House Spouse

On the way home a week or so ago, I snapped the above photo. The gorgeous flowering shrub is located in front of a Blockbuster on Kimball Ave and I love that you can make out the movie posters in the window (Alvin and the Chipmunks, New Moon, and Avatar). Details that date a photograph usually prove delightful down the road.

The days-long stretches of good, warm weather were a real challenge to us Chicagoans. The weather reports kept reminding us that these were record-breaking temperatures for April and this weather is not normal, but we didn’t want to believe it. Me, especially. I kept thinking, when I’d sneak out for a walk around the Loop during lunch or take pages to be read and edited to a nearby park, Chicago weather isn’t so bad. Eight years of experience otherwise was no match for the transfixing abilities of pure warm sunshine.

Now it’s cold again. Well, not really. If it were December and the high for the day was 60, it would feel glorious. But in late April, I want 70 degrees plus. I’ll even take the rain showers that this month is supposed to bring (the grapevine and blueberry plant–yes plant, there is only one that we can confidently claim is alive–could use them). But, Mother Nature, help a girl (with seasonal depression) out.

So, the recipe to accompany this rant is from 101cookbooks.com, a blog I’ve read for a long time, but have lately been visiting more and more frequently. The day I read it, I was feeling down and the simple thought of a spicy soup did wonders for my mood. Actually eating it had remarkably positive effects. I even might venture to say it was healing, if I were a little crunchier in my outlook on life.

The soup is lightly spiced, a bit gingery, and has a subtle coconut flavor. I enjoyed it  even more the next day for lunch. My version went lighter on the green onions (I’m a bit averse) and omitted the raisins (I’m totally averse). Heidi suggests serving it over a grain such as farro, but we ate it as a simple soup with a round of pita for dipping and a spoonful of plain yogurt, a squeeze of lime, and a bit of fresh cilantro for garnish.

Coconut Red Lentil Soup
Adapted from 101 Cookbooks
1 cup yellow split peas
1 cup red lentils
7 cups water
1 medium carrot, cut into 1/2-inch dice
2 tablespoons fresh peeled and minced ginger
2 tablespoons curry powder
2 tablespoons butter
4 green onions, thinly sliced
1/3 / 80 ml cup tomato paste
1 14-ounce can coconut milk
2 teaspoons fine grain sea salt
one small handful cilantro, chopped

Rinse the lentils and split peas well. Place them in an extra-large soup pot, cover with the water, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer and add the carrot and 1/2 Tablespoon of the ginger. Cover and simmer for about 30 minutes, or until the split peas are soft (this took longer than 30 minutes for me).

In the meantime, in a small dry skillet or saucepan over low heat, toast the curry powder until it is quite fragrant. Be careful though, you don’t want to burn the curry powder, just toast it. Set aside. Place the butter in a pan over medium heat, add the green onions and the remaining ginger. Saute for two minutes stirring constantly, then add the tomato paste and saute for another minute or two more.

Add the toasted curry powder to the tomato paste mixture, mix well, and set aside. When the lentils are ready, add this mixture along with the coconut milk and salt. Simmer, uncovered, for 20 minutes or so. If you like it thicker (which I did), allow it to simmer for longer, at least 30 minutes. Season again with salt to taste.

Serve with lime wedges, plain yogurt, and the chopped cilantro.

Serves 6.

If you live in Chicago and have a taste for Bahn Mi, you have frequented Nhu Lan Vietnamese Bakery. You order your sandwich by the number. I stick to the #7, with an occasional switch to the #10. Both are vegetarian, but the #7 is actually called that. Its filling is fried onions and thin rice noodles. The #10 is called Lemongrass Tofu, but I think it’s actually a homemade seitan. Both are delicious.

The best thing about Nhu Lan is the lovely woman who is usually running the show. When you order, she responds by repeating your order number followed by the phrase “jalapeño everything?” She’s referring to the toppings: the cilantro, daikon, cucumber, carrots, and, of course, the jalapeño. It kills me every time.

I’ve yet to try Bahn Mi at home. I’d be hard pressed to recreate the fried noodles or the deliciously flavored seitan. I’ve tried to buy it plain before for an attempt at a veg-friendly pho. While the man behind the counter was impressed and eager to give me pointers for the broth, he wouldn’t sell the seitan to me. They only make enough for the sandwiches.

Nhu Lan also sells pastries and bread. When Andrew bought an almond croissant tonight, it got me thinking about the almond extract I’d bought at the Dill Pickle yesterday for a future jam tart or jam cake (I have to finish that last jar of strawberry rhubarb jam I made last year!). So, while he went to do laundry, I baked some almond shortbread cookies.

The recipe is the 1-2-3 classic cookie recipe from Mark Ruhlman’s Ratio. I’m not really a cookie baker, which I’d like to change, because people love cookies. People like my spouse. Plus, they’re easy to transport (unlike tarts and cakes). I thought this recipe would be a little easier and wasn’t exactly prepared for how dry the would turn out. It’s quite crumbly, and while he says you can roll it into balls and press into cookies, I found that to be imposible.  After some fiddling around with it, I eventually was able to form it into a square-like log, wrapped it in plastic and stuck it in the freezer for 30 minutes.

I wished I’d handled it a little less, because the cookies could have turned out more tender. But they’re pretty good anyhow.

Almond Shortbread Cookies
Adapted from Ratio

Ingredients:
2 oz (~4 1/2 T) sugar
4 oz (1 stick) butter, softened*
6 oz (1 to 1 1/4 c) four
1/2 tsp almond extract
(In other words, 1 part sugar, 2 parts butter, 3 parts flour)

Cream the butter and sugar, beating until the butter is light and the sugar evenly distributed. Add the almond extract and mix well.

Little by little, add the flour and fold into the butter-sugar mixture.

Here’s where it got tricky for me. Ruhlman says that as you add the flour, a uniform dough should form. I just got a crumbly mess like when you cut butter into flour for pie dough. I poured this into a large sheet of plastic wrap and formed a log about 6 inches long, shaping it into a square using the counter and a bench scraper. Chill for at least 30 minutes.

Pre-heat the oven to 350F. When the dough is chilled and firm, slice into 3/8-inch to 1/4-inch slices with a sharp knife. The picture reveals that I went a little thicker than that. I’ll try to go thinner next try. I was just really nervous about them crumbling as I sliced them. I also didn’t read the line about the cookies not spreading when cooking until after they were already in the oven. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until they’re cooked through.

Ruhlman doesn’t say to grease the pan. I don’t know enough about cookie making to know whether it’s necessary, so I baked them on a silicone baking mat. I also sprinkled them with turbanado sugar when they emerged from the oven. For a little extra sweetness.

Cool completely and store in tightly sealed jar.

*I used half salted, half unsalted. I love using salted butter when I bake cookies, because I like them a little salty. I always have far better results using a good salted butter, rather than just adding my own salt. I recommend trying this half and half combo. It works well if you’re shy about using salted butter.

I am at work. So I have to keep this post quick, meaning I can’t include a recipe. I feel so guilty updating my blog, even though company policy says limited personal use of my work computer is OK. I guess I should just keep it limited and quit wasting time explaining this.

We moved three weeks ago and I couldn’t be happier, but I wept when I bid farewell to the first home Andrew and I shared together. Even Andrew, who is much less sentimental than I, got misty eyed.  As we stood in the empty living room, we recounted all the memories we’d shared during the past four years, the best ones being the times we had filled the small space with people and food.

Like when we held a holiday party our first year there where a cheese ball and latkes and bacon-wrapped stuffed jalepenos were served (it was my first attempt at latkes, and while the whole apartment smelled for hours of what I usually call “fried fry,” they were delicious, gobbled up quickly, and earned the approval of our Jewish guests). We also hosted a wedding shower for our friends Steve and Nadia and served tacos with three different vegetarian fillings and homemade salsa. That same Steve slept on our couch several weekends as he made his way from Chicago to Minneapolis/St. Paul to DC and back to Chicago. I fed him the infamous brioche that looked like breasts and he taught me to can tomatoes. There were at least two New Years parties that involved sampling several craft brews and noshing on homemade snacks and another when I made Buccatini all’Amatriciana in honor of the month-long excursion in Italy I was about to embark upon. The list can go on, as recalled memories usually do, but this is a quick post, remember? (Friends, if I didn’t include a memory you were a part of, feel free to name it in the comments.)

As I looked at the tiny kitchen one last time, I commented to Andrew, “This is where I learned how to cook.” So, he snapped a picture with his iPhone:

And also this one, because I think he was slightly amused at how weepy I’d become as I walked around the apartment for the last time:

I look so pitiful!

It’s been a bittersweet few weeks as I’ve attempted to set up shop again in our new kitchen (really big, but with very little cabinet space). Last night, things got really awesome though. And I’m no longer sad about the move.

We planted two blueberry saplings. And I noticed our grapevine is starting to bloom.