Pans on fire

Best frieds forever: Panko-fried chive risotto cakes

Shannon Bryan — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 15:47:28 GMT

Perhaps you classify yourself as a cook. Maybe even a good cook. Or maybe you're someone whose kitchen talents are limited to knowing the precise amount of time it takes to nuke a hot dog in the microwave so it's hot but not so hot that it splits open like a lightning-struck log.

Whatever your culinary classification, I think we can all agree on one thing: Anything breaded and fried is good.

Whether it's shrimp or avocado or yesterday's ham, simply dip it in some panko and fry it in a pan.

Panko pretties up your pork and turns a pickle chip into something more than throw pillow for your plate.

Point in case: Panko-Fried Chive Risotto Cakes

I mean, I already love me some risotto. But when you take something you love and you blanket it in tenderly toasted bread crumbs and lay it oh-so-gently into a soothing(ish) bath of hot oil...well, it only makes your love stronger. For you know what they say, "Panko makes the heart grow fonder."

PANKO-FRIED CHIVE RISOTTO CAKES

1 cup uncooked Arborio rice
3 teaspoons Kosher salt, divided
1/2 cup non-fat Greek yogurt
2 eggs
3 tablespoons fresh chives, minced
1 cup grated fontina cheese (about 4 ounces)
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3/4 cup panko bread flakes

Bring a large pot of water to boil. Add 2 teaspoons salt and the rice. Lower heat to med-low and cook for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. While that's happening, whisk together the yogurt, eggs, chives, fontina, one teaspoon of salt and the pepper.

When the rice is cooked (it'll be soft) rinse it under cold water and strain it well.

Add the cold rice to the whisked-up ingredients and stir so the rice gets evenly coated and no grain of Arborio can complain about not getting enough attention from the fontina or the yogurt.

Cover the mixture and refrigerate for at least two hours or until firm (if only refrigeration firmed up other things, am I right?). Scoop a portion of risotto blend with a spoon or your hands, roll it into a ball in your hands and then throw it against the wall.

Just kidding about the wall part. Instead, press it flat with your hands. I found erring toward smaller cakes rather than larger ones made for improved crisping and less "oh crap, the risotto cake is breaking apart like Pangaea" while cooking.

Press the risotto patties onto the panko, flip, coat the other side. Then fry those pankoed puppies up in a pan of hot oil (over medium-high heat) approx. 3 to 4 minutes on each side. Let sit on a paper towel, same way you treat bacon, while you fry another batch. Eat some. Fry some more. Eat.

I also used the extra yogurt to make a dipping sauce by blending together a cup of yogurt, a handful of parsley, garlic, juice from half a lemon and some fontina cheese in food processor. I'd show you a picture of it, but we ate it all very fast. It wasn't until there was one cake standing that it occurred to me to take a photo of the finished risotto cakes.

But I think we both know, they were amazing-looking. And a amazing-tasting.

Learn to deglaze and fear the fond no more

Shannon Bryan — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 16:47:18 GMT

I sometimes develop "crud in the pan."

Maybe I'm pan-frying some chicken or scallops or toasting up some arborio rice and tomatoes (en route to a splendid risotto), but inevitably, the crud appears. Like some stove-top phantom, it finds its way into the pan. It adheres like golden-brown quick-dry cement, sometimes in spots, sometimes covering the whole pan.

With my keen Columbo skills, I instinctively deduce that my dish is on a fast-track train ride to Charred Town. I turn down the heat, or I take the food out of the pan to get it away from that stuff. Later, I'll puzzle over my tragically under-cooked piece of chicken or scallop or risotto and resolve to write a harsh letter to the recipe-writer, who clearly got it wrong.

Except the recipe-writer didn't get it wrong. I did.

That "crud" is called fond. And it is good.

"Fond is French for 'base' and commonly refers to the browned bits and caramelized drippings of meat and vegetables that are stuck to the bottom of a pan after saut´e;ing or roasting." - www.yumsugar.com

During the risotto demo I attended at LeRoux Kitchen a few months back, instructor Chef Burnham introduced us to fond. It's flavorful stuff, he said. And rather than sprinting from the kitchen at the sight of it, you want to use it. Exploit it. Take advantage.

Fond is removed from the pan by a process called deglazing (which is weird, since I thought I was more fond of glazing things...donuts, ham, carrots).

White wine, water, broth or another liquid is poured onto the hot pan, allowing for the fond to be scraped off easily with a spoon, spatula or other fine utensil. With the risotto, we used white wine (pour some, sip some, right?) and stirred the fond in with the rice.

At the Citrus Explosion demo at Stonewall Kitchen, instructor Heather Milliman used the fond left over from searing scallops, along with a pour of wine, to make a sauce.

Milliman is "fond of fond," she said. Because she's not too proud to go there. And I have a new appreciation for what once was crud. Sorry I misjudged you, fond.

Saving a burnt sauce, tenderizing octopus and other wise advice from a deck of cards

Shannon Bryan — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 17:54:17 GMT

I'm not usually very receptive to advice. Someone starts a sentence with, "You know what you should do..." and I reflexively stop listening.

Hence why I'm such a bad flosser with poorly managed investments and a car that rarely gets treated to preventative maintenance.

But when it comes to cooking, I'll take advice from just about anywhere. Those expert tips and educated recommendations can mean the difference between prematurely flipped pancakes and pancakes that are flipped at just the right moment - when the batter starts bubbling. And I will not stand for a pancake with batter in the middle. It's shameful!

Currently, I'm taking advice from a deck of cards. The Worst-Case Scenario Card Game: Cooking was gifted to me from a friend a few weeks ago. I appreciated the gag (go ahead, mock my culinary crusade. No parsnip latkes for you!). But it turns out, they're actually educational.

Each card lists a "culinary catastrophe" and possible solutions - including the correct one.

Some solutions I knew.

And some will come in handy later, like when I try making polenta or when I have a dinner party and decide to serve my guests crappy caviar.

Some scenarios I've already encountered in my kitchen - like the threat of poisoning another person (who, most likely, is someone I like and don't want to poison. Otherwise I wouldn't waste effort cooking dinner. I'd just straight up poison them).

There's always the threat of burning the house down. I've kept my burning to sauces and English muffins. Oh, and my own arms.

And then there's liver tips. I won't need this one. Ever. It's liver. Gross.

And finally, the advice I haven't had the pleasure of putting into practice, but certainly will in the not-too-distant future.

Parsnips are for latkes. And for making conversation.

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 14 Jun 2012 15:36:04 GMT

Nothing gets people talking quite like a parsnip.

I picked up a monster-sized one (a full 1.5 pounds of root vegetable wonder) at the Portland Farmer's Market yesterday. It was another foray into the land of vegetables I've never eaten/cooked/seen before because they were never served during school lunches under a blanket of Velveeta cheese.

I didn't need a bag, I told the parsnip purveyor, because I wanted to run through Monument Square carrying this gargantuan root vegetable like an Olympic torch. I ended up walking with it instead. And people started commenting on it.

"Wow, nice parsnip" and "That thing's huge" and "Is that a carrot?" and "It looks like a Dr. Seuss character."

I decided to place it on my desk to keep the conversation going. A coworker tried to balance it on my head like a dunce cap. I added decorations to make it look like a Christmas tree. At home, I tested it out as a centerpiece.

And while the parsnip performed well in every role it was cast, I decided that being eaten is a parsnip's true purpose. And I don't want to stand in the way of root vegetable destiny.

So I made Sweet and Gooey Parsnips and Carrot & Parsnip Latkes .

But not before I peeled that parsnip.

Sweet & Gooey Parsnips (I'd prefer to call them "parsnip fingers" or "squishy parsnips" or "sauteed parsnips you can stack like Lincoln Logs.")
1 pound parsnips
2 tablespoons butter
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Peel the parsnips (or parsnip, if you bought a huge one) and cut into sticks.

Melt butter in heavy skillet. Add parsnips, flip to coat and sprinkle with nutmeg. Cover tightly and saute on medium heat for 10 minutes (mine took a bit longer - I cut 'em thick). They're done when they take on a browned-on-the-bottom-and-totally-relaxed-thoughout quality. Salt and pepper to taste.

Carrot & Parsnip Latkes
2 medium carrots, peeled
5 small parsnips (about 1 pound), peeled
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon minced chives or scallion
1 teaspoon chopped parsley
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Peanut oil for frying

Grate the carrots and parsnips coarsely. This will take much effort and whining about "tired arms."

Toss with the flour. Add the eggs, chives, parsley and salt and pepper to taste. Mix until evenly moistened. Then continue to mush it in your hands because it feels kinda gross and awesome at the same time.

Heat peanut oil in a saute pan until it is barely smoking. Drop in the batter by tablespoons and flatten. Fry over medium heat until brown on both sides.

Yields 16 to 18 two-inch pancakes, but if you're like me and tend to eat as you fry, you'll end up with about five to share with friends, family and significant others.

Both recipes were a parsnip success - the sweet and gooey parsnips were almost like french fries. And the latkes were the first fried cake/fritter I've ever made that didn't give up and fall to pieces in the pan.

I like these parsnips - both the conversation they incite and the latkes they produce.

Goat cheese goes on a date

Shannon Bryan — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 21:04:06 GMT

Really. Goat cheese goes great on a date.

Goat cheese is like the smart, good-looking cheese that's witty and easy to talk to and it takes you to all the nicest restaurants and makes you feel pretty and you just know it's love even though you just met but that doesn't matter because your kids will be so attractive!

Ahem. Excuse me.

Goat cheese goes great on a date - as in a date, like the dried fruit. I didn't know this a month ago. A month ago, I'd never had a date before (as in a date, like the dried fruit).

So I couldn't say what led me to order the date and goat cheese appetizer on the menu at Fore Street. Let's chalk it up to my new-found sense of food adventure. Whatever led to the order, I'm grateful for the discovery of what plenty of other people already know: Dates + goat cheese = sosimpleyetsoridiculouslydeliciousitsweirdineverknewitbefore.

I decided to try recreating the combination at home (because if Fore Street can do it, so can I! Because I'm overconfident!). Luckily the combination requires two basic ingredients and no oven.

Take a date. Cut it open. Remove the seed. Stuff it with goat cheese. (Again, and I don't mean to beat you over the head with this, but by "date" I'm referring to the fruit, not a person who you went out with once two years ago who never called back and who you may or may not want to stuff with cheese.)

You can warm the duo in an oven (375 degrees for 10 minutes), add nuts or honey or salt or breadcrumbs. The additions are endless. But goat cheese and dates, even on their own, make a great couple. I bet people keep asking when they'll get married. And that probably annoys them. But they're just so darn good together.

Lemon squeezed, I'm impressed: Captivated by kitchen accoutrements

Shannon Bryan — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 16:13:19 GMT

Peanut butter sandwiches are easily prepared with a little help from a butter knife. Or a rubber spoon, if that's all the prison will allow you. Heck, a bare hand will do, should you find yourself sans utensils in the Maine woods, lost and friendless and with nothing but a jar of chunky-style to keep you company.

Thanks to the simplicity of sandwich preparation, I haven't had the need for fancier kitchen accoutrements over the years. Outside of a few ghastly pans and a garden-variety spaghetti strainer, my kitchen hasn't been given many gifts from me.

And while I'm still not quite sure where all my money goes (Pamola, things made with chickpeas and overdue fees at the library), it hasn't historically gone to buy titanium knives and other tools whose purposes continue to elude me.

Until I saw the lemon squeezer.

This contraption - unnecessary, I thought. Too big for the drawer, I scoffed - is simply magic.

I caught sight of it at a recent cooking demo, as it casually pressed a lemon into submission. The lemon didn't bother resisting. It had no time to call "uncle" before its juices were squished from its flesh. It looked like a lemon-juice deluge. My experiences with lemon squeezing (hold half lemon in hand, squeeze...squeeze some more...gasp for air...squeeze) produces only lemon-juice trickles.

I was captivated. And I wanted it - this silly, too-big-for-the-drawer kitchen thing. (Not to be confused with Smith & Wesson's Lemon Squeezer, which would just create a lemon mess and might be in violation of your parole.)

All these years, I never understood this wonder over whisks and Microplane graters. And there was no sadder thing than to hear a friend say, "I got new pots and pans for Christmas."

"How awful," I'd think. "Your family clearly doesn't love you."

But I'm starting to get it now. I'm understanding this enchantment with gadgets. And I think nothing says "We love you" quite like the citrus-crushing capacity of the lemon squeezer.

The allure of red root vegetables: Butter sautéed radishes

Shannon Bryan — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 17:18:58 GMT

My colleague Karen eats radishes raw at her desk sometimes - often with the same hand-to-mouth enthusiasm I used to save for Goldfish crackers.

I figured she must be onto something, some root vegetable delight that I'd never had the pleasure of knowing, so I tried one.

It was expectedly crisp. And unexpectedly hot. (I'm Finnish, folks. And my people are sensitive to food that's any spicier than a potato.) I didn't beg Karen for more. I didn't set a small fire in the lunchroom to distract her, like I might be inclined to do if I actually wanted to steal the bag of remaining radishes from her desk. Radishes and I just didn't click.

But on Wednesday, there they were, lounging in a lazy bundle at the Monument Square farmer's market. I wanted them, and I didn't know why.

Maybe it's their permanent blush, which gives them an endearing oh-dear-I'm-so-embarrassed look. Maybe it's their impatience, which makes them germinate in less time than it take me to return a rented video to Red Box. Maybe it's because radishes are considered "companion plants" because they attract garden pests away from other plants. And who couldn't appreciate a friend like that?

So I took some home. And then I searched around for ideas on what to do with them. The answer: butter and sauté

Heat butter in a pan on medium-low heat. Add some thyme (which yours truly just happened to have growing outside because I bought a thyme plant at the farmer's market last week and I haven't killed the herb just yet). Add some quartered (or some halved, in my case) radishes and cook until warmed through. Turn up the heat to give them that browned, just-back-from-vacation complexion. Finally, salt them like you mean it.

And they will be good. So very good. I wish I'd bought more. Going forward, I will not hesitate to set a small fire in the lunchroom to lure Karen away from her desk and away from her radishes. I mean my radishes.

Oh, also, nice radish fact: Citizens of Oaxaca, Mexico, celebrate the radish in a festival called Noche de los Rábanos (Night of the Radishes) on December 23 as a part of Christmas celebrations. Locals carve religious and popular figures out of radishes and display them in the town square.

Studying scallops at Stonewall Kitchen Cooking School

Shannon Bryan — Tue, 29 May 2012 16:09:50 GMT

I've never cooked a scallop. And I sure haven't cooked 175 scallops in 15 minutes.

But Heather Milliman has.

Milliman is one of the instructors at Stonewall Kitchen's Cooking School in York. Last Friday, her culinary tutorial focused on exploding citrus (exploding with flavor, not violently detonating. Though I have seen citrus explode before, back when my brother and I used to play a few innings of Orange Baseball in the downstairs hallway when the parents weren't looking).

The Citrus Explosion menu:

Salad of Cucumber, Golden Cherry Tomatoes and Watercress with a Lemon-Balsamic Dressing

Seared Scallops with Fennel and Lemon Relish

Orange and Cardamom-Infused Couscous Broccoli Rabe with Lemon Zest and Olive Butter

Frozen White Chocolate and Key Lime Mousse Cake

The cooking school is located on the same property as the Stonewall Kitchen store and boasts a brightly lit kitchen with cabinets too high to hold anything that gets used with any regularity. I imagine they're filled with Christmas cookie cutters and a crock pot.

The classroom seats 36 and was packed on Friday. Front-row sitters surely get the best view in the house, but the two flat screens overhead make sure that everyone can see the action.

Also nice: The option of enjoying a beer or glass of wine during class. My college professors weren't so accommodating.

But back to the cooking. Milliman chatted us up while she cooked, having mastered the ability to prepare food and hold a conversation at the same time. "The good news is," she said, "no one will be going home with scurvy today."

The recipes for each dish were already printed for us, which meant less note scribbling and more attention paying. The great thing about a cooking demo is the chance to pick up on those nuances of cooking that you'd never get out of a recipe.

For example: Milliman prepared the salad in a wooden bowl as opposed to a metal one because the nicks and divots in the well-used bowl serve as reservoirs for the garlic that's rubbed into the bowl - the recipe's first step.

The lemon-balsamic dressing was prepared in the bowl, and the greens were added on top. A few simple turns with a pair of tongs (with only one or two errant leaves of lettuce that chose to fling themselves onto the counter) and the dressing was evenly spread. Interesting.

And as Milliman took on the challenge of cooking 175 scallops for her oh-so-hungry class of 36, she taught us a few things.

Some scallops have a slightly pinkish hue. Others don't. The pinks ones are females.

Scallops should be washed and dried before going into the pan. They can be salted and peppered on one side, and they shouldn't be crowded.

"Scallops pretty much cook as soon as you look at them," Milliman said. Aim for "a little undercooked." When scallops are overcooked, she added, it's like eating a rubberband.

Scallops have a lot of sugar in them, which is what creates that super pretty browning. Just a few minutes on each side will do it. When you see foaming in the pan, the scallops are done. That foaming indicates that the scallops are releasing their juices.

If they look slightly undercooked in the middle, they're perfect.

I haven't set out to try cooking my own scallops yet. But I will. Soon. Until then, I appreciate Friday's scallops as the best scallops I ever watched get cooked.

Stonewall Kitchen Cooking School classes are offered throughout the week, at lunchtime and in the evening. Some are even hosted by cookbook authors or TV personalities.

Most classes run for an hour and a half and cost about $55. And you will be fed. Well. These aren't sample sizes.

For a full list of upcoming classes, check out the schedule on www.stonewallkitchen.com.

New Cook Tip #3: When working with hot oil, lay the food away from you

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:33:15 GMT

When placing food into a pan of hot oil, lay it away from you, or even tilt the pan away from you, to prevent splatter from making its way onto your unsuspecting forearms - or anywhere else for that matter. Do not let the oil overheat in the pan, then toss a handful of potatoes into it with the same carelessness used when tossing your empties into the recycle bin. Trust me on this one.

EASY RECIPE: Cook so nice with black beans and rice (and chicken and apple salsa!)

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:32:49 GMT

Cooking isn't a competition.

But if it were, I'd win.

My triumph would come in the form of black beans and rice with chicken and apple salsa.

I culled the recipe from the January 2012 issue of Bon Appétit - a coworker gifted me her copy for inspiration during my long, arduous, food-filled cooking journey. I might've missed the beans and rice otherwise, with Bon Appétit being as intimidating as it is, with its fancy pictures and foreign-language title.

But the recipes don't scare me, now that I'm a black bean and rice champion. I make food that looks straight outta Bon Appétit. Because it is straight outta Bon Appétit.

I've made it five times in three weeks, because this recipe is a winner. It's something to be proud of, something friends will applaud you for. And it's simple. Novice-cook-can-still-kill-this simple. The recipe:

Black beans and rice with chicken and apple salsa

1 cup chopped Granny Smith apple	1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 cup chopped cilantro, divided	3/4 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/3 cup finely chopped red onion, divided	3 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 teaspoon fresh lime juice	2 15-ounce cans black beans, rinsed and drained
1/3 cup finely chopped green bell pepper	Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons vegetable oil	4 cups cooked brown rice
3 garlic cloves, minced	1 2-pound rotisserie chicken
1 1/2 teaspoons chili powder	4-6 lime wedges

First things first, the mise en place.

For the apple salsa: combine the chopped apple, half the chopped onion, lime juice, and the cilantro (I used half what the recipe called for, since I've discovered that I don't love cilantro. Cilantro and I are like acquaintances who can be in the same room without getting into a fist fight, but we'll never be friendly enough to plan a vacation together.) Churn it up with your paws and set it aside.

The chicken is easy too. Just buy it. I kept my rotisserie bird covered until just before serving, then shredded up a pile.

For the beans: onion and pepper goes into the pan with some oil. After a few minutes, the veggies will soften.

Gather up the cumin, coriander and chili powder.

The spices go in and the garlic goes with it. Constant stirring happens for two minutes.

The beans and broth are added and brought to a boil. (Side note, this photo makes beans and broth look mesmerizing. Like a mesmerizing oil painting). The heat gets reduced to medium and the mixture is simmered briskly.

The sauce will thicken after 8 to 10 minutes (that's according to the recipe. On my stove it took a bit longer). As it's thickening, you can use the back of a spoon to smash some of the beans for a authentic smashed-bean look.

And when it all comes together (don't forget the rice, also known as the staple of the bad-cook's diet) it looks good enough to photograph. (Which I did.) And eat. (Which I did.)

I dare say, it may even look better than the one in Bon Appétit. But then, that's probably just the sense of cooking accomplishment talking. And some freshly made hubris.

Meet nutmeg: Spice, deliriant, and plague blocker

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:32:19 GMT

I've met nutmeg before. We're both fans of cold-weather cocktails like hot buttered rum and mulled cider. But I'd only ever come face-to-face with the ground-up stuff that's sold in cylinders at the grocery store.

But I happened to stumble across some whole nutmeg in the Aurora Provisions kitchen recently. (I swear I didn't break in and that Chef Marion Bannon was supervising.) The whole version - before it's ground into dust - actually looks quite like a nut.

And inside, it looks quite like a brain. But then I think everything looks like a brain.

Nutmeg grows from a tree prevalent in Indonesia and a few other places. The spice we know comes from a seed inside the nutmeg fruit. Mace, a red covering on the seed that looks a bit like a web of red licorice, is another spice derived from the same plant. So the nutmeg tree is sort of an overachiever in the spice world.

Wikimedia Commons photo

During the Elizabethan era, people thought nutmeg could thwart the plague. And something called myristicin, which is found in freshly ground nutmeg, can apparently make people delirious in high doses.

Personally, I find a sprinkling is sufficient and doesn't require a trip to the sanatorium.

A panini in the pan and a stove-top smothering

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:31:47 GMT

Is it inelegant to smother a sandwich?

Is it considered crass to press the lid of a pot onto the face of a turkey on rye, pressing it into a hot pan and simultaneously smashing it into toasted submission?

I guess I don't care if it is. Smothering gives a sandwich personality

It's a little tip I culled from a cooking segment on the morning news a few weeks ago. If you're pining for a panini, but don't have any panini-specific kitchen appliances at your disposal, you can use a lid in lieu of a press.

So I tried it.

I bought some fresh bread, sliced it and drizzled a bit of olive oil onto the outside of the slices.

I gathered up some flavorful ingredients like specialty cheeses, fresh spinach and fruit. I piled my sandwich together and placed it on a hot skillet.

And then I squashed it with all my might. And that's some might.

My first sandwich was over-stuffed, and the insides spilled out onto the pan.

My second experienced a splitting of the crust, I believe because it was sliced too thick.

But no matter what internal ingredients spilled out onto the pan, and no matter what sort of demented shape the sandwich took on, they were still good paninis. They made every untoasted sandwich of my past look like pale, flabby, couch-lounging lumps of bread. But then again, I tend to be overly dramatic with my descriptions of things.

Two fine panini ideas:

Rachel panini: A twist on the Reuben using sliced turkey, Swiss cheese, cole slaw and thousand island dressing on marble rye bread.

Apple, spinach, brie and fig panini: The trio of spinach, apple and brie has been a long-standing favorite of mine...in the three months that I've been learning how to cook. But the addition of some fig preserves I stumbled upon at the store gave this sandwich some additional dimension.

For more panini inspiration: 50 Panini ideas

Live free and stir-fry: Go rogue, your stir-fry won't judge you

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:31:20 GMT

Sometimes it's nice to have directions - say, when you're driving alone through unfamiliar territory and the locals look hostile. Or when you're staring at the 1,298 pieces that comprise the seven-tiered DIY cabinet you just bought for the living room.

In such cases, a plan comes in handy. A plan is what guides you through seven hours of Swedish engineering or a two-day road trip to the Midwest.

On the other hand, it's pretty awesome to just fly by the seat of your pants.

In the realm of cooking, newbies like me tend to cling to recipes. We're like 2-year-olds clutching onto mom's pant leg in the face of extreme danger. But recipes are a nightlight to the novice - a kindly guide through the terrors of the stove top.

The notion of shirking a recipe - actually cooking something without step-by-step directions - can be daunting.

I'm not quite ready to go totally rogue yet. Sure, I've matured past cooking adolescence (at least, now I know what a green onion is) but I'm hovering in the "college cooking" phase (i.e., I'm open to experimentation, but I still need to go home every week to do laundry and borrow money).

Luckily, there's a meal for that. It's called stir-fry.

Stir-frying - the art of tossing a seemingly random assortment of vegetables, meat, and seasonings into a hot wok or other pan - allows beginner cooks to break free from authoritarian recipes. With stir-fry, we can get crazy with fresh produce, toy around with flavor combinations, and cast cooking caution to the wind - because stir-fry is like a safe place. Stir-fry won't judge.

And because rice is such an accommodating canvas (colorful veggies look downright purty on pile of rice and the grain doesn't mind stepping in to calm down an overly exuberant spice), the stir-fry is as close to sure-fire as anything in the kitchen can be.

To prove it, Chef Marion Bannon at Aurora Provisions (you know, the folks who just cooked for the president), let me back in the Aurora kitchen for a stir-fry tutorial.

Inside the walk-in fridge, Marion helped me pick out ingredients: broccoli, green beans, a red pepper, carrots, ginger, an orange, celery, and something called a leek.

I chopped the dickens out of all of it.

Some sesame oil went into the pan (diluted with grape seed oil, because the sesame stuff can be overwhelming, according to Marion), and then along came the veggies.

Thicker vegetables, which will take longer to cook, go in first, like the broccoli and green beans. Some good stirring is essential along the way. Or if a chef dares you, and you feel pressured because you're in her kitchen, you might try tossing the stir-fry like the professionals. And you'll be awesome at it.

The final product: Delicious. The combination of soy sauce and juice from a fresh orange gave this dish a level of flavor I'd never have come up with on my own. And the simplicity of the stir-fry makes it an easy go-to meal for beginners that will still impress dinner guests who are used to being served buttered rice and burnt toast.

For more tips on the perfect stir-fry, check out 10 Tips to a Successful Stir-Fry

For a high-speed stir-fry tutorial with Marion, check out this video:

Meet cauliflower: Mashes like a potato, sears like a pro

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:30:41 GMT

This is a head of cauliflower:

You might recall cauliflower as a cerebrum-like vegetable that your mom used to boil into limp submission a few nights a month. Perhaps she covered it in Velveeta in an attempt to hide the mishap. (And by "your mom" I mean your mom, not mine. My mom was too busy pulling burnt Wheat Thins from the toaster oven to do much damage to heads of cauliflower or anything else.)

Most Americans are familiar with the stuff - and how to steam the dickens out of it.

But you can also do this:

Sear a slice of cauliflower in a pan with some oil to give it that golden, recently vacationed tan. Finish it in the oven at 350° for 10 or 15 minutes. Then you can put whatever you want on it. Preferably not burnt Wheat Thins.

You can do this too:

Treat the florets like potatoes, boil 'em, mush 'em, serve 'em to your low-carb dieting friends.

And together, let's put an end to cauliflower mistreatment and the Velveeta smotherings we remember from our youth.

Watch and learn: Risotto demo at LeRoux (followed by at-home risotto prowess!)

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:30:21 GMT

When it comes to cooking, sometimes you need to see it before you go home, try to make it yourself with a vague recipe you found on the internet, burn the crap out of everything, decide your stove hates you, so you decide to hate it back and end up spending the night eating uncooked pasta while you rock yourself on the couch and toss curse words at your kitchen appliances (hereafter known as "the devils.")

Luckily, LeRoux Kitchen in Portland offers free cooking demos on the second and fourth Saturday of the month. Cooks can see what they're doing before they dive in to do it.

Just this Saturday, risotto came to town. Risotto is made with Arborio rice - a high-starch, short-grain rice that gets an awesomely creamy texture.

LeRoux's resident chef Matt Burnham led the charge, preparing three risotto dishes simultaneously (one for breakfast, one for lunch, one for dinner...although I'd eat any of them at any time, maybe even simultaneously).

The breakfast risotto included sweet Italian sausage, green and red peppers, and onions. His BLT recipe called for bacon, roasted tomatoes, and spinach (Burnham joked that the "L" in his dish really stood for "leaf" rather than "lettuce).

The puttanesca risotto featured olives, capers, plum tomatoes, parsley, red pepper flakes, umami paste, and parmesan cheese. We also learned what the word "puttanesca" means. And it's naughty.

Matt did a fine job of fielding our questions while preparing three separate meals. He didn't even burn anything. And when the risotto was plumped and thick, and the combined scents of sausage, bacon, and peppers had us all on the brink of a hunger-induced riot, we got to sample.

Liking the Southwest Breakfast recipe the best (it was hard to decide, they're all shining risotto stars), I decided to make it myself at home. And it rocked there too. I'm a risotto prodigy! (With a little help from the folks at LeRoux.)

Note, this photo is actually of reheated leftovers. The dish is a little less creamy the next day, but still tastes risotto-tastic.

Some tips of the risotto trade:

1. Use a wooden spoon. A metal one, according to Burnham, crushes the grain and can ruin the texture.

2. When adding your liquid (be it water, stock, wine), add enough to just cover the rice. Allow it to reduce, then add more liquid, just enough to cover the rice. You get where I'm going with this.

3. Add warm liquid to the risotto. Have your stock (or water or whatever) warming in a saucepan on the stove as you cook.

4. You'll be adding approximately 3 cups of liquid for 1 cup of rice. If that includes some stock and some water, add the flavorful stock first. That way, if you end up not needing all three cups of liquid, at least the good-tasting stuff made it in.

5. Risotto is like a 2-year-old. It needs to be watched constantly, else it's likely to do something silly, like stick a fork into the electrical socket or wander out the door into traffic. Keep your eyes on the risotto. Stir it often. Don't leave it alone.

6. Taste as you go. It'll be hard not to, because all that stirring will work up an appetite. If the rice tastes undercooked or "kinda sticks to your teeth," as Burnham said, it ain't done.

Upcoming cooking demos at LeRoux:

April 28 at 1 p.m.: Pizza
May 12 at 1 p.m.: Frittatas
May 26 at 1 p.m.: Pulled Pork Sliders

For more about cooking demos at LeRoux, check out their Facebook page or the events page on www.lerouxkitchen.com.

Some love for the - ahem - "mature" banana: Banana-Lime Jam (Easy Recipe!)

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:30:05 GMT

Ageism. There's no denying it exists. Even in the banana world.

When you're a young banana with a brightly colored and blemish-free peel, everyone wants a piece of you. You fly off store shelves to top a sundae or a bowl of cereal, or to be enjoyed on your own, because people think you're that good, just as you are.

But inevitably, time has its way with you. You mush a little in the middle. Your peel shows symptoms of bruising and wear (evidence of an adventurous life, you say), but people stop paying you any mind.

What's a person to do with an overripe banana? Send it Florida with a retirement package and a pair of those huge, super-tinted sunglasses that fit over regular glasses?

Not exactly.

You make banana jam.

I came across this recipe a few months back, and while bananas usually get eaten early and often at my house, I let a few linger. I wanted to make this jam. Here's the simple recipe:

Banana-Lime Jam
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
3 overripe bananas, sliced
2 tablespoons butter

The sugars and lime go into a saucepan and are brought to a boil. Toss in the sliced overripe bananas, reduce the temperature to medium-low and let cook until the concoction thickens a bit. The recipe said 45 minutes, my jam thickened closer to 30.

The bananas can be mashed with a spoon as the jam cooks. And the jam will continue to thicken as it cools.

But warm banana-lime jam on a toasted English muffin? That's the kind of true banana potential that only a wise and mature banana can fulfill.

From plant assassin to growing champion: The vegetable garden experiment begins

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:29:21 GMT

I haven't grown much in 33 years.

I mean, I've grown (taller, louder and more comfortable with a sauce pan). But my experience nurturing a plant from seed to sprawling success is shamefully limited. More bluntly: I can kill a plant in the span of a week. Two, tops. It's a dark truth I've had to live with...and many a houseplant has died from.

But somewhere between learning not to splash hot oil on my forearms and preparing a plate of risotto that nearly made me weep with joy, I realized that I didn't just wanted to learn how to cook food, I wanted to learn how to grow it, too.

So on Saturday I attended a Container Edibles class at Skillins Greenhouses. Skillins offers free weekend classes at all three of their locations (Falmouth, Cumberland and Brunswick), ranging from flower growing to sustainable landscapes.

Barbara filled us in on the range of container gardening possibilities. You can grow just about anything in a container, she said, but growers need to make sure the container is big enough (lettuce doesn't require much space, but tomato roots really like to stretch out). And contained veggies need to be fed more often, since they're access to nutrient-rich soil is restricted.

It wasn't as simple as "drop seed in bucket, await fruit." But it sounded doable, even for a plant assassin.

With my head overflowing with thoughts of lobster compost and tomato plants tall enough to touch space, I wandered the greenhouse. My growing future was wide open. I could plant anything I wanted. I could grow (with luck, some tips from the neighbors and plenty of Googling) whatever suited my fancy.

I opted to start small, see how things went (specifically, whether things lived, died or got carried off by the local fauna). Cabbage and onion seedlings were planted in containers. Parsley and spinach seeds have been started. And in a couple of weeks I'll be back to the greenhouse for a tomato plant.

My makeshift garden won't impress passing pedestrians. But it's the largest vegetable garden I've ever had. And I'm glad that the dead zone created by an over-enthusiastic plow truck driver is finally being returned to productivity.

Even better, as of this morning my freshly planted soon-to-be food was right where I left it and still very much alive.

For updates on future classes offered at all the Skillins locations, check www.skillins.com/information.html

Burn Gallery: A rough end for an English muffin. Three of them, actually

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:29:02 GMT

The banana-lime jam went so well, it's a shame the same couldn't be said for the English muffins that went with it.

"I burned three English muffins," I said.

"Why were you toasting three at a time?" I was asked.

"I wasn't."

More from the burn gallery, because burnt food is captivating, in it's own scorched way.

EASY RECIPE: Uncomplicated Cranberry Couscous

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:28:47 GMT

Couscous now fills the warm place in my lazy-cook's heart that use to be filled will cereal and deli ham.

The stuff is just so darn easy and expeditious. If couscous were a person, it'd be someone you invited over all the time because it would make dinner for you, then rub your feet while you eat and repeatedly tell you how good looking you are.

It's hard not to like a food like that. But the stuff cooks up in a jiff and makes friends with just about anything you can think to toss into it. It's become my go-to food on those night when sluggishness reigns, but a burgeoning personal shame won't allow me to gnaw on raw pasta for dinner. At least not as often.

Here's the simple recipe I've been following for a cranberry and herb couscous that tastes splendid, looks smashing and won't give you a hard time on the stove: Cranberry Couscous
Half a shallot, chopped
1 cup Israeli couscous (aka pearl couscous)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons low-sodium chicken broth
1/4 cup parsley
1/4 cranberries
salt

Heat the olive oil in a pan on medium-high heat. Add shallots and saute for 1-2 min. Add couscous, stirring occasionally until it begins to brown. Add broth, then salt and cranberries. Bring to a boil. Put a lid on it, shut of the heat and let 'er sit for five minutes. Seriously, leave it alone. Don't keep lifting the lid to have a look-see. Back off, give it some space. Trust in the couscous.

After you've patiently waited all five minutes, toss in the parsley and fluff the couscous with a fork. Ta da.

There are loads of couscous recipes out there. And different kinds of couscous, like the smaller Moroccan kind. But whatever else goes in it, one thing I've learned makes all the difference: use broth instead of water.

Also, don't knock over a measuring cup filled with dried couscous. Just don't. Those granules of semolina will duck into the corners of the kitchen floor, emerging days or weeks later just to stick to your feet or scamper nosily across the hardwood before diving back into the shadows. So like I said, just try not to spill it.

Bringing home the halibut (ah! First-time fish buyer!)

Shannon Bryan — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:28:29 GMT

Holy halibut. I just bought fish.

Perhaps that's not earth-shattering news to you - someone who probably eats fish and knows how to cook it - but for me, today was a life-changer.

With help from Chris at Browne Trading Market on Commercial Street in Portland, I decided to buy halibut. Chris recommended it for multiple reasons (The season's short, he said, so take advantage. And Halibut isn't as oily as, say, salmon, and a higher oil content is what gives fish that "fishy" taste), and when you don't know what you're doing, it's typically wise to take advice. At least that's what I've heard.

So, having zero fish expertise from which to draw, I took Chris' advice. Halibut it is.

Chris removed the skin (halibut skin is thicker than other fish, so people don't tend to eat it, he said) and cut it into portions.

I picked out a seasoning, too: Seven Seas Seasoning from spice merchants Gryffon Ridge in Dresden, Maine.

And while Chris wrapped the fish (and I played it cool while chanting, "I'm buying fish! I'm buying fish! in my head) he passed on a few words of cooking wisdom: When cooking halibut in a pan, cook on med-high heat. Use grapeseed oil if you've got it (oddly, I do) because of its high smoke point. Two and a half minutes on each side should do it. People tend to overcook halibut, he said, so right when you start worrying that you might under cook it - stop cooking it.

Halibut takes on whatever flavors you cook with it so there's no end to the options.

So yes, I just bought a piece of fish. No big deal. Except that I've never brought home a fish before, which means this must be serious.