Roast Chipotle and Pesto Brussels Sprouts

I had never made the acquaintance of Brussels sprouts until after I was married. It’s hardly surprising that I had not eaten them prior to that. My dad’s (and thus our family’s) tastes in vegetables when I was growing up were fairly narrow. Canned green beans. Canned peas. Canned or frozen lima beans. Frozen corn. Let’s see … have I forgotten anything? Oh yes, canned pork and beans. Oh, and iceberg lettuce. (That counts as a vegetable, right?) 

Those Mushy Stinky Things

I remember, in innocence, telling my future wife prior to our marriage that I liked vegetables as much as the next person; it was just the “fringe” vegetables I didn’t like, such as broccoli and cauliflower. I very well may not have even heard of Brussels sprouts at that point, but I was soon to be introduced to them – at my very first Canadian Thanksgiving dinner, held at my former mother-in-law’s house. I will never forget the first time I saw them: boiled (to death) greenish-yellow things dumped into a mound in a yellowing old china bowl rescued from the old family farmhouse in Alberta. I couldn’t even stand the smell (see below), much less the taste.

Apparently, a lot of other people in the country feel the same way I do/did about these boiled mushy things: a poll conducted in the United States actually placed them near the top of the country’s list of most hated vegetables. Part of the reason is undoubtedly the smell: they are full of sulphur-containing chemicals to deter animals from feeding on their leaves, and overcooking them makes them smell like rotten eggs. This explains why my mother-in-law’s kitchen took on a distinctly unpleasant odor as holiday meals were being prepared. (She was known for overcooking virtually everything, from vegetables to meat.)

It has only been within the last year or so that I discovered the secret and true potential of the humble Brussels sprout: roasting. Somewhere, somehow, I discovered a recipe for roast Brussels sprouts that called for pesto and olive oil. Then, I actually made some. Mark and I both loved it. I couldn’t believe what I’d been missing all those years. 

A Bit of History

In preparation for this post, I did a bit of research about the history of Brussels sprouts, which, as it turns out, is rather murky. Various sources have them in northern Europe (the sprouts like colder weather) at various dates going all the way back to the 5th century. They are not clearly documented, however, until the 17th and 18th centuries. Old cookbooks refer to the sprouts being prepared in the “Belgian mode,” which consisted of boiling the sprouts, then pouring melted butter over them. I’m sure Paula Dean would concur that anything can taste better with butter.

As to the introduction of sprouts to America, some sources claim that Thomas Jefferson introduced the species around 1812 from some seeds that were sent to him from France. But the website for Monticello, Jefferson’s home, states that the sprouts were not Brussels sprouts but a form of kale. Other sources claim that Acadian settlers in Louisiana introduced the sprout to America. No one really seems to know for sure.

Roast Chipotle and Pesto Brussels Sprouts

Getting back to my recipe, I experimented with the one I started with, trying this or adding that, all in a distinctly unscientific way. The result was what I call Roast Chipotle and Pesto Brussels Sprouts. I’m not publishing a detailed recipe because I don’t really have one. All I do is make a sauce out of chipotle-infused olive oil (which I buy locally), Sir Kensington’s Chipotle Mayonnaise (available at Whole Foods and other grocery stores) and sun-dried tomato pesto – more or less in equal parts, with perhaps a bit more olive oil than the other ingredients. (I've also experimented with other types of pesto, but I prefer the sun-dried tomato.)

I typically use a pound of sprouts, which should be adequate for 4-6 people. I try to use sprouts that are still on the stalk if I can find them (see lead photo above); otherwise I buy fresh sprouts in a mesh bag or loose, the smaller the better. I never use frozen. 

In terms of preparation, I first make a thin slice off the root end of all the sprouts, then cut them in half vertically. If a sprout is considerably bigger than the rest, I’ll cut it into quarters. Any leaves that fall off in this process, as well as any yellowed leaves, are discarded. I then wash the sprouts by submerging them in a bowl of water, after which they are spread out on a paper towel and patted dry. 

The sprouts are then spread out on a baking sheet, after which I take the sauce and spoon a little on each one. They then go into a 375-degree oven for 25 minutes. No smell. No mush. Just delicious sprouts.

Moving On

I started making this dish about a year ago. It went along very nicely with our very laid back approach to cooking. Now, however, I am anxious to try new recipes (of which there must be scores on the Internet).  Adventure awaits!

References:

http://www.reluctantgourmet.com/all-about-brussels-sprouts/
http://www.monticello.org/site/house-and-gardens/monticellos-mystery-plants
http://foodtimeline.org/foodfaq.html#brussels

Spiced Apple-Cranberry Baked Brie

I'm in love. For decades, it was staring me right in the face - sort of - but I was blinded by prejudice.

I'm in love with Brie.

In my youth, I served an LDS (Mormon) mission in France, the land of cheese lovers and producers. But I steadfastly refused to try Brie when I was there in the 80's as well as on more recent trips. I suppose it is possible that, at some event or another during my legal career, I ate some Brie in puff pastry. But if I did, I wasn't aware of what I was eating. Brie and I just ran in different circles.

All of that changed last Tuesday night.

We had family and friends visiting with us the first part of last week, so we wanted to prepare something a little special (by our standards). Mark and his brother-in-law Neil cooked a couple of racks of pork chops on the grill, his sister Deb helped out with the candied yams, and I prepared a caesar salad, roast brussels sprouts (on which more in a future post) and, as an appetizer, baked brie. As soon as I tasted the brie, I knew my relationship with the cheese had gone from indifference to something approaching passion.

I had run across the recipe for the brie while researching cinnamon and subsequently discovered that the recipe is actually from Pampered Chef. So, with due credit where credit belongs, here is my somewhat altered recipe.

Spiced Apple-Cranberry Baked Brie

Ingredients:

1        11 oz. round of Brie cheese
3/4     cup chopped apple
3/8     cup chopped slivered almonds
3/8     cup dried sweetened cranberries
1-1/2  tbsp brown sugar, packed
1/2     tsp Saigon cinnamon
1/4     tsp nutmeg
1        tbsp salted butter, melted
1/4     tsp vanilla

Preparation:

Preheat over to 350F.

Chop apple in food processor/chopper. In a small bowl, combine apple, almonds, cranberries, brown sugar and spices. Mix gently. Stir in butter and vanilla just until ingredients are moistened.

Cut Brie in half horizontally. Place one half of Brie, rind side down, on pan/baking dish. Spoon half of the apple mixture onto bottom half of Brie, spreading evenly. Top with remaining half of Brie, rind side up, then spoon remaining apple mixture over top. Bake 15-17 minutes, or until cheese is soft and just begins to melt. Serve with toasted French bread, apple wedges or assorted crackers.

Yield: 10-11 servings.

I used Fuji apples that were locally grown. 

Notes and Comments:

The original recipe called for an 8 oz. round of Brie. Because Costco, Whole Foods and other stores usually carry an 11-oz. round, I altered the recipe for the larger round. 

The original recipe also called for Korintje cinnamon, but I decided to use Saigon cinnamon because of its more robust flavor. When I opened and smelled Vanns Saigon, the aroma was powerful and sweet. When I smelled the small container of Korintje I bought at Whole Foods a week or two ago, I could hardly smell anything. Interesting lesson.

The Pampered Chef recipe did not call for nutmeg. I decided to add some and used 1/4 tsp, but it was nutmeg that I bought at Whole Foods. When I smelled it, I experienced the same underwhelming experience I had with the Korintje cinnamon. Next time, I'm going to use freshly ground nutmeg.

I also put in 1/4 tsp vanilla, which the original recipe did not call for.

The original recipe pointed out that dried cherries or Golden raisins could be substituted for the cranberries. Next time I make this, I will try dried cherries.

Opening the Brie round. The recipe points out that the rind should be left on. The entire cheese is edible, including the rind.

Bottom half of the Brie round

Half of the cranberry-apple mixture between the two halves, the other half on top.

The finished product

As I mentioned above, the original recipe suggested serving this with apple slices, toasted French bread or assorted crackers. We used apple slices and crackers the first time I made this. Last night, Mark and I set up a small table next to our hot tub, placed the baked Brie and some apple slices on it, and enjoyed it while sitting in the tub. The only thing that was missing was a nice complimentary wine. Any suggestions?

I have discovered that there are a jillion recipes on the Internet for Baked Brie. I look forward to trying some of them. 

Of Cucumbers, Smelt and Miracles

I had had a love-hate relationship with cucumbers for as long as I can remember: I loved to hate them. I often joked that I couldn't stand to be in the same room with a cucumber. Ha Ha. Ha. 

My antipathy probably dates to when I got married. This vegetable had never been served on a plate before me - to my recollection - until then. I am pretty sure that this fact is attributable to my father who no doubt despised them. He had a somewhat limited palate. Even though he was raised on a fruit farm, he never ate cherry pie (!) until he was in the army. 

My former wife, however, loved English cucumbers. They were introduced to my environment and, truth be told, I somehow felt inferior because I didn't like them. My antipathy only deepened.

All that changed a few months ago during our European trip. On our first night in Athens, a miracle happened: I ate cucumbers (!) ... in a Greek salad. (My children will appreciate the significance of this event.) And they weren’t bad. The miracle occurred just down the street from our hotel (see picture below). We headed out that evening for something to eat after having cocktails in our room. We asked the front desk clerk if he could recommend a place that was close by, somewhere where we could get a salad.

He sent us to a small taverna half a block away. Between the hotel and the taverna, however, was another small restaurant on the other side of the street. A man whom we assumed to be the proprietor tried to get us to eat at his place, but we went with the desk clerk’s recommendation. We would later learn how displeased the man was with our decision.

Meanwhile, we arrived at the other place and sat down at a small table on the sidewalk. As far as I recall, we were the only customers there; but perhaps it was early by Athenian standards. 

There were no English menus. In fact, there were no menus. Mark told the man we wanted a Greek salad. He nodded in recognition, but waited while we told him what else we wanted. Seeing no response forthcoming, he took the initiative and started questioning. “Fish? Meat?” Somehow or other, Mark communicated that we’d like fish. As the man walked away into the bowels of the restaurant, I asked Mark what kind of fish we were getting. His response: “I don’t know.”

Mark went down the following morning and took this picture of our taverna and its proprietor (on the right).

Shortly, we were presented with a standard Greek salad: tomatoes, red onions, feta cheese and … cucumbers (see lead photo). The miracle likely would not have happened had I not had a stiff cocktail beforehand. I said, "What the hell," and started eating, biting into a cucumber. I waited for the retching to start, but it didn’t. In fact, the cucumber didn’t taste too bad. I had another piece. No bile rising. Hmmm. I felt a small stirring of victory and pride in myself for having ventured where I had never ventured before.

Then the fish arrived. Sardines. Or at least that's what I thought at the time. I learned later that they were smelt, or marithes in Greek (also spelled "marines). Breaded and fried. It was time for the second miracle.

I don’t believe I had ever eaten a sardine before. (This is what was going on in my head at the time, but I would have felt the same way about smelt.) In fact, I’m positive I had not – unless it was camouflaged in something else. I’m also positive I could not have eaten those fishies had I been cold sober at the time. As it was, I plunged in with gusto, and I loved them! I commented to Mark at one point that eating them was kind of like eating French fries. As I looked at the picture later I wonder whether I could do it sober. That will be my next challenge, one I hope to take up in September when we plan to return to Greece.

Of course, I could try making them at home. Has anyone out there every tried? There looks to be a simple authentic recipe here from the Greek Islands restaurant in Chicago, billed as "America's Most Popular Greek Restaurant." As I write this, however, I have no idea if one can purchase smelt in Salt Lake City. I've never looked.

I did just discover, however, that this dish is served at Aristo's in Salt Lake City, which according to their website has been voted one of the top 100 Greek restaurants in the country. Anyone care to comment if they've eaten there? 

Fried smelt, here we come!

Pumpkin Chocolate Pecan Pie

It seemed like a marriage made in heaven. Not just pecan. Not just chocolate. These two make for an excellent pie; but what really attracted me to this recipe was the addition of the pumpkin. Could it be done?

Yes. And wonderfully so, especially with the addition of a tiny bit of maple flavor.

As I wrote about in an earlier post, I happened upon the original recipe for this pie while cleaning up my documents on my laptop. Found somewhere while browsing the Internet a decade or more ago, I decided to try it. The original recipe was okay, but it definitely needed more chocolate and some spices. 

After several iterations over the holidays, I am now satisfied with my altered recipe. I tried to find the original recipe on the Internet, but without success. So, with credit to the unknown author of the original recipe, here is my altered version of Pumpkin Chocolate Pecan Pie:

Chocolate Pumpkin Pecan Pie

1     cup chopped pecans
3/4  cup mini chocolate chips
1     tsp vanilla
1     cup canned organic pumpkin
4     tbsp melted butter
1/2  cup sugars (7 tbsp white sugar, 1 tbsp granulated maple sugar)
1/2  tsp Saigon cinnamon
1/2  tsp nutmeg
1     cup syrups (7/8 cup dark corn syrup, 1/8 cup maple syrup)
3     eggs
1     9-inch unbaked pie crust/shell

Preheat oven to 350. Meanwhile, beat eggs well. Mix in the syrups, sugars, butter, pumpkin and vanilla on low until well-blended. Arrange 1 cup pecans and 3/4 cup mini chocolate chips in the bottom of the pie shell. Slowly pour egg mixture over them. Bake for one hour or until knife inserted 1 inch from edge (not center) comes out clean. Let cool completely before serving to allow the filling to set up. After cooling, consider putting the pie in the fridge for a few hours to complete the setting-up process. If desired, when serving, top with a bit of whipped cream, a few chocolate chips and a sprinkling of chopped pecans.

This pie might appear to be over-the-top sweet, but the pumpkin adds not only flavor but a moderating influence over the sugars and syrups. It also makes the pie lighter than a standard pecan pie. I received a number of compliments about the pie over the holidays, and everyone agreed that it is a much "lighter" pie than pecan.

Now, about the maple flavoring. I had experimented with the substitution of the bit of maple syrup for some of the corn syrup and was pleased with the result. That emboldened me to also substitute a bit of granulated maple sugar for the white sugar. I was a little concerned that the two together might make for too strong of a maple flavor in the pie, but it was perfect. Just enough to add a bit of additional flavor to the pie.

Mark bought this for me as a Christmas stocking stuffer.

I was prompted to add the maple sugar because of an experience we had over Thanksgiving while staying at a B&B in Fort Langley, British Columbia. The owner served a lovely fresh fruit salad to us every morning as the "starter" at breakfast. The fruit was topped with a generous dollop of delicious Greek yogurt, and that in turn was topped on a couple of occasions with a bit of granulated maple sugar sprinkled on top of the yogurt. Delicious.

Marilyn's Fruit Salad

So, there you have it. It's an easy pie to make and - as long as you like pumpkin, pecans and chocolate - is sure to become a holiday favorite.

Of Christmas Lights and Strozzapreti

We currently have Mark's sister and her husband staying with us for a few days. They live in the Portland, Oregon area and have never been to Salt Lake City around Christmastime. So we decided they must see the lights on Temple Square.

Mark on right with his sister Deb and her husband Neil

After partaking of some Petit Basque cheese (see yesterday's post), we put on parkas, scarfs, gloves, etc., and headed for downtown Salt Lake City. If you're ever in Salt Lake over the holidays, the best time to see the lights are *after* Christmas. Then, the crowds are much smaller and there is a far lesser chance of getting run over by armies of strollers.

When I was married to my former wife, we always made a point of taking the kids downtown in December in order to see the Christmas lights. Here I am in 2006 with part of our brood. You can see I know whereof I speak when it comes to "armies of strollers."

After a while, it got a little boring to go down and see the same thing every year. Yet we did it. But the highlight became not the lights but going to the Lion House Pantry afterward for pie, carrot cake and other goodies.

That being said, the lights looked a bit different this year, and it's always more interesting taking someone who has never been there before. It was a beautiful evening.

Now moving on the Strozzapreti. After seeing the lights, we went out for dinner at one of our favorite restaurants in Salt Lake, the Oasis Cafe. This is actually where Mark and I met in August 2011. "I parked behind the building," I later wrote, "then came in the back door and walked down the stairs. I could see a tall, lean, blonde-haired man at the base of the stairs, and as I approached, he turned around, looked at me, and a huge smile spread across his face. From that very moment, I was smitten … I was afraid he might say goodbye after I told him I had ten children, but he stayed … and he’s been staying at my side ever since."

Getting back to the other night, I decided to have a dish that I had never heard of before made with a pasta called Strozzapreti. The server explained that, translated, the name of the pasta means "priest choker." I was intrigued and decided to try it. The Oasis Cafe calls the dish "Mushroom Strozzapreti," and it features (besides the pasta) caramelized shallots, brussels sprouts, fresh thyme and parmesan. It was tasty, satisfying and perfect for a cold winter night.

When I got home, I did some research on Strozzapreti. Wikipedia says that there are three legends that explain the name of the past:

"One is that gluttonous priests were so enthralled by the savory pasta that they ate too quickly and choked themselves, sometimes to death. Another explanation involves the "azdora" ("housewife" in the Romagna's dialect), who "chokes" the dough strips to make the strozzapreti: '... in that particular moment you would presume that the azdora would express such a rage (perhaps triggered by the misery and difficulties of her life) to be able to strangle a priest!' Another legend goes that wives would customarily make the pasta for churchmen as partial payment for land rents (In Romagna, the Catholic Church had extensive land properties rented to farmers), and their husbands would be angered enough by the venal priests eating their wives' food to wish the priests would choke as they stuffed their mouth with it. The name surely reflects the diffuse anticlericalism of the people of Romagna and Tuscany."

The pasta is apparently typical of the Emilia-Romagna, Tuscany, Marche and Umbria regions of Italy. My attention grew when I read that it is found in Umbria because that is where Mark and I planning on going on a cycling tour next September.

There are loads and loads of recipes on the Internet for Strozzapreti. I will look forward to trying some of them.

Basque-ing in Sheep's Milk Cheese

If he had told me it was sheep's milk cheese, I think I would have been reluctant to eat it. As it happened, I didn't ask about the cheese until I'd already had several pieces and had fallen in love with it.

We had been invited over to the house of some good friends of ours to share in their Christmas dinner. Kurt does most of the cooking in that family, and on Christmas his equally knowledgeable mother and sister joined him. While he worked on various aspects of dinner – including checking on the magnificent aged prime rib that he had prepared – Mark and I sat at the counter, sipping delicious champagne and eating cheese and salami.

We were fortunate indeed to be invited to share this bottle of delicious bubbly

Perhaps I should insert at this point that I, ummm, don’t know much (anything, really) about cheese. But I’d like to learn. And there’s no better place to start from than where I now am. So I asked Kurt what kind of cheese it was.  He showed me the label and proceeded to educate me. It was called Petit Basque, a cheese made from sheep’s milk in the Basque area of France at the western end of the Pyrenees Mountains. 

Our son Nathan playing with Julia's son before dinner

The cheese is made using traditional methods (which I haven't been able to learn more about), but marketed by a huge French company to North America and other markets. According to greatcheese.com, 

"Traditionally, shepherds made this small cheese from the leftover curd set aside after milking their ewes. Today Istara® P’tit Basque is still hand-made from pure ewe’s milk, using the same traditional methods established by local shepherds centuries ago ... Made with 100% pure sheep’s milk, P’tit Basque is aged for a minimum of 70 days. The Spanish influence on this cheese is noted by its resemblance to Manchego, but its flavor is milder and more delicate. P’tit Basque has a distinctive aroma of sheep’s milk, and a smooth, sweet flavor with a nutty finish. Its creaminess is unique for a semi-hard cheese."

The "discovery" of Little Basque is portrayed in this video that was made as a TV commercial. A more complete description of the cheese is available here.

I had read that natives of the Basque region where this cheese is produced like to have it with a black cherry jam that is made from local sweet cherry trees. We tried this last night, and it was a big hit.

The distinctive rind of Petit Basque

Since Basque Black Cherry Jam is not readily available at the local grocery store, I went with two options: a can of sweet cherries in heavy syrup - which my sister-in-law liked - and a jar of sour cherry jam, which we all liked. Combining the cheese and a bit of cherry jam with almond crackers was, in my opinion. delicious.

My brother-in-law also brought some of his homemade sausage to share. That was a big hit. Some of my older kids were here for the sampling, and they all liked the Petit Basque, which is saying something.

Mark, at right, with his sister and her husband, visiting from Portland, Oregon

What's In a Spice: Cinnamon

Cinnamon is cinnamon, right?

Well, that depends, as it turns out.

When I prepared to make my second iteration of Dad's Holiday Pie, I knew I had to get some new spices. Both our nutmeg and our cinnamon had expiry dates of up to two years. So I went cinnamon and nutmeg shopping. 

My destination was Whole Foods, only because I thought I could get spices in bulk there. Turns out they were out of cinnamon and didn't carry nutmeg in bulk. I turned to the spice section and picked up a container of organic Korintje cinnamon. I didn't know what the word "Korintje" meant, but it sounded exotic, and the container said it is a product of Indonesia.

The spice seemed to work just fine in my pie, but I became curious about what the difference is between Indonesian and the "Saigon" cinnamon that had been in our spice drawer expiring.

This curiosity led to my discovery that what most North American cooks use as cinnamon is technically not even cinnamon at all, but is "cassia." The only "pure" cinnamon is grown in Sri Lanka. Cassia is grown in China, Vietnam and Indonesia. It turns out, not surprisingly, that Saigon cinnamon is the Vietnamese cassia.

Korintje Indonesian "cinnamon" (cassia) is widely used by commercial bakeries in the US because of its consistent familiar flavor and lower cost. But, it turns out that there are also different grades of Korintje: grade A with 3% cinnamon oil (the most flavorful and aromatic), and the lower grades B and C. It turns out that most grocery stores usually carry these lower grades which have a much lower cinnamon oil content and are considered to be the cheapest and least flavorful of all the cassia.

Although I turned down my nose at the Saigon Cinnamon that I first used in making my pie, it turns out that this variety of cassia has the highest amount of both essential oil and cinnamaldehyde, which makes it the most rich, sweet, spicy, and strong cassia. Looks like maybe I should have stuck with the Saigon ...

Thoughts, anyone?

The first book in my cooking library.