le sauce

spicy mushroom hot pot

vegetable tagine with preserved lemons

Tagine is a stew as easy as any other to make, but I hardly ever attempted it at home, preferring to eat it at a restaurant, strongly preferring to eat it on travels where Morrocan cuisine is established. The reason, the version I made at home was never as good. The reason for that? No preserved lemons until last week. I never bought them because I knew it would be so simple to make them once I got around to it. You can either buy or preserve your own. I recommend the latter so that you can serve them, cook with them or simply snack on them at will. And you will. We've gone through 2 whole lemons since opening this jar on the weekend and only one half of one went into this tagine.

a lazy, sunday, spaghetti dinner party

The lazy, Sunday night, spaghetti dinner party. That wasn't.

I am selling this to you as the dinner party that you make for friends on a Sunday night, when you want to be surrounded by loved ones who will surround your dinner table and everything is cozy and nice and easy. It's a menu that's casual and meant to be hardly any work at all. Lots of one-bowl, one-pot, one-tray stuff. And it is. Honestly.

Until it wasn't.

I'm not bragging when I say I've thrown a dinner part or two in my time, more complicated than this. I'm telling you so you understand why I can't understand how I screwed this up so royally on a recent Saturday night when I had friends over and I burned the sauce, forgot to add cream to a simple batter for the dessert, and almost had to order a pizza to save dinner. My kichen looked like a tornado hit it and my two friends, regulars at my house for dinner, were like what the hell is wrong with you tonight. They weren't being unkind, they were asking honestly. They saw how simple the 3-ingredient sauce was to make. It needs almost no monitoring. It's just, like with, oh anything else, you don't want to accidentally leave on a high heat forever so 1/4 of it burns to a crust on the bottom of your pan. We still ate it, by the way and  it was still delicious--it's that forgiving despite incidents like this. So I was essentially serving them spaghetti and a salad and it didn't go so well. What can I say except sometimes, I have one of those nights?

But if you're not having one of those nights--the nights where if you'd left the house you would hear the whistle of the anvil falling to meet your head as you turned the corner of your street--this is the easiest, laziest dinner party ever. It's also 100% comforting, devour-able, and worthy of your best friends. It's the one to serve your best friends, to encourage that Sunday night gathering, when we're all busy getting ready for the week and don't know if we can get together. Get together. Just read your horoscope first. If it warns you to stay in bed, that's the only time this one might not work out for you. 

a lazy, sunday, spaghetti dinner party (all the recipes you need, below)

nibbles: fried olives and fried leek chips*

marcella hazan's famous tomato sauce* and crazy spaghetti

burrata with pumpkin seed pesto and chiles

wild arugula salad w/ parmesan snow

chocolate banana stuffed french toast pockets, with maple syrup and cream

*Previously published on le sauce.

fried olives--worth it, it turns out

I'd seen many a fried olive recipe and picture and wondered "what for?" Olives are perfect on their own, especially if you seek out the best importers (or are lucky to have one on your street, like me) and over time, try different types and cures, raw ones and tiny ones and cook with them and enjoy them in all their spledid glory. I'd settled on some favourites and they're at the heart of some of my go-to meals. But curiosity got the better of me and I eventually fried some. Skepticism mounted before I even started, when I was forced to buy pitted olives--the way to go with this recipe so you can pop the finished fried morsel in your mouth and enjoy the crunch properly without worry--that were fine at best but would have been passed over when I was selecting olives to enjoy plain. I tried to hedge my bets by spiking the breading with rosemary and good salt. And in the end? I understood. It's not that these fried olives are better than the best olives out there, it's that this is something different entirely and wonderul in it's own right. Fried briney things are a unique treat and pretty damn special. Only a couple of minutes of love and care gets you there too, yet your guests, if they're anything like mine, will really appreciate the care, the novelty, and above all the fried olives themselves. Delicious little things, fine, you win.

(See how this recipe fits into a lazy, Sunday, spaghetti dinner party menu!)

Fried Olives

*Rosemary leaves are hardy and similar herbs will also be easiest to crush finely between your fingers. Larger,delicate herbs like basil fry well too, but I find they them harder to crush finely. Still, use your favourites if you wish. These olives do not need to be served warm but they don't keep well. To enjoy a dry, crunchy exterior, eat/serve within 3 hours of frying them and keep them spread out in a single layer until ready to serve. If your serving leek chips too, fry the olives first since the oil after the leek chips may not be as flavour-neutral.

Peanut or vegetable oil for frying
2-4 sprigs rosemary*, washed and well-dried
75 g pitted olives, rinsed and patted dry
1/3 c flour
1 egg
1/3 c fine breadcrumbs (if using Panko, crush to a finer crumb)
Kosher salt

In a deep, heavy bottomed pot or a large skillet, pour 1 inch of oil and heat to 350-375 degrees.

Meanwhile, set up 3 wide, shallow bowls close to the stovetop. Add the flour to one, the egg to another, whisking it in the bowl with a fork, and the breadcrumbs to the last. Season the breadcrumbs with salt. Line a large plate or sheet pan with a paper towels.

Fry the rosemary sprigs in the oil and remove with a slotted spoon when the leaves start to turn golden, about 30-60 seconds. Place on paper towels to cool. When they are cool enough to handle, check that the leaves are crispy and that they shatter when folded. If not, fry for 30 seconds more, remove, cool and crush the leaves into the breadcrumbs, discarding stalks.

Coat the olives with a dusting of flour, shake off any excess and add them to the egg. Make sure to cover the olives with egg completely before transferring them to the breadcrumbs. Press the breadcrumbs onto the olives and coat them generously. 

Add the olives carefully to the hot oil--start out by adding just a few and work in smaller, safe batches if needed. Turn them gently with a slotted spoon and remove when golden. Transfer using a slotted spoon to the paper towel-lined plate or tray. Let cool at least slightly and serve.

Serves 2-4.

 

burrata with pumpkin seed pesto and chlies

Not a recipe, just a suggestion.

I've sung the praises of burrata before. So good, I like to have it as simply as possible:

1. Grill or lightly toast a thick, airy slice of bread, rub it lightly with a cut clove of garlic and season with salt while it's still hot. 
2. Quarter a ball of burrata lengthwise, lay a slice on top and press/smear it over the crostini with the back of your spoon. 
3. FInish with some fresh, finely sliced or baby basil leaves, a drizzle of your best extra virgin olive oil, a sprinkle of Maldon salt and the tiniest bit of freshly cracked black pepper. 
4. Eat and ascend to the heavens simultaneously.

Pesto while all about intense flavour, is as simple too. I like to experiment with it--you take any nut, any herb, any cheese, even change up the oil and away you go.

I put the these two together when I want to spoil myself or someone else. A pumpkin seed pesto and a little chili oil on burrata is a great idea, if you need one. You probably don't though--whatever you're craving at the moment will be far more satisfying than anything anyone else suggests. I would only advise, if you're spurging on burrata, you might as well get yourself the best bread you can find and top it with the best salt you have on hand. Break the burrata apart any way you'd like, serve slivers even. And ok, one last word, pick this up and bite into it. Don't even think of denying your teeth the pleasure of sinking in.

One standard-size piece of burrata should serve 4 people who want a taste--6 even if you're serving this with bread, as suggested. It could also serve 3 greedy people. Or 2, very unwise people, who will not feel so great half an hour after eating too much of a too-rich thing. Trust me.

(See how this recipe fits into a lazy, Sunday, spaghetti dinner party menu!)

wild arugula salad with parmesan snow

So fussy, to say Parmesan snow! But the texture of the cheese is an essential component of this salad--our "house" salad if we had to choose one. And it's the only fussy part of this salad too--except I would encourage you to get your hands on fine, wild arugula which seems increasingly available, if you can. Use any young arugula in a pinch, and any young leaf of your choosing if you're not a fan of arugula.

If a gigantic bowl of salad seems too much for your table of 2 or 4, know that we still think that from time to time too, but know enough to serve "too much" anyway. There are never, ever any leftovers. It's light as air and endlessly enjoyable--and then it ultimately ends too quickly.

(See how this recipe fits into a lazy, Sunday, spaghetti dinner party menu!)

Wild Arugula Salad with Parmesan Snow

Grate the cheese with a rasp or microplane grater--it makes all the difference. I would encourage you to get your hands on fine, wild arugula which seems increasingly available, if you can. Use any young arugula in a pinch, any young leaf of your choosing if you're not a fan of arugula.

6 cups (loosely packed) wild arugula, washed and completely dried
1/4 c extra virgin olive oil
2 tsp Champagne or white wine vinegar
1/2 tsp Dijon mustard
1/4 tsp kosher salt
1/8 tsp freshly ground black pepper
A small wedge of lemon
75-100g piece of Parmesan

Plate greens in a large bowl. Combine oil, vinegar, Dijon mustard, salt and pepper, whisk together until the dressing emulsifies (if you want to add the vinegar and Dijon to the oil in a steady stream while whisking--do it. I find dressings with mustard stay together or come back together so well, you don't need to make the effort). Set aside until ready to serve.

Whisk dressing again just before serving. Pour most of it over the greens and toss the greens with your hands to coat well with the dressing. Don't overdress the leaves but feel free to use more dressing if needed. Taste and add a touch of salt if needed. Squeeze a bit of lemon juice over top. Grate Parmesan right over the leaves and be generous. When you have a decent pile of snow on top, serve.

Makes 4-6 side servings or 2 dinner servings.

 

chocolate banana stuffed french toast pockets, with maple syrup and cream

This is casual fare, to be sure. Kid-stuff. Food to be eaten on the couch.

Or, you know, to be served to guests at a dinner party. Guests who will love you for it.

Because where else are they going to get their own, individual, stuffed french toasts, oozing with melted chocolate swirling around with sweet banana, pooling into maple syrup and pillowy cream? (Other than at their house the next morning when them make this very, simple, decadent thing to enjoy again as soon as possible.)

 

(See how this recipe fits into a lazy, Sunday, spaghetti dinner party menu!)

Chocolate Banana-Stuffed French Toast Pockets, with Maple Syrup and Cream

1 tbs unsalted butter at room temperature
3 large eggs
1 cup heavy cream, divided
1 tbs dark rum
1/2 tsp brown sugar
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
Kosher salt
12 thin slices of bread, a non-seedy, non-airy kind ("sandwich" bread will do)
12 dark chocolate feves (Valrhona feves or any disk, button or thin 1-inch piece)
1 ripe banana
1/3 c good maple syrup at room temperature
Icing sugar, optional

Preheat youe oven to 400F degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and use a wad of paper towel to rub it with butter. Set aside.

Beat eggs in a large bowl, then add 1/4 c of the cream, the rum, sugar and cinnamon season with a touch of salt. Mix well and set aside.

Lay 6 slices of bread on a work surface. Place a chocolate feve in the centre of each. Slice 6 piece of banana on a bias and place a pice on top of the chocoate. Cover each with the remaining 6 slices of bread and press down with your palms to flatten the sandwiches. Take a 2 1/2-inch round cookie cutter or thin-edged juice glass and centre on top of your bread, ensuring that your filling is not close to the edge you'll be creating. Press down to make your sandwich pockets and reserve crusts for another use (toast them in the oven following this recie to make croutons or bread crumbs out of them which freeze well, for instance).

Press down all around the edges of your 6 sandwich circles to create a seal. One by one, dip and turn them in the egg batter and place on the buttered parchment paper. Bake for 15-20 minutes, turning half-way through until golden on both sides.

Meanwhile, whip remaining cream with a wisk or hand blender until thick and creamy and almost to the point of forming peaks.

Remove toast pockets and allow to cool for a couple of minutes. Plate and drizzle with maple syrup, a dusting of icing sugar if using and a dollop of cream.

Makes 6 servings.

 

first taste: soup and rice

Childhood picture books, stories and TV shows that depicted food and dining made a real impression on me. Illustrations of steaming bowls of pasta or a piece of toast smothered in purple jam gave me my first taste of foods I'd yet to try, and are sometimes still the archetypes I hold food up to today. Instead of simply reminisce, I'm going to bring those dishes to life the way I imagined they'd be.

This is a story of a meal that I tasted first at home, not tastes imagined after being influenced by books or media, as with the other recipes in this particular column. I laid eyes on the book Chicken Soup and Rice after years of eating more than my share of bowlfuls.

The way I remember it, we--my cousin and I who grew up in a household of parents, aunts, grandparents--were expected to eat fish curries and rotis and whatever the adults were eating, for sure. But like any kids, we could be picky, and like any busy adults, there were times they just couldn't force us to eat more/worry about how little we'd eaten/deal.with.us. At times like those, we were fed "soup and rice".

Soup-and-rice, said more as one, three-syllable word, referred to salty, packaged, instant chicken noodle soup (which I never tired of and was sure to eat), with cooked white rice stirred in (always on hand as in any Asian household) to fortify the meal and to reassure our family that we fed. To appease us, they often made two packets of soup, strained the noodles out of one and added them to our broth and rice and that measly amount of noodles from just one package. The short, soft and slippery noodles were the treat that always got us to finish our bowls. I developed rituals where I managed to eat as much noodle-less spoonfuls of rice, drink the broth and be left with a glut of the reserved noodles at the bottom, hoarded in 5 minutes to be enjoyed in 5 greedy seconds.

That was pleasure enough but then, in one of the earliest examples I can recall, I saw something I was used to eating depicted elsewhere! Someone else put rice in their soup!? It might not seem like much but it was a validation of sorts. Perhaps you'll understand why if I tell you that when I was finally allowed to eat lunch at school (I hated being walked home for lunch when all of my friends got to bond at the lunchtables) my mom and I had to learn about cold-cuts and what actually might comprise a child's lunchtime sandwich (her use of bread was largely confined to spreading chilies on it). I felt out of touch with the rituals and foods of a country I was born in and one that, though cultrually diverse, still sent their kids to school with oddly identical lunches. Kids who knew instinctively how to order food on "hot dog day" and knew what they liked on their pizza. Finding a book about soup and rice was a taste of something familiar and some sort of nod to what went on in my home. This might have been my earliest taste of what it was to have my food--therefore my culture--therefore a large part of me--acknowledged.

Chicken Soup and Rice words and photos by Maurice Sendak.

Aside from all of that, the book had so much more appeal. I mean just look at this book! How fun! I love Maurice Sendak, as an author and as a honest, sometimes crusty, brilliant person. I love that this book is a book of months, in which each spawns a different season to enjoy chicken soup and rice, in the sea, with March winds knocking over and lapping up your bowls, and for having irreverant sentences like

"Whoppie once, Whoppie twice, Whoopie Chicken Soup and Rice!"

risotto-stuffed chard bundles with browned butter oyster mushrooms

 

These were the star of the night, and I should tell you, they shared a table with a banana cream pie.

It was Lana who reminded me that chard leaves make such pretty packaging, they look so special side by side. I saved the idea for a very special dinner, so I had lots of time to think through the rest of the details. Having made arancini, I knew that next-day risotto was full of flavour and would cooperate fully.

I debated spiking the bundles with cold pieces of butter to moisten the risotto while the bundles were being heated--and I encourage you to try this. But in the end I actually like the structure that a "firmer" risotto lends the bundles, which yeild and are creamy for sure, but you do get to cut into them. And while a mushoom risotto would be delicious, it's much nicer with the mushrooms on the outside. The oyster mushrooms get a little crisp around the edges when frying and in a browned butter sauce... I always encourage substitutions but I'm pretty damn excited about making this recipe again, exactly as is, if I do say so myself. I hope you love it too--but definitely share your tweaks with me too!

cauliflower in a leek cream sauce

 

I said cream right in the title or this "recipe", if you can call it that, so don't be shocked with how idulgent it is, please. To be even more straightforward, this is tender cream-coloured cauliflower, tossed in warmed cream flavoured with the pale parts of leeks softned in creamy butter. So we're clear. Decadent, if dangerous, and worth it.

(See how this recipe fits into an indulgent deep-winter dinner party menu.)