Lunch, by way of India

Cauliflower is one of my very favorite vegetables, but somehow there's been a severe lack of cauliflower coverage on the site—in fact, not since my very first blog post over four years ago have I talked about this crucifer. Well, it's high time that's corrected.

My favorite way to prepare cauliflower is to roast it at a high temperature. If you're used to soggy, bland cauliflower, likely served steamed perhaps at some point in your childhood, then you wouldn't even recognize it roasted: it becomes golden, crisp-tender and incredibly rich in flavor, much like a roasted potato.

I usually go one of two routes when roasting my cauliflower: the Mediterranean, almost Provençal one, in which the cooked vegetable is tossed with capers and parsley and topped with toasted breadcrumbs; or the Indian one, in which the cauliflower is accented with warm, aromatic spices like cumin, coriander and mustard seed.

Cauliflower is an integral part of the cuisine in India, a country where over 30% of population is vegetarian. Aloo gobi, or potatoes and cauliflower in a curried stew, is probably the best-known such dish in this country, but other popular cauliflower dishes include cauliflower fritters and cauliflower and mung bean stew.

It's for that reason that I often turn to India when roasting this vegetable: simply tossing it in a mixture of dried spices, and sometimes throwing in some spicy chiles, before letting it get browned and toasty in a hot oven. That's what I did today; topped with yogurt and sprinkled with fresh cilantro, it made a tasty lunch.

Indian-Spiced Roasted Cauliflower
Serves 3 - 4 as a side dish

Ingredients:

1 head of cauliflower, cut into small florets
2 jalapeños or similar green chiles, seeds intact, halved lengthwise and sliced into thin half moons
2 tbsp. canola or vegetable oil
1 tsp. ground turmeric
1 tsp. whole cumin seeds
1 tsp. whole coriander seeds
Salt to taste, about 1 1/2 tsp.
Plain yogurt, for serving (optional)
Chopped fresh cilantro, for serving (optional)

Preparation:

1. Preheat the oven to 400°.

2. Combine all ingredients in large bowl and toss, coating all the cauliflower evenly with oil and spices. Turn out onto a large sheet tray and roast until cauliflower is tender and well-browned, about 20 - 25 minutes. Serve as is or topped with plain yogurt and chopped cilantro.

All of the quiche, none of the crust

Several weeks ago, my friends Willy and Jessica came over early(ish) on a Sunday morning to help me tackle a DIY project I'd been hoping to try for a while: making homemade almond milk (stay tuned for that post!). Gracious hostess that I am, I decided to feed my buddies something appropriately brunch-y as we readied ourselves to juice nuts. Now, you might notice a distinct lack of brunch recipes here on the blog, as, in general, I'm not a big fan of said meal: certainly not in restaurants, where the food tends to be overpriced and phoned in by some line cook while the chef takes the morning off, and not usually at home, either: my motor skills in the morning are up to the task of pouring a bowl of cereal or sliding some bread into the toaster oven, but nothing much more complicated than that, and especially not on a weekend morning, when I might have stayed out late the night before.

So I spent some time thinking about what people eat for brunch, and then I remembered: quiche! Now, quiche is not something I make all that often, but it's easy and tasty, so I figured it would fit the bill. Not wanting to fuss around with a crust, I decided to just do without. In this I drew some inspiration from my friend Patricia, who has lived in France for so long now that she's basically French, and therefore prepares quiche on a regular basis (not a myth—French people actually do make quiche all the time). Patricia makes delicious quiches, and they never have a crust. One thing they usually do have, though, is fish, in the form of tuna or salmon. Since I had a beautiful, wild-caught fillet of salmon in my freezer, I decided to thaw it out, poach it, and flake it into my quiche, along with some melted leeks:























To keep the filling moist and flavorful, I folded in some additional ingredients: chopped fresh dill, créme fraiche and Dijon mustard, then spread the mixture into the bottom of a greased pie plate:























Taking my cue from from France yet again, I prepared the quiche batter with a lot of dairy and not a lot of eggs. My usual instinct when making quiche would be to use many eggs, adding a bit of milk to stretch them, but I've noticed that French people always make quiche with a ton of milk, or créme fraiche, or both, and only a few eggs, and their quiches always come out phenomenally: exceptionally moist and tender, more like a custard than an omelet. And when you think about it, this approach makes sense: quiche, if not a poverty food, is certainly a classic use-up-the-leftovers dish: stick 'em in a pan, bind 'em together, and bake 'em. If the idea is to not draw too heavily upon everything else in the fridge, keeping the meal frugal and quick to prepare, then the French recipe is logical. So I did as the French do, and I have to say that although my quiche wasn't as exceptional as Patricia's (or my other French friend, Mathilde's) egg pie, it was still pretty darn good:
























Salmon, Leek and Dill (Crustless) Quiche
Makes one quiche

Ingredients:

1 salmon fillet, about 4 oz.
Water
Fresh dill, with about 3 tbsp. finely chopped
1 large or 2 medium leeks, well cleaned of all grit, white and light green parts finely sliced into half moons and dark green tops set aside
Black peppercorns
3 tbsp. butter
1/2 c. plus 2 tbsp. créme fraiche or sour cream, divided
1 tbsp. Dijon mustard
Cooking spray or additional butter
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 c. milk, preferably whole
Salt
Pepper

Preparation:

1. Preheat oven to 375°.

2. Poach the salmon: in a small saucepan, combine the salmon, some torn fresh dill, some torn dark green leek tops, a few black peppercorns, and about 1/2 tsp. salt, along with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil, then drop to a simmer. Simmer for six minutes, then turn off heat; four minutes later, remove fish and let cool. When cool, flake fish into small pieces and place in a large bowl.

3. Prepare the filling: in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet, melt butter over medium heat. Add sliced leeks and cook, stirring occasionally, until leeks are very soft and lightly browned, about 15 minutes. Add leeks to flaked salmon; add 2 tbsp. créme fraiche, the Dijon mustard and chopped dill, as well as salt and pepper to taste. Stir gently to combine, then spread evenly across the bottom a a glass pie dish, greased with spray or additional butter.

4. Prepare batter: combine eggs with remaining créme fraiche and all the milk, plus a generous amount of salt and pepper. Pour over filling and place in oven, baking quiche until it is puffed and browned on top, about 45 minutes.

The perfect French lunch

I'm here today to extol the virtues of one of the world's most perfect, most luxurious foods: warm cheese. Yes, warm cheese. Tell me something: when you read those two words together, doesn't your stomach do a little flip of joy in sweet anticipation? Where does one begin, really, with warm cheese? There it is on your pizza, or oozing in between your two slices of sandwich bread, or melting over your bowl of pasta, or possibly bubbling and gurgling slowly, awaiting the next plunge of your fondue skewer (if you're a stuck-in-the-seventies kinda person, like, ahem, someone I may know?).

What's so great about warm cheese (besides, of course, its taste) is its equal opportunism, its democratic nature: it's found alike in cuisines high and low. Let's take, say, lasagna, as just one example of the myriad, masterful examples of classic Italian cuisine built on a foundation of soft, salty, creamy warm cheese. And then on the other hand there's the grilled cheese or the fondue that I cited above: nowhere near as technical, yet every bit as satisfying (and sometimes more so).

The dish I want to talk about today falls somewhere in the middle: perhaps not the most sophisticated dame on the block, but pretty damn classy nonetheless. It's simple baked goat cheese, and it's yet another recipe I learned from Emilie when I was volunteering on her farm in southern France last fall. Actually, the preparation is so straightforward that it barely qualifies as a recipe at all, and it goes something like this: 1. Drizzle goat cheese with oil. 2. Bake. 3. Eat, with bread and salad. 4. Repeat.

Philippe and Emilie, the farmers I worked with last year, brought their impeccable produce to market three times a week, on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. Those were hectic mornings, which consisted of rising early to finish prepping the fruits and vegetables for sale, loading them into the truck, and harvesting delicate items, like salad greens, at the very last minute. Then it was off to market to set up the stand and sell until sometime around 2 pm, when the last vendors were packing it in for the day. That meant that there really wasn't a lot of time to throw lunch together. What it didn't mean was that we'd eat any less fantastically than we did on all other days. Often, on market days, this baked goat cheese, plus a (homegrown) salad and a fresh baguette, was Emilie's go-to lunch, something that took perhaps five minutes to prepare, but was delicious and filling nonetheless.

Despite having eaten and enjoyed Emilie's baked goat cheese on numerous occasions last year, I just plain forgot all about it until yesterday, when I found myself in my local supermarket right around lunchtime and my stomach started to speak up. I was browsing the cheese section, because when am I not browsing the cheese section here in France, when my eyes settled on a small, firm, dappled round of perfect-looking goat cheese. Emilie's lunches popped right back into my head, and within ten minutes I was home and sliding the olive oil-slicked cheese into the oven:

















And about 15 minutes later my little friend emerged all golden, its creamy insides threatening to overrun the tiny cracks in its ever-so-slightly crispy shell:

















I don't think my words can adequately capture just how good this incredibly simple dish is: the cheese exits the oven warm, impossibly creamy, salty and tangy, its burnished outside contrasting texturally with its melting interior. I always eat it alongside a simple green lettuce salad dressing with a lemony vinaigrette, as well as some fresh bread, as I mentioned before. I eat the cheese smeared onto the bread, or just as is, with some lettuce speared onto my fork, or sometimes I drag the cheese-anointed bread through the vinaigrette: the citrusy brightness cuts through the richness of the cheese and makes this lunch feel almost like health food. Almost.



















Baked Goat Cheese
Serves 1

Ingredient note: select a slightly firm, slightly aged goat cheese for use in this recipe. You don't want anything too fresh, because it won't stand up to the heat of the oven, but you don't want anything too aged, either, because it won't be tangy and refreshing like it's supposed to be. Shoot for something in between.

Preparation:

1. Preheat the oven to a moderate temperature, say, 300°.
2. Place the cheese in a small glass baking dish and drizzle it with about 1 teaspoon of olive oil, smearing it all around the cheese and on the bottom of the dish so it doesn't stick.
3. Bake until the cheese is slightly browned and warmed all the way through, about 15 minutes.
4. Serve, with a green salad (I use a dressing made of mustard, lemon juice, olive oil and salt) and some fresh crusty bread.

The beautiful eggs I got at the farmer's market

And the lunch I made with one of them:

Wow. Just, wow. I wasn't sure I would post about this meal--anyone can fry an egg, after all--but Jesus Christ did this taste good. It's dark German bread, toasted, with a slice of locally-produced cheese from Cato Corner Farm in Colchester, Connecticut. And the egg, of course.

I've had the excellent cheese from Cato Corner many times. They sell their products at the farmer's market that Wesleyan hosts once a semester, and my friend Zander works there. The cheese I used on my sandwich is called Bridgid's Abbey. Here's the blurb about it from the farm's website:

"Our popular Trappist-style monastery cheese with a smooth, creamy consistency. Bridgid's Abbey has been our best seller for years--its irresistible rich, mild taste is ideal for all-day eating for breakfast, sandwiches, or snacking. It melts well, performing excellently in quiche, toasted cheese, or over vegetables. Bridgid's Abbey varies in consistency somewhat from summer to winter--the winter batches are very creamy, while the summer milk yields a slightly firmer and chewier texture. Aged 2 - 4 months."

Under the warm fried egg on my sandwich, the cheese got yieldingly soft, and its salty bite perfectly complemented the runny unctuousness of the egg yolk. I was eating with my housemates, and after every bite I just kept exclaiming how good it was. I think I made them a little jealous.

Lunch

The avocado from the co-op, sliced and atop toasted whole wheat bread spread with soft goat cheese. Salt and paprika.