A Homemade Life (14 page)

1 medium clove garlic, minced

¼ teaspoon ground cumin

¼ teaspoon salt

FOR THE MEATBALLS

½ cup minced yellow onion

¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro leaves

½ cup chopped pine nuts

½ cup golden raisins, halved or coarsely chopped if large

½ cup fine bread crumbs

1 large egg, lightly beaten

½ teaspoon salt

¹
/
₈
teaspoon ground cumin

¹
/
₈
teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 pound ground turkey, chicken, or lamb (see headnote)

About 4 tablespoons olive oil

 

First, make the yogurt sauce. In a small bowl, combine the yogurt, lemon juice, garlic, cumin, and salt and whisk to combine. Set aside at room temperature to let the flavors develop while you make the meatballs.

To make the meatballs, combine onion through black pepper in a large bowl. Add the ground meat and, using your hands, break it up into small chunks. Then massage and gently knead the meat to incorporate the ingredients. Mix until combined, but do not overmix: meat gets tough easily. With damp hands, gently pinch off hunks of the mixture and roll into 1½-inch balls. Set aside on a large plate. (Raw meatballs can be covered and refrigerated for up to 1 day. Or place them, not touching, on a rimmed baking sheet and freeze until hard, then transfer them to a heavy-duty plastic bag and freeze for up to 2 weeks.)

Warm 2 tablespoons of the oil in a heavy large skillet over medium heat. Add about half of the meatballs, taking care not to crowd them. As they begin to color, turn them gently with tongs and lightly shake the pan to roll them around, so they get some color on every side. Don't worry if a few of the pine nuts fall out into the pan; that happens. The meatballs are ready when they're evenly browned and feel pleasantly firm, but not rock-hard. You can also cut one or two of them in half, if you like, to make sure they're cooked through.

Transfer the finished meatballs to a plate lined with a paper towel. If the skillet looks dry, add the remaining 2 tablespoons oil. Cook the remaining meatballs.

Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature, with the yogurt sauce.

 

NOTE:
Leftover meatballs are delicious. I eat them cold, straight from the refrigerator, or warmed a touch in the microwave, with a dunk in yogurt sauce.

 

Yield: about 30 small meatballs, enough for 4 servings

I
have this funny thing about recipes. When I find one that I like, I have a hard time trying others. Take lentil soup, say. If I make a lentil soup recipe and like it, I'm apt to stick by it, for better or for worse. Sometimes, after quite a while, I will cave in and try a new one, but in most cases, I would be just as happy to rest on my laurels and sit there, eating that same lentil soup, forever. This is not good behavior, I am told, for someone who supposedly cares about cooking. I'm supposed to be more curious, more devil-may-care, more like my father. Sometimes I am. But most of the time, I'm not. I'm loyal and sentimental and possibly even boring. When something clicks with me, I want to keep it around. That goes not only for recipes but also for facial cleansers, chocolate, and men.

But about the recipes. My sister Lisa's Scottish scones are another good example. I prefer scones over all other morning breads, and of the specimens I have sampled, hers are my very favorite. They are solid, tidy things, with a dense, tightly woven crumb that tears apart into fat, flaky layers. They bear a close resemblance to biscuits, only a little less dainty and delicate. They're the kind of thing you'd expect to eat before setting out for a rousing, ruddy-cheeked hike in the Highlands. Scones seem to run a spectrum these days, with the fluffy muffin type at one end and, at the other, the sturdy, Old World biscuitlike variety. My sis
ter's rest delectably among the latter, which is exactly where I want them. Forever.

This can be tricky, as you might guess. I have a lot of cookbooks, and they demand my attention. You wouldn't believe how pushy they are. They lie next to my bed like fat, lazy dogs. They stretch and yawn all over my lap. Sometimes they even yap about scone recipes that aren't my sister's. And sometimes, because I am occasionally sort of curious, I listen to them. I try something new. And then I go back to those same scones.

Like Doron's meatballs, Lisa's scone recipe was one of the first I posted on Orangette. It's a classic. My sister got the recipe from a Scottish girlfriend of hers, and with it, this girlfriend offered a piece of advice that I should probably pass on to you: do not knead the dough more than twelve times. That's the magic number, she said; any more, and the scones will be tough. I tend to lose count and therefore cannot confirm the truth of this, but Lisa swears by it, and she would want me to tell you. She's a wonderful cook and baker, so really, listen to her. She has five children and a job in a museum on Long Island, but still she manages to grow her own asparagus and rhubarb and make eggplant salad, blackberry upside-down cake, and Indian-style chicken with cumin. She was twenty-two when I was born, the first child from our father's first marriage, and though we live on opposite sides of the country and in very different circumstances, we have been trying to spend more time together in recent years. I grew up an only child, but I like being able to say that I have a sister now. I have a little fantasy that one day we will meet for a weekend in New York, just the two of us, and we will eat pastries and go to museums, and she can tell me everything she knows, which is a lot more than I know, about art history. But that would take quite a bit of orchestration, so instead we write letters and talk on the phone about recipes, which is a close second.

In our family, Lisa's scones have come to be a Christmas tradition, unspoken but sacred. Each December, she takes the basic formula and spins it into a half-dozen multihued varieties, from dried apricot to cinnamon, blackberry, raspberry, currant, and dried cranberry. Then she
tucks them carefully into plastic bags and freezes them until Christmas Eve. If she is traveling for the holidays, they come with her, naturally, in a cooler in the trunk. Come Christmas morning, when the coffee machine sputters to life, we spread the bags on the countertop and circle them like vultures, ready to claim our share. Warmed briefly in a low oven, they're perfect for eating with one hand while tearing at wrapping paper with the other. For me, actually, they're pretty perfect in general, which is why I have such a hell of a time getting excited about another recipe.

That said, if you like a scone that bursts with butter—a scone-cummuffin, I would say—these may not be for you. They will happily accept a pat of butter, but they don't foist it upon you. I think of them as the ideal blank slate, because you can flavor them with almost anything. Maybe that's why I never get tired of them. One of my favorite versions includes bits of sweet-hot crystallized ginger and the merest slip of lemon, wintry and warming. If you're the sentimental type, like some of us, there's no need, ever, to do them another way.

SCOTTISH SCONES WITH LEMON AND GINGER

f
eel free to play with the flavorings in this recipe. In lieu of the lemon and ginger, you could try orange zest and currants, or Meyer lemon zest, or diced dried apricots, or dried cranberries or cherries, or pistachios, walnuts, or almonds. I also love this recipe with a couple of handfuls of whole, frozen berries, even though they make the dough a mess to work with. Don't thaw them first: the colder, the better. The dough will be wet and sticky, and you won't be able to knead it much, but the finished product, filled with jammy pockets of soft fruit, is worth the trouble.

 

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

4 tablespoons (2 ounces) cold unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch cubes

3 tablespoons sugar

2 teaspoons grated lemon zest

¼ cup finely chopped crystallized ginger

½ cup half-and-half, plus more for glazing

1 large egg

 

Preheat the oven to 425°F.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Using your hands, rub the butter into the flour mixture, squeezing and pinching with your fingertips until the mixture resembles a coarse meal and there are no butter lumps bigger than a pea. Add the sugar, lemon zest, and crystallized ginger and whisk to incorporate.

Pour ½ cup half-and-half into a small bowl or measuring cup and add the egg. Beat with a fork to mix well. Pour the wet ingredients into the flour mixture, and stir gently to just combine. The dough will look dry and shaggy, and there may be some unincorporated flour at the bottom of the bowl. Don't worry about that. Using your hands, squeeze and press the dough into a rough mass. Turn the dough, and any excess flour, out onto a board or countertop, and press and gather and knead it
until it
just
comes together. You don't want to overwork the dough; ideally, do not knead more than 12 times. There may be some excess flour that is not absorbed, but it doesn't matter. As soon as the dough holds together, pat it into a rough circle about 1 inch thick. Cut the circle into 8 wedges.

Place the wedges on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Pour a splash of half-and-half into a small bowl. Using a pastry brush, gently brush the tops of the scones with a thin coat to glaze. Bake for 10 to 14 minutes, or until pale golden. Transfer them to a wire rack to cool slightly, and serve warm, with butter, if you like.

 

NOTE:
If you plan to eat them within a day or two, store the scones in an airtight container at room temperature. For longer storage, seal them in a heavy plastic bag or container, and freeze them. Before serving, bring them to room temperature. Either way, reheat them briefly in a 300°F oven. They're best served warm.

 

Yield: 8 medium scones

I
don't know of any more appropriate way of saying this, so I'm just going to do it: I hate, hate, the notion of a secret recipe. I don't usually throw the h-word around like that, but this is one instance where I've got to put my foot down. I do not like secret recipes.

The whole idea is sort of ridiculous. Recipes are by nature derivative: rare is the recipe that springs, fully formed, from thin air, without the influence, wisdom, or inspiration of other prior dishes. Recipes were made to be shared. That's how they improve, how they change, how new ideas are formed and older ones made ripe. The way I see it, sharing a recipe is how you pay back fate—in the karmic sense, if you believe in such things—for bringing you something so tasty in the first place. To stop a recipe in its tracks, to label it secret, just seems mean. And isn't cooking about making people, on some level or another, feel good? It seems to me, then, that it only makes sense to give people the means to continue feeling good. By which I mean the recipe.

Anyway, one person can only cook for so many people, but by giving away a recipe, you can become, as word of the recipe spreads far and wide, the Amazing Cook Who Had That Amazing Recipe. Just imagine it. It's our best shot at fame. What on earth did you think I was giving you all these recipes for?

Sharing is nice. Take it from me. I learned the hard way, because for
the early part of my life, I was really, really bad at it. I can think of several instances in which a grade-school classmate, having forgotten his or her pencils at home, tried to borrow one from me. I'd shake my head and refuse, reminding my poor, innocent classmate that we were supposed to come to class
prepared
. By some miraculous stroke of luck, I was not maimed and killed by my peers, à la
Lord of the Flies,
and I lived to tell this story today. But I won't tempt fate again. I've become a pretty good sharer. In fact, I actually like sharing. I've made such strides that sometimes I even show up for meetings unprepared, sans pen or pencil, which makes me feel liberated and wild, like wearing racy lingerie under my clothes.

But what I really wanted to tell you about, or rather
who,
is my father's younger brother, my uncle Arnold. He's a very good recipe sharer.

Arnold, who I call Arnie, is an excellent home cook. He lived in New York until several years ago, when he retired and moved to Maine, to a little house that he and his wife Reva call “The Bear Cottage.” The two of them are terrific to eat with, mainly because they
ooh
generously and pause in mid-sentence to moan appreciatively over things. They love to cook and they love to eat, and luckily, they also love to share.

At least once or twice a month, Arnie sends me a new recipe to try. I can't begin to keep up with him, but it's always a treat to get his letters, with recipes for things like cioppino, or beef-and-bean chili with bittersweet chocolate, or Indonesian spiced chicken. Arnie is also full of smart kitchen tips, which he regularly throws in. Take note, for example:

I haven't tried his method yet, but Arnie usually knows his stuff, so I'll bet it works like a charm. And in case you're wondering why his last name is spelled differently from mine, the answer is that my father's last name was misspelled on his birth certificate. He didn't know that, however, until he was in his twenties and in the process of finishing medical school and, according to my mother, he didn't have the money or the desire to go to the trouble of changing it. So he was a Wizenberg in a family of Weisenbergs. I've always liked that.

Arnie also has quite a way with fish. Some time ago, he gave my parents a recipe he'd dreamed up for fillets of salmon poached in apple cider and then sauced in a cider-cream reduction. I'm not much of a sauce person, so it sounded a little fussy to me, but the idea stuck there, in one of the dusty back corners of my mind, and not too long ago, I decided to give it a try.

My mother calls this recipe “Salmon with Apple Glaze,” but Arnie calls it “Saumon Gelée à la Louis XIV,” a completely fanciful title that, as it turns out, actually kind of suits the dish. It's very elegant and impressive, and were a hungry king to stop by to water his horses, it would not be a bad thing to make him for supper. It starts with a few fillets of the best salmon you can find—I like king or sockeye and always buy wild when I can—and a jug of fresh cider. You don't want the kind with spices added, nor do you want regular apple juice, the kind babies drink from bottles. This is the perfect occasion to buy some real unpasteurized cider, if you can get your hands on it. Here in Seattle, I make do with a local unfiltered brand in the refrigerated section at the grocery store.

The rest is very straightforward. You poach the fish in the cider, remove it from the pan, and then reduce the cider to a pretty syrup. To that, you add a good glug of cream, and then you let it simmer a little while longer. What you wind up with is a moist, perfectly tender piece
of fish, coddled gently in a warm cider bath and then wrapped in a silky caramel-colored sauce that's both sweet and savory and entirely sigh inducing. In fact, I should warn you in advance that the sauce is quite beguiling. You will be tempted to get greedy with it (maybe even hide in the pantry with the skillet and a spoon), but please, save some for your fellow diners. As long as you promise to share, I will, with no further ado, give you the recipe.

CIDER-GLAZED SALMON, OR SAUMON GELÉE À LA LOUIS XIV

Adapted from Arnold Weisenberg

f
or this recipe you'll need a large (12-inch) skillet with a lid. The pan should be large enough to hold the salmon without crowding and to provide plenty of surface area for boiling down and thickening the sauce.

 

1 tablespoon (½ ounce) unsalted butter

1 medium shallot, peeled and halved lengthwise

2 cups fresh unfiltered apple cider

4 (6-ounce) salmon fillets

Salt

½ cup heavy cream

 

In a large, heavy skillet, combine the butter, shallot, and cider. Place over medium-high heat, and bring to a simmer. Simmer for 5 minutes, then remove and discard the shallot.

Place the fillets gently in the pan. Spoon a bit of the liquid over them, so that their tops begin to cook. Cover and simmer very gently. The fillets will cook for 8 to 10 minutes per inch of thickness. To test for doneness, make a small slit with a paring knife in the thickest part of the fillet: all but the very center of each piece should be opaque. (It will keep cooking after you pull it from the heat.) Transfer the cooked salmon to a platter, and cover loosely with aluminum foil to keep warm.

To prepare the glaze, raise the heat under the pan to medium-high, add a pinch of salt, and simmer, stirring frequently, until the liquid is reduced by about two-thirds. It should be slightly thickened and should just cover the bottom of the pan. Reduce the heat to medium, and add the cream. Stir well to combine. Boil, stirring frequently, for a few minutes, until the mixture darkens to a pale golden caramel—like those
Brach's Milk Maid caramel candies, if that helps—and is reduced by one-third to one-half.

Place the salmon fillets on 4 plates and top each with a spoonful of sauce. It should coat them like a thin, loose glaze. Serve immediately.

 

NOTE:
If you'd like to make this for only 2 people, halve the amount of salmon, but not the sauce quantities.

 

Yield: 4 servings