parsley lentil pasta

I'll just come right out and say it: I love lentils.

I think I eat them almost every week of the year: red, yellow, blue, green, brown, beluga, French . . . lentils have a regular spot in my stomach.

This pasta is the most unassuming little dinner that you can knock off in half an hour after work – and have some tasty leftovers for lunch the next day.

It has been on my regular rotation for more than ten years, ever since my friend Leanne whipped out a can of Unico lentils and told me we were making the recipe on the label. 

She peeled off the label and I looked at it dubiously: it didn’t look very saucy for a pasta dish. Lentils and onion and parsley and parmesan . . . and, well, nothing. It seemed a bit simple.

But Leanne is a very good cook – and a nutritionist, to boot – so I put a smile on my face and said, “Sounds good!”

 And you know what?

It was good.

Really good.

It is simple, but it works. The earthy lentils highlight the fresh parsley, while the onions provide a buttery base and the parmesan brightens it up. (In fact, it is possible I would like almost any pasta dish smothered in freshly-grated parmesan, but I digress.)

This pasta also has the added bonus of using ingredients we usually have on hand. And did I mention you could make it in 30 minutes? 

Thirty minutes! I should enter it in some magazine contest, since magazines are always advertising “meals you can make in minutes.” (I am highly suspicious. Do you notice most of the recipes call for a lot of prep before their clock starts running? Meals in minutes if you have a sous-chef, I suppose. Anyway, this is a true meal in 30 minutes you can make without a sous-chef.)

Unico has long since stopped printing the recipe on the label, so this is my version that has grown up over the last 10 years. Just think: if this recipe were a child, it would be starting Grade 5 this year!

Last September: a taster menu from Gluten-Free Girl & the Chef and good spinach

parsley lentil pasta

serves 3 - 4

2 tbsp. butter

1 tbsp. olive oil

1 small to medium onion, minced

19 fl. oz. (540 ml) canned lentils

1/2 tsp. kosher salt

1/8 tsp. ground black pepper

2/3 c. parsley, rinsed and minced

9 oz. (250 g.) uncooked pasta

1 – 2 c. parmesan, grated

Heat frying pan over low heat. Add butter and olive oil. Throw in the onions. Watch that they cook gently without colouring.

In the meantime, boil your pasta in nice salty water. Grate the parmesan and set aside.

After about 9 minutes, when the onions are soft and translucent, add the lentils, salt and pepper to them. You are just heating the lentils here and letting the flavours mix. Taste after 5 minutes to see if everything is hot and if you need more salt and pepper.

Once your pasta is al dente, strain. Add the pasta to the lentil-onion mixture and toss. Heat again if necessary. Taste to make sure you have enough salt and pepper. Stir in the parsley.

Serve with a big bowl of parmesan on the table to garnish.

hop & go fetch it: german edition

See this? It is a very good slice of chocolate-nut cake.

It was so good that it makes me want to recommend the Hotel Adlon Kempinski in Berlin.

But I can't. Because I paid a shamefully-high amount of money for the tea that went with it. The lukewarm tea that went with it. Even if we did have real silver and sat in the shadow of the Brandenburg Gate.

So there you go. Possibly the most expensive hotel restaurant in Berlin just missed getting included in hop & go fetch it.

Don't despair! I discovered other mouth-watering - and less expensive! - places to tell you about in Germany.

Hop on over to hop & go fetch it and I will tell you all about my favourites in Berlin, Düsseldorf, Osnabrück and Lübeck. Oh, and just because I like to mix it up, I've also added a couple new favourite restaurants in Vancouver, Victoria and Portland.

Guten Appetit!

last september: falling for a side cookie

salmon for dinner

Last week, we had friends from Germany over for dinner.

At first, I was planning to make them my summer 2011 standard: German zucchini soup and arepas.

But then I realized that they were in fact German and probably already knew their way around a zucchini soup. They were coming to see the west coast of British Columbia, Washington state and Oregon. There was only one thing to make them.

Salmon. 

We have very good local salmon here. Scott and I eat it so often that we’ve almost stopped thinking about it as special, as “company” kind of food.

But luckily I remembered.

It’s taken a lot of experimenting – and some pretty darn good taste-testing along the way – but we do believe we have now found the best way to cook salmon.

It’s so simple it’s almost scandalous, but I swear we both like it better than the salmon we get at very good restaurants. Really. It. Is. That. Good.

Credits are due to three people:

1.     Our friend James in Kelowna for frying us some mighty good salmon last August
2.     A Vancouver hotel chef (whose name I cannot remember!) whose sugar-salt salmon rub idea I played on the radio last summer
3.     Mark Bittman, who suggested scattering salt on the pan

In the hopes that our favourite salmon – which also happens to be extremely easy – might become your favourite salmon, let me walk you through it.

Whenever you think of it – let’s say anywhere from 2 hours to 1 minute before you plan to eat dinner – make a rub.

Mix one part salt with two parts sugar. I usually do 1 tablespoon of salt to two tablespoons of sugar. (I have a bit left over, but it’s always better to have more rather than less rub.)

If your salmon is not already cut into nice, individual-sized filets, do that now.

Using your fingers, rub the rub into the salmon flesh, but not on the skin.

Put the salmon in a dish and let it stay cool in the fridge until you’re ready to fry it up.

Just before you’re ready to eat, set the pan on the stove to heat. Turn it up just beyond halfway on your heat gauge. On our stove, that’s 6.

Wait 10 minutes, so your pan can get good and hot.

Once it is indeed good and hot, sprinkle salt over the bottom to loosely cover.

Carefully, place your prepared salmon filets in the pan, skin side down. Cover.

Depending how thick your salmon is, open the lid and take a peak after 3 – 5 minutes. See how happy and plump it’s become! 

If it’s starting to look opaque, flip it over. (If your pan is at the ideal temperature, the salt should prevent it from sticking very much.)

Cook for 1 minute if you like your salmon medium-rare. If you like it cooked through, give it a tiny bit longer. (Be careful: salmon overcooks very quickly!)

You can serve the salmon with whatever you like. We are really into Mark Bittman’s lentils right now, although we use beluga lentils or lentils du puy instead of the green ones he calls for. We find beluga lentils and lentils du puy don’t take as long to cook and are more fun.

Eat your new favourite salmon! Serve it to guests!

Last September: black & blue scotch berries and plant yourself some garlic

german groceries

Do you look at that picture and wonder how heavy my suitcase was?

Um, a bit heavy. Although it is certainly possible that my imports were divided between my suitcase and my (somewhat unwilling) husband’s suitcase. So it was manageable. Kind of.

However, now that I’m home and have set my German groceries free in the cupboard and fridge, I honestly would not leave even one behind. You see, having these groceries means I can take little bites and imagine I’m still there.

Take that mustard up there. Even after I eat it all up, I will have a pretty glass! (Those Germans are so clever.)

Raspel is simply pre-cut little flakes of chocolate. Yes, I am capable of taking my own block of artisan chocolate and shaving bits off. But this is more fun and the dark chocolate is exceptionally good for already being flaked. I also might tell you more about a dessert with raspel, quark fresh cheese and hazelnut yogourt sometime soon.

Hanuta! Imagine a perfect little square of remarkably good hazelnut chocolate sandwiched between two layers of crisp wafer. Imagine an 11-year-old Canadian girl discovering them on her first trip to Germany when they cost just 30 cents. 

This is a dill and herb mix my Oma always used for a simple cucumber salad. Need I say more?

I have always felt sorry for black currants in Canada, where they are sadly under-appreciated. Not so in Germany. May I present black currant gummies?

My friend Ulla introduced these to me as we rode our bikes along the Rhein outside of Düsseldorf. They are fruit sugars – little tablets of black currant-flavoured goodness that melt on your tongue and instantly make you feel more energetic. I may have bought one packet for work, one for the car, and one for home, but I’m not saying.

And look – they even make black currant hand lotion!

Oh, wait. Actually, I didn’t realize that it’s grape seed hand lotion until I took this very photograph. Oh, well – grape seed’s cool, too.

Nougat means different things in different parts of the world. In Germany and Scandinavia, it means a mix of soft chocolate and very finely ground hazelnut and possibly almond that melts almost as soon as you look at it. It is very, very good.

Five years ago, I ate a nougat bar at a Swedish bakery in Vancouver. I am still thinking about it.

Why – it’s a still life of . . . marzipan fruit!

Marzipan laws have been very strict in Lübeck for more than two centuries. In fact, there is now a European Union Council directive that makes Lübeck marzipan a “protective geographical indication.” I’m not sure if this is the same as champagne from Champagne and parmesan from Parma, but it seems close. In any case, Lübeckers take their marzipan seriously.

I went a little wild at Niederegger, one of the great marzipan companies there. Notice the marzipan peach, pear and eggplant. (Who thinks to make a marzipan eggplant?!) Hiding behind them is a loaf of marzipan schwarzbrot (black bread). That would be marzipan shaped in a loaf and covered in dark chocolate. Out of the photo, a small bottle of marzipan cream liqueur is waiting for just the right evening.

Let’s finish this journey with a nice cup of tea. Would you like marzipan tea, Osnabrück hobby horse tea with vanilla and apple, or a traditional German red tea with fruit and rosehips?

I will be back soon with an actual recipe now that I must make my own food again. I must say that I enjoyed being spoiled rotten and constantly fed by my German friends and family. It is good to be back in my kitchen, but the dishes – oh, the dishes! I did not miss the dishes.

last august: peach crisp and tomato zucchini gratin 

tschüss, deutschland!

hello-bonjour, canada!
 

Just a quick note to say I'm back and I've missed you!

See that breakfast up there? That's the kind of breakfast I ate every day in Germany, often outside!

I did some darn good German eating while I was there. (Don’t worry: I balanced it all with extensive bike riding and train riding.)

Once I’ve settled back into regular life – and sadly skimpier breakfasts – I’ll show you some of the treats I’ve brought back . . .

last august: rote grütze on ice cream and rosemary corn butter

sun tea

If you are a tea fanatic and you simply must drink tea every day, summer can pose a problem.

Specifically, do you want to drink a hot cup of tea when your little third-floor flat is already crammed full of hot air and your legs actually stick together when they accidentally touch?

Possibly not.

What you want is a cold cup of tea.

I have just the thing, which does not even involve plugging in a kettle to brew it.

My old friend Elizabeth taught me this on an especially humid day in Halifax a few summers ago. Elizabeth comes from the south – Virginia? Maryland? They run together in my expiring brain – and she knows how to deal with the heat.

Her sun tea is so easy and mellow, you can  manage it on even the hottest of days.

Here are the step-by-step instructions, because I can tell you aren’t thinking very clearly in this heat.

Fill a jug of water with cold water.

Take it outside and plop in a couple of tea bags or tea balls.

Now, this is very important. Do not touch those tea bags. Do not stir them. Do not poke them to see if a bit of brown tea will brew out. Step back from the jug.

I repeat: step back from the jug.

Wait a while. (Maybe an hour, longer if you get distracted and forget you put that jug out on the porch.)

Return. 

The tea has now brewed and is a lovely tea colour. Because you didn’t mess with those tea bags before, it is also extremely mellow and smooth. (Yes, I believe those adjectives can apply to both whisky and tea.)

Take it inside and carefully lift out the tea bags. Discard said tea bags.

Doctor it with lemon and honey or sugar, as you please. 

Serve immediately with ice. If you have such a small freezer that you cannot afford to keep ice in it, refrigerate until cold.

Drink. Rest. Try not let any parts of your body accidentally touch each other.

last july: chocolate raspberry horse turds

My dears, I am off to Germany for a few weeks! We are visiting Berlin, Osnabrück and Lübeck (marzipan capital of the world!). I have been looking forward to this for ages – as you might have guessed by the plethora of German recipes suddenly appearing here.

My mother is German and I went often as a child to visit relatives and family friends. I haven’t been back for eight years and my husband has never been (besides a three-hour train stopover, which really doesn’t count). I can hardly wait to show him the Germany I remember and eat all that wunderbar German baking: käse brötchen and torte and Berliner jelly doughnuts . . .

Since I won’t be back for a few weeks, I’ll leave you with this: a photo of me and my new German friends back when I first visited Germany. I am the stylish one in the coordinating red turtleneck and sweater.

 Happy summer!

german zucchini soup

Is it just me, or does zucchini season start earlier and earlier every year?

I mean, I thought we wouldn’t be inundated until late August . . . Well, in fact, I’m not inundated, I’m charmed. The zucchini are so small and sweet right now that I can’t help but buy them. Yes, I know, I know. They’ll soon be giant monsters breeding in every garden and sitting on every staffroom table with a sign pleading for me to please, please just take it away.

That means it’s time to take stock of our zucchini recipes and get ready for the onslaught. And speaking of stock, zucchini can become a lovely sophisticated, silky soup. Yes, I know those are not normally zucchini adjectives. But you will just have to trust me, because I speak truth.

This recipe comes by way of Halifax from a Hungarian friend who says it’s a German recipe. Ah, Canada, the multicultural mosaic.

You start by slowly wilting your onions in a good whack of butter and a bit of olive oil to keep that same butter from burning. The onions start to glisten and look like very happy onions indeed.

See, doesn’t that look like a plump, buttery onion?

Then you add a bunch of shredded zucchini, which look like green and yellow ribbons, but make you raise an eyebrow as you wonder exactly how they will transform into sophisticated, silky soup.

You simmer that up with the stock for exactly 12 minutes. (Are you starting to see why this is such a lovely summer recipe? Yes, your kitchen won’t overheat from prolonged stove usage!)

Now, time for magic ingredient number one: white wine. In our case, Gewürztraminer. (Tomorrow, it might be Chardonnay. If you enjoy drinking the wine, I don’t think it can go wrong in your soup.)

Purée that, and you’ll start to see some silkiness creeping in . . .

Now, to finish, stir in magic ingredient number two: the so-rich-it’s-almost-sour-cream plain yogourt. Also, a bit of basil from your little garden.

Gently, gently heat it a little more if it’s a bit too cool for your taste, taking care not to bring it to a boil. (You don’t want to give the yogurt any bad ideas and suddenly separate into curds. Remember: coddle, not curdle.)

Ladle into bowls and serve with a bit more of that fresh basil. A silky and sophisticated way to ease into zucchini season, if I do say so myself.

 last july: minestrone with summer herbs

german zucchini soup

serves 3 - 4

1 tbsp. olive oil

1/4 c. butter

2 onions, roughly chopped

4 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

1/2 tsp. kosher salt or 1/4 tsp. regular salt

1/8 – 1/4 tsp. black pepper, to taste

2 1/4 c. zucchini, shredded

2 c. vegetable or chicken stock

1/2 c. white wine

1/2 c. plain yogurt, preferably high fat

fresh basil, chopped

Heat thick saucepan over medium-low heat. Melt butter and olive oil in pan. Add onion and sauté. Turn heat down to cook slowly. After 5 minutes, throw in the garlic, salt and pepper. Fry until onion is almost transparent, about 10 minutes. The onion will glisten and look almost soupy.

Add zucchini and stock. Bring to a boil. Simmer for 12 minutes, uncovered.

Stir in the wine. Whir it all together with an immersion blender or regular blender until it’s creamy. Return to heat. Stir in yogurt and about half of the basil. Heat gently, but don’t let it boil, for fear it will curdle.

Ladle into serving bowls. Place a few bits of basil on top. Serve.

kristina's nuss kuchen

I need lunch.

You may feed me breakfast at 11 o’clock.

But I will not be tricked.

Come 1 o’clock, I need lunch. And I mean a proper lunch, preferably hot with all the food groups. Do not give me a cracker or a piece of fruit and call it lunch. You do not want to see the consequences of not feeding me lunch.

Eight years ago, my mother and I were visiting relatives and family friends in Germany. We took the train from Osnabrück to Hamburg one July morning, riding for about 3 hours.

I was hungry on the train and considered buying lunch there. But since lunch is like dinner in Germany, I do believe my mother convinced me not to. (Or perhaps I came up with the not-so-brilliant plan of starving all by myself.) We were due to arrive just after 1 o’clock, and we thought my mom’s cousin Kristina and her husband Klaus would feed us.

Well.

Klaus and Kristina welcomed us warmly and took us out to a pretty, shaded table on the deck. As you might imagine, I was hungry and having rather overwhelming visions of lunch at that point.

Kristina went inside to bring out the food, and we waited with anticipation.

But what she returned with was not hot or hearty or even savoury.

It was a cake.

I took one look at that cake and felt tears pricking. Then I felt a sniffle. I just wanted lunch. I just wanted to die of embarrassment, crying in the middle of the day at a perfectly nice cake brought out by relatives I had only met once before.

My dear mother went inside to explain in German and came back with a yogurt for me. I brushed away my tears and prayed my red nose would calm down sooner rather than later.

Finally, my yogurt eaten, we all tried the cake.

It was, in fact, a perfect summer afternoon cake: sour cherries on a tender cake that was so hazelnut-y I knew I had to be in Germany.

Needless to say, I took a deep breath and asked for the recipe.

I have been making it ever since – for dessert, not lunch – fumbling around, trying to adapt the European weight measurements into cups and teaspoons. Even with my haphazard measuring guesses, it always baked up into a lovely cake and made me think of Hamburg.

Now, I have a scale, so it’s much easier to follow the recipe exactly. (However, dear reader, I know you may not have a scale – yet – so I have converted it into funny volume measurements just for you.)

Since it’s July, I decided to use fresh cherries this time. Baked, they are not quite as pretty as the very red sour cherries, but with a dollop of cream, it’s a very delicious cake indeed. Feed me this any day – for dessert, not lunch.

last july: honey orange cream and minestrone with summer herbs

cherry hazelnut cake
a.k.a. kristina's nuss kuchen

serves 8

100 g. (scant 3/4 c.) hazelnuts

450 g. (3 c.) fresh cherries or canned sour cherries

125 g. (2/3 c.) butter

125 g. (1/2 c. + 2 tbsp.) sugar

2 eggs

1 tbsp. milk

1/4 tsp. salt

6 g. (1 tsp. + scant 1/4 tsp. baking powder)

150 g. (1 c. + 1 tbsp.) wheat flour

            Or, gluten-free flours:

            30 g. (1/4 c.) sweet white sorghum flour

            30 g. (1/4 c. + 1 tbsp.) oat flour*

            30 g. (3 tbsp.) sweet rice flour

            30 g. (1/4 c.) tapioca starch

            30 g. (3 tbsp.) potato starch

whipped cream, for serving**

Preheat the oven to 360 degrees Fahrenheit (180 – 200 degrees Celcius). Butter a 9 or 10-inch springform pan.

Grind the hazelnuts finely in a food processor. Try to stop before they become hazelnut butter. Set aside.

Pit cherries if necessary. If using fresh, chop them roughly. Set aside.

Cream butter and sugar together. Beat in the eggs and milk. Set aside.

Mix the dry ingredients together – stir well. Stir into the creamed mixture. Scrape into the prepared pan. Place cherries over top to cover. Bake for 30 – 40 minutes, until golden brown and a cake tester comes out crumb-free.

Once the cake has cooled, serve with a dollop of whipped cream.

* Make sure the label specifies pure oats if you are gluten-free

** I like to whip the cream with a bit of Frangelico (more hazelnut flavour!) and sugar