika.

Mojo

3 lemons, juiced

3 limes, juiced

2 large oranges, juiced

1 ½ heads of garlic, pressed or minced

2 Tbsp salt

1 Tbsp black pepper

1 Tbsp dried oregano

1 Tbsp ground cumin

¼ cup plus 2 Tbsp olive oil

To avoid the ingredients separating, mix in a blender or use a hand held immersion blender. This will emulsify the juice and oil. If you don’t have either, use a whisk. Be sure to give a stir just before using. Any leftover marinade can be refrigerated for up to a week. Yields approximately 2 cups of marinade.

*Taste as you go. 1 ½ heads of garlic may sound excessive. You can always alter the amount to suit your palate. For my taste, this amount of garlic is the perfect balance for the high level of acidity in this marinade.

You can also add the zest from the citrus fruit used in the recipe, for extra flavor.

Old Italy Meets New York

The leaves haven’t quite gone golden red. Temperatures are making a reluctant retreat out of the eighties, kicking and screaming all the while. Occasionally, all of this ruckus actually stirs up a breeze. Labor Day has come and gone. While some recognize Labor Day as a well manicured usher, escorting Summer, by her elbow to the door, it means bubkis to me. Like any true blue New Yorker foodie, I know that summer is over when the Feast of San Gennaro ends, and not a minute before.

Every September for the last eighty-four years, New Yorkers have converged on the neighborhood of Little Italy for the San Gennaro Festival, which celebrates the Patron Saint of Naples. Although this event is steeped in religious tradition, it is enjoyed by people from all walks of life. For eleven days every September, we are all just a little bit Italian.

This festival is the closest that New York City will ever come to a county or state fair, boasting a bevy of music, games and activities. The piece de resistance however, is the food. We are talking a gluttonous paradise, folks! I attended the festival on the first weekend of its opening. I grew up frequenting Little Italy, so as I walked up Canal Street, I knew full well what to expect. Yet, as I turned onto Mulberry Street, I was overwhelmed by, well, everything.

Throngs of people were entering and exiting the fair by way of Mulberry Street’s significantly narrow opening, so getting in proved to be quite the obstacle course. Well, let me tell you, once I reached the inner sanctum, it was worth every elbow I had to throw, to get there.

I can only describe the experience that ensued as an assault on the senses. The street was alive with vivid chatter. Each stand was brightly decorated to display their wares. The air was filled with the aromas of grilling meats and vegetables. The standard fare of sausage, peppers and onions was being served up everywhere you looked. There were actually rows of vendors right next to each other, serving the same foods, and all were doing very good business. Alongside other cuts of pork, beef and veal, were mountains of grilled corn. Golden kernels scorched with black flecks whispered crackling sweetness through plumes of smoke.
               Forget whatever you think you know about meditation and higher states of consciousness. Carnivore nirvana is achieved here. Imagine, you’ve been searching for peace and enlightenment your whole life, and there it is, wrapped up in a sausage and pepper hero. Okay….maybe it’s not so much nirvana, as it is a meat induced coma, but let’s not split hairs.

Not to be outdone, the desserts vied for center stage. The sweets here are so decadent, they border on pornographic. The cannolis are long tubular fried pastry shells, oozing ricotta based vanilla, strawberry and chocolate creams. Take your pick. My personal favorites are the zeppoles. They are the Italian equivalent of French beignets.
            Yummy, fluffy yeast dough, fried to golden perfection. Just when you think you’ve maxed out your Weight Watchers points, that same dough is writhing naked in a cloud of powdered sugar…in front of the kids, and everything!

There was even the occasional appearance by the funnel cake. Now, I’ve never met a carbohydrate or a saturated fat that I didn’t like, but even I have my limits. I draw the line at fried Oreos. I mean, really? There’s not enough going on in a shortening based cream filled, chocolate sandwich cookie. I know…let’s dip it in batter and deep fry it! I can feel an artery closing up just thinking about it. I’m no health guru by any stretch of the imagination, but everything in moderation, you know?

As much fun as this annual shin dig is, one can only be amused by consecutive city blocks of meat and carbs, for so long before it becomes redundant. I made the rounds and saw the sights. I grabbed a few heroes and a half dozen zeppoles to share with family, and elbowed my way back to Canal Street. The crowd, though massive, wasn’t unmanageable. I’m sure that had something to do with the heavy police presence on hand. Never has that sea of blue been such a beautiful sight.

So, how was the food, you ask? It met all the requirements of meat-laden, greasy and sugary bliss. Just the fix my palate needed. My cravings are sated until this time next year. Sunday, September 26^th, marked the end of the festival. Grab your jackets. Fall is officially here.