The Kitchen Sink

A Nog for the Egg-o-phobic

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 16:55:15 GMT

Posted by Denise Mickelsen

"Christmas is not properly observed unless you brew egg nogg for all comers."
—unknown source, 1866

I don’t eat eggs. Ask anyone who knows me, and they will tell you that I have not eaten eggs on their own – scrambled, poached, deviled, or in a salad – since I was 2 years old. I don’t know if it’s the texture of eggs, the odor, or the flavor (or all three), but I stand strong in my distaste. The incredible, edible egg is not for me.

That said, I volunteered to edit the holiday drink story in the current issue, which of course includes eggnog. I have never been a fan of the store-bought stuff: it’s too thick, too rich, and cloyingly sweet. The fact that it’s made of eggs, of course, never helped.

Does eggnog have to be this way? I wondered. Surely, making it from scratch would help. I could control the sweetness, the thickness, and I could even control the egg-i-ness! And so Allison and I set out to create an eggnog that even an egg hater would love.

It’s a simple enough formula. Blend egg yolks, sugar, and a pinch of salt until thick and pale yellow, add your liquor of choice (our version calls for combination of dark rum, brandy, and bourbon), then stir in cream and milk. I let that mixture chill overnight and folded in beaten egg whites the next morning. The drink chilled for another few hours, then I packed it up and brought it to my mom’s house for our holiday festivities.

Garnished with a dusting of freshly grated nutmeg, the eggnog was frothy, creamy, and light as air. Just sweet enough, the milk helped to lighten the mix and the alcohol was mellow and warming. My sister drank her glass down in minutes and asked for more. Even my mother, who is not an eggnog drinker either, asked for a taste and proclaimed it delicious. I loved it too, which is great. Now I can honestly say that I like eggs, as long as I can drink them.

The Perfect Recipe? The One You Create

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 20:49:20 GMT

Posted by Sarah Breckenridge

Lately there's been a big kerfuffle in the blogosphere over whether a blogger has the right to publish another site's recipes...and it's raised the issue of why food magazines test their recipes over and over again. Is it to get the recipe to a level of absolute perfection--a platonic ideal of potato salad? Or is it just to ensure that when a reader tries a recipe, they're assured of reliable results?

Here at FC, we think that cooking is not just a science but a passion--and part of that passion comes from applying your own inspiration to the techniques you learn from our much-tested recipes.

Case in point: when I stumbled upon a cache of tart cherries this weekend (oh joy! I thought I'd totally missed the brief sour cherry season), I wanted to use them in a rich pastry, but one that would also show off their beautiful color. I immediately thought of Kim Masibay's Mixed Berry Jalousie from an earlier issue of FC. Swapping out the berries for a mix of sweet and tart cherries was simple, because the recipe was so detailed that I knew the purpose of each step--and where I should tread cautiously in making substitutions.

Want to play with our recipes even more? We've created interactive recipe builders from our popular Cooking Without Recipes Feature--they let you tailor your own recipe with your favorite flavors, then print and save your results.

P.S. in case you're curious, here's how I modified that Jalousie recipe:

Sweet-and-Tart Cherry Jalousie
Serves six to eight

8 oz. pitted tart cherries
6 oz. pitted sweet Bing cherries, halved
3 Tbs. granulated sugar; more to taste
1/2 tsp. fresh lemon juice; more to taste
Pinch kosher salt
1-1/2 Tbs. cornstarch
1 large egg
1 sheet frozen packaged puff pastry, thawed overnight in the fridge
Flour for rolling out the dough
1 tsp. turbinado sugar

In a medium (3 qt.) saucepan, stir together the cherries, sugar, lemon juice, and salt. Heat over medium high until the cherries start to release their juices and those juices bubble, 1 to 2 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium and simmer, stirring gently from time to time, until the cherries release more juices and soften but still hold their shape for the most part (the sour cherries may break down a bit moret han the sweet), about 6 minutes. Remove from the heat.

With a slotted spoon, scoop out the cherries, letting as much juice as possible drain through the spoon, and put them into a small heat-proof bowl.

Dissolve the cornstarch in 3 Tbs. cold water. Whisk into the juices in the pan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Boil, stirring with a wooden spoon, until the mixture is very thick, a full 2 minutes. Scrape the sauce into the bowl with the cherries. Fold them together. Taste. If too tart, add a little more sugar; if too sweet, add a little more lemon juice. Let the filling cool completely before using.

For directions on assembling and baking the Jalousie, just follow the original recipe.

Who Says Oatmeal's for Winter?

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 20:48:02 GMT

Posted by intern Evan Barbour

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I can't weigh in from a nutritional standpoint, but it certainly is true from a psychological one. For me, breakfast is one of the few times of the day that I have to relax, catch up on the news, and figure out my daily plans--especially during a busy week. For this reason, oatmeal is my go-to choice. A filling, warm bowl doesn’t take long to prepare, and it can be enjoyed slowly without falling prey to the sogginess that cold cereal develops.

Even during the summer months, I prefer oatmeal over anything else, and it’s easy to make it summery by adding sliced peaches, blackberries or strawberries to it. But I have to admit that my favorite way to dress-up oatmeal is wholly autumnal, and probably sacrilegious to make during the summer. But I don’t care. It’s delicious, and if you try it, you’ll understand.

Since I always have canned pumpkin for baking and fresh ginger root for stir fries and noodles (it stores beautifully peeled and placed in a Ziploc in the freezer), this variation is an easy way to use some of my favorite kitchen staples. I’m sure that ground ginger would work just as well, but it won’t provide the exact same bite and flavor.

Pumpkin Spice Oatmeal
Serves one.

I like big breakfasts, but you can easily scale this recipe down to meet your preferences.

1/2 cup, plus 3 Tbs. thick rolled oats (I like Bob’s Red Mill)
1/2 cup canned pure pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)
Honey or maple syrup to taste
1/2 tsp. of vanilla extract
1/4 tsp. salt
A drop of almond extract (optional)
2 tsp. grated fresh ginger (I use a rasp grater)
1/2 tsp. cinnamon; more or less to taste
Ground cloves to taste
1 Tbs. almond butter

Combine the oats with 1-3/4 cup water in a large cereal bowl. Cook the oats in the microwave on 50% power for about 7 minutes. Watch them closely, as they may start to boil over (if they do, stop and stir them, and resume microwaving). Let the oats stand for about 5 minutes to soak in excess moisture, and microwave on full power for about a minute more.

Add the pumpkin, honey or maple syrup, vanilla extract, salt, and almond extract to the oats and stir until combined. Add the ginger, cinnamon, and cloves, and stir until well combined. Finally, stir in the almond butter.

A Few Last Fixes for a Springtime Addiction

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 20:06:00 GMT

Posted by Denise Mickelsen

Hi. My name is Denise and I’m a rhubarb-aholic. There’s no denying it—whether it’s from the farmers’ market or the supermarket, if I see rhubarb, I buy it, take it home, and cook it up. The season is almost over, but before it ends I thought I would share with you my favorite recipes—one sweet and one savory—for this wonderfully tangy springtime delicacy.

Rhubarb-Ginger Applesauce
Yields about 1 quart.

This applesauce is chunky, and I like to leave the skin on a couple of the apples for a little extra texture. Stir the applesauce into plain Greek yogurt (with wheat germ, if you like) for my all-time favorite weekday breakfast.

5 ripe, medium red apples (some of them peeled), cored, and cut into 1-inch chunks
2 large stalks fresh rhubarb (peeled only if skin is tough), cut into 1-inch chunks
1/2 cup granulated sugar; more to taste
1/4 cup water
1 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
1 Tbs. finely grated fresh ginger
Pinch kosher salt

Put all of the above ingredients into a medium saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the apples and rhubarb are almost completely broken down and very tender and the applesauce has thickened, about 35 minutes. Season to taste with more sugar, if necessary. Serve warm, at room temperature, or chilled.

Rhubarb & Onion Compote
Yields about 2 cups.

This compote is rich and tangy all at once. It’s perfect alongside grilled pork chops, sausages, or chicken.

1 tsp. canola oil
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and cut into small dice
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 large stalks fresh rhubarb, cut into 1-inch chunks
1/4 cup granulated sugar; more to taste
1/4 cup water
1 tsp. sherry or Banyuls vinegar; more to taste

Heat the oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Sauté the onion until light golden brown and tender, about 8 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Add the rhubarb, sugar and water to the pan and cook, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb is tender, about 15 minutes. Stir in the vinegar and continue to cook until the rhubarb is almost completely broken down and very tender, about 5 minutes more. Season to taste with more sugar or vinegar, if necessary. Serve warm, at room temperature, or chilled.

Beer-Battered Zucchini Blossom Tempura

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 18:34:58 GMT

Posted by Laura Giannatempo

Growing up in Italy, summer to me meant lots of time at the beach, endless walks slurping dripping cones of gelato, plenty of fresh seafood, and lots of fried zucchini blossoms. Yes, that’s right: Not just zucchini (those, too, of course) but their beautiful, delicate orange-yellow flowers.

That's why when I saw the first zucchini blossoms at the farmers' market last weekend, I couldn't stop myself from buying a whole bunch (although they were outrageously expensive). Frying them is classic—and makes for great finger food—but you can also stuff them and roast them. Either way, their sweet, delicate flavor whispers summer.

In Italy, zucchini blossoms are usually pan-fried in a batter made of flour and either milk or water, sometimes with an egg in it. But I also like to fry them in a lighter tempura-style batter, which lets their delicate texture shine through. The good thing is you don’t need a whole lot of oil: 2 to 3 cups is more than enough for 20 to 30 blossoms. You fry them until they’re golden brown and crunchy on the outside, but retain some moisture and softness inside. A sprinkle of salt, and you've got the best bar food ever.

Zucchini Blossom Tempura
Serves six as an appetizer or snack

20 to 30 zucchini blossoms
1 cup all-purpose flour
1-1/2 cups lager or pale ale
2 to 3 cups olive or canola oil (or a mix of both)
Kosher salt

Trim the zucchini blossom stems if they’re long. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour and beer.
Pour the oil into a medium saucepan and heat the oil to 365°F over medium-high heat. Dip the blossoms in the batter, and gently drop them in the hot oil (You can fry about five blossoms at a time without overcrowding the pan). Fry the blossoms, turning once, until just barely golden brown on both sides, about 2 minutes total. Transfer the blossoms to a paper towel-lined plate and sprinkle with salt. Fry the remaining blossoms in batches and serve immediately.

Armenia on the Charles

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 21:16:39 GMT

Posted by Sarah Breckenridge

Last weekend on a visit to Cambridge, Mass., I finally had dinner at Oleana, a restaurant I’ve been dying to try for, well, at least a year now. The chef, Ana Sortun, adapts Turkish, Armenian, and other Mediterranean recipes to local New England produce, and when I bought her cookbook, Spice, it was one of those books where you just want to cook every recipe. The dinner itself was amazing—actually living up to the expectations I’d built up. The highlights included plates of warm buttered hummus with basturma (an Armenian cured meat similar to pastrami), grass-fed brisket with creamed nettles and morels, seared scallops with asparagus and chorizo-studded gnocchi (at right), and a honey-drenched bread pudding with mascarpone and homemade rhubarb jam.

But as a cook, the highlight of my weekend was visiting one of chef Sortun’s favorite sources, Sevan Bakery in Watertown. “Bakery” can’t begin to capture all the delicacies offered by this store, though. I gazed longingly at the displays of dried fruits, nuts and olives (below left), drooled over the creamy-looking blocks of feta (below right), and then filled my basket with tahini bread (a sweet, flaky sesame flatbread) yufka dough sheets (sort of a thicker version of phyllo, I’ll use them to make feta-stuffed boreks), and best of all…manti.

I first discovered manti working in a magazine test kitchen; they’re tiny lamb- or beef-filled Turkish dumplings, about the size of your thumb, that you toast, then bake in broth, and serve topped with garlicky yogurt, browned butter, mint and dried crushed chiles (Urfa chiles, if you want to get all authentic about it). In the test kitchen, they were one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten, but they took FOREVER to make (check out this video of the process and you'll start to see why). Now here were bags of already-toasted, handmade manti staring at me from Sevan’s freezer case.

When I brought the manti home from Boston, I arranged them in a single layer in a buttered casserole dish, poured about 1-1/2 cups of chicken broth over them, covered them in foil and popped them in the oven at 400 degrees. Meanwhile, I browned a little butter, stirred some smashed garlic into a cup of Greek yogurt, and chopped up some fresh mint. About 40 minutes later, the manti were ready: a little thicker and chewier than the ones I made from scratch years ago, but still, total bliss. I just wish I’d brought home more than one bag.

Sushi Deconstructed

Fri, 30 May 2008 22:14:46 GMT

Posted by Sharon Anderson

After a recent Friday photo shoot, I was fortunate enough to leave the office laden with a bag of unused ingredients: half a pound of gorgeous fresh tuna, peppery radish sprouts, pickled ginger, high-end sushi rice, scallions (already sliced to culinary school perfection), flying fish roe, and a stack of nori (dried seaweed). In short, I had all the makings of amazing seared tuna rolls—for free! I told my boss, and myself, that I was going straight home to attempt sushi.

But, we all know this story: The evening starts with adventurous culinary aspirations, but come 7 o’clock, a glass of wine, and a movie you kind of want to see…visions of lobster napoleon, homemade ice cream, or sushi are bound to remain just that—visions. I almost called for take-out but I couldn’t shake the mild terror that if I didn’t make something, my thick hunk of tuna and shiny clementine-colored roe would go bad.

So I invented (or so I thought) a kind of composed sushi salad. I cooked the rice according to the package and seared the tuna. On each plate I arranged a few squares of nori, a healthy pile of sprouts, 3/4 cup of rice, half the tuna, and a few slices of pickled ginger. Finally, I sprinkled it with scallions, roe, and a little soy sauce.

To be honest, we ate it with our fingers in a style somewhere between sushi and a fajita. Each piece of seaweed got a little bit of everything piled into it before it was “rolled,” or maybe just folded, and quickly maneuvered to the mouth before it started hemorrhaging ingredients. It tasted incredible, obviously just like sushi, but infinitely more fun if you’re the eat-with-your-hands type.

When I came to work and proudly described what I’d done, everyone responded, “Oh, so you basically made scattered sushi.” According to Wikipedia, Chirashizushi (which literally means scattered sushi) is a bowl of sushi rice with other ingredients mixed in or layered on top commonly eaten in Japan because it’s quick, easy, and filling.

So much for my invention, but if you’re ever craving sushi and find yourself unmotivated--just pile it, scatter it, or layer it and say with an air of importance, “I’ve made Chirashizushi, so who’s doing the dishes?”

A Naan Event

Tue, 13 May 2008 20:30:37 GMT

Posted by Sharon Anderson

With food and gas prices continuing their not-so-slow but very steady climb, my almost-weekly ritual of eating Indian is in grave danger. At this point, driving to and from my favorite Indian restaurant already has me shaking the piggy bank, but by the time I order an entrée (even if I split it), a beer (because I can’t have Indian without a Taj Mahal), and throw in a basket of their life-changing naan, I am recklessly ignoring my food budget. And if I surrender to the siren call of their warm cardamom-scented carrot pudding with coconut ice cream, I have to promise myself I won’t go to the grocery store for days—even if that means going hungry.

For the last month or so, I’ve simply been depriving myself of Indian food. But this weekend I decided to take a stab at it myself. I found a Madhur Jaffrey recipe for quick chicken korma and chose one of Suvir Saran’s Indian-style stir-fries. But the naan, was I really going to attempt to make that?

Yes, I was. I debated it for a second as I lingered in front of the pre-packaged naan in the supermarket. But, I stood resolute. I was making it from scratch.

I used FC’s homestyle naan recipe (an oldie but a goodie). Here’s the big shocker: it wasn’t that hard. As with most bread, you need a lot of flour, a little liquid, yeast, salt, and something else to do while it rises. I made the dough in the morning, went shopping, and came home to start the meal—not exactly a day spent slaving in the kitchen. While the chicken korma simmered, I cut the dough into pieces, pressed and stretched them flat, placed them on a floured peel, brushed them with butter, and sprinkled them with nigella seeds (completely optional, my boss “just had some” in her pantry).


Shape the dough.		Brush it with melted butter.


Spinkle with nigella seeds.		Bake and let cool.

What did leave me with some war wounds was figuring out how to shuffle the dough off the peel and onto the baking stone without sending it careening off the other side. But, I got the hang of it after a few tries. Six minutes in the oven, and the breads were puffy and bubbly and golden—in short, perfect.

I might show my age a bit here, but I have to say this meal ROCKED! I couldn’t believe how good the chicken was; it tasted exactly like what I’ve had in restaurants. The stir-fry was bright and tangy with a nice crunch—the ultimate counterpoint to the rich, spicy korma. And the naan, well, it was bliss.

Single White Female, In Search of Tagine

Wed, 07 May 2008 20:43:49 GMT

Posted by Sarah Breckenridge

For several years now, a tagine has been high up on my kitchen wish list. Sure, you can prepare those Moroccan braises of chicken, lamb or veggies in a regular braiser or Dutch oven, but how much cooler is it to serve the dish in a beautiful tagine and lift off the peaked lid, wafting aromatic steam across the table?

I bought my first tagine--a traditional clay version--a few years ago. But I was disappointed to discover that it couldn't be used on the stovetop. (I've since seen other traditional tagines that can go on the stovetop, albeit on low heat only). So I was especially intrigued by Emile Henry's Flame Top Tagine--made of a special flame-proof clay, so it can handle high stovetop heat for browning and searing. When I spotted the 2.6-quart Emile Henry tagine at equipment editor Lisa's desk, I asked if I could take it for a spin.

The instructions said to first season the pot by simmering a little milk in the base for 5 minutes. I then washed out the base, cranked up the heat to medium high, and began browning some chicken thighs. They browned well, though they took a bit longer than in a saute pan. When it came to the braising, though, I discovered that I couldn't possibly fit everything into the base AND have enough braising liquid (and this after I had already scaled down my recipe from four servings to two). So I settled on braising the chicken, then the vegetables, then adding the chicken back in at the end. I also kept the lid askew just a hair to help reduce the braising liquid.

The results were delicious: moist but nicely browned chicken, tender vegetables, a rich sauce, and yes, that dramatic waft of spicy steam when I removed the lid. But I'm now wanting to try out Emile Henry's larger four-person tagine, which features a much deeper base; hopefully then my chicken and vegetables can braise happily together.

Black Rice: Forbidden No More

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 21:08:01 GMT

Posted by Sharon Anderson

Before Sarah hatched the idea of the rice guide, I was aware of approximately six varieties of rice: jasmine, basmati, wild, Arborio, sushi, and, of course, Uncle Ben’s. And while that won’t impress many people around the Fine Cooking office, that’s at least five more types than most people I know would be able to name. I was also aware of such distinctions as long, medium, and short grain rice and could pull off a pretty snazzy pilaf, but I’d never heard of forbidden rice. And with a sexy name like that, who wouldn’t be intrigued?

Forbidden rice, or more properly, Chinese black rice is just that—black. In doing some research on this seductive little grain, we discovered a few explanations for its exotic title. Some say it was originally grown exclusively for Chinese emperors because of its high nutritional value, rich aroma and flavor, and rumored aphrodisiacal properties. Wikipedia is a little more skeptical, concluding that the name is probably a marketing ploy. (If that’s the case, then it worked on me.)

But no matter what it’s called or why, black rice is decidedly cool. I kept saying that I wanted to cook some, and a few days later a little bag of it appeared on my desk (ah, the joys of working at a food magazine). I tried Lorna Sass’s recipe for Thai Chicken Soup with Chinese Black Rice from her recent book Whole Grains: Every Day, Every Way. The soup was really good, but to be honest, my favorite part was cooking the rice.

Like most rice, this forbidden variety requires a rinse before it’s cooked. Oddly enough, the rice turned the water pink as it flowed out of the sieve. When I started boiling it, the water turned garnet-red and the escaping steam smelled pleasantly of fresh beets and toasty popcorn. (I know that doesn’t sound like a good combo, but I swear it smelled great!) After simmering the rice as directed for about 30 minutes, the grains were an incredible shade of deep purple and tasted almost exactly like they smelled, rich and toasty with a subtle, natural sweetness reminiscent of beets.

So, if you happen upon a bag of this special rice, and it’s batting its eyes at you flirtatiously from the shelf—give in. You’ll be glad you did. Plus, it’s good for you.