The Cookbook Addict

Death Star Okra: Or, How I Confronted My Inner Martha Stewart

Yeah, so, ok, I guess you could say I'm just a teensy bit bothered and conflicted about Martha Stewart.   Something just rubs me the wrong way about a former-stockbroker-CEO-powerhouse-reality-tv-villainess who has made a vast fortune selling a myth of rustic domesticity and traditional home life.  But, I secretly admire Martha's flair for the domestic arts, done with a little modern panache.  Argh, well, anyways, I'll stop the embarassing Martha rant now.

I bought my first Martha Stewart cookbook in college, Martha Stewart’s Pies and Tarts.  It was filled with gorgeous shots of fruit enclosed in pastry, tarts topped with intricate latticework, and pies of every variety and persuasion, none of which turned out decently when I tried to make them.  To add insult to injury, Pies and Tarts "helpfully" featured a side-by-side photo comparison of an egg from a chicken at Martha’s Connecticut estate, orange and glowing, with a pallid yellow egg, the kind that the reader could get at the supermarket.  It was made super clear to you that you, reader of Martha, could never produce the jewel-like confections pictured in the book.  And in my case, that was definitely true. 

After a particularly crushing lemon curd failure, a friend of mine who worked for the Martha Empire confided in me that, in truth, many of Martha’s recipes were not properly tested.  My efforts to be that woman in the apron next to Martha in the pictures, proudly holding up her bubbling, crusty sour cherry pie, were obviously doomed to abject failure.

In any case, I have developed a fondness for the more recent Martha Stewart Baking Handbook, a book that has obviously been meticulously tested and thoughtfully organized (and has pretty, pretty pictures…).  So, when the Martha Empire released two new compilations, I decided to give Martha Stewart Living, Original Classics a whirl.

And that's where I found it. 

The most horrifying, perplexing, fascinating-for-its-sheer-transgressiveness, nutritional-trainwreck-of-an-okra-recipe ever to confront this omnivore.  Okra fried in -- I am not making this up, I swear -- five cups of vegetable shortening.  Yes, nestled among innocent enough looking recipes for vegetable gratins, casseroles, and "fit to live" low-cal quiches was a recipe utilizing 5 cups of cold, hard at room-temperature, toxic, forbidden, artificial ("fully hydrogenated"?!!) fat.  If there were an evil empire, plotting the undoing of human civilization, I think this recipe could be part of their arsenal. 

Of course, I knew I had to try it.

My husband was not pleased when the family-size Crisco made its way into our grocery cart. Out in the open, on my kitchen counter, it was a menacing presence, with its sinister "fully hydrogenated fat" and "no trans fat" (?) labeling. I chickened out and bought some kind of kindler, gentler shortening from Whole Foods and used it to make the okra, which were just "eh." Clearly I am no expert in vegetable shortening deep frying, and to tell you the truth I am just fine with that.

But enough about the okra.  The salads and entrees were otherwise okay but a little dull.  The Shaved Beet Salad was gorgeous-looking but didn't taste like much of anything.  Perciatelli with Tomatoes, Walnut and Breadcrumbs was yummy once doctored with extra parmesan and nuts (but, then again, what isn't?).

The one standout aspect of this cookbook is, I think, the baked goods.  The Shallot and Rosemary Popovers rose to spectacular heights and were uncommonly delicious.  The Cheddar and Pecan Flowers - sort of like a salty crossover between a pecan sandie and a spicy cheese straw - were right up my alley snack-wise.  There are obviously some crack pastry chefs behind the scenes at the Martha Empire these days.

At the end of the day, it's hard to know what to say about a compilation like this, ultimately a mishmash of ten years of recipes from the magazine -- including low fat recipes and carcinogenic free-for-alls, pretentious dishes and all-american type comfort foods, minimalist, low-brow recipes and fussy, elegant recipes.  To the extent that there is a principle or style animating this book, I would have to call it "cutesy food for entertaining."  But, it did have a lot of good baking tips and recipes.  I guess, like everything else Martha-related, this is a book you must learn to identify with selectively.  Sense of humor not included.

The Kitchen I Wish I Had Grown up in: My Bombay Kitchen by Niloufer Ichaporia King

Spices are toasted and ground.  Indescribably heady aromas waft through the air.  Butter sizzles, meats simmer, and the most riotously delicious, sophisticated and whimsical meal emerges.  This was what life was like in my kitchen for the week I was reviewing My Bombay Kitchen.

I grew up eating kosher.  For some of you, kosher may connote cleanliness, food blessed by a rabbi.  For me, it connotes horrible vinegars and cheeses, meat salted to within an inch of its life, dank, tannic wines and non-dairy “desserts” made of some sort of hideous hydrogenated product that can only be purchased frozen.  The only thing that the particular type of kosher food that I grew up eating has going for it is that the kugels and dumplings of my childhood were without a doubt comfort foods of the heartiest, if dullest, sort.

The Parsi cuisine in My Bombay Kitchen is comfort food that falls on the other end of the spectrum --food that explodes with flavor, texture and heat, and is lush, sophisticated, wild and hearty all at the same time.

Parsis are a group in India who originated in Persia.  In My Bombay Kitchen, Niloufer King incorporates traditional Parsi dishes peppered with her own personal and family touches and a few modern reinterpretations. 

I started off with Patrel, a snack-type food made by spreading large taro or chard leaves with a paste of tamarind and chickpea flour, rolling them into a log, steaming and slicing the log, and then frying the pinwheel slices until crisp.  Doused with a good squeeze of lime, they were a perfect study in contrasts – sweet and tart, crispy and tender.

Next I made the seafood masala, seafood mixed with a rub of cayenne, turmeric and salt and grilled/seared.  This was where Mr. Addict and I, who are total wimps in the spiciness department, learned the hard way to divide the heat source in every recipe in half.  The thing is, though, that the recipe was super easy and so yummy that Mr. Addict and I couldn’t stop eating it even though our throats were on fire.

The Fish in Coconut Milk, fish poached in coconut milk and curry leaves, was rich but slightly disappointing. Mr. Addict thought it was nice.

The Khima-Stuffed Potato Cakes, mashed potato cakes stuffed with spiced meat, were yummy but a little plain – next time I would make it with one of the suggested sauces.

The split chickpea stew – dried split chickpeas stewed with potatoes, ginger garlic paste, fried onion, sambhar masala and spice mix called Dhana Jhiru – might be my favorite recipe from the book.  The Dhana Jhiru, a mix of about twenty toasted and ground spices, transformed my humble chickpeas into something too exciting to be called a stew.

Nana’s Biryani, rice layered with lamb or kid braised in a luscious gravy of yogurt, masala paste and ground cashews, was also a showstopper.  King explains that in her house this dish was garnished with fried almonds, raisins, onions and silver leaf and served on her birthday.  I can’t imagine a dish that would make me feel more birthday special. 

The two sweet recipes I made were wonderful too.  Date pastries, a flaky pastry crust encasing dates scented with orange zest, cardamom and honey, were the nicest date-centered food I have tasted.  I was so proud of them that I even made Mr. Addict, who despises dates, taste them.  His eyes widened with pleasure; his first positive date experience (!).

Last, the New Year’s Milkshake: a beautiful striated concoction of milk, soaked basil seeds (think tapioca balls), rose syrup and vanilla ice cream.  Sweet, creamy, crunchy and icy cold, but with roses in it.  It was the milkshake of my fantasy childhood.

I Am in Love: Pure Dessert by Alice Medrich

Every once in a while, a cookbook comes along that is so charming and fascinating that it makes me feel, at least for a deluded moment, like I could put all others aside and focus faithfully on just one.  Pure Dessert is that kind of cookbook.

Here's the thing: I was a child of suburbia.  Once, when I was around 12, I decided to try to make some bread.  So, I mixed together all purpose flour, water, salt and oil.  And nuked it.  As you can imagine, the results were not pretty and tasted really, really bad.  I like to think that my perspective on food has changed since then, but I still do not consider myself to have the pastry-chef temperament -- I don't know, I guess I'm too impulsive, disorganized, unable to follow directions, etc.  So I have a special place in my heart for any dessert cookbook that can make me feel like I can pick up a canister of pastry flour without turning out something that is doughy, spongy or tough. 

Every single recipe I have made from this cookbook has been astonishingly, soulfully flavorful, beautiful in texture, and gently sophisticated in its own special way.  These are not recipes of the triple chocolate ganache, multilayer, outdo-the-Joneses type.  As the title implies, the recipes are simple, but intensely focused in flavor and texture.  The chapters, which are organized by flavor, are (i) milk; (ii) grains, nuts and seeds; (iii) fruit; (iv) chocolate; (v) honey and sugar; (vi) herbs and spices, flowers and leaves; and (vii) wine, beer and spirits.  Also, although this is in no way whatsoever a health food, light or whole grain cookbook, she does incorporate various interesting grain flours (e.g., Kamut, buckwheat) -- but in a way that celebrates texture and incorporates loads of butter.

Take the buckwheat corn flour scones.  Although they tasted like grains and had the slightest hint of a "grainy" texture, they were also more buttery, lighter and flakier than any scone I have made before (they have about a stick of butter, as well as whole milk and cream).  My husband, who does not like "crunchy" foods of any variety, thought the texture was perfect but the taste a little too "healthy."  I though they were the platonic perfect breakfast food.

The coffee-walnut cookies, which are made with freshly ground coffee beans and walnuts, were the most intensely flavored cookies I have ever eaten.  They were also buttery and crumbly and delicious.

The olive oil and sherry pound cake was a revelation.  It had a heady, floral fragrance and a lovely crumb.  The sherry was a perfect match for the olive oil, bringing fruity notes to the front as the dominant taste and fragrance.

The salt and pepper corn tuiles, which were admittedly a bit of a nightmare to spread and remove from the baking trays, were ethereal, crunchy disks that tasted like the essence of corn and butter and had a lingering spiciness from the black pepper cracked on top.  We couldn't decide if we thought they were a little too sweet, but I also couldn't stop eating them.

Although I have other cookbooks that I need to review, I am excited to try out some of the more sophisticated desserts, like the saffron and cardamom panna cotta, quark souffle, lavender caramel sauce, sour cream ice cream and various chocolate concoctions.  My obsession with this cookbook is not going away any time soon.

The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen: Recipes for the Passionate Cook

Who, any sane-thinking person might wonder, would be so perverse as to purchase a cookbook whose unifying principle is that each recipe takes an abnormally long time to prepare?  When I received this cookbook, I initially tossed it to the bottom of my cookbook pile in disgust. Don’t I have enough to feel inadequate about without imagining that I should be taking all day to roast my meats and vegetables in a communal clay oven the manner of traditional Mediterranean women? And whom, other than individuals whose job it is to spend all day cooking things and write about it (e.g., Paula), has time to do so?  I'm a lawyer, for god's sakes!

Of course, Paula Wolfert is a bit of a rock star in the cookbook world, and I had to admit friends have prepared delicious meals for us from her book on southwest France. So, reluctantly and many months later, I trudged over to my neglected cookbooks pile and retrieved this albatross of a cookbook.

I started out with the Steamed Chickpeas, a method that is meant to bring out their nuttiness.  The chickpeas are soaked overnight (the only time-consuming aspect of this recipe), steamed for 45 minutes, and then tossed with salt and cumin.  I thought they tasted fine.  Ok, I thought, maybe my chickpeas weren't so fresh, you never know with dried chickpeas.  (Overlooking the fact that I had spent $6 on Umbrian chickpeas that looked much fresher than anything else on the shelf).

Next, I tried the Pork Stew with Prunes and Onions.  The gravy was delicious, but the meat was tough.  Ok, I thought, obviously I did not keep the heat at a gentle enough simmer.

In an effort to try to understand once and for all what all the slow roasting hoopla is about, I decided to make the ominously named Night-And-Day Slow Roasted Pork Shoulder.  The introduction promises "a pork shoulder with big, bold crunchy skin and interior so meltingly tender in texture and so vibrant in taste" that I would mend my high-temperature, fast-cooking ways.  However, the logistics of this particular recipe were, to say the least, challenging.  You are supposed to rub the pork with a paste of garlic and herbs, roast it at 450 F for 45 minutes, add vegetables, stock and sherry, and then roast at 180 F for 12-24 hours.  Granted I am not that nimble in the math department, but I could not for the life of me figure out how to time this recipe such that I could serve it at 7:30 p.m. for dinner.  If I were to figure 1/2 hour for prep, 45 minutes for high temp roasting, 12 hours for slow roasting, and then 30 minutes to rest, that meant that I would need to start at around 6 a.m. and presumably wake at some ungodly hour beginning with five.  Alternatively, I could start the recipe at midnight, to give it the full 24 hour roast, taking it on faith that it would not dry out if my guests were late. 

There was, however, a very confusing set of alternative instructions for ovens with a hearth kit - which we have.  This alternative appeared to involve about 6 1/2 hours in the oven, although it cross-referenced the steps in the regular recipe in a maddeningly confusing way, so it is possible that I completely misunderstood.  For this variation, you are supposed to turn the oven off for the last portion of the cooking time, allowing the pork to cook slowly in the receding heat from the hearth kit.  Paula warns very sternly not to open the over door during this last portion, lest you allow the heat to escape, in which case your pork will never cook.  So, I basically spent several hours worriedly feeling the front of the oven to see if it was still hot, dubious that the pork was maintaining a high enough internal temperature, but powerless to open the oven to check.  Well, there was no happy ending. When I cut the pork open (in front of my guests), it was raw.  Ok, I thought, obviously I misunderstood the recipe, and anyways should never have tried to use the hearth kit shortcut.

Finally, I tried the Tuscan Quail with Red Grape Sauce.  Here, too, the timing for cooking the meat was confusing.  You are instructed to brown the quail for 20 minutes, simmer it in a sauce of pureed grapes, pancetta and rosemary for 20 minutes, and then grill/broil the quail briefly.  It sounded like way too much cooking time to me, but after the pork fiasco I was doubting my judgment.  Because my quail was a little bony, I cooked it a drop less than the recipe instructed.  In any case, the sauce was yummy but the quail was overcooked.  When I brought it out to the table, I felt as exposed as my poor little quail.

Well, a few days after my pork fiasco, I got a call from my mother-in-law, who had witnessed the whole thing.  She told me that a friend of hers had tried the recipe -- but the 12 hour version -- and that the pork had been undercooked because, in her opinion, the recipe just did not work.  It was like a weight was lifted off of my shoulders.  No, I did not need to keep soldiering through, into the slow roasted lamb section, pitifully re-attempting the join the society of smugly-knowing slow roasters.  I could abandon this cookbook once and for all, because the recipes are not reliable enough to devote an expensive hunk of meat to them.

At the end of the day, if you receive this book as a gift or are foolhardy enough to purchase it for yourself, you (and your culinary self-esteem) have been forewarned.

P.S. -- If anyone makes a recipe from this cookbook that turns out well, please tell me in the comments!