As promised in my August newsletter, here's my mom's recipe for roasted tilapia with spinach and tomatoes. We had a few bottles of wine with this, one of which was the 2002 Albert Bichot Santenay, which is great pinot for the money. The white we had was the 2003 Tete Blanche Chenin Blanc from South Africa. I know I've expressed my deep love for this wine in the past, but indulge me once more, won't you? The texture and sweetness here play right on the edge of a crunchy sugary world without ever going over that line. The tropical fruit that seems like it's going to be sweet magically dries itself out in the same breath and all you're left with is a smile on your face.
Everyone say a hearty thanks to Sue for kindly sharing her recipe and contributing to our site! Thanks, mom.
2 bags spinach
1 ½ large cans diced tomatoes
3 tbsp. olive oil
6 good-sized tilapia filets
salt & pepper
thyme butter
3 tbs. softened butter
¼ c. chopped shallots
1 tbsp. fresh thyme, chopped
salt & pepper to taste
1. Wash and thoroughly dry the spinach, and place in a 9 x 13 baking dish. Drizzle with the olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and toss to coat the spinach.
2. Drain the tomatoes and arrange them on top of the spinach.
3. Thoroughly dry the tilapia filets and place them on top of the spinach and tomatoes. (If the tilapia is not thoroughly dried, the thyme butter won't stick.)
4. For the thyme butter, mix all the ingredients to combine, and spread it evenly on top of the fillets.
5. Cover with foil, and bake for 8 minutes in a 425-degree oven. Remove the foil, increase the oven to "broil", and broil the filets for 5
minutes.
6. Serve over white or brown rice.
A note from mom:
"The best thing about this recipe, I think, is that you can prepare it in the morning, refrigerate it, and you're done for the day! You can also make the rice while you're preparing the fish, cover it tightly, and reheat it in the microwave as the fish is cooking later.
You can also prepare this in individual gratin dishes (which I did once because one guest that night didn't like tomatoes)."
Can't argue with that.
©2007 Alex Meier-Tomkins/Pine Street Kitchen
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Janina Makes Ravioli
I'm happy to report that it is clear that neither I nor my wife has lost the bug of Italian cooking. I came home last night to a wonderful dinner of spinach-stuffed ravioli in a simple, but dangerously tasty, cream and garlic sauce. Once again, a shorter list of ingredients produced an inexplicably more complex sauce, with a sublime texture in which the richness was perfectly balanced by a dash of olive oil, a squeeze of a quarter of a lemon, and a small pile of basil. As I mention in the recipe, the cream may break right when you add the lemon, but a little simmering and stirring will bring everything back together nicely.
Janina grew up in a household of cooks just as I did. Her experience was a bit different, though, as her family emigrated here from the Phillipines in the early 1970's. While I watched and joined my parents mincing garlic, stirring pasta, rolling pie crusts and tossing apple chunks with lemon juice and cinnamon, assembling vegetarian pizzas, roasting legs of lamb with Yorkshire pudding (for Dad's birthday only), and dressing chicken breasts with Dijon mustard and cream; she sat with her grandmothers as they shaved coconut on an ancient grater for dishes both sweet and savory, braised bits of pork in a broth packed with ginger and fish sauce and bok choy, and seared thin, pounded strips of skirt steak that had been marinated in soy sauce and garlic. She helped her mother roll lumpia (Filipino spring rolls) and she scooped out the sweet, perfumed flesh of Manila mangoes.
It is no surprise, then, that a love of food, an almost innate sense of how to cook it, and a developed sense of the development of ingredients' flavors would have followed her through her life. And while I do too often hog the kitchen, I relinquish control of that room to my delight every time. And so we come back to the ravioli. Like me, Janina tends to not measure her ingredients or, for that matter, even remember exactly what she used to make a dish after she becomes inspired. But for the sake of the cooking public, she was kind enough to commit this one to memory. This recipe fed the two of us, so increase quanities as you see fit.
Ten ravioli (any good-quality frozen variety will work just fine)
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
½ cup heavy cream
juice and zest from 1/2 lemon
Ten basil leaves, roughly chopped or torn
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Drop the ravioli into the boiling water along with a hefty pinch of kosher salt. While the ravioli are cooking, heat the olive oil in a saute pan over low heat. Add the garlic and cook very gently for a few minutes, until the garlic becomes very fragrant but doesn't turn brown at all. Add the cream, raise the heat to medium, and bring to a simmer. Add the lemon zest and juice and stir well to combine. (The cream may break at the addition of the lemon juice, but will come back together with some stirring and simmering). Add half the basil along with a nice pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper.
When the ravioli are done they'll float to the surface of the water. Drain the ravioli well and add them to the sauce to coat on both sides. Plate the ravioli, spooning over any remaining sauce, sprinkle over the remaining basil, along with a drizzle of olive oil. Freshly grated Parmigiano over top of everything is always nice.
Janina grew up in a household of cooks just as I did. Her experience was a bit different, though, as her family emigrated here from the Phillipines in the early 1970's. While I watched and joined my parents mincing garlic, stirring pasta, rolling pie crusts and tossing apple chunks with lemon juice and cinnamon, assembling vegetarian pizzas, roasting legs of lamb with Yorkshire pudding (for Dad's birthday only), and dressing chicken breasts with Dijon mustard and cream; she sat with her grandmothers as they shaved coconut on an ancient grater for dishes both sweet and savory, braised bits of pork in a broth packed with ginger and fish sauce and bok choy, and seared thin, pounded strips of skirt steak that had been marinated in soy sauce and garlic. She helped her mother roll lumpia (Filipino spring rolls) and she scooped out the sweet, perfumed flesh of Manila mangoes.
It is no surprise, then, that a love of food, an almost innate sense of how to cook it, and a developed sense of the development of ingredients' flavors would have followed her through her life. And while I do too often hog the kitchen, I relinquish control of that room to my delight every time. And so we come back to the ravioli. Like me, Janina tends to not measure her ingredients or, for that matter, even remember exactly what she used to make a dish after she becomes inspired. But for the sake of the cooking public, she was kind enough to commit this one to memory. This recipe fed the two of us, so increase quanities as you see fit.
Ten ravioli (any good-quality frozen variety will work just fine)
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
½ cup heavy cream
juice and zest from 1/2 lemon
Ten basil leaves, roughly chopped or torn
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Drop the ravioli into the boiling water along with a hefty pinch of kosher salt. While the ravioli are cooking, heat the olive oil in a saute pan over low heat. Add the garlic and cook very gently for a few minutes, until the garlic becomes very fragrant but doesn't turn brown at all. Add the cream, raise the heat to medium, and bring to a simmer. Add the lemon zest and juice and stir well to combine. (The cream may break at the addition of the lemon juice, but will come back together with some stirring and simmering). Add half the basil along with a nice pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper.
When the ravioli are done they'll float to the surface of the water. Drain the ravioli well and add them to the sauce to coat on both sides. Plate the ravioli, spooning over any remaining sauce, sprinkle over the remaining basil, along with a drizzle of olive oil. Freshly grated Parmigiano over top of everything is always nice.
©2007 Alex Meier-Tomkins/Pine Street Kitchen
Honeymooning in Italy
I am still reeling from the unbelievable experiences that my wife Janina and I had in Tuscany and Umbria during the first two weeks of June. What a perfect time to visit - 80's and blue skies every day we were there, and the throngs of tourists hadn't arrived in full force.
Even though the crowds hadn't yet applied their force, or perhaps because of it, the cities and hill towns we visited were alive with the energy of summertime. Smiling, happily sated visitors crowded every table at lunch in Florence. Enthusiastic growers at tiny wineries eagerly showed us their vineyards and winemaking facilities. Family-run restaurants in the small towns were riding high on the energy they need to make it through the busy season, and they piled our plates high with the freshest of foods straight from their friends' farms. Markets teemed with fresh produce and meats and cheese.
I ate this pasta at Ristorante da Mimmo on Via San Gallo in Florence, and it was so clean and almost refreshing that I had to rifle through the garden upon returning home! Eat this as a light first course, and whatever you do, resist the urge to shower this with cheese; the subtle, floral nature of the blossoms will get totally drowned out. A judicious drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, on the other hand, would be quite welcome right before serving.
1 package (8-10 oz) egg fettucine
3 tablespoons butter
1 medium white onion, minced
½ cup chicken or vegetable stock, preferably homemade
10-15 large squash or zucchini blossoms, roughly chopped
Large handful fresh parsley, minced
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the pasta to the water along with a hefty pinch of salt. While the pasta is cooking, melt the butter over medium heat and add the onions. Cook the onions with a little pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper until the onions are quite soft and golden. Add the stock and bring to a simmer and reduce the stock by half.
Drain the pasta when it is just a little less than al dente. Add the pasta to the pan and toss in the stock until the stock is absorbed into the pasta. Add the parsely and the flowers, along with salt and pepper to taste, toss quickly, and serve. As I said before, a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil over top right before serving works wonders!
Even though the crowds hadn't yet applied their force, or perhaps because of it, the cities and hill towns we visited were alive with the energy of summertime. Smiling, happily sated visitors crowded every table at lunch in Florence. Enthusiastic growers at tiny wineries eagerly showed us their vineyards and winemaking facilities. Family-run restaurants in the small towns were riding high on the energy they need to make it through the busy season, and they piled our plates high with the freshest of foods straight from their friends' farms. Markets teemed with fresh produce and meats and cheese.
Above you can see the vibrant colors of Florence and the smiles this city elicits. The food is solidly Tuscan, meaning that it focuses on the produce and even more heavily on high quality meat. Florentine steak is a mainstay, though we saw more pork on every menu than we could have possibly imagined (see Montalcino later on), and the lamb was pretty darn good, too. Speaking of lamb, my first dinner in Italy had a main course of lamb roulade with artichokes. I barely noticed the artichokes when the plate arrived, the lamb having been roasted to full doneness as was often the case. A few bites, however, revealed tender artichoke hearts hiding out, flecked with bits of chopped fresh rosemary. This was the whole dish, just the lamb, artichokes, and rosemary, dressed with a generous swath of olive oil, and it typified the beautiful simplicity of so much of the food.
I was thinking about all these good things while walking around in our garden this afternoon. I peered at the summer squash vines, their huge green leaves weaving a blanket through which tiny bursts of bright yellow-orange could be spied. These squash blossoms (flowers) will last a few more weeks, and culling a few handfuls for the following pasta recipe will hardly put a dent in your squash or zucchini harvest. Rinse the flowers well to remove most of the pollen and any bugs, and remove the stamen before chopping them.
I ate this pasta at Ristorante da Mimmo on Via San Gallo in Florence, and it was so clean and almost refreshing that I had to rifle through the garden upon returning home! Eat this as a light first course, and whatever you do, resist the urge to shower this with cheese; the subtle, floral nature of the blossoms will get totally drowned out. A judicious drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, on the other hand, would be quite welcome right before serving.
1 package (8-10 oz) egg fettucine
3 tablespoons butter
1 medium white onion, minced
½ cup chicken or vegetable stock, preferably homemade
10-15 large squash or zucchini blossoms, roughly chopped
Large handful fresh parsley, minced
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the pasta to the water along with a hefty pinch of salt. While the pasta is cooking, melt the butter over medium heat and add the onions. Cook the onions with a little pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper until the onions are quite soft and golden. Add the stock and bring to a simmer and reduce the stock by half.
Drain the pasta when it is just a little less than al dente. Add the pasta to the pan and toss in the stock until the stock is absorbed into the pasta. Add the parsely and the flowers, along with salt and pepper to taste, toss quickly, and serve. As I said before, a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil over top right before serving works wonders!
©2007 Alex Meier-Tomkins/Pine Street Kitchen
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