grand forks borscht

 

When I was 10, I met a new best friend. Alison came from a Doukhobor family, and she had just moved to Kelowna from Grand Forks, a little town nestled in the mountains of the West Kootenays of British Columbia.

Doukhobor cooking is, shall we say, not for the faint of heart. The Doukhobors are a pacifist Russian sect who take their anti-violence belief all the way over to not eating meat. But they make up for it with copious amounts of butter and cream.

In fact, their cooking is so amazingly rich that Alison and her family convinced me – a Canadian girl from good meat-eating German-Scottish stock – to become vegetarian.

For 12 years.

Doukhobor food is that good. 

Alas, as is the way of the world when you’re 10, best friends don’t stay best friends for long.

I still dream about the perfect pyrahi – yeasty pockets of dough filled with cottage cheese or peas and drenched with melted butter. And I still make vareniki; think of pierogie-like things, again smothered in butter.

But for a long time, I couldn’t replicate the creamy borscht Alison’s mom made. There are so many different kinds (and spellings) of borscht – with white cabbage and beef bones or pork hocks . . . The list goes on. But none of it was the Doukhobor borscht I longed for – I'm talking dill and cabbage and beets and cream.

Until one fateful day when I was looking through my parents’ old recipe cards and came across a recipe in my mother’s handwriting for Grand Forks borscht. She had written the name “Bea” on the top. I’m not sure who Bea is – I think she might be my mom’s old teaching friend.

The recipe was strange. It called for dill and mashed potatoes and copious amounts of butter and cream, and leaving it out at room temperature over night . . . But it was from Grand Forks. And it called for copious amounts of butter and cream. This, I thought, was a good sign.

And it is. This is the soup I have been missing since I was 12.

Grand Forks borscht is now a winter standard at our house. The recipe makes enough to feed a small army – invariably, I end up splitting it into two large pots halfway through cooking. But it is so very, very comforting and creamy on a cold rainy day. It’s definitely hearty enough for dinner and perfect in your lunch the next day, or frozen to grace a lunch later on. It might even make you consider becoming a vegetarian. 

last march: dahl for dinner, dahling and canadian boterkoek 

grand forks borscht

feeds 10 – 12 hungry people

4 large potatoes, chopped

salt and peper

1/2 – 1 c. whipping cream

3/4 c. – 1 1/4 c. butter

1 large beet, grated

3 large carrots, chopped

3 – 4 sticks celery, chopped

20 – 28 oz. (600 – 825 ml.) diced tomato (canned or fresh)

lots of dill, chopped

3 onions, chopped finely

4 cloves garlic, chopped

1/2 head of purple cabbage, chopped

Boil the potatoes in a large soup pot with lots of salted water. When they are tender, use a slotted spoon to scoop them out into another bowl. Mash them with 1/2 – 1 c. cream and 1/4 – 1/2 c. butter. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.

Throw the beet, carrots, celery, tomatoes and dill into the potato water and bring to a simmer. After they’ve cooked a few minutes, taste the vegetables and decide if you’d like to add another 1/2 tsp. of salt. Boil until tender.

While the vegetables are boiling, heat a large frying pan over medium heat. Melt the butter and fry the onion and garlic until it’s soft.

If you have another pan at this time, also heat it over medium heat. Melt the butter and fry the cabbage until it has softened.

When the boiling vegetables are soft, throw in the onion, garlic and cabbage. Add more water if you don't have enough stock. Simmer until everything is a soft as you like it in a soup. Stir in the mashed potatoes. Taste and add more salt and pepper as necessary.

Serve. Or, if you follow the original recipe, let stand at room temperature all day or overnight; then heat and serve.

Also freezes well, if you don’t have 10 – 12 people to feed immediately.

turnip puff to the rescue!

Have you ever noticed how ugly most winter vegetables are?

My theory is that they need to be ugly so we won't be tempted to eat them in the fall. Because if we did, we’d have nothing to eat in the winter.

I have never been inspired by a turnip. It is hardly attractive, not to mention its odd pale-orange and purple colour.

However.

My friend Lisa – who has excellent taste in both food and clothing – raved about her family’s recipe for turnip puff. She told me how a holiday dinner at her house isn't complete without turnip puff. This woman is devoted to turnip puff.

So when she brought me the recipe, I knew I should treasure it. I carefully put it in the vegetable section of my recipe binder . . . but two years passed before I could find myself inspired to make it.

Now, I understand the devotion.

This recipe is hard to describe, but let’s just say it’s the most delicious turnip incarnation I could ever imagine. It almost feels like a soufflé on the tongue and it’s savoury in just the right way, with that hint of nutmeg and brown sugar rounding it out. (Does anyone have The Flavor Bible? Tell me that turnip and nutmeg aren't superstar companions.)

Let me take you on a journey from ugly vegetable to divine turnip puff.

When I went to buy my turnip, the produce man told me that what we call turnip in Canada is actually a cross between a turnip and a cabbage. It's also called rutabaga. That explains its distinctive odour.

We decided together that my turnip puff recipe probably really wanted this crossed turnip, so I hefted it into my cart. Then I also bought a pure turnip to cook up later on.

See them here – the pure turnip flaunting its purple and cute status on top of the crossed-turnip cubes and crossed-turnip bottom. (I liked looking at that bottom and imagining its cabbage ancestry.)

Once you have these nice cubes, throw them in a pot of boiling water.

And boil them.

And boil them.

And boil them some more.

 (Turnips, I now understand, take a lot longer than potatoes to get soft.)

Eventually, they get soft and their colour becomes a pretty golden-orange. After straining them, pull out the potato masher. I get pretty excited at this part, because I always like mashing unsuspecting vegetables and watching them become a whole new kind of food.

Stir in flour and almost everything else, and your turnip puff is almost ready to bake. Just need to scatter some bread crumbs and drizzle some melted butter . . .

Turnip puff in the oven!

Now, the agony: will my turnip puff puff? Will it stay a soggy lump of mashed-up turnip? Is that a bit of – dare I say it – puff?

This is not a dramatic turnip soufflé, all billowing and full of air. It is a puff. Puffs are gentler. Keep this straight in your head, so you can keep your expectations in check.

After about 45 minutes, it should be puffy and golden-brown. Pull it out and admire what you have made. If anyone else is around, call them over to admire it, too. Look what you’ve done with a turnip!

Eat right away. Even if it’s not Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. And it’s all alone on a plate. Just eat it and be happy. Because turnip is a very inspiring vegetable indeed.

last february: little lemon cakes and olympic nanaimo bars

A note for the gluten-free among us: If you’d like to make this gluten-free, use the sweet rice flour and use gluten-free breadcrumbs. I made mine this way and it was scrumptious.

turnip puff

feeds 6 – 8 as a side dish

6 c. turnip, peeled and chopped

2 tbsp. + 2 tbsp. butter

3 tbsp. wheat flour or 2 tbsp. sweet rice flour

1 tbsp. brown sugar

1 tsp. baking powder

3/4 tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. ground pepper

nutmeg (a good grating)

2 eggs, beaten

1/2 c. fine bread crumbs

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Salt it lightly, if you wish. Throw in the turnip. (Stand back, so the hot water doesn’t hit you!)

Boil for a long time until the cubes are soft. This took me about 30 minutes. In the meantime, mix the flour, brown sugar, baking powder, salt, pepper and nutmeg together in a small bowl. Set aside. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs. Set aside. Butter a casserole dish. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

When the turnip is tender, strain it in a colander. Rinse the empty pot with cold water to speed up the cooling process. Also rinse the turnip in the colander with cold water.

Tumble the turnip back into the almost-dry pot. Add 2 tbsp. butter. Mash with a potato masher. (This is easier than you think.) It should not be steaming hot at this point – only luke-warm or cool. As long as it’s not steaming hot, stir in the flour mixture in stages, sprinkling a bit at a time. Stir in the beaten eggs. Scoop it out into the prepared casserole dish.

Scatter bread crumbs over top. Melt 2 tbsp. of butter and drizzle over. Put in the oven and wait for it to slowly puff up and for its topping to become golden. This should take 40 – 50 minutes.

Serve immediately.

a strange time to celebrate

One year ago, on February 9^th, I started telling people about this fledgling blog.

This year, on February 9^th, a truck ran into our car and almost sheared off the trunk.

We are thankful we’re still alive and not in the hospital.

But otherwise, as we struggle through the fog of headaches and stiff necks and sore backs, we are exhausted just trying to get through the day.

By the time evening finally comes, making dinner – and doing the dishes – seems like a gargantuan task. Instead, we’re making the rounds of our favourite less expensive restaurants: Thai, Turkish, Mexican. We sit drained, trying not to grimace, hardly noticing the food.

Needless to say, I have not felt like celebrating. 

But before the accident, I knew dollop of cream’s one-year birthday was coming up, and I bought all the ingredients to make my favourite party food. I have looked at those ingredients every day since the accident, those slices of bacon and dates and olives and almonds, sitting so innocently and full of hope.

Even in the midst of everything else that seems to be taking over my life, I am still delighted I have this little blog to work on. So, this morning, I gathered up my energy and set to work.

And, as we sat down with these hot little salty-buttery bundles, we forgot about our backs and necks for a few minutes. We just ate this happy treat to celebrate dollop of cream and all the joy it has brought me.

I first made these little bundles for Scott’s 33^rd birthday. We were secretly engaged and I could hardly stop grinning the whole party. I rolled up the bacon around the dates around the olives around the almonds, baked them and watched them disappear as soon as I set them on a plate. 

They are incredibly simple and wonderfully decadent. They also meet all the requirements of party food – salty, sweet, chewy, crunchy and smooth – all in one little bundle of goodness.

last february: muesli

Because this is a party food, it’s really more of a narrative than a recipe with official instructions. (Even the title isn’t exactly short and snappy.) Here we go . . .

bacon-wrapped dates with olives and almonds

bacon

dates

olives

roasted almonds

Take an almond and push it into an olive. (This part works much better if the olive has been pitted.) Take your almond-stuffed olive and put it into a date. Roll a piece of bacon around your almond-stuffed-olive-stuffed date. Do not try to skimp on the bacon so that you’re stretching and stretching the bacon to meet, but the bacon just starts falling apart, and eventually you go back to your original bacon and use the longer pieces anyway. (This might have happened at our house.)

Take a toothpick and carefully poke it through the bacon seam, the date and the olive, and all they way out the other side. Sometimes, you might need two toothpicks, if you’re not an expert. (This might have happened at our house.)

Put the bundles on a cookie sheet. Bake them at 375 degrees Fahrenheit for about 12 minutes, depending on the thickness of your bacon. (I used thick bacon.) Remove the cookie sheet from the oven and put the bundles on a plate lined with paper towel for a minute or two. Or, if you’ve run out of paper towel, use a fancy chicken napkin. (This might have happened at our house.)

Eat one before they all disappear. Prepare to accept compliments from your happy guests. Make more.

whisky marmalade

Winter is a hard time of year for a canning addict.

Because I'm not craving pickled squash, it seems like there’s nothing local to preserve.

In desperation, I must look south.

Luckily, California is just one international border and three states down the coast. (Let's call it “local-ish.”) And it’s citrus season!

When I saw Seville oranges all bright and orange in the grocery store, I knew they longed to be canned and that only I could help.

This was my first time making marmalade and it’s a very satisfying process. Kind of like taking all that California sunshine and distilling it in a pretty jar.

I started with a recipe from the always reliable Canadian Living. I couldn’t resist adding a tumbler of Laphroiag whisky. The deep bitterness of whisky seems to be a natural companion for these sharp oranges. Not to mention, it’s more fun to eat whisky marmalade than to eat regular marmalade.

It seems very civilized to slather my toast with butter and spread on a good dollop of whisky marmalade at breakfast.

May the canning continue, unhindered by season.

last february: ugly vegetables make beautiful soup

whisky marmalade

adapted from Canadian Living

2 lbs (907 g.) Seville oranges
1 lemon
6 1/2 c. sugar
1/4 c. whisky

Wash the fruit and cut off stems, blossoms and blemishes. Cut all the oranges in half. Squeeze out the juice, saving the rind, pith and seeds. Use a sturdy spoon to scoop out any white pith that's left next to the rind. Put the pith and seeds into a square of double-layered cheesecloth and tie tightly with string. Let's call this the pith bundle. Set aside.

Cut each half-orange rind in half again. Slice paper thin.

Pour the juice into a large heavy-duty pot, such as a Dutch oven. Put in the pith bundle and sliced rind. Add 8 cups water. Heat to a good simmer, stirring often and using the spoon to squeeze juice out of the pith bundle. Simmer, uncovered, for about 1 hour, until you can mush up the rind pieces between your fingers. (The original recipe called for 2 1/2 hours, but I found it was concentrated and soft after 1 hour.)

Turn off the heat and carefully pull the pith bundle out. Once it's cooled, squeeze as much goopy liquid through the cheesecloth as you can back into the pot with the juice and rind. Discard the pith bundle.

Measure how much liquid you have in the pot. Add water or boil it down to make 6 1/2 cups. Add sugar and stir until dissolved. Add whisky. Stirring often, bring to a rolling boil over medium heat. Keep stirring every minute or two and boil for 12 to 15 minutes, until it reaches the gel stage.

Fill and seal jars. Can in hot water bath for 10 minutes.

rosemary gruyère baked eggs

Philosophical question:

Are ramekins worth the space they take up in your (very small rental) kitchen cupboard?

Sure, they sit there looking all cute and individual, but do I ever pull them out and actually bake things in them?

Possibly twice, since I picked them out after our wedding almost four years ago.

At the time, I really liked the idea of them: sweet little casserole dishes especially for each person. I bought two sizes and promptly stacked them at the back of the cupboard. Where they stayed.

Until now.

Until baked eggs entered my world. 

I even used both sizes of ramekin. (Although that was because I buttered the larger size and realized it was too large, so had to pull out the smaller. But those ramekins sure felt useful, let me tell you.)

Baked eggs fit perfectly into my smaller ramekins, with just enough extra space for cream.

I have Mark Bittman – he of the addictive and delightful three-minute New York Times videos – to thank for the inspiration. His original video recipe calls for prosciutto, tomato and basil, although he did note that baked eggs can adapt to almost anything.

My husband has declared that his favourite version so far has rosemary and Gruyère cheese – a combination I stumbled upon by checking the fridge’s cheese section and also remembering that rosemary was the only herb left in the deck garden. I also found a lone Californian tomato* on the counter . . . which offered the perfect tang for the creamy, cheesy egg.

Really, you can use almost anything, as long as it includes an egg in a ramekin. Oh, ramekins, I believe I will let you stay.

* Shocking, I know. But sometimes a girl needs a tomato and California is the closest place. Still more local than Mexico!

rosemary gruyère baked eggs

bakes 2 eggs

1 tsp. butter

2 – 4 slices tomato

1/3 c. Gruyère cheese, grated and divided

sprinkle of fresh rosemary, finely minced

2 tbsp. whipping cream

salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Use fingers to liberally butter the ramekins (possibly the funnest part of this recipe).

Place tomato slice(s) on the bottom of each ramekin. Sprinkle rosemary over. Divide the grated cheese, saving half for the tops. Sprinkle cheese in ramekins. Carefully, break each egg into a ramekin. Pour cream in each ramekin, along the side where the egg didn’t reach. Add salt and pepper. Top with the rest of the cheese.

Bake in the oven until the egg white is set, about 12 – 15 minutes. Check on them after 10 or 11 minutes.

glorious hummus for bean month

Perhaps January should be the official month of the bean?

I pulled out the chickpeas and whirled up a batch of glorious hummus in early January, feeling content I could use the humble and healthy chickpea to make such a tasty spread.

And suddenly – everywhere I looked – there were beans!  

Chard and white bean stew 

Split pea soup 

Black-eyed pea and chorizo soup 

Rancho Gordo beans 

Lentil and root vegetable soup 

I see that soup is also emerging as a January theme. If you must have both soup and beans, may I also suggest red lentil coconut curry soup? Or, ripe bean soup?

Now, back to the hummus for bean month. This hummus is everything I ever wanted in a hummus: subtly spicy with a kick of sriracha hot sauce, rounded out with just enough roasted red pepper to make you wonder what the secret ingredient is.

The recipe has evolved in three distinct stages, and I was lucky enough that my friend Queenie passed it on to me at its third and most delicious stage.

As you might have guessed by the ingredient list, it also has an impressive multicultural pedigree. It is a Middle Eastern-Chinese-Haligonian recipe. Seriously.

The recipe was born at the Coburg Coffee House in Halifax, a cozy coffee shop in an old house near Dalhousie University. Queenie, who is from Hong Kong, worked at the coffee shop for a few months this fall. While she was there, Queenie made the original glorious hummus recipe. Then, her coworker Denise shared her secret recipe: add sriracha hot sauce, curry powder and roasted red pepper or pimentos. Queenie loved it, but then she took it to the next level . . . with honey and cinnamon.

Honey and cinnamon in hummus! I was shocked, but I trust Queenie, so I tried it. She is, of course, absolutely right. You don’t really taste the honey and cinnamon, but they add another sweet round dimension to the hummus. Trust us, you will like it.

Happy bean month!

last january: shortbread in january

glorious hummus

28 oz. chickpeas, canned (or dried and softened)

1 tbsp. tahini

1 tbsp. lemon juice

1 clove garlic

3/4 tsp. cumin

1/2 tsp. curry powder

sprinkle of cinnamon

1 tbsp. olive oil

3 sundried tomatoes, softened and chopped finely

1/4 c. roasted red pepper or 2 tbsp. pimentos

1/2 tsp. sriracha hot sauce (for a moderate kick)

1 tbsp. honey

salt and pepper to taste

Set aside the chickpeas. Process everything else in a food processor or blender until it’s a nice paste.

Add half of the chickpeas and process until everything is blended. Add the rest of the chickpeas and process again until you have a smooth, glorious hummus.

Delicious on its own with crackers and carrots, or in a wrap or on a sandwich.

naomi's granola

  

It is strange that I have to travel more than halfway across the country from sleepy Vancouver Island to the big city of Toronto to eat breakfast outside, but it’s true.

Our friends Naomi and Ian have the kind of house that made me fall in love with Toronto: full of art and a warm welcome and surrounded by big old city trees.

The first couple mornings of our visit, my husband and I stumble up to the kitchen, dazed by the time change and looking for an easy breakfast. Without fail, I pull open the cupboard and see the familiar square Tupperware container: granola. I smile, spoon some into a bowl and put the kettle on for tea.

And then, right there from the kitchen at the back of the house, I open the door onto a patio that gradually drops down into the park behind them. Naomi is a gardener and for most of the year, there are leafy green things and birdfeeders to watch while we sit at the little table and linger over our breakfast. This is vacation.

Finally, I realized that while I can’t bring their patio back to our tiny apartment, I can make the granola. Naomi gave me the recipe, and she says she got it from someone else. Now, I’d like to pass it along to you.

It’s originally called, “mixed fruit granola” and the two fruit involved are dried cherry and cranberry. But can two fruit truly make something “mixed”? Anyway, I just call it, “Naomi’s granola” and we’re happy.

It’s delicious. Eat it outside when you can. When eating it inside, dream about the summer to come.

A note for the gluten-free among us: This recipe will only work for you if you can tolerate oats. Make sure you find oats that were grown in an uncontaminated field and processed in an uncontaminated factory. My favourite oats come from Cream Hill Estates. Also, make sure to use rice bran, not wheat bran.

naomi’s granola

3 c. oats

3/4 c. bran (wheat or rice)

1/2 c. almonds, whole or chopped roughly

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/8 tsp. nutmeg

1/4 tsp. salt

1/2 c. honey

1 tsp. almond extract­­­

2 tbsp. oil, optional*

1/2 c. dried cherries

1/2 c. dried cranberries

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease a baking sheet or line it with parchment paper.

Mix oats, bran, almonds, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt. Set aside.

In another bowl, mix honey, almond extract and oil. Pour over the oat mixture and toss. Spread on sheet.

Bake, stirring every 10 minutes or so until lightly roasted, about 45 to 55 minutes. Stir in fruit. If you’d like the granola to be a bit more clumpy, drizzle a bit more honey over and stir. Cool completely.

* Use a light oil, such as canola, vegetable or grape seed. Do not use olive oil; it will be too strong.

tipsy rum balls

I’m not sure when I first tasted a rum ball, but I know I wasn’t of legal drinking age.

I grew up in a town full of German bakeries, so rum balls – like marzipan and rye bread – were inevitable.  My favourites were always the soft ones rolled in chocolate sprinkles, so saturated with rum they almost fell apart. (I believe rum balls that only have a faint whiff of rum should be called something else.)

I was also fed brandy beans at a very young age. I assume all that early exposure to liqueur was good for my development. In any case, it has given me a mature palate to appreciate alcohol and dark chocolate.

Now, sadly, I am not surrounded by German bakeries, and this year I have been dreaming of rum balls. I knew I wanted a soft, dark chocolate rum ball but I also knew my rum ball needed something else, something that would give it a secret background of flavour. After extensive research, I found the mystery ingredients: hazelnuts and walnuts. Germans love these nuts because they meld so well with dark chocolate that they almost become a whole new species of choconut.  

I also thought long and hard about the chocolate sprinkles I would roll the rum balls in. After all that work on the rum ball interior, I couldn’t take a chance on a waxy exterior. In the end, I made a special trip to the Dutch store to buy chocolate sprinkles there. I was not let down – these are indeed chocolate-y enough to sprinkle on toast. (Those crazy Dutch people!)

These rum balls are just what I remember: deep and dark and full of rum. In fact, they are so rummy that I made them very small – then you can also have some brandy beans and not be over the legal limit.

Merry Christmas!

A note for the gluten-free among us: These work perfectly with gluten-free chocolate cookies. I like this brand. 

tipsy rum balls

rolls 48

1 c. crushed chocolate cookies (about 1 1/2 c. before crushing)

1/4 to 1/3 c. rum, to taste plus more to dip

generous 1/2 c. hazelnuts

generous 1/2 c. walnuts

1 tbsp. cocoa powder

1 tbsp. sugar

sea salt, to taste

3 oz. semisweet chocolate

lots of chocolate sprinkles

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Crush cookies in a sturdy plastic bag or a food processor. Pour into a bowl and mix in the rum. Set aside.

Roast the hazelnuts and walnuts in the oven for 3 – 5 minutes. Keep an eye on them – don’t let them burn! Pulse nuts in food processor with cocoa, sugar and a couple sprinkles of sea salt until fine, but not a paste. Mix nuts into rummy cookie crumbs.

Melt chocolate in a double boiler, or in a metal bowl suspended over boiling water. Stir well into nutty cookie mixture.

Pour 1 – 2 tablespoons rum in a tiny prep bowl. Pour chocolate sprinkles in a cereal bowl. Use a teaspoon to grab dough and roll with hands, sometimes using fingers to keep it together. Dip the ball into the rum, then roll in sprinkles. Repeat until you’re done. Store in the fridge.