Bad Home Cooking

20-20-24-hours to go, I wanna be Nigella

I am not a chef. I am not even a trained or professional cook. My qualification is as an eater. I cook what I want to eat – within limits. I have a job - another job, that is, as an ordinary working journalist - and two children. -- Nigella Lawson

Me and Nigella. Like this. Thick as thieves. BBFs. So much in common, especially if you don't count the beauty, the fame, the fortune, and the fact that her little kitchen experiments tend to turn out. Obviously I would buy one of her books and give it a whirl. Friends support friends, right?

Right. Here's another thing I love about Nigella: she's all about the basics! I noticed that the first few pages of How to Eat give a rundown on the basics of cookery, the sort of dishes everyone should be able to prepare on a moment's notice. Really, it's an actual list in the table of contents, under "Basics."

Like Basic Roast Chicken. Yes! That's basic! And I'm still working on my technique. Nigella will be able to help, I just know it.

We move onto stock, which I made once or twice...mayonnaise...well, why would I need to make that myself? (just because I can, I suppose the answer would be. But we all know I can't, so why go there?) Hollandaise...bearnaise...bechamel....oh dear.  Here we enter dangerous waters.

Scented Panna Cotta with Gooseberry. Clearly a basic. Just not at my house. Maybe Trader Joe's has this in a box.

Grouse.

Damsons.

Quinces.

A Christmas Goose.

It appears that a decade married to an Englishman has not properly prepared me for cooking basics with Nigella. I can't even define several of these basics. Luke told me about the Glorious 12th, but what the hell are damsons? I'm trying hard to understand. But Nigella, girlfriend, I'm just not there yet.

Ah, but then I get there. Shepard's Pie. A basic, indeed, but one worthy of trying to nail. The mother of all comfort foods. Nigella would approve of my trying this one out, and impressed that for once, I have all the ingredients already. Except for the apple juice. I'm thinking 1/4 cup of apple grape juice from a sippy box can't ruin an entire dish...can it?

Here's the recipe:

1 pound of potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks
3 Tbsp milk, plus more if needed
4 Tbsp butter (1/2 stick)1 med onion, diced
1 med carrot, diced
1 garlic clove, diced
1/2 celery stalk, chopped
2 Tbsp olive oil
1/4 pound button mushrooms, sliced
8 ounces ground beef of lamb
1 Tbsp flour
1/4 cup apple juice
1 cup canned tomatoes, drained
1 tsp soy sauce or Worcestershire sauce
salt and freshly milled pepper
1/4 cup grated cheddar

Fill a large saucepan with cold, salted water. Bring it to a boil and cook the potatoes until soft enough to mash, 25-45 minutes. Drain, return to the pan and heat for one minute to dry off the spuds. Add the butter and the milk. Nigella says to then push them through a ricer, which of course I don't have. So mash them by hand, pouring the milk in a little at a time. Probably helps to warm the milk a little, too.

Set aside your delicious mashed potatoes and carry on.

Saute your diced veggies in the olive oil for ten minutes, then add the mushrooms. Add also a few "knobs" of butter, saute for 2 minutes more. Add the meat, pushing and breaking it up as it browns with a wooden spoon, until it's lost its pinkness. Sprinkle the Tbsp of flour over this and stir well, then add in the juice, then the tomatoes and your Worcestershire or soy sauce. Stir well, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes. Uncover and season. A few minutes more and you're ready to dish this out into a ceramic baking dish or casserole. Cover this mixture with the mashed potatoes, dot with butter again, sprinkle on the cheddar cheese, and set it under the broiler for five minutes.

Eh voila! Deliciousness! Not even the apple-grape juice substitute had a negative effect. 

This worked out fabulously the first time. The second time something was lacking, can't say what. The third time will be a charm, I"m certain.

Because here's what Nigella has to say about practice:

Cooking is not about just joining the dots, following one recipe slavishly and then moving on to the next. It’s about developing an understanding of food, a sense of assurance in the kitchen, about the simple desire to make yourself something to eat. And in cooking, as in writing, you must please yourself to please others.

See? My BFF Nigella knows me all too well.

Who's the birthday blog?

Bad Home Cooking is three years old today! Incredible. Hope surely does spring eternal.

In honor of three years of blogging, I've composed this rare diddy:

Happy birthday to you!
Your food looks like goo...
A cake might turn out well...
But I'd stick with stew...

Thank you all for still reading!

Procrastination sandwich

Curse Elfini. Curse her, I say!

I sit here Friday, hyperventilating. Shaking with panic. Four big-ass articles in various stages of due, day job editing backing up, daughter's birthday party tomorrow, house in a ruinous state, and only ten short days before I'm off to visit the cousin in sunny New England. How am I going to do it all?

And she sends me this.

Truly. A pox on the house of Elfini.

She knows how I feel about chickpeas. She knows I probably have a can in the house. I don't know how she knew about the lemons, but that's Elfini for you.

I had no choice but to make this sandwich. My editors might understand. Maybe.

The recipe, from Deb at Smitten Kitchen:

1 15-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
2 tablespoons pitted, halved and very thinly sliced black olives
1 tablespoon finely chopped red onion
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
Juice and zest from half a lemon (unless you've got a dry one, in which case, go ahead and use the whole lemon.)
A couple good pinches of salt
A few grinds of black pepper
A few glugs of olive oil (your discretion. Or, if you're at all like me, your ultimate undoing)

Mix everything but the olive oil in a small to midsize bowl. Lightly smash the chickpeas with the back of a fork or a potato masher. You're not going for smooth here. You want a blend of smooth and chunky. Note to self: buy another potato smasher.

Add the glugs of olive oil, mix it lightly and enjoy.

I added a tablespoon of chopped roasted red pepper. Because what's better than chickpeas? Chickpeas with roasted red peppers. The color blast helped, too.

Spread this on any kind of good bread, preferably toasted. I went with lightly toasted dark slices of "European-style" whole grain bread.

The result? Well, when I stopped shoveling this into my mouth as I seasoned it, I got it onto the bread and continued eating. When the sandwich was gone, I put the rest of the mixture into a bowl and devoured most of that. No matter that I put too much parsely in, or that my lemon had shed seeds into the mix. I ate through it.

Perhaps my shaking was due less from deadlines and more from forgetting to eat today? It wouldn't be the first time. Elfini knows this.

OK. I remove the pox on the Elfini clan.

As for photos, well, go back to Smitten Kitchen and study Deb's. She's the pro. I am becoming increasingly shamed over the quality of my photos on this blog, and something will have to be done. And anyway, my camera ran out of juice just as I was trying to capture this delight and I don't have the time right now to search for the charger. I offer you up cell phone pictures instead.

Now back to work. *urp.

The chickpea stays in the picture...

I've always loved chickpeas. I've eaten them out of the can, sauteed in a little garlic, with toasted cumin seeds, thrown over cous-cous or over baked cod, for years. But I've always heard they're so much better when you cook them yourself, so it always sort of felt like cheating.

Still, the idea of soaking dried chickpeas overnight then cooking them for two hours was too daunting. I don't have the time management skills for such tasks. I embrace the tenant of immediate gratification too strongly. And if I can have my beloved chickpeas whenever I want them (presuming I can find my can opener), I'll always take the shortcut.

Until I read about this chickpea salad with ginger on Mark Bittman's blog, Bitten. Anyone who's read my blog for long knows I adore Bittman, the man behind "How to Cook Everything," the book that lured me into the kitchen in the first place. He is a jovial Everyman; a cook who encourages non-cooks to give it their best try. I'll try anything he suggests. And here he writes:

(chickpeas) "They have a different flavor from any other legume, arguably the best of all. And the liquid they exude when you cook them is actually delicious. You’ll never become aware of this last aspect if you use canned chickpeas, because the canning process changes the taste of the broth."

Delicious love is something worth working toward. Maybe it was time to give the long-route a go.

I bought a bag of chickpeas (also known as garbanzo beans and chana daal) from my local Indian grocer. I soaked two cups overnight. I cooked them in water, per any instruction, for two hours.

The result: Chickpeas.

Chickpeas that were indeed meatier and somehow a smidge more satisfying, but chickpeas nevertheless. There was nothing special about the broth, either, unless you really have a soft spot in  your heart for chickpea-flavored water.

Clearly I was doing something wrong. I put the batch into Tupperware and doled some out to mix with roasted vegetables or what have you over the course of the week and then forgot all about them.

Normally my experiment with greatness would end there. But because I love chickpeas so, I vowed to try harder next time. So. A few weeks later, more soaking. More cooking. This time I scoured the internets for some recipe that would tell me, yes, you stupid cow, cook those chickpeas in garlic, or with onions, or some kind of spice, or something that would impart some flavor, but nothing came up. So again I cooked up a batch of nice-tasting chickpeas with chickpea flavored broth.

This time, however, I used my home-cooked chickpeas to make Bittman's chickpea salad with ginger.

The recipe couldn't be simpler: Which should have been warned me off, but, you know, I'm kind of stupid when it comes to chickpeas.

1 tablespoon cumin seeds or ground cumin
3 cups cooked or canned chickpeas (rinse canned ones)
2 bell peppers, red, yellow or orange; cored, seeded and diced
1 red onion, diced
1 1-inch piece ginger, peeled and minced (or more to taste)
1 tablespoon sugar (optional)
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (I just squeezed half a lemon in there...is that
wrong?)
Salt and pepper to taste
Chopped fresh cilantro leaves.

In a dry pan, toast cumin seeds over medium-low heat until fragrant, about 2 minutes (for God's sake don't go check your email while doing this or you'll have to do it all over again.) Grind to a powder using a spice mill, coffee grinder or mortar and pestle.

Toss everything except the cilantro into a large bowl and mix. You can prepare up to this point and forget about it for up to two hours). Taste and add more salt, pepper or lemon juice if you like, garnish with cilantro, and serve.

And my result? Glop. Too much lemon juice? Badly diced peppers? The fact that I forgot about the onion? At least it was colorful glop.

Ah, but then I re-seasoned and let it sit for a bit, hoping the flavors might magically mingle. And indeed, those flavors cooperated. When I spooned some out for the Drama Tween, she responded very favorably, even asking for a second helping.

And I found that despite its outward appearance, it made for some very, very tasty lunches, especially when zapped in the microwave and sprinkled with chunks of Israeli Feta.

So even though I dice like an ax-murderer, even though I forget key ingredients. Even though I am running blind with my salt and pepper and have the assembly skills of an Albanian auto-worker, the chickpea came through in the end.

Love obviously conquers all. That and a lot more practice.

Stuffed, roasted tomatoes, Bad Home Cook style (OMG!)

Molly made me do it. That would be Molly, of Orangette fame. A few deft words from her and I was inspired enough to try something I ordinarily would never touch with a 10-foot fork.

Roasted, stuffed tomatoes, topped with breadcrumbs.

Her most recent blog post waxed passionate about these roasted tomatoes, stuffed with Arborio rice and seasoned tomato pulp. they're adapted from a family recipe writer Luisa Weiss detailed on her lovely blog, The Wednesday Chef.

Lots of food bloggers try out each other's recipes. And while I've been tempted to try my hand at a few, I am the Bad Home Cook, after all. I know my limitations. Still the recipe didn't sound very complicated (famous last words). And I knew that with October here, my time for tomatoes was running out. What was I doing that evening, anyway? 

Here's the recipe, via Molly, via Luisa:

4 large, good tasting tomatoes (question - how do you know they're good tasting before you taste them? Never mind.)
1 small yellow onion, diced
olive oil
1/3 cup Arborio rice
1/3 cup water
5 fresh basil leaves
salt
breadcrumbs
2 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, sliced into 1/4-inch slices

Behead the tomatoes and scoop out the guts; juice, seeds, flesh, all of it, into a small bowl. Lightly oil a 9x13'' pan and place the empty tomato hulls inside. Pull out some of the chunkier bits of flesh from the bowl and chop it. Replace. 

In a medium (2-quart) saucepan, warm a chug of olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring frequently until soft and translucent. Add the rice and continue to cook, stirring for another minute or so. Add the tomato guts and the water, plus the basil. "Season expertly," reduce the heat slightly,  cover the pot and simmer for ten minutes. Taste, and add salt as needed.

Spoon the rice glop (the rice will be par-cooked) into the tomatoes. Top with a sprinkling of breadcrumbs. Arrange the potato slices around the tomatoes in the pan, and give everything a good drizzle of olive oil. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes. The tomatoes should be shriveled up a bit, having released their juices, and the potatoes should have cooked through.

Some Bad Home Cook standard screw-ups: I bought four relatively good-smelling tomatoes, since I figured that if they smelled good they would also taste good. None of what I found at my particularly feeble farmer's market had that sweet/tangy smell of a vine-ripened tomato. So I had to work with what I found. Alas, they weren't as juicy as I'd hoped, and scooping them out took some work. I know it's October and tomato season for the rest of the world is long over. But it's been 90 degrees here with scorching Santa Anas. Is it too much to ask for ripe tomatoes for our suffering?

I ran out of olive oil and had to borrow my neighbor's. I didn't have breadcrumbs, either. I had panko, which is Japanese-style breadcrumbs. Heavier and crunchier than breadcrumbs.

With the kids running in and out and my neighbor commiserating with me in the kitchen, this took almost an hour to prepare. Then I noticed it would take another hour and 15 to bake. 

Really, this was all becoming a big pain in the ass.

Until I pulled them out of the oven. Now here was the tomato smell I was talkin' about. My four tomatoes were bubbling away, barely holding onto the juiciness within. The panko had browned nicely on top, to my great delight. But as we know, appearances mean nothing. I fobbed one off on Luke when he left after visiting the kids, feeling that he would appreciate hot, free, already-prepared food no matter what it tasted like, and waited another few hours to try my own, in the dark of my own midnight kitchen. I expected the worst.

Oh. My. God. Intense, warm tomato flavor filled in with chewy, filling starch and topped with a satisfying crunch. The first mouthful was followed unthinkingly by a second, then a third, and so on, with barely a pause to breath, until my tomato was gone and I was left to lick the plate.

That I made this bon-bon was truly a miracle in itself. Results like these give me the glimpses of glory I need to keep cooking despite every indication to the contrary.

My only tactical error? Giving one away.

Mexican wedding cake cookies with rose water and cardamom

My neighbors down the street got married the other day. It was a simple yet elegant affair, held on the front lawn of their tidy Spanish-revival bungalow. Now that California has legalized gay marriage, they were able to confirm their long-term relationship in a ceremony in the eyes of the state, and in front of their friends and family. Even their "girls," three little dogs they walk every morning before work, which is when we run into them on the way to school, were groomed and in attendance.

What better occasion to try out my Mexican wedding cake cookie recipe?

Here's a recipe adapted from Epicurious. It's more or less the same recipe my mom sent me, back when I asked her about the bourbon balls. God only knows where she got it from. The back of Reader's Digest?

These are also known as Russian tea cakes. I live closer to Mexico.

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, room temperature
2 cups powdered sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups all purpose flour
1 cup pecans, hazelnuts or other, toasted and finely ground. (I used ground almonds, because that's what I had on hand)
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon (optional)

Using an electric mixer, beat the butter in a large bowl until light and fluffy. Add 1/2 cup powdered sugar and the vanilla. Beat until well-blended. Beat in the flour (amazingly, I was so distracted at this point I almost forgot this part, and wondered what I'd done wrong to make the mixture so sticky. Duh.) Then your ground nuts.

Divide the dough in half, roll into a ball, wrap in plastic and let chill in the fridge for half an hour.

Preheat the oven to 350. Whisk remaining 1 1/2 cup powdered sugar and cinnamon into a small bowl. Set aside.

Take half the chilled dough, pinch off roughly two teaspoons and roll into balls, placing 1/2 inch apart on parchment paper. Bake until golden brown on bottom and just pale golden on top (about 18 minutes). Cool cookies for five minutes on the baking sheet, then drop them into the sugar mixture, covering them completely. Transfer these coated cookies onto a cookie rack, and let cool completely. Makes about 4 dozen.

Because I was feeling daring, I added a few drops of rose water to the batter. And 1/8th teaspoon of cardamom powder to the sugar/cinnamon mixture.

The results: Delicious. My kids were incredulous that I made such delights. So was I, truth be told.

Naturally I went for the overkill, and tried to line a little basket with multi-colored tissue paper, for that rainbow effect, and fill it with the cookies. It was a little twee, but I'm sure the guys appreciated the sentiment.

Dumb luck poached eggs

There are very few dishes that remind me of home. My mom didn't really cook, although she recently tried to argue this point by reminding me that she put a chicken in the crock pot almost every week, and between that and her infamous creamed tuna on toast, who was I to continue claiming I grew up in a culinary wasteland of TV dinners and PB&J's made with diet jelly product?

Still, my memories remain. And one of the only  meals I remember fondly from my childhood kitchen are poached eggs. For whatever reason, my mom had the secret of making them, and every so often when she had the time she would spoon them out over crisp English muffins for us, to our great delight.

Because of that, I am often the only one at the diner to order Eggs Benedict, so I can get a couple of egg, poached by a professional and smothered in Hollandaise sauce, over English muffins, with some forbidden Canadian bacon thrown in for extra pleasure.

These eggs have been on my mind lately. I've been coming across scandalously good-looking photos of poached eggs; I've been stumbling on recipes; essays on the egg, and so on. Wednesday, with the nits at their dad's and out of all the usual breakfast foodstuffs (Jack, in his profound late-summer boredom, ate an entire container of blueberries the day before), I tried my hand at the simple-but-often-vexing poached egg.

No recipe, just some vague memories of how it's done. I did quickly peruse Deb's take on how to poach an egg on her blog, Smitten Kitchen, and took her advice to drop a dollop of vinegar into my water. Not sure why that's important, but if she does it I can only blindly follow. Be warned: Her photos are Triple X food porn.

The results, as you can see above, were quite pleasing. Now if I had had better bread, and not Van de Camp's faux wheat loaf left over from beach camping, and some freshly picked tomatoes to go on the side, it could have been a memory. Better still if I could be sure of my ability to do it again, maybe for the kids, and make a memory for them. But that would be asking for too much. So I sat in my sunny kitchen and enjoyed the meal, and the quiet, and thanked the goddess of poached eggs for watching over me.

Chicken stock for beginners

Somewhere I got it into my little pea brain that the dividing line between a real cook and a pretend cook is the ability to make your own stock.

Long ago, when I first bought Mark Bittman's 'How to Cook Everything" and became more interested in cooking, I noted with delight that stocks are allegedly not hard to make. Of course, I never got around to finding this out for myself.

Fast forward to now. Kelli came over for her second session as my cooking coach, and announced, "Today, we're making stock."

Michael Ruhlman, the chef/writer I worship from afar, in his new book, "The Elements of Cooking," says this about stock: "In the creation of good food, no preparation comes close to matching the power of fresh stock. It's called le fond, "the foundation," in the French kitchen for a reason....ultimately, well-made stock is the ingredient that definitively separates home cooking from the cooking of a professional."

Gulp.

Kelli isn't concerned. "Pish," she says, when I inform her that chicken stock is serious business, and probably not for the likes of me. "Everything is better with homemade chicken stock," she says. "And even you can make it. There are just a few rules." She has brought with her two packs of chicken wings, carrots, celery, an onion and fresh sprigs of thyme and rosemary.

Then she introduces me to the Trinity. Diced celery, carrots and onion. The mirepoix. And she shows me how to dice them, overwhelming me with a wave of information regarding different cuts and knives and when to use what when and which where. Like a good teacher, she then hands me the knife and asks me to repeat what she did, and I do my best, hunched over, tongue between teeth, like a second-grader trying to solve a fourth grade math fact. She shows me how to hold my fingers on the produce, knuckles against the knife edge, that will best prevent my slicing off any fingertips.

I was not as quick nor as neat as she was, but at least I still have all 10 tips on my person, which in my view suggests basic success. My next victory was finding a stock pot big enough to hold everything, deep in the corner of my pantry.

We sauteed the vegetables in a little too much canola oil (she said I wouldn't need a measuring spoon), added the chicken and herbs, and covered with cold water. She explained the term "season expertly," to me, but since I didn't have any peppercorns my expertise is limited. She added a few cloves of garlic.

As she worked, she offered additional tips: Always put your fat into a heated pan. Use the parts of the chicken that move the most (like wings) when making stocks. Cover with cold water. Do NOT let it ever come to a rolling boil. Simmer for two hours or more, until your whole house is infused with the aroma of chicken soup. Strain, then strain again, then divide into containers and freeze.

Since she worked for years in a hotel kitchen as a saucier, she gave me a quick symposium on basic sauces, nothing of which I retain. The very word "sauce" frightens me. But I vow to revisit the topic down the road, when I am less timid in the ways of cuisine.

Kelli left me with a clove of mashed garlic on the back of my chef's knife and a quick explanation on how to make my own garlic bread (mix with soft butter, spread on crusty toast then finish in the oven. I later make this for my kids, adding a bit of mozzarella cheese on top, to spectacular accolades, and a near fistfight over who got to eat the last piece).

I simmered the stock for more than two hours, then strained it into my second largest pot. Alas, I then found I didn't have nearly enough containers with lids to hold all of the liquid gold, and so, in fine BHC tradition, I had to half-ass it and use what I could, including old Chinese take-out soup containers. 

I have chicken and rice soup on the stove as I write this (and now that I think about it, I'd better go check it...), featuring my own home-made chicken stock. Is this the beginning of a new era for me...or a new level of hell to explore?

Stay tuned. Next week we venture to the Santa Monica Farmer's Market.

Chocolatey-Goodness: Brownies that worked

I'd like you to tell me how I'm supposed to lose ten pounds if I keep eating brownies.

I wouldn't normally have such rich, delicious, calorie-laden fare at home, but the girl announced she wanted to make fudge, and in an effort to mitigate that potential disaster...I offered to make brownies.

The kids have been swooning. They are taking multiple brownies to school to trade for various goods and services. They want me to make more. Alas, I have eaten several, (as evidenced by my disappearing waistline) I am down to one, which I dare not eat.

I found the recipe in Cook's Illustrated New Best Recipe book. As I've said before, I appreciate the fact that they take all the mystery out of how to make a recipe work. Unfortunately, they haven't quite idiot-proofed it enough for me.

They promised the perfect brownie. Not too fudgey. Not too cakey. My brownies, however, turned out on the fudgey side. Presuming I did everything right (a foolish presumption indeed), we can then only suppose that Cook's and I have differing tastes in brownies. My "perfect" brownie is rather more cakey, with a slight crust to bite though before I get to the chewy, chocolatey goodness within.

No matter. The audience here was the kids, and they fell over themselves at first tasting. And making the things involved my cooking down chocolate and butter in a jimmy-rigged double boiler, which was great fun and made me feel like a pastry chef. I got to use parchment paper as well. Always a thrill at my house. I made a real mess of it.

Here's the recipe: Excerpted from The New Best Recipe (Cook's Illustrated), page 810.

1 cup pecans or walnuts (optional - I was going to use walnuts but my daughter objected)
11/4 cups plain cake flour (I used regular flour)
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 tsp. baking powder
6 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped fine
1 1/2 sticks of butter, cut into six or more pieces
4 large eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

I'm not gonna explain the parchment paper here other than to say you fold two sheets of it to assist in removing the brownies from the pan later. Figure it out.

Toast the nuts if you're using them.

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, salt and baking powder until combined. Set aside

In a BIG heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water (yeah, good luck with this.), melt the chocolate and butter, stirring occasionally until smooth. Gradually whisk in the sugar, and then add the eggs, one at a time, until thoroughly combined. Add vanilla. Add the flour in three parts. Did I mention you need a big bowl? (I had to change bowls twice)

Pour into the prepared 13 X 9-inch pan (spray with cooking oil first, then set the parchment paper inside with enough hanging over the edge to grab and pull). Sprinkle the toasted walnuts on top if using. Bake in the middle rack of the oven for 30-35 minutes at 325 degrees.

There is some persnicketyness about doneness.  Use the toothpick test before you take these out of the oven. If under-baked (the toothpick has batter clinging to it) the brownies will be dense and gummy (I think that's what I did wrong). If over-baked, (dry toothpick), you'll have dry and cakey brownies.

Let these cool on a wire rack, still in the pan, for about two hours. Then remove from the pan, using your parchment paper pull, and cut into squares. You can put these in Tupperware and keep, or you can put them on your table and they'll disappear mysteriously.

Who wants the last brownie?

drunken roasted veggies and orzo with feta

It's good to know that I'm teachable.

After a laughable last attempt at roasted vegetables with orzo a while back, I managed to make this very simple dish just the other night, completely on the fly. No recipe. No forethought. Distracted and fairly tipsy.

And dang it was yummy the next day.

Wish I could tell you how I did it. The last thing I remember, Doc, is cutting up red peppers, onions, potatoes and garlic in a huff and throwing them into a baking dish along with olive oil, sea salt and cracked pepper. Then I went to dinner. Greek.

When we returned I went to roast those vegetable. Temperature? No idea.

I made the orzo with two parts chicken stock and a crumble of saffron. I added white wine from a bottle as I stirred, one gulp per dollop. I was in a slightly better mood by this time. Less mad, more insouciant.  The flamenco guitarist played palmas while I marked and stirred; marked and gulped.

Can't tell you how long I roasted the veggies. Not clear on why or when I thought the orzo might be ready. When it was all said and done I scooped it all out into separate containers and put them in the fridge, as I wasn't hungry.

Forgot about the whole thing until the next day lunch, when I screwed up my courage and tried the contents of containers no. 1 and 2. Zapped lightly in the microwave. Add feta. A pinch of salt and pepper (I'm trying to be more aggressive with my seasonings) and it was a lunch impressive enough to blog about.

It sort of made my week. This idea that I could make something like orzo with no recipe and only a third of my normal faculties. Maybe my experimenting and reading about these things is sinking in. Or maybe it was just dumb luck. Any insights would be appreciated.