The Artichoke Heart of the Matter

Is this artichoke not a thing of beauty? It's from the estimable Catherine, one of my fellow volunteer instructors at Common Threads. She's working on perfecting her artichoke for an upcoming exam and was kitchen-testing a couple. She gave me one.

"I know you like vegetables," she said, shyly. I do. And I was quite undone that she remembered as much and thought of me.

Okay, it's an artichoke, not an annuity, but it touched me just the same. In these difficult days, the gift of a lovingly prepared artichoke can lift the heart (pardon the pun). Joy is not too much to ask of a vegetable. When food is prepared with care, "there's a communion that's very important -- it really is a sacrament," says John Ash, to whom I turn not just for kitchen technique but for culinary reverence.

Reverence is nothing I'm especially good at, but John (www.chefjohnash.com) is a wonderful teacher. After all, he was last year's Cooking Teacher of the Year, so named by the International Association of Culinary Professionals. Prior to that, cheffing at John Ash & Co. and the Vintner's Inn, he defined wine country cuisine.

John can teach you the perfect way to trim an artichoke, but to me, his real gift is in honoring food, not tarting it up to hell. So-called chef reality shows have their fans, but John says, "The chef's role is not to be the star. The chef's role is to be the stage manager. The stars are the wonderful ingredients we have available to us. Our job is to position them and get out of the way."

With a star like an artichoke, what more do you need? It's excellent for detox, high in fiber, vitamin C, folate, magnesium and potassium. It's low in calories -- about 60 for an artichoke as big as your head. It is a true flower, kin to the thistle and sunflower. An artichoke requires a bit of effort and commitment. It does not invite a casual snarfing. As you eat the goodness from each petal-like leaf, there is a peeling away, a deflowering, if you will. Buried beneath its forbidding choke lurks its delicious center, its heart. In that way, it is much like the rest of us. We hide what is tender and precious beneath a bristly exterior.

But not always. Though Catherine's artichoke looked like nature's perfect flower, she had, as I discovered, magically dechoked it. You could get straight to the heart of it. It provided joy, a bit of a life lesson and, with this roasted red pepper dip, a fantastic dinner.

Reverent Red Pepper Dip

3 roasted red peppers (the jarred kind are fine)

3 tablespoons olive oil

3 garlic cloves

1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika

juice of 1 lemon

1 15-ounce can white beans, rinsed and drained to decrease the sodium

1 large handful of fresh basil leaves

sea salt to taste

Throw everything in the food processor or blender. Give it a whirl until smooth and creamy -- a minute tops. It's the perfect artichoke accessory. Also good with other vegetables and slathered on multigrain toast.

Makes 2 cups, serving 6.

Talking With Your Mouth Full

The Common Threads kids worked pasta dough by hand, raising clouds of flour.  They cranked the dough through the pasta maker, catching waves of fresh-cut fettucini emerging from the other end. They grated a blizzard of Parmesan as the sauce Bolognaise simmered. and would have kept going had they not worked a significant block of cheese down to a nub.  Italy Day at Common Threads and the kids were in the Zone.

While they'd enjoyed making Turkish and Thai food, tabbouleh and pad Thai were new to them. Italian food they knew, Italian food they loved.  Making noodles and meat sauce themselves doubled their delight.

But the pleasure in the making was nothing compared to the pleasure in eating.  Sauce streaked their faces, their mouths erupted with noodles, forks were forsaken in favor of fingers. Caught up in eating and talking at once, they gargled and gurgled and giggled. As the kids departed, dazed and grinning, the Common Threads coordinator muttered a note to herself -- "Table manners."

Well, yeah, in the words of Cole Porter, it ain't etiquette.  As one girl chattered on despite her mouth bulging with fettucini, I almost said something, but didn't want to be the etiquette police.  And I didn't want to break the spell, sloppy and unlovely as it might be.

Alex Kapranos, the pretty lead singer of Franz Ferdinand once told me, "The conversation you have over a meal far outshines something you'd have at a party or bar.  Some of our most romantic experiences, our most social experiences, happen over meals.  You have to talk to each other, you want to talk."

Personally, I have trouble talking and eating at the same time.  But watching the kids yesterday makes me think it's time to learn.  Marching about in the carapace of adulthood, I forget about the whole sensual delight of eating.  Yes, there's the spectacular taste of food -- a truffle omelet in Paris from my pre-vegan past stands out in muscular memory -- but there's the whole tactile full-body experience, as well.  

An apocryphal story I like has an Englishwoman in Bombay admonishing an Indian gentleman for eating with his fingers.  "We eat with silverware," she said, and you can imagine her superior tone, her pursed lips.  "Madame," he replied, "it would be like having sex through a sheet."

I'm not advocating a ban on table manners, for myself or anyone (Alex K, may I add, is a very tidy eater).  Social nicities can be learned.  Joy can't be.  Nor can it be faked.  These kids have plenty of deadly dinners with coworkers ahead of them, many dull family gatherings.  We all do. Neatness counts.  But sometimes, giving yourself over to the moment and the meal counts more.

Here's a marinara that's heavy on the veggies, light on the effort.  Chop your vegetables fine if you're of a refined nature.  Personally, I like a chunky sauce, one that's not afraid to tell you what it is.

Serve with your favorite pasta.  Eat with abandon.  Wipe your mouth.  Swallow before you speak.

Very Veggie Pasta Sauce

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion, chopped

1 red pepper, chopped

1 jalapeno, chopped (I used a tabasco from my garden, but a jalapeno works fine)

6 cloves garlic, chopped

1 zucchini or yellow squash, chopped

8 ounces mushrooms, sliced

1 rib celery, chopped

28 ounces diced tomatoes

1/2 cup red wine

2 bay leaves 

1 big bunch basil, chopped or torn

1 bunch Italian parsley, chopped or torn

sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

In a large soup pot, heat the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the chopped onion, red pepper, jalapeno, garlic, zucchini, mushrooms and celery.  Saute until vegtables are softened, about 12 to 15 minutes, stirring frequently.

Add diced tomatoes, red wine and bay leaves. Stir well and reduce heat to low.  Cover pot and let simmer for 30 minutes.  

Fish out the bay leaves, add chopped basil and parsley.  Stir well, salt and pepper to taste. Serve over pasta.

Serves 6 to 8.  Keeps for days in the fridge, freezes beautifully

Coming up next -- the (artichoke) heart of the matter.

 

Scar Lover

We were in the weeds, a kitchen term meaning we'd fallen woefully behind.  All the Common Threads kids had. Their bus was leaving in 10 minutes, they hadn't finished making the spring roll filling and were closing in on panic.  It was then we sustained our first injury.  Rudy II in my group (there are two Rudys, Rudy I and Rudy II -- what are the odds?) had a grating incident. There was blood.

A bandaid on his finger and he was fine.  I mean, look at him.  Me?  I couldn't sleep that night, thinking we'd hurried the kids too much, I should have been watching Rudy II when I was helping Rudy I, we'd broken our no-injury pact, Rudy II would never come back and why should he, I was a rotten instructor and all good had gone from the world.  

There's a little neuroscience behind this.  Three a.m., when I tend to be awake and fretful, is when one of your really good neurotransmitters, the one that helps you cope -- serotonin? tryptophan? -- is down to the dregs.  If you can tough it out until daylight, your brain starts up production again and things tend to look a little better.

And so, come morning, they did.  The truth is, cuts and burns are badges of honor in the kitchen.  You know a real chef by his hands.  They don't feel human.  They're scarred over, petrified.  And injury can extend well beyond hands.  Gordon Ramsay has flambeed his testicles.  Semipros and home cooks get battle scars, too, though perhaps less spectacular ones.  I've got a burn on my left hand from a pan of sage-roasted squash with walnuts.  My wonderful friend Tony was so taken by Jamie Oliver's easy, chatty manner on the telly, he, too, began talking and chopping away and oops, had dinner preempted by a trip to the emergency room.  My Greek friend Dimitra shows off her injuries like they're jewelry. "This is from spanokopita," she says, pointing to a crescent-shaped burn on her wrist.  "Loukemades," she says, pointing to a constellation of tiny burns from spattered oil.  

Tony healed long ago, Dimitra, Rudy II and I are well on our way.  But there'll be more injuries as long as we want to cook, which I hope we always will.  We will not be defeated by dinner.  By our injuries so shall we be known, so shall we be forged. And our scars, as Harry Crews reminds us in his 1992 novel Scar Lover, make us beloved and beautiful.  

Just the same, keep a first aid kit handy and use a food processor rather than a box grater for the cabbage and carrots when you make:

 Thai Confetti with Basil and Mint

For the wok sauce:

4 tablespoons toasted sesame oil 

4 tablespoons light soy sauce

4 tablespoons fresh lime juice 

2 tablespoons chopped scallions

1 tablespoon light brown sugar

1 teaspoon chopped fresh chili or 1 tablespoon Asian chili-garlic sauce

For the vegetable-tofu confetti:

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 cup mushrooms, sliced thin

2 scallions, sliced thin

2 carrots, shredded

2 red peppers, julienned

1/2 cabbage, shredded (about 3 cups)

8 ounces firm tofu (1/2 package), drained well and diced

1/2 cup chopped or torn mint leaves, plus additional for garnish

1/2 cup chopped or torn basil leaves, plus additional for garnish

handful of chopped peanuts for garnish

Combine all the sauce ingredients in a small bowl.  Stir to dissolve sugar.  Set aside.

In a wok or large skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat.  Add garlic, mushrooms, scallions, carrots, peppers and cabbage.  Stir well to coat.  Add sauce and tofu.  Reduce heat to medium. Cook, stirring constantly, until vegetables are crisp-tender and sauce is absorbed, about 3 minutes.  Fold in chopped mint and basil.  

Serve topped with chopped peanuts and additional fresh herbs.

Serves 4.

Songs of Innocence and Experience

Michelle Bernstein, James Beard Award-winning chef and foodie darling, moves in the kitchen like the ballet dancer she once was.  This cannot be said of my guys Rudy, Robert, Stefan and Yvan, or indeed any of the kids participating in Common Threads.  

A national nonprofit program begun in 2003 by Oprah chef Art Smith, Common Threads pairs kids from Title 1 schools with chefs (fancy pros like Michy and semipro-to-eager-amateurs like me).  Michelle provides inspiration a little cooking demo.  Volunteer chefs work with children, ages eight to 12, and make sure when they chop onions, they don't chop fingers, too. The kids learn how to cook, but they also learn nutrition basics and global awareness by making -- and eating -- cuisine from all over the world.  

I'd signed up for Common Threads because I believe in community service and believe in the importance of our connection to food, yadayada.  I did not think it would be so incredibly fun. 

Fun has not been on the menu so much lately.  The economy?  Pakistan?  Korea?  Afghanistan? Let's not even go there.  Closer to home, many people I love are struggling.  We all are.  I want us all to get through it the best we can.  In fact, I'd rather we were already out the other end. You know some people rhapsodize about the Journey?  I just want to friggin' get there. But maybe that's wrong.

The Common Threads kids may not have the grace that comes of knowing their way around the kitchen, but they've taught me, jaded me, there can be joy in discovery -- joy in discovering how to cut corn off the cob, delight in tasting tahini for the first time. It is very much like falling in love.  And it is contagious.  I like to have the kids sniff each spice, sample each unfamiliar ingredient before we add it to the mix.  

After our class had Turkey Day (the country, not the bird) Yvan, who'd never had a chickpea, became a convert. Judy said she could eat tabbouleh every day.  These things do my veggie heart good.  I want these kids to see how delicious food can be, am grateful they've reminded me life can taste pretty good, too.  I want to keep that joy going -- for all of us.

Spinach Salad With Tahini and Yogurt

Here's an easy Turkish-inspired composed salad with (mostly) familiar ingredients that come together in ways surprising ways. There's interplay between flavors and textures, with crunch, creaminess, tang, spice and sweetness, the comfort of what you know and the thrill of discovery.  

1pound fresh flat-leaf spinach

1 cup chickpeas, rinsed and drained

1/2 cup pomegranate seeds (or dried cranberries)

1/2 cup pine nuts

For tahini-yogurt dressing:

3 cups plain yogurt (nonfat is fine)

1/2 cup tahini

1 teaspoon cumin

1-1/2 teaspoon minced garlic

1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika

sea salt and pepper to taste

In a large bowl, mix all ingredients for dressing until thick and creamy.  Set aside.  

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  

Place pine nuts in a small oven-proof baking dish and toast for 8 to 10 minutes, until golden and fragrant.  Give them a stir at least once during baking time. 

Place spinach on a large platter or shallow bowl.  Scatter with chickpeas, pine nuts and pomagranate seeds.  Drizzle some of the dressing on top (there will be more than enough).  Go for visual appeal -- channel your inner Jackson Pollock.  The idea is not a thoroughly tossed salad, but one where the separate flavors get to peak through at will. 

Serves 6.

Any leftover dressing keeps refrigerated in an airtight container for several days.