Chalk(olate) and Cheese

I adore Michael Kesterton's daily column, Social Studies, in the Globe and Mail in which he presents delightful tidbits of strange and wonderful goings on. A recent column mentioned some trends to watch for in 2008, like clothes that changed colour or emitted a certain scent geared towards your mood. I can see these being useful for people whose mother never taught them to use their words. But the item that stopped me cold was bacon-flavoured chocolate.

I don't care if it's applewood smoked, Mo's Bacon Bar is one of those food combinations that should never have made it past the brainstorming session. It seems they don't understand chocolate. The "deep milk chocolate" that cradles the smoky pig pieces is an oxymoron. Dark chocolate is deep. As soon as you add milk... Oh, I give up. Anyone who puts pork in sweet chocolate (we're not talking mole sauce, after all) won't get it. As it stands, the over-written product description makes me suspect someone lost a bet and as punishment had to market this off-putting product. They'd be further ahead dunking bacon bits in white chocolate and having some wordplay fun with the slogan "The Other White Meat."

When two things are diametrically opposed, the Aussies say they're like "chalk and cheese." In this case, I'd say it's more like chocolate and cheese. And, as if to show Mo how unique combinations should be done, a Toronto chef is treating my favourite addiction like cheese -- but with a modicum of discernment. He's maximizing chocolate's nuances by creating tasting plates in lieu of the standard decadent desserts. At Lucien, Scot Woods has selected five distinct chocolates and five accompanying items. Now, Woods pushes the culinary envelope by suggesting rosewater pudding, aged balsamic vinegar, Hawaiian salt and even cedar jelly can complement the various chocolates' subtle undertones - floral, herbal, citrus, flat, caramel, to name a few. But apparently Woods uses dark chocolate, which can stand up for itself, unlike the weakened milk version.

Reviewing Woods' accompanying items, I notice a distinct lack of bacon. So, unless you're Homer Simpson, I'd say it's no to Mo. Now, if I can just work up the nerve to try cedar jelly...

Love It or Leave It Smoked Oyster Dip

With New Years parties just around the corner, I thought I'd provide a recipe that's easy and starts to fulfill my offer to create recipes around your favourite food combinations. Susan Kirk, who claims to be queen of bizarre food pairings, suggested oysters and mascarpone cheese. Oh, I love a challenge!

I'll be honest with you. You'll either push your grandmother out of the way to get more or run screaming from the room with your nose in the crook of your elbow. This is a more decadent variation of the dip my mother and sister gobble until they burst. It can't be genetic. I flee the kitchen the moment they open the smoked oysters.

Anyway, for Susan and all those who love smoked oysters, here goes:

Love It or Leave It Smoked Oyster Dip
Printable recipe

Ingredients

• 1 tin smoked oysters, drained and finely chopped
• 4 oz (1/2 cup) mascarpone cheese
• 4 drops Tabasco sauce
• 1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce (Lea & Perrins is the best)
  

Instructions

1. Mix Tabasco and Worcestershire sauces well into the mascarpone cheese.
   
2. Fold in drained and chopped oysters.
3. Serve with plain crackers and a side dish of clothes pegs for those with sensitive noses.
   

Is this thing on?

Okay. Dark chocolate and ginger. There's another combination I adore.

Does that help?

Frankly, I'm a tad disappointed. No one responded to Wednesday's invitation to share their favourite food duos to win fabulous prizes. (Okay. A recipe.) Not even my husband. And after melting my coffee maker (twice) and nearly setting the house of fire, you'd think he'd be more than willing to pony up a suggestion or two in the comments section. If you've wronged me in the past, this is your chance to kiss and make up without fear of catching a cold. If you've never wronged me, you'll create good karma.

What's required? Just leave a comment listing your favourite flavour combination (a main ingredient and a spice or complimentary item - examples are in the previous post) and I'll come up with a delicious recipe based on the pairing. Feel restricted by two ingredients? Need three flavours to get you going? Fine. I'm more than willing to work with a culinary menage a trois.

So, share your palate passions. I'll name the dish after you and karma will ensure your morning paper will always land on the porch.

I'll show you mine if you show me yours

How far will you go to get an out of print cookbook you know only by reputation? If Nigel Slater is the author, I'm willing to Google until my mouse dies and my fingers ache. It took more than a year to find Slater's Appetite (for less than four times the original hard cover price), but it arrived this week and I've tried two of his "recipes". They were both wonderful. The writing and food philosophy are nothing short of inspirational. I agree with celebrity chef Jamie Oliver on this one. "Nigel is a genius!"

Slater begins the book (why, oh why is it out of print in North America?) by setting the record straight on rigid recipes. I quote, "It it worth remembering that in its purest form a recipe was simply a cook's receipt written in a ledger to show where the housekeeping money had gone. At best, it was an account of someone's meal, an aide-memoire for the cook who might want to make a successful supper again. To use either as an unshakeable chemical formula is surely missing the point." Slater then goes on to give tips and techniques to make you a more inspired, less recipe-dependent cook.

One of the sections talks about seasoning and ingredient combinations that go together so well he believes that's why they were put on earth. Some I agree with, others I don't (usually because I don't like the ingredients). So, here is a short list of some of my favourite taste combinations. Be a sport and tell me yours. In return, I'll see if I can find a not-too-strict recipe to match.

• tomatoes and fresh basil
• chicken with sage
• apples with cinnamon
• lamb with lemon and rosemary (and garlic)
  
• salmon with dill (and lemon)
• chocolate with orange
• coffee and chocolate
• vanilla and cream
• 
  

See? Nothing too intimidating or ground breaking. Your turn now. What flavour combinations turn your culinary crank?

Just Right Lemon Bars

In the past, I've confessed to losing recipes. While I've been good about entering "keepers" into my database, when it comes to lemon bars I've got a whole new problem. Oh, I can find the recipe all right. In fact, I can find six variations. But only one of them is worthy of making the Christmas Baking Top Ten list.

To put this pressing issue to rest permanently, Mom and I embarked on some heavy duty research. We made all variations and conducted taste tests with any family member willing to sacrifice their tooth enamel for a cause. There was no shortage of volunteers. We sounded a bit like a chorus of Goldilockses assessing a score of iffy porridge. This one's too sweet. This one's too bland. This one's not lemony enough. This one's too gummy. Eventually we found one that was just right.

For lemon lovers, this simple bar is second only to Don't Ask Lemon Pie. The shortbread bottom is buttery while the top layer bar is lemony and tart, with just enough sweetness to keep you from puckering.

Just Right Lemon Bars
Printable recipe

Base

• 1 cup butter
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 2 cups flour

Mix ingredients together well and press FIRMLY into a buttered 9" X 13" glass pan. Bake for 20 minutes at 350F.

Top Layer

• 4 eggs, slightly beaten
• 2 cups sugar
• 6 tbsp flour
  
• 7 tbsp lemon juice
• 1 lemon - finely grated rind only

Mix ingredients together. Gently pour over the base. Bake at 350F for 30 more minutes. Allow to cool thoroughly before cutting into squares.

Now then, some cheese please, my good man...

Every time I stand at a cheese counter, I think of Monty Python's classic skit. I play a little game with myself to see if they have any of the varieties John Cleese rhymes off. Once when the vendor asked if he could help me, I told him, I'd suddenly come over all peckish and wanted to "negotiate the vending of some cheesy comestibles." He didn't get the joke, which made me rather glad I'd left off the bit about reading Hugh Walpole in the public library.

I almost asked if his Camembert was runny, but the poor chap already looked like he was relieved a large glass case stood between us. So I settled for a half pound of cheddar. I wanted to ask for Venezuelan Beaver Cheese, but figured he'd tell me there was some in the back and go call security.

I now buy cheese at the butchers, where I'm less tempted to speak in an English accent and quote Monty Python. But British writers still haunt me.

Today, I tasted a fermented curd that's not on Mr. Cleese's list but is named for the cheese-deprived castaway in Treasure Island -- Ben Gunn. This delicious herbed, aged cheddar is sharp, creamy and comes in a festive green waxed round. Perfect served at room temperature with a bit of red wine, this will be making a holiday appearance at my place. If John Cleese drops in unexpectedly, I'm telling him the cat ate it.

**Cheeses pictured: Clockwise from top: Tuscany (white cheddar with hot peppers), White Stilton with Blueberries, Sage Derby.

Sparks are flying

Winter in Canada brings many wonders. Fresh fallen snow that sparkles like diamond dust. Frosty air that turns your breath into dancing white swirls. And tiny blue sparks of static electricity that sting like an invisible bully's snapped you with a miniature rubber band. No need to scuff your socks on the carpet to get all charged up. This cracking little science experiment works every time you touch something - like your cat.

It's dry, dry, dry. Feline fur's crackling, my skins flakes like dragon scales and the cats are getting a bit edgy every time we approach. We're doing all we can to moisten things up. We hang wet laundry in the living room, leave the bathroom door open when we shower and run a humidifier around the clock. It's still not enough. So in the interest of my dermatological health and the cats' sanity, I'm steaming things up with a batch of homemade soup.

Low fat, high fibre and fogging up my kitchen windows, this soup is so darned good no one gives me static when I place a bowl in front of them.

Anti-Static Brown Lentil and Lemon Soup
Printable recipe

Ingredients

• Generous 1/2 cup small brown lentils
• 1 tbsp oil
• 4 cups water
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 large onion, peeled and finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, crushed
• 1 tsp ground coriander
• 2 tsp ground cumin
• 1/4 tsp paprika
• 1 large carrot, diced
• 2 sticks celery, chopped
• juice of 1/2 lemon
• 1 tsp grated lemon peel
• salt and pepper to taste

Instructions

1. Heat oil in frying pan and fry lentils for a few minutes.
2. Add onion, garlic and spices. Fry gently a few more minutes.
3. Add carrots and celery. Coat veggies with spices and fry a few more minutes.
4. Add water. Bring to boil and reduce to simmer. Simmer covered for 60 to 90 minutes.
5. Add lemon juice rind and salt and pepper to taste.
6. Puree with hand blender and serve.

Variation:
Follow to end of step 3. Instead of step 4, put lentil mixture and water in a crock pot. Cover and set on low. Cook for 4 to 6 hours.

Cookie Exchange Etiquette

According to various women's magazines The Annual Cookie Exchange is a fast and fun way to fill your fridge with holiday goodies while socializing with friends. Seductive promises like these, combined with glossy photos of happy families munching the sugary spoils, can be very persuasive. The reality? Unless you hang out with seasoned bakers, you're likely to leave with a plate of sweets even Santa won't touch. And if your own kitchen skills aren't up to snuff, you could do irreparable damage to your culinary reputation.

If you feel compelled to attend (or for some inexplicable reason host) a cookie exchange, I won't stop you. But be warned, not everyone plays by the rules. Check the credentials of all participants before agreeing to anything. And for the love of shortbread, make sure everyone knows and follows these rules -- er, friendly guidelines. I draw these suggestions from experience. I kid you not:

1. Now is not, repeat not, a good time to test a new-to-you cookie. Recipes can contain typos (did I write 1 pound of butter? Oops! I meant 1 cup!) and fiddly goodies don't always turn out perfectly on the first attempt. Which segues neatly to point 2.
2. Grating the charred bottom off burned cookies will not elevate your status within your cookie exchange network. Word gets around. Trust me.
   
3. If you burn the cookies don't be tempted to bring a store bought version as a last minute replacement. Yes, The PC Luxury Biscuit Assortment is a holiday treat, but you standing in line at the grocery store check out long enough to read all the tabloid headlines doesn't compare with my afternoon spent mixing, rolling, baking and tying homemade delicacies into a neat little package tied with a red bow. You're better off bringing the burnt offerings. We'll at least know you tried.
   
4. "Homebaked" impostors are worse. From-scratch bakers can spot a Pillsbury Pop-n-Fresh intruder from across the room. Don't even consider this option. You'll be labeled a cheater and your cookies will be fed to the squirrels - in clear sight of the neighbours.
   
5. Drizzling chocolate over cheap, store bought sugar cookies won't fool anyone either. Just fess up that you can't bake and bring wine. Bakers are surprisingly susceptible to alcoholic bribes.
6. No re-gifting. If you didn't like the haul from last week's cookie exchange, neither will we.

If you've broken any of these guidelines, don't feel bad. Another unmentioned reality of The Cookie Exchange Fantasy is that magazines have test kitchens and trained staff devoted to baking. It didn't all come together in under two hours. I'm betting if the editors were forced to hold an unaided exchange, they'd all opt for number 5 and a corkscrew.

Photo by scubadive67, published by Creative Commons License.

Lord knows, he's trying...

Bang-bang-bang, crash, thump, wham. "It's okay! The fire is out!"

Not what you want to hear from your husband when he's supposed to be cooking dinner, although somewhat more comforting than "Call 9-1-1!" The butcher paper from the steak he was cooking got too close to the stove and in a highly animated variation of rock-paper-scissors, paper definitely came out the loser. In the end, I believe Andrew bludgeoned the flames into submission with an oven mitt. The sirloin came out medium peppered with flakes of ash. Move over Heston Blumenthal.

My mother says things come in threes. The scorched cafetiera and the fillet fire make two. I'm wondering what third item we'll have to sacrifice before the kitchen gods are placated. Oh, please, let them count the kettle. Technically, it merely ceased to function. I suspect flames are required to assuage this culinary deity. If something must go, I offer up our small basement freezer (and the sales rep who assured me frost-free was an over-rated feature). It'll take an inferno to get the built up ice off the coils, and I'll need all the room I can get when I start my Christmas baking next week.

Not one to tempt fate, I'm making my wish list and checking it twice. Think I'll cross off "creme brulee torch" and put in its place "new fire extinguisher".