A Potato Examined Is Worth Eating

It’s been said that it’s very American to disagree. I like to take it a step further and add the word “question”, and I find both disagreeing and questioning an important necessity, even in the food world.

I once had a bumper sticker that boldly and succinctly stated, “Question Liberalism”. I longed, in my unsophisticated innocence, to be the grain of sand that irritated the oyster enough to create a pearl.

It didn’t take long for the pontificating in the presence of strangers to become inevitably unfulfilling, and while pointing out their erroneous perceptions, as is often the case when making youthful stances, I began to feel ineffectual.

I found myself struggling with the urge to apply White-Out over the word “Liberalism” on a daily basis, and to reinvent the statement with more specific and personal variations, such as “Question gas prices”. “Question your husband’s whereabouts”. “Question Sushi.” My bumper forum became my imaginary oyster.

Then life grew simpler, and after the 20-something years from when I first promoted my views to the car-riding-my-tail on the Southern California freeways, I decided that being so in-your-face and confrontational is much more likely to fail than succeed. My grandmother, as so many sages through the ages have advised, told me that I’d attract a lot more bees with honey than vinegar, so I decided to be nice.

I also became mellower and much more accepting of differences, adopting the foundation to agree to disagree, and acknowledged that other peoples’ conflicting opinions aren’t necessarily wrong, they’re just different. And I learned that sometimes, if you listen with patience, you might even change your own opinion and learn something new, and that it’s not all about you. Or personal. And you don’t shoot the messenger.

So, this past weekend in Vancouver, I bit my proverbial tongue. We had been walking leisurely in search of the perfect sidewalk café, hoping for an appetizer and a chilled glass of French Pinot Gris, and we spotted large market umbrellas, giving hope to success.

I noticed the menu promoted “Sweet Potato Fries” and quietly shared the snide questioning that was cruising through my mind to my friend. “Sure”, I said, like the disagreeing American, “they’re probably yams.”

Respectfully, he questioned me, and uncharacteristically, I was silent. I honestly didn’t have the answer, and acknowledged some probably erroneous perceptions that I had, but my confusion and nebulosity grew as I spoke and I knew that research would inevitably follow. After ten (10!) scrutinizing hours of study, elusiveness and questioning still prevail.

In my attempt at patience, and to learn something new, I discovered some facts: The sweet potato is scientifically called Ipomoea Batatas and is the root of a vine in the morning glory family. It’s roots date back prehistorically, with credit of its origin going to tropical Peru and Ecuador.

Columbus brought the sweet potato over to us from St. Thomas. The Ipomoea Batata became patata in Spanish, and potato in English, and since the generic white potato did not arrive on the scene for another 100 years or so, “potato” originally referred to the sweet potato.

There are two basic, and most common but not limited, types; one has a light yellow or beige skin with pale yellow flesh, and is not sweet. Its texture is more starchy and similar to the white potato. The other has a thick, dark orange skin and contains a bright orange and sweet interior. The latter is the one most often eaten in the US, and is mistakenly called a yam.

The darker orange sweet potatoes were introduced into the southern United States several decades ago. What history is now acknowledging is that the shippers and marketers, in wanting to distinguish them from the more traditional lighter-fleshed ones, began promoting them as yams.

Yam is the English word for Nyami, an African word that refers to the edible tuber of the Dioscorea. The Nyami is actually a species of the Dioscoreaceae family, not the Convolvulaceae family that the sweet potato belongs to, so the two are not even distant relations.

Since the U.S. Department of Agriculture introduced mandatory labeling requiring that the orange fleshed yams must also contain the words “sweet potato”, it became even more common that the two be used interchangeably. Sweet potatoes, however, are usually grown in the US, while yams are imported from the Caribbean, thus creating a third nomenclature, the true yam.

After all the hours of confusion, I’ve tried to boil the facts down to what really matters. True yams do not contain as much beta carotene as sweet potatoes or the darker, misnamed yams, and the lighter true yam is also the lesser choice vehicle for vitamins A and C.

So I researched with patience, and I was nice. I questioned because I disagreed, and I learned something. Socrates said that “the unexamined life is not worth living.” It may be taking it another step further when the examining becomes the living, but I am discovering that too, may be worthwhile.

Sweet Potato Fries with Roasted Garlic Lemon Aioli
Serves 6

1 whole head garlic
3 Sweet Potatoes
1/8 cup olive oil
Coarsely ground salt and pepper, to taste
1 cup mayonnaise
2 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon rind
Salt, to taste

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

2. Wrap garlic head in foil, and place in small baking dish in oven.

3. Scrub potatoes and cut lengthwise into ½ inch wedges. Place on baking sheet lined with foil or parchment paper. Toss with oil and place in single layer and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

4. Roast until browned, about 45 minutes, turning occasionally to brown evenly.

5. After 30 minutes, remove garlic from oven. Cool enough to handle. Depending on taste, place 6 to 10 roasted cloves into bowl of food processor. Add remaining ingredients and process until smooth. (There will be extra.)

6. Place aioli in small bowl, and serve alongside with hot fries for dipping.

Per Serving with aioli: 241 Calories; 20g Fat (72.2% calories from fat); 1g Protein; 16g Carbohydrate; 2g Dietary Fiber; 6mg Cholesterol

Per Serving without aioli: 110 Calories; 5g Fat (37.9% calories from fat); 1g Protein; 16g Carbohydrate; 2g Dietary Fiber; 0mg Cholesterol;

(Terra Tamai recently moved here to Friday Harbor from Baja. She has worked as a food writer, an executive chef in Santa Barbara, and a caterer and yacht chef on the central coast of CA, all contributing to a lifetime of employment and enjoyment in the food and hospitality industry.)

The Color Purple

I am color crazy. Some people think obsessions of any kind are unhealthy, but since I live my life with the mantra of “all things in moderation”, I feel okay about breaking the rule in this one area, so I am admitting it in full disclosure mode with no trepidation.

Many years back I went peach crazy. Everything in my life grew to be peach colored. My home’s entire interior became peach. I wore peach clothing all the way down to my shoes. Per my norm, I had become fanatical about a color that no one else was using that 80’s- something year, and unfortunately, locating all things in a one-season-too-early color always became a major project.

After exploring all of the hues and their relationships to each other on the chart, and reinventing surroundings and myself several times, red revealed itself to me as The One. Suddenly, the 50 foot sailing yacht was sailed to Baja and painted bright scarlet, becoming the only one in the harbor to boast a shiny red hull.

Ruby red stemware was located, and the hunter green dishes from my previous color fanaticism were replaced with rare crimson red Fiesta Ware. Flowing red drapes adorned the living room, and a soft, fuzzy red angora sweater allowed me to disappear if I stood in front of them. I became passionate about collecting Occupied Japan China tomatoes. But, alas, all shades of red hit the decorating world industry wide, and once again the time came for me to stop the madness and get off the wheel.

This year the color purple is my passion. There is no logical reason that I chose it, but all shades of amethyst, plum, and violet are there in the forefront of my every thought. And since I’m drawn to everything that’s bejeweled in my color-crazed quest of the moment, it was inevitable that I fall in love with the purple bean.

Basically, purple beans are green beans in a prettier costume, and come in an array of varieties. Purple beans are still called green beans because the green is referring to the immature state at harvest, not the hue itself.

These green beans should not be confused with Villosa Perpurpurea. It also is known as the purple bean, but is actually a species of freshwater mussel. They are definitely not analogous.

The bush, pole, and wax beans (also referred to as “snap beans”) all appear in a multiplicity of purple shades. They are best eaten as a whole pod, when young with immature seeds. Unfortunately, they all turn back to a green color when they are cooked, so to enjoy the beautiful amethyst shade, they must be eaten raw.

Historically, the actual bean-in-pod is relatively a newcomer in the food world. There appears to be no documentation of green beans before 1500 AD. Their common dried bean ancestor, though, is reported to have originated in very early Peru.

The American Colonists frequently grew and ate green beans, although the representative bean of that epoch was of the string variety, thusly named for the fibrous strand that had to be removed before consumption. The colonists credited their local American Natives for the stringed and tougher bean ancestors, and today a very different bean thrives.

To prime the purple beans of today, they are commonly “topped and tailed”, which is chef lingo for cutting or snapping off both ends. If they’re young and tender, the tail, opposite the stem, can remain.

Purple beans are customarily prepared by steaming, boiling, microwaving, or stir-frying. Once I even had the unpleasant experience of having some crispy deep-fried ones, but don’t recommend such a vegetable violation.

My preference is to bring about an inch of water to a boil, and then top with a lidded steamer basket containing the beans. This maximizes the retention of the nutrients, especially Vitamins C and B6, and the lingering small amount of water and nutritive is easily incorporated into another dish.

This recipe is a versatile use of the purple beans, as it is equally delicious served as a hot side dish, or alternatively presented as a chilled salad.

I expect my purple phase will stay a struggle as I strive to surround myself with this not-yet-recognized color of the season, yet it’s reassuring to know that by this time next year, I predict that my white Kitchenaid mixer will most likely find it’s purple brother on store shelves everywhere.

Purple Beans with Kalamatas and Feta
Serves 6

• 1 pound fresh purple beans, trimmed (may substitute green)
• 1/8 cup olive oil
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• ½ cup pitted kalamata olives, halved
• ½ cup grape tomatoes, cut in half lengthwise
• 2 Tablespoons red wine vinegar
• 1 Tablespoon chopped fresh oregano
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
• 1 cup feta cheese, crumbled
In a skillet, bring 1½ cups of water to a boil. Steam beans in covered steamer basket until crisp tender, about 4 minutes, stirring once after 2 minutes. Remove steamer basket and uncover. Drain skillet, reserving any liquid for another use.

In same skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Cook garlic for about 20 seconds. Stir in the remaining ingredients except for the cheese and cook for 30 seconds longer. Remove from heat

Add beans to skillet and toss well. As a hot side dish, serve immediately, sprinkling cheese on top. To serve as a salad, chill at least 3 hours before serving. Toss again, then sprinkle cheese on top.

Per Serving: 144 Calories; 11g Fat (66.5% calories from fat); 5g Protein; 8g Carbohydrate; 3g Dietary Fiber

Swiss Chard

Friday Harbor locals are saying that this is an unusually chilly summer. To me, one of the advantageous side effects of the cooler weather is the desire to continue cooking hot foods.

Seldom, I’ve been told, are there scorching summer days here in the San Juans anyway, but in this uncommonly cold August, I have found that, unlike sunny Southern California, heating up the kitchen in the evening is actually a good thing.

Another benefit is that the cooler summer crops continue to flourish, postponing the heat induced bolting, wilting, and an inevitable and sad ending of some of the most relished produce of the year.

Last weekend I visited my sisters in Kirkland and enjoyed perusing their amazingly peaceful, beautiful, and fruitful vegetable garden. Actually, they are my friend’s sisters, but I tend to embrace and become possessive of other people’s family members and thoroughly treasure the benefits thereof.

As always, I left with a cornucopia of fresh vegetables, including small, tender carrots, bright yellow summer squash, Vidalia onions, purple and green string beans, and big, leafy Swiss chard. Predicting a pinnacle of potential, I felt as excited as a kid at Christmas and was enthusiastic to get home and play with my new toys.

A crop that seems to be producing particularly prolifically is the Swiss chard. I know that it’s not really Swiss, but that doesn’t deter any of the fascination that I have for the flourishing green vegetable.

In the 19th century, Koch, a Swiss botanist, awarded the scientific name Beta Vulgaris to the plant, so his homeland was thus honored. Aristotle, the Greek philosopher, wrote about chard way back in the fourth century B.C. Chard, named after the similiar Mediterranean vegetable cardoon, was recognized by the ancient Greeks and Romans as having great medicinal properties.

Swiss chard is part of the beet family. The leaves and stems are both edible, but because of the textural differences, cooking them separately tends to prevent the greens from overcooking.

The crisp stalks can reach almost 2 feet in length, and encompass a rainbow of colors, with dark, ruby reds, soft pinks, oranges and bright yellows, with the white ones being the most tender.

The amazing health benefits of this plant have earned it the recognition as one of the highly touted “Super Foods”. With only 35 calories in a cup of cooked greens, Swiss chard is recognized as an incredible plant source of abundant vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants, and is an especially excellent means of obtaining vitamins K, A, and C.

The versatility of uses enables one to easily take advantage of the many nutrients contained in the green. I like to quickly blanch the big fan-like leaves, and then wrap fish filets with them to roast on the grill. Chard can also easily become a more nutritionally power-packed replacement for many greens such as cabbage or spinach.

I found a recipe dating back to the ninth century that I found intriguing. Burani, at that time, did not include chard, as the recipe used for Princess Buran’s wedding in Baghdad was basically an eggplant dish, but later spinach and chard were added.

Through the evolution of the recipe, Algeria and Morocco renamed it braniya and added meat, while Turkey introduced grain into the mix. Present day India has transformed burani into biryani, and it now emerges as a beautiful pilaf.

I have continued the progression through time even further, and moved over to a recipe for an Italian fennel-flavored soup, and while eliminating the grains, I have substituted potatoes as the starch. As usual, I have reduced the fat significantly by removing the butter and cream, and if desired, the sausage could be purchased as a lower-in-fat version as well.

We may be disappointed that we aren’t experiencing the warm, sunny days of August that we have come to expect and hope for, but opportunely, enjoying a hot bowl of soup in front of a romantic, cozy fire, can potentially heat up the chilliest of any situation.

Zuppa Italiano
Makes 6 servings

I pound Hot Italian sausage
1 teaspoon fennel seeds �" crushed
¾ cup onion �" diced
1 clove garlic �" minced
2 cups chicken broth
2 potatoes -- unpeeled and cubed
2 cups Swiss chard �" sliced
1/2 cup fat-free half and half
Water, as needed
Salt and pepper to taste

Remove sausage casings and crumble into skillet. Brown over medium heat until thoroughly cooked. Drain well. Add fennel, onion, and garlic. Cook another 3 minutes.

In large saucepan, add chicken broth and potatoes. Bring to boil; reduce heat to medium and simmer about 15 minutes or until potatoes are tender.

Add sausage mixture. Stir in Swiss chard and half and half. Add more water, if desired. Cook on low heat until warmed through, about 5 minutes. Season to taste.
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Per Serving: 131 Calories; 7g Fat (47.6% calories from fat); 6g Protein; 11g Carbohydrate; 1g Dietary Fiber; 16mg Cholesterol; 436mg Sodium.

The Influence of Magic

I’m still the new kid on the block, and will remain wearing that title for a while longer. In as quickly a manner as humanly possible I’m striving to immerse and educate myself in the ways of the island, and endeavor to generously share what I have to offer as well: my magical passions for food.

One way I’ve discovered to enhance my learning curve further is to attend the various enjoyable and diverse lectures on the island. One such series was produced by Spring Street School and held at Pelandaba’s on Thursday evenings. It was geared towards students with the intent to educate them through exposure to the experiences of the speakers. Being a full-time student of life, I felt qualified, and welcomed the opportunity to attend.

There was one evening that was of particular interest to me because the amiable Christina Orchid, a uniquely intriguing individual as well as successful chef and restaurateur, was appearing as the featured speaker.

Her fêted restaurant on Orcas, Christina’s, is a true legacy, as the urban legend has it, and since I’m in the ostensible business of investigating ideas and probing psyches, as well as being an epicure in as many ways as I can possibly muster, my interest was kindled along with the community immersion criteria fulfilled.

Now that the restaurant has been sold, Christina says that she and her husband plan, if I may quote, on doing “nothing for a while”. Good for her.

I know first hand that the restaurant business is enough to make anyone want to do nothing, and of all of her numerous and impressive endeavors, the statement that she made acknowledging that she had been there for 28 years was the one that resulted in the most reverent respect from me.

In her discourse, Christina referenced the movie “Like Water For Chocolate” and I became further charmed. The inherent pleasure I’ve found through food and cooking had become part of me long before the movie and/or book was released, and I hadn’t thought about it in years.

With that seemingly insignificant reminder, I became immediately suspicious: is it possible that subliminally, somehow, my thoughts on love and food had both been tainted, magically, as was so vividly illustrated in the film?

I had not, until now, given serious consideration to the possibility of the potential influences that true romance, food, and love, if entwined together by magic, could have.

Commonly considered to possess magical components is chocolate. In this context, and not so commonly considered, are rose petals. I, would still, as always, have to add both red wine and ketchup to the mix of my personal quixotic essentials, but am very aware that my passions aren’t for everyone.

I can’t explain the logic or correlation of those four things, but if we’re discussing magic, the necessity to illuminate further is thus eliminated, as is the previous disclosure of my propensity to avoid using utensils and the sensuousness of eating without them.

But now, if for some unforeseen logical reason the requirement should present itself, I have a compelling yet credible explanation. It’s simply magical.

In Ensenada, Mexico, there is a restaurant and hotel that is famous for preparing the foods from the book “Like Water for Chocolate”. I have adapted one, desiring to share the perplexing possibilities and potential of a magical meal.

San Juan is magical in itself, and I am in awe. Truthfully, it doesn’t take much to enthuse me, and I’m always on the look out for inspiration. I feel that the passion for love and food exists here on this island, and like an illusion, can be insight into our intrinsic desires.

This dish may not have been on Christina’s menu, but I have no doubt that she shares the same conviction that I, like the fictional Tita, possess. “The secret is to make it with love”.

Recipe: Quail with Rose Petal Sauce

½ cup red rose petals, loosely packed and chemical free
Extra rose petals, for garnish
2 Tablespoons anise seeds
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 cloves garlic
½ cup slivered almonds
4 cactus pears, peeled (or red plums)
¼ cup unsweetened pomegranate juice
¼ cup cognac or brandy
1 Tablespoon rose water
3 Tablespoons honey
1 cup chicken stock
1 Tablespoon olive oil
4 boneless quails (chicken may be substituted)
salt and pepper
Cornstarch

For the Sauce:
In a food processor, finely chop the petals, anise seeds, almonds, cinnamon, and garlic. Set aside.
In a blender, puree the cactus pear (or plums) with pomegranate juice, cognac, rose water, honey, and chicken stock. Strain.
In a saucepan, combine rose petal paste with cactus pear puree. Heat on low for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Season with salt and pepper.

For the Quail (or Chicken):
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Heat olive oil in oven-proof sauté pan. Add quail (or chicken) to pan and season with salt and pepper. Brown quail for 2 to 3 minutes on each side.
Pour sauce over all and bake in hot oven for about 5-8 minutes. Remove quail from pan and keep warm. Thicken sauce with cornstarch, if desired.

Serve on bed of rice, with extra sauce. Garnish with whole rose petals.

The Sights, Sounds, & Smells Of Summer

I’m not sure at what point I declared that not sleeping in on a Saturday, then rushing to get into the ferry line in order to allow plenty of time to enjoy the unhurried cup of coffee with a hundred other cars would be fun, but I had come to that happily contented place in my life and did so, with anticipation and simple happiness not unlike a child’s.

We then headed to Orcas for the opening moment of the farmer’s market, anticipating the sights, sounds, and smells of summer.

I had ignored the prediction of precipitation, and the sun was warm, shone vibrantly, and I found myself absorbing my favorite season.

My main agenda, as always, was about pleasure seeking, and the uncomplicated contentment of being outside on a sunny, dry day had already achieved the success of such, so the rest of my day was just me being greedy with gratification.

The local produce of Orcas was minimal, as the market seemed to be more about the selling of crafted goods than fresh produce. The benefit of this was that it helped narrow down the choice I needed to make, and I searched around for something different, something a bit uncommonly chosen, and something that could be prepared by the connoisseur and novice alike.

And then, like a conjured up vegetable miracle, the fava bean appeared, and not only once, but repetitively, announced “look at me”, “don’t pass me up”, “PAY ATTENTION”.

To be honest, it was my friend that spotted the green vegetable, and with an innocent and inexperienced eye, wondered about the green-bean-on-steroids looking creature, and I felt inspired to share.

I announced it to be a fava bean, and stopping at the covered stand in the corner, I noticed the bold, handwritten scrawl, reiterating my disclosure. I was relieved to be correct, as sometimes the 6-inch pod prefers other numerous nomenclatures such as Broad Bean, Windsor Bean, or Butter Bean, but here in the San Juans, it was designated as the fava.

I continued perusing, as my peripatetic nature prefers, and several stands repeatedly offered up the bean to onlookers. I could spy the long grassy green pods, basketed proudly on the cloth-covered tables that sprouted amidst the many crafts and wares.

In tackling the terminology, where we can be as technical and picayune as desired or appropriate, a “legume” is the seed of any plant that belongs to the family Leguminosae, but basically, in North America, a conveniently collective and ambiguous term for the edible seed of any legume is “bean”. The fava falls into that generous category. And that works for me

If the need is felt for a bit more substantiation, we could explore the history. Using a timeline, the bean/legume cultivation was dated back as far as 9750 BC, and attributed to the newly discovered farming techniques of Thailand. Peru and Mexico were producing the crop in 7000 BC, and the Middle East jumped on the pea-wagon in 6750 BC. Tombs of Egyptians, around 1500 BC, contained various legumes, while Asia concurrently began using them as well.

The fava, like most anciently enjoyed foods, has lore attached to it’s discovery. In the 6th century, the philosopher Pythagoras would not let his followers enjoy the bean, as he held the belief that the souls of the dead were contained within. We’re probably most familiar with the fairy tale about Jack and the Beanstalk, where the miraculous beans grew tall overnight and reached high into the magical kingdom in the clouds.

Keep in mind that this is not an item to be purchased quickly. Time needs to be taken to choose the fava beans, not just by sight but also by feel. Handle each pod to make sure there are several beans inside. Two pounds of full bean pods will yield about a cup of beans for cooking.

Once home with the beans, placing them in a plastic bag in the fridge will keep them fresh for up to a week. If you cook them immediately, they’ll store well for up to 5 days.

Recipes and uses are numerous. Cooked and mashed fava beans are great when seasoned and smeared on crostini. Once in Greece, I was served favas that had been grilled in the pod on a BBQ and served smoky and hot with coarsely-ground sea salt sprinkled lavishly. Of course, stir-fried in olive oil is also simple and satisfying.

Years ago, I remember reading a recipe where Alice Waters made a dish with fava and rosemary, and I felt enticed to create this one to share.

Over all, I was content with my day trip, and my criteria for discovery had been met. Most importantly, though, my appetite to devour the sights, smells, and sounds of summer was nourished, and back on the ferry, I felt well fed.

Fava Bean Salad w/ Herbs
Serves 4 as a side dish

Ingredients
2 pounds shelled fava beans (about 24 6-inch pods)
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
Red-wine vinegar
Salt and freshly ground pepper
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 shallot, peeled and finely diced
¼ cup of combined and freshly chopped basil, rosemary, and parsley
Mixed baby greens
Parmesan cheese, for grating

Directions
Split fava-bean pods lengthwise with your fingers and remove beans. Bring a small saucepan of water to a boil and add beans. Blanch for 2 minutes. Plunge immediately into a bowl of ice water, then begin the second shelling: Drain; peel one end of each bean and squeeze gently to pop bean from skin. Discard skins. Bring another pot of water to a boil. Add the husked beans and boil for another 2 minutes. Rinse the beans lightly in cold water and drain well.

In a small bowl, whisk together garlic, vinegar, and salt and pepper. Continue whisking, and add olive oil in a slow, steady stream.

In a mixing bowl, toss beans with shallot and herbs. Pour dressing over all and toss. Can be held in refrigerator at this point for 24 hours.

Arrange lettuce on 4 plates; top with beans and grate fresh parmesan over all to taste.

It’s All About The Sauce

Some things never change. My family, California sunshine, and ketchup are a few of the delights that remain consistent for me, and I was anticipating the enjoyment of them all.

When I moved here in February, I wasn’t sure when I’d be returning to my former home state of California. It turned out to be July 4. I didn’t pick the date, of course, as no one in their right mind would have voluntarily left Friday Harbor and it’s numerous Independence Day fun-filled festivities.

The date was chosen for my family’s reunion, reservations were made, and I flew away to sunshine. After spending several days with my parents and siblings while concurrently enjoying the remarkable beauty of the Carmel coast, I ventured further south to my previous hometown of Pismo Beach. My head was crowded with reminiscences, good and bad, as well as copious food memories, both cooking and consuming.

I held essentially inspiring remembrances of my adventures at the Sea Venture Hotel. I had once rented a cute waterfront apartment directly across the street, so conveniently had spent an embarrassing number of hours sitting at the tapas bar that overlooks the Pacific, talking to locals and tourists alike, eating and drinking great food and wine, and becoming familiar with the staff.

When I wandered into my old haunt last week, I was startled to discover that although I’d been gone for 10 years, my favorite tapas chef had remained. What a great feeling to walk in and be greeted with his warm, familiar smile and a welcoming “Hey Terra!” as if I’d never left.

I had always felt that I had my own personal chef in that place. Chef Craig had consistently worked hard to please the challenging epicurean in me, and I’m sure there were times that it wasn’t an easy task.

Anyone who knows me well knows that at the top of my list of affinities is ketchup, in close proximity to my over-zealous attraction to chocolate and red wine. To me, it’s all about the sauce, and ketchup is the particularly crucial one.

I was so delighted when Chef Craig agreed to allow me to publish his personal recipe for ketchup. It’s one of the best I’ve ever tasted, economical to make (a fair consideration when consuming gallons of the stuff), and has a long shelf life when refrigerated. Once again, I linger in the luxury of the red sauce, reminding me that some things never change.

Chef Craig Rugg’s Homemade Ketchup

2 Red Bell Peppers
2 Red Onions
1 ½ cups sugar
1 can diced tomatoes
¼ cup Balsamic Vinegar
¼ cup Sherry Vinegar
1 T Salt
1 cup Tomato Paste

1. Combine all ingredients in a large saucepan. Bring to boil; reduce heat to low and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring often. Cool to room temperature.
2. Place in blender jar and puree until smooth.
3. Strain through mesh strainer. Place in jars and store in refrigerator.

Terra Tamai recently moved here from Baja. She has worked as a food writer, an executive chef in Santa Barbara, and a caterer and yacht chef on the central coast of CA, all contributing to a lifetime of employment and enjoyment in the food and hospitality industry.

Simple Pleasures

Reminding ourselves of simple pleasures can often get us through anything. I’d been fighting the Friday Harbor Bug (the designation deemed so by me) and was approaching round 5 with no curative collaboration in my corner. My attitude needed a rousing recuperation.

Nothing can bring on a bout of depression quicker than your own body letting you down, while humbling and harshly reminding one how much an optimistic attitude is influenced by health.

Hopping into my convertible, I put the top down, rationalizing that the fresh air would benefit me more than the light sprinkle that was falling around me would harm, and I headed down the road towards Roche Harbor.

In all of my travels, I can’t recollect traveling on a more beautiful road than this one appeared to me today. The scent of the pine trees was strong and fragrant, as was the mist and the slowly lifting fog.

The amazing variety of birds on San Juan continuously broke through the sky. I pulled over twice to watch, and to let other drivers go around me; today I would not be rushed.

My first destination was Afterglow, the spa, to have my toes done. Ah, a pedicure. Not only are the procedures that produce sparkling cute toes a pleasure to receive, but it also creates a contentment that continues long after you’ve left. Sweet Rhianna pampered me, and made me forget all about my cold.

I lingered in the relaxing luxury that the spa encourages, sipping graciously provided cool, sparkling water. Not yet ready to end the moment, I enjoyed a seat by the fire to continue languishing in the offerings for all senses, and admired how the entire ambience had been so expertly crafted.

Feeling remarkably revived, I departed the oasis and wandered around the shops, ending my ambling at the end of the pier and taking in the beauty of the ominous clouds reflecting on the water.

The boats brought back happy memories of my home in the Santa Barbara Harbor, and the clamoring of seagulls enveloped my senses, demanding my focus and shutting out all negativity. The air was syrupy, and the pines continued to influence the scent of the salty mist, and brought on a lunchtime hunger I hadn’t felt in days.

I stopped in at the Lime Kiln Café to enjoy a cup of their signature clam chowder, and while still absorbing the all-sensory stimulation, peacefully reminisced about my life on and in the water. The chowder was soothing on my throat, and I felt no regret as I devoured the thick, creamy soup that was a rare treat for me.

One of the favorite appetizers that I have served while boating is seafood chowder. After hollowing out small sourdough rolls, then ladling the hot, creamy soup into the middle, my guests would enjoy eating the little bowl along with its contents, always remarking at the simplicity of the snack, yet feeling pleasurably indulged as they bobbed on the ocean.

Spa cuisine is an area I’ve specialized in. I’ve created this recipe with that in mind. You won’t miss the butter or cream, and if you choose not to mention it, your guests won’t notice the omissions either.

Simple pleasures. It seems to be what life here is really all about. And sometimes it just feels good to be good.

Clam Chowder Appetizers - Makes 6 ½-cup servings

6 large clams
2 large potatoes, unpeeled and cubed
2 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 red bell pepper, finely chopped
1 stalk celery , finely chopped
1 carrot, finely chopped
1 teaspoon paprika
1 tablespoon chicken base
2 tablespoon flour
1 cup clam stock
2 cup fat-free half and half
salt and white pepper
6 sourdough rolls

1. Steam clams in 1 quart of water in large kettle. Remove clams and reduce liquid. Cool. Strain through cheesecloth or finely meshed strainer. Set aside and reserve to use as clam stock. Dice the clams. Note: May substitute 2 cans clams for fresh, and bottled clam juice for stock.

2. Cook the potatoes separately in 2 cups of boiling water for 5-10 min. Drain.

3. Meanwhile, in a large pot, sauté the onion, pepper, celery, carrot, paprika and chicken base in 1 T of olive oil until the vegetables are tender, about 5 min. Reduce heat. Add flour, stirring well, but do not let the mixture brown. Gradually stir in clam stock and half and half. Add potatoes, and clams. Allow to simmer for 15 min. Season with salt and white pepper to taste.

4. With sharp knife, cut large circle in center of rolls, being careful not to cut through the bottom. Remove bread. Toast bread bowls in 350 degree oven.

5. Spoon chowder into individual rolls. Serve immediately.

Variation: Sprinkle crumbled bacon on top before serving.

Approximately 260 calories and 6 grams fat

Birthday Cake

Many years ago, when my boys were just teeny tykes, I encouraged them to add an additional facet to their various birthday celebrations.

I told them that no matter where they were on that particular day, for the rest of their lives, I wanted them to take a few moments to walk outside, count their blessings, make a wish, and clap their hands three times.

The point, and I do it myself, is that in that moment in time, on that consistent day of the year, there is an amazing realization of how quickly time passes, and at each juncture I grasp a further realization that the more numerous the occasions, the more the time between those birthday claps becomes merely a fleeting flash.

It’s that time again. Predictable and consistent, it feels like I just clapped. Even though it’s been a full year, it also feels that I just finished indulging in my favorite birthday extravagance, Pastel de Tres Leche.

In view of the fact that I would prefer to spend my time in the kitchen preparing hors d’ouevres, and could effortlessly exist on a diet consisting strictly of appetizers, baking is not a routine thing for me.

Fortunately, I’ve spent the last several years in Mexico, where the delightful decadence was readily available. I had concluded that this year might be a bit more challenging.

I’d always thought Pastel de Tres Leche had originated in Mexico, but there are similar versions that are claimed by Nicaragua and Guatemala, who, as well as Cuba, Panama, Puerto Rico, and Costa Rica, allege origin.

Because I’m partial, and also because it seems logical, I tend to believe the local legend in Baja that the recipe first gained popularity due to it’s published recipe on the back of a canned milk label.

My first exposure was when I was about 5, where my Mexican caregiver had provided the treat with a fairly decent regularity. Corina always tinted hers a pale, minty green, and for years I searched for the cozily comforting green dessert, not understanding that the unique green aspect was probably an after thought of her own, and my quest had included that incorrect criteria.

Years ago, working as a chef in Santa Barbara, a staff member brought in a birthday cake to share with the kitchen staff. She had no idea that what she had actually brought was finality to my search, and the pleasure I derived from her present, along with her generosity of sharing the recipe, was the best gift I could have possibly received.

In its time-honored, unadulterated mode, Pastel de Tres Leches is a vanilla-flavored sponge cake, saturated with a fusion of evaporated milk, sweetened condensed milk, and cream. Then, because the hedonistically calorific cake couldn’t contain a years worth of richness without it, it’s topped with pillowy puddles of sweetened whipped cream.

Given that, in full disclosure mode, I am known to buy myself gifts for special occasions and I will unashamedly purchase a birthday cake as well. I began my search again, this time for a local Friday Harbor bakery that would indulge me.

I didn’t have the immediate gratification that I was hoping for, but Pam Stewart, proprietor of Café’ Demeter, assures me that she too loves the dessert, and wants to experiment with the recipe.

Maybe Pam will have it on her menu in time for my traditional ceremony. And since I’m in the mode of making wishes, I wonder if I were to clap my hands 3 times, maybe she’d even tint it green?

Elia’s Pastel de Tres Leche

For the Cake:
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar, divided
2 teaspoons baking powder
4 large eggs, divided
½ cup unsalted butter, room temperature
½ cup water
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
½ teaspoon salt

For the Soaking Liquid Mixture:
1 12-ounce can evaporated milk
1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1 Tablespoon grated orange peel

For the Cream Topping:
1 cup heavy whipping cream
3 Tablespoons sugar
1 Tablespoon vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

2. Sift flour, 3/4 cup sugar, and baking powder into a bowl. Set aside.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk together egg yolks, butter, water, and vanilla until smooth. Fold into flour mixture. Beat with electric mixture on medium speed for 1 minute.

4. In a clean bowl, combine egg whites and salt. On medium speed, whip with electric mixer until soft peaks form. Increase speed and add remaining ¼ cup sugar in a slow stream. Continue until firm peaks are formed.

5. Using a large rubber spatula, gently fold egg whites into the batter.

6. Pour into ungreased 9 x 13 glass baking dish and bake about 35 minutes, or until wooden toothpick inserted in center comes out dry. Cool for about 20 minutes.

7. Prepare soaking liquid: Combine all ingredients in a large saucepan and mix well.

8. Poke holes in the cake with a skewer, covering entire top at about 1/2-inch intervals. Pour the milk mixture evenly over all. Refrigerate, allowing cake to soak for at least 2 hour before frosting.

9. For the whipped cream, combine all ingredients and whip on high with electric mixture until stiff peaks form. Spread over cooled cake. Serve chilled.
Note: Store leftover cake covered, in fridge.

Lovage

This weekend, as I walked around at the farmer’s market, I was reminded of one of the reasons that I write. I have a propensity to spend hours researching, and writing allows me to rationalize the never ending time I am driven to spend, as well as supplying me with a forum in which to share some of the tantalizing tidbits I discover along the way.

My son, when a child, often finding himself the unfortunate and unwilling victim of my spoutings, once made a bold announcement, signifying, as he often did, a comprehension beyond his years. “Mom,” he said, “you are a plethora of useless information.” True, it was no less than a brilliant observation for an eight-year-old, but nevertheless, ouch.

Today I was making an assumption. My newly acquired cottage had come with an already-planted vegetable and herb garden, albeit overgrown with weeds, berries, and wild rose, but still producing new edible surprises on a daily basis.

One corner of the garden was revealing long, green stalks that resembled celery, and had leaves that reminded me vaguely of the scent of anise and cardamom, one of my least favorite spices.

I knew the discovery could potentially provide interesting research food-for-thought, and I assumed that the overly-productive mystery plant’s presence could be found at the farmers market as well. One of the goals of my column is to share a recipe incorporating local findings, so I eagerly welcomed the challenge.

I’d already identified the perplexing plant, as I’d spotted a piece being used as garnish, and had requested info from the chef. All I received was its name, but that was enough information to fuel my desire to explore further.

Lovage is considered a culinary herb, and, although it’s native origin is unofficially accredited to be northern Europe, folks in Asia, New England, and the Pacific Coast also take ownership, so I can honestly attest only to it’s somewhat imposing presence currently in my humble Friday Harbor backyard.

Part of the carrot family, the perennial is grown for the celery-like flavor of its leaves, stems, roots, and seeds. The leaves are most generally used for their strong, sweet, likeness to celery, and added to flavor salads, sauces, soups, and stews.

Although considered primarily an herb, the stems, when blanched or stir-fried, make an interesting and unique vegetable, and have the added health benefit of containing large amounts of vitamin C.

The root, also, can be utilized when grated into a salad, or to make tea. The seeds, generally prolific in late August, are used in casseroles and meat dishes. There is an oil as well, derived from the seeds, that was used in Europe as a love potion, and was considered an aphrodisiac. It is said that the emperor Charlemagne mandated Lovage as an herb to be grown in every garden.

When combined with brandy, the Lovage cordial is considered to be quite civilized as well as having medicinal purposes, boasting healing capabilities that aid digestion, and is used as a diuretic, an antiseptic, and to treat colic in infants.

Upon moving to San Juan, I’ve been thrilled to discover the large availability of fresh and organic eggs.. I’ve created this recipe using the leaves of Lovage, locally grown green tomatoes, and eggs.

I think the omelet would be just as delicious served as a light supper as it would a breakfast or brunch, and I enhanced the pleasure of the experience even further with a chilled San Juan Vineyard Madeline Angevine.

I am humbled to have gained a proper introduction to the amazingly versatile plant that has invaded my turf. I now can completely rationalize, feeling fully sanctioned, to continue further research. After all, how inspirational is the discovery that there’s a bounty of aphrodisiac growing right in my own backyard?

Green Tomato and Lovage Omelet
Serves 4

1 pound green tomatoes, sliced 1 inch thick
whole wheat flour
olive oil
6 large organic eggs
¼ cup chopped scallions
¼ cup Lovage leaves, thinly sliced
salt and freshly ground pepper
2 sprigs Lovage, for garnish

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Dredge the tomatoes in the flour. On the stovetop, heat enough oil in an ovenproof 12-inch non-stick pan to cover the surface.
Brown the tomatoes briefly on each side just until they are lightly colored.
While the tomatoes are cooking, lightly beat the eggs with the scallions and lovage. Season with salt and pepper.
When tomatoes are browned and have been turned over once, pour egg mixture over all; remove from heat and bake in oven for about 20 minutes, or until eggs are firmly set.
Let cool for about 3 minutes.
Carefully loosen and slide the omelet onto a serving plate.
Serve sliced into wedges and garnished with fresh sprigs of the lovage.

Father's Day Memory

When you think of the pivotal moments in your life, how many of them depict memories of your father? With Father’s Day on the horizon, a lot of those recollections are jarred by the media’s gratefully accepted reminder to remember.

And while reminiscing the good and the bad memories of the parenting, somehow the involvement and influence of food always makes its presence known.

Sustenance is actually more crucial than parenting, I think, but the two together make for a much more well-rounded and healthy individual.

My father had a great influence on my love, infatuation, and desire to create extraordinary food. He evoked an excitement in me by simply acknowledging the sensuousness of eating.

Unaware to us both at the time, I was encouraged to explore, involving and developing all of the senses in the experience. I remember a meaningful occasion as a child where I was handed a chilled, brightly colored orange, and then shown how to roll the fruit around on the counter with my hands.

Recalling the experience, I can still feel the soft, cool bumps that with a little pressure, released their fragrant oils into the air, and would continue to linger on the skin of my tiny hands for hours. The fruit began to warm a bit and soften, and then it was ready, and my dad demonstrated how to poke it with a fork, several times in the same spot, until a small hole was formed.

He then held the orange over a small glass and squeezed, releasing a quantity of juice that startled me; I was surprised that it had all been contained in the small fruit.

Handing me the glass, he watched my eyes sparkle, and I accepted the sweet liquid with no less pleasure than I would have felt being presented any sugary treat.

That was the first time I can remember discovering with awareness: one could derive so much pleasure from all of the senses, and that each and every one exists in all food: the color, the scent, the tactile, and of course the taste, all are contained in the most simple piece of fruit.

When you think of your father this father’s day, acknowledge not only his fatherly contributions that the holiday puts so much importance on, but the more subtle influences he imparted, those amazing senses that he showed you how to use, respect, and enjoy in all aspects of life.

Breakfast Radish

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Being a very recent newcomer to San Juan, I felt a touch of reticence in describing the weather at this Saturday’s farmers’ market as typical, basically for fear of being, well, wrong.

The sun was warm, bright, and for a change, not shrouded with clouds, and I found myself strolling along the pavement with a contentment generally reserved for days of sunny, dry weather.

I could tell that the local produce was feeling equally appreciative and benefiting, as the recently picked selection and varieties were unsurpassed by any of my previous expeditions.

My goal here, besides experiencing the endorphin high and intrinsic joy I always felt when surrounded by all things food-related, was to find a produce “muse”, if you will, inspiring me to create a new recipe to share.

I stopped at the covered stand in the corner, and was immediately drawn to the white board specials, intrigued with the bold, handwritten announcement presenting Breakfast Radishes.

I quizzed the young girl behind the rows of perfectly placed produce, wanting an explanation of why two words seldom seen in the same sentence were being publicly promoted.

She very sweetly and patiently clarified that it was simply, to her knowledge, a radish that was often eaten for breakfast in France. I should have known. After all, the French do have a reputation for eating much more gourmet than we do, don’t they? Still, I felt the need for a bit more substantiation.

As I continued perusing the many stands offering various vegetables, culinary herbs, and fresh fruit, I spied several more places selling the scarlet-fading-to-white, oblong-shaped Breakfast Radish. I repeatedly presented questions to the vendors behind the interestingly named radish, and the replies were as varied as the vegetables.

Overhearing my conversation with one particularly friendly purveyor, a customer stopped to offer his review. He supplied his own personal familiarity, and told how he preferred to experience the radish as an appetizer, serving it with softened butter, and placing a bowl of fleur-de-sal nearby for dipping. French salt, I replied, did seem appropriate, and I thanked him for his input.

Once at home with more research available to me, I discovered that some French do indeed serve the radish for breakfast, but it’s during what is considered the second breakfast, not with the earlier stereotypical croissant and coffee enjoyed upon awakening. “The second breakfast” is basically a light mid-morning snack, and sometimes this radish-of-mystery is presented with a crusty baguette, a pat of butter like my new best friend at the market suggested, and since the Breakfast Radish is one of the sweetest, mildest types of radish, it’s even rumored to pair well with that first morning glass of red wine. What’s not to love about that?

This sweet root, also called the “Rambo Radish”, was popular in France in the early 1850’s, and made its way into the American seed catalogs before the turn of the century. It quickly became popular with gardeners and cooks, and as with many of the turnip and horseradish family members, could sometimes be harvested in as little as twenty days, and would keep well for an extended amount of time. In those days, if they were submerged in a box of damp sand and freezing temperatures were avoided, the multi-colored treasures could be stored throughout a winter. Nowadays, though, you can simply wash and dry, and after wrapping the treasures in paper towels, slip them into an unzipped plastic bag and place in the fridge, where they will remain pretty-in-pink and perky for a week or even longer.

Like many varieties, the Breakfast Radish would be wonderful served in tiny tea sandwiches, thinly sliced and placed delicately onto buttered, crustless bread. Of course, they were beautifully decorative when presented in a veggie tray I recently observed, cut into fun flower shapes, with the green stems still attached. I even concocted a surprisingly mild, yummy cream soup, using just the pureed stems and leaves. But here is the recipe I decided is my favorite, using our fabulous, locally caught shrimp. It presents very attractively when layered in large martini glasses, or can be equally appealing when plated.

That being said, I must confess that I still take great pleasure in considering this versatile root as a very yummy vehicle for good old sweet cream butter and salt.

Layered Shrimp and Breakfast Radish Salad

1 cup seasoned rice vinegar
2 tablespoons fresh ginger, finely minced
1 teaspoon prepared horseradish
2 tablespoons sesame oil
1 cucumber
1 large bunch Breakfast Radishes
2 green onions
1 bunch arugula
2 cups brown rice, cooked and cooled
1 cup frozen peas, thawed
1 pound fresh shrimp, whole
Fleur de Sal, to taste

Prepare dressing: Whisk together first four ingredients. Salt to taste. Set aside.
Prepare vegetables: Peel cucumber. Slice in half, horizontally. With a spoon or melon baller, remove seeds. Cut into 1/2" dice.
Remove stems from radishes. Slice, reserving 4 whole small ones for garnish.
Thinly slice green onions, using both green and white parts.
Slice arugula into strips.
Prepare shrimp: Bring 2 quarts of water to a full boil. Place shrimp in water and boil until pink, about 2 minutes. Remove from water. When cool enough to handle, peel and devein. Cut into 1" pieces, reserving 4 small whole ones for garnish. Place in a bowl and stir in 1/2 cup dressing.
In a mixing bowl, combine rice and peas and 1/2 cup dressing. Stir gently.
Assemble: In 4 large martini glasses (or plates) layer in order: Rice mixture, green onion, sliced arugula, diced cucumbers, shrimp, and sliced radishes.
Spoon small amount of dressing over all, and garnish with reserved shrimp and decoratively cut radish. Serve chilled or at room temperature.