Okonomiyaki

I don't want to scare you away, so let's start with a picture, shall we? 

Riiiight? I promise: this tastes just like it looks: like it's not 90% cabbage. It's as if cabbage isn't even there. Maybe you're a cabbage lover, in which case I don't even need to try to convince you. Chances are, though, if someone gave you a recipe for pancakes or pizza made up almost entirely of cabbage, you'd run away. Well, okay. You're polite, so you'd probably feign some interest and then chuck the recipe.

Maybe it's just me, but I really think that this is precisely the sort of thing that deserves to be judged only after it's been tasted. Honestly, I never would have made this, had it not been for my younger sister. While I do believe that it's always good form to taste something before passing judgement on it, I must also admit that I filter what appears on our dinner table ... meaning: I read a recipe and imagine how it would taste; if at any point I grimace, chances are pretty high that it's not going to be making an appearance.

This brings us back to these cabbage-centric pancakes and my younger sister, who made them for me when we saw each other last summer. "They're soooo goooooood," she gushed. "Trust me!" And, of course, being the wonderful big sister that I am, I humored her and went along with it. (I'm only saying that because I know she's reading this!) Jokes aside, I really am glad she made them, because, well, after I took my first bite, I realized that she wasn't kidding. They are sooooo gooooood. Trust me!

 

Native to Japan, this dish is known as okonomiyaki. It is a combination of 2 words: "okonomi"- "what you like/want", and "yaki" - "grilled/cooked". I've never been to Japan and I'm not an expert on Japanese cuisine, so I'm not making any claims to authenticity, but it does strike me that the name really is quite apt. You always start off with a base of flour and cabbage (with a few other things like water or dashi stock, and nagaimo, if you have access to it), but after that it seems you can throw practically anything you want in it: shrimp, octopus, sliced pork, grated vegetables, cheese, to name a few. Oknomiyaki is also known as Japanese pancakes or Japanese pizza, and I guess that works too, because they do take the form of a savoury pancake and they do behave a little like pizza (you know, top it "okonomi-style").

My sister, a big fan of Cooking With Dog, uses Dog's recipe. I didn't have many of the ingredients, though, and I wanted to come up with a recipe that would call for the staples I normally have in my pantry (plus a special trip for cabbage). Again, this probably isn't authentic, but it's in the spirit of okonomiyaki, and we really enjoyed it. As you can see above, the batter was really not very pancake-like. It was mostly cabbage held together by flour/water/egg, with some green onions and shrimp.(Again, note to cabbage non-lovers: something magical happens when these are cooked that makes them very un-cabbage-y, so take a leap of faith here!)

Okonomiyaki would not be okonomiyaki without toppings. Japanese mayonnaise and okonomiyaki sauce (I didn't have that but I always have tonkatsu sauce, so I substituted) are common. Traditionally I think some dancing bonito flakes also make an appearance, but again, I don't normally have that in my pantry, so our pancakes did not put on a show for us. Shucks. Some recipes cook the pancakes with sliced pork belly, but since we like bacon around here I decided to crisp up some bits and sprinkle those on instead. 

So there you have it: okonomiyaki! (Don't you just love Japanese words?) And ... cabbage? I'm sorry I ever doubted you. You do rock!

(My take on) Okonomiyaki 

If desired, brown in a nonstick skillet until crisp: 

  2-3 slices bacon, diced 

Set the bacon aside on paper towels to drain. Drain the rendered bacon fat off the skillet and reserve skillet for making the pancakes. 

In a medium bowl, whisk together: 

  ¾ cup unbleached all purpose flour 

  ½ tsp baking powder 

  ⅜ tsp salt 

  a few grinds of pepper (optional) 

Add and stir a few times with a rubber spatula to combine roughly (it will be very thick and clumpy; do not try to combine thoroughly): 

  scant ½ cup water, at room temperature (or dashi stock)

  1 egg 

Fold in, until evenly coated with the flour "batter", taking care not to overmix: 

  2½ cups finely chopped green cabbage 

    (8 ounces of cabbage will be more than enough) 

  2 scallions, white part only, sliced finely (reserve the green parts for topping) 

  4 ounces raw shrimp, cut into small bite-sized pieces 

To make individual pancakes, heat about 1-2 teaspoons of vegetable oil (or some reserved bacon fat? just saying ...) in a nonstick skillet over medium heat. Scoop out about a half cup of the cabbage mixture into the skillet. Flatten it to form a pancake about 4-5" in diameter (a bit less than ½" thick). Give the pancake 3-5 minutes to brown. Control the heat so that it does not brown too fast, as the cabbage needs a bit of time to cook. Flip the pancake and cook for another 5 minutes or so, until that side has browned as well. Transfer to a wire rack, blotting any clinging oil with paper towels. Repeat another 4 times for the remaining batter, using a teaspoon or two of oil for each pancake.

To serve, place a pancake on a plate. Top with: 

  tonkatsu sauce 

  Japanese mayonnaise 

  bacon bits 

  sliced green onions 

  toasted sesame seeds 

Serve immediately. Makes 5 4-5" pancakes. I find that this is really filling, and 1 pancake is a satisfying serving portion; my husband has a bigger appetite and prefers 2.

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Scallion pancakes

Did you know that scallions and green onions aren't exactly the same thing? I thought that 'scallion' was just a highfalutin way to say 'green onion', and word-perception aside, I think a lot of cooks would agree that scallions = green onions = those green straw-like leaves with little white bulbs (typically sold in bunches, often held together at the ends by 2 thin blue rubber bands, for 30-50 cents a bunch).

However, the other day I was at my favourite grocery store and in their fresh produce aisle, right above a huge pile of beautiful green onions, was a little poster explaining that scallions aren't green onions. That was a first ... maybe I've been hanging out at all the wrong circles, but I'd always heard that green onions are scallions. 

Anyway, a bit of quality time in cyberspace did confirm that there is indeed a difference. To sum it up, scallions are young green onions: they are slightly milder in taste and more slender in shape, with no hint of a bulb. Subtleties aside, I think they are often used interchangeably in cooking, and probably all but the most discerning palates wouldn't take offense.

On many dinner tables, scallions/green onions often appear in a supporting role, added in small quantities for a bit of an Asian kick, or sprinkled over a dish as garnish. In scallion pancakes, though, they step to the forefront - but fear not: the allium flavour is quite mild, definitely nowhere near incendiary.

I'd never made scallion pancakes before, and what I found most intriguing was how these pancakes are formed. You start off with a small ball of dough, roll it out into a disc, sprinkle chopped scallions over it, roll it up, coil it, and roll it out again. It sounds fussy, but it actually goes pretty quickly. 

 

All that rolling helps create a pancake with layers, and after a brief encounter with some hot oil, what you end up with is a crispy crust and a tender, slightly chewy, layered interior. A cross between pancake and flatbread, these are particularly tasty when dipped in sauce. Some people serve these as a side dish and use it to sop up little puddles of sauce left on their plate; others serve it as an appetizer or a snack with sauce on the side.  

As for the whole scallion vs. green onion issue ... for my purposes, toh-may-toh, toh-mah-toh, or something like that: I made these scallion pancakes using green onions, and they turned out just fine.
 

Scallion Pancakes and Scallion Dipping Sauce

Adapted from The Cook's Illustrated Cookbook

This recipe serves 4 to 6 as an appetizer, snack, or side.

Whisk in a medium bowl:
  1½ cups all purpose flour
  1 tsp salt

Add:
  ½ cup water, at room temperature

Using either a fork or your fingers, combine the flour and water. This is not meant to be a wet dough, but if the dough is having trouble coming together, add more water a teaspoon at a time. 

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured flat surface and knead it for about 5 minutes, until smooth. Brush the dough with a bit of vegetable oil, and let it rest at room temperature, covered, for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, mince to yield about ½ cup:
  6 scallions (or green onions)

Divide the dough into 4. Working on one piece at a time, while keeping the others covered to prevent drying, roll one of the dough quarters into a disc about 7" in diameter.

Brush each disc with:
  ½ tsp toasted sesame oil (2 tsp sesame oil total) 

Sprinkle with:
  2 Tbsp of the scallions minced earlier (½ cup scallions total)
  1½ tsp chopped cilantro (2 Tbsp chopped cilantro total)
    (I think the cilantro is optional - I skipped it because I'm not a fan) 

Roll the dough, like a cigarette, then coil it into a spiral, tucking the tail end underneath. Roll this out to about ¼" thick (to get a disc about 5" across). Set aside and cover, while you roll out the remaining dough pieces. (See the step-by-step pictures above).

Fry 1 pancake at a time, in a nonstick skillet over medium heat, using about 1 Tbsp vegetable oil per pancake, until golden brown on each side, 1½ - 2 minutes per side.

Transfer pancake to a chopping board and tent loosely with foil while you cook the others. Slice into wedges and serve, preferably with scallion dipping sauce (below).

Scallion Dipping Sauce

This can be prepared a day in advance and stored in the refrigerator. 

Combine in a bowl: 
  ¼ cup soy sauce
  2 Tbsp rice vinegar
  2 Tbsp mirin (rice wine)
  2 Tbsp water
  1 tsp chili oil (optional)
  ½ tsp toasted sesame oil
  1 scallion, minced

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Fresh pineapple cake

Every weekday morning almost always starts the same: my husband wakes me up, I ask him what time it is, and I fall back asleep, knowing that 5 minutes later my little snooze alarm will tiptoe up to my side of the bed and say, "Hi Mommy. I'm going to brush my teeth and then I'll see you downstairs, okay?" 

It wasn't always like this. There was a long stretch of time when my alarm clock really was an alarm clock, purposely placed far away from my bed so that I wouldn't use the snooze button. Then came a time when my alarm clock was the crying of an infant, wanting to be fed or changed or cuddled ... and then the cooing of a wide-eyed baby at the colourful mobile floating above his crib ... and then the smiling face of a little monkey of a toddler who couldn't wait to start his day and had hoisted himself over the rails of his crib. (Actually, that last version was a tad too effective as a wake up call, and definitely not the way I would recommend discovering that your child is ready for a bed!) 

I've always thrived on routine, and being a parent has presented me with the constant challenge of finding routine in a life that is changing all the time. 

I should have said, then, that every weekday morning almost always starts the same, for now. I find my way downstairs, in the dark. It's still winter, but already I feel that spring must be right around the corner. When I looked outside the kitchen window today, I could see the outline of the trees and bushes in our backyard. A few weeks ago I would look out the kitchen window and see darkness, with very little besides: only faint patches of light from kitchen windows of other houses, mostly those with school-age children dwelling within ... in the stillness of the early morning, the neighbouring lit windows prompting a fleeting quiet thought that all over the world so many of us start our days tending to our little ones. 

  

Then it begins. Breakfast is laid out for the second grader: always a glass of milk and some fresh fruit, and then, often plain yogurt, sometimes toast, other times cheese. He eats while I pack lunches, each of us keeping the other company until we are both finally fully awake. 

Some nights ago, before going to bed, he told me that they had reached a milestone in school: 100 days of school, done! And to that he added, "That means that I went 100 days without eating a school lunch. You've made 100 lunches for me this year." The next morning, he found a slice of pineapple cake waiting for him for breakfast: a treat. A hundred days of school for him, a hundred days of routine for me. It was time for something a little - just a little - different.

Fresh Pineapple Cake

Adapted from Baking for All Occasions

The original recipe is actually "Fresh Pineapple Crumble Cake" - basically the cake pictured above, but with bigger chunks of pineapple, and topped with streusel. I skip the streusel, and we love the cake anyway. Without the streusel, the crust that forms on top is slightly thick, similar to the crust you would encounter in banana bread or pound cake, and the cake itself is slightly sweet and nutty, not at all dry, with little bursts of juicy pineapple that have become just a tiny bit chewy from the heat of the oven. (The batter is thick so the fruit doesn't all sink to the bottom, although it may seem that way from the pictures).

This recipe first caught my eye because it calls for a cup and a half of pineapple - most pineapple cake recipes use just a quarter cup, or a half cup of the fruit, and I find it's hardly worth calling a cake "pineapple cake" if there is barely any pineapple in it. This one, on the other hand, does have a good amount in it - definitely enough to merit its name!

Preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter, flour, and line a 9"x2" round cake pan.

Cut into chunks, and then set on paper towels to absorb some of the juice:

  9.5 ounces fresh pineapple 

    (to yield 1½ cups, or 38 medium-sized chunks, or many ½" chunks)

Finely grind:

  3 ounces (½ cup + 2 Tbsp) whole hazelnuts

    (to yield 1 cup finely ground hazelnuts)

Sift together:

  6.75 ounces (1½ cups) all purpose flour

  1 tsp baking powder

  ¼ tsp salt

Add the ground hazelnuts to the flour mixture.

In another bowl, beat on medium speed with an electric mixer until smooth and creamy:

  8 ounces (1 cup) unsalted butter

While beating, add in a slow, steady stream and continue to beat until fluffy (2-3 minutes):

  7 ounces (1 cup) granulated sugar

Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, lightly beat with a fork:

  3 large eggs

Slowly add the lightly beaten eggs into the butter, about 3 tablespoons at a time, beating well after each addition. 

Add:

  1 tsp vanilla extract

Adjust the mixer speed to the lowest setting and gradually add the flour/nut mixture, beating until just incorporated.

At this point, I fold in the small pineapple chunks, using a rubber spatula, and then I scoop the batter into the cake pan. (The original recipe does it differently - place half the batter in the pan, scatter half the pineapple chunks over it, spoon the remaining batter over the pineapple, and press the remaining half of the pineapple chunks over that.)

Bake the cake until it is golden on top, springs back when gently pressed in the centre, and a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean. The recipe indicates a baking time of 43-45 minutes; in my oven in takes around 55 minutes.

Transfer to a wire rack and cool for 10 minutes. Remove cake from pan and place directly on wire rack to cool completely. 

This cake freezes well. Let it come to room temperature before serving.

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Tuiles

I tried something new yesterday: I made cigarettes! Noooooo, not those cigaretttes ... these cigarettes:

I've always been fascinated by this kind of cookie. It starts out as a spreadable batter that is baked for only a few minutes. The resulting cookie is very soft when hot, but quickly cools to a crisp. It's very malleable straight out of the oven, and can be draped over a cylinder to form a Pringle-like wafer, or over a bowl to form a, well, a bowl. It can also be rolled into a tube.

I think this type of cookie is most commonly known as a tuile. Tuile is the French word for tile, and the cookies are so named because in their classic form they resemble the terra cotta roof tiles seen in the south of France (and elsewhere).

They are not terribly hard to make, but you do need to put your speedy hat on. Because the cookies cool quite quickly and can only be shaped while still hot, it's wise to make only a few (6 to 9) at a time. Also, while not absolutely necessary, I think it helps to have what my husband calls "asbestos hands", or hands that can tolerate heat. 

 

The cookies taste very elegant, somehow. I sit up straighter when I'm having them: they have a refined air about them, like they're something you would have alongside a cup of tea, with a dainty little napkin to lightly dab the corner of your mouth.  ... not that you need a cup of tea or anything fancy to enjoy them! They are light as air, almost, but not so delicate that they would shatter at the slightest touch. In fact, I accidentally dropped one on the floor and it didn't break (so much for being all elegant and refined). You get the point.

Would I make them again? Definitely. We love them, although my son would prefer them dipped in chocolate. He has a point. I'll keep that in mind next time.

 

Tuiles

Adapted from The Joy of Cooking

To facilitate your baking, you will need at least 2 cookie sheets, lined with parchment or a silicone baking mat. An offset spatula or two also come in handy. To shape the cookies consistently, I created a stencil for a 3" circle out of a plastic lid. The shaping can also be done freehand, if you're not into X-acto knife projects.

Preheat oven to 350ºF and set the rack in the upper third of the oven. 

Warm, stirring constantly, over very low heat until very soft but not thin and runny: 

  5 Tbsp unsalted butter 

Whisk together until very frothy (I used an electric mixer on medium high speed): 

  2 large egg whites 

  ⅛ tsp salt 

  ⅓ cup plus 1 Tbsp sugar 

  ¼ tsp almond extract 

  ¼ tsp vanilla 

    (I think you could safely omit the almond extract and double the vanilla, if you want)

If using an electric mixer, reduce speed to medium low. Gradually whisk in: 

  ½ cup sifted cake flour 

Slowly whisk in the softened butter until the mixture is well blended and smooth. 

Using a stencil for a 3" circle (I made one by cutting a circle out of a plastic lid), spread the batter with an offset spatula onto a silicone baking mat or a sheet of parchment. I would recommend baking 6 to 8 circles at a time.

Alternatively, drop the batter by spoonfuls of about half a tablespoon onto the sheets, spacing about 3 inches apart. (The original recipe warns that the wafers spread a great deal, but I did not see that happening.) Using the tip of a knife and working in a circular motion, spread each portion into a 3" round. 

If desired, sprinkle the rounds with: 

  ½ to ⅔ cup sliced almonds, coarsely chopped 

Bake 1 sheet at a time until the wafers are rimmed with half an inch of golden brown, 6 to 9 minutes. Rotate the sheet halfway through for even browning. (While one sheet is baking, prepare the next)

Remove the sheet to a rack and let stand for a few seconds. As soon as the wafers can be lifted without tearing, loosen them with a thin-bladed wide metal spatula and slide them, bottom side down, onto rolling pins or bottles to form tuiles, or roll them around a thin dowel (or pencil, or wooden spoon handle) to form tubes. 

As soon as the tuiles are firm, transfer to racks to cool.

Makes about 3 dozen 3" cookies.

Helpful notes: 

Remove the wafers one at a time, so the others remain warm and pliable. 

If some of the wafers cool too quickly to shape on the rolling pins, you can return the sheet to the oven briefly to warm and soften them. Or, you can keep them flat. That works too. 

Make sure your sheets are cool before placing the batter on them.

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Tortellini trials

I was doing some blog housekeeping and found some pictures on my Flickr photostream that I never ended up writing about.

More than a year ago, back in 2010 (like I wondered last time: where did 2011 go?!) I made tortellini. From scratch. Yes, I am crazy.

They almost made me cry. I probably didn't tell you about them because I was so traumatized. I have a lot of patience for cooking, but wow. Italian grandmothers, I salute you.

I do remember telling my husband that I'd probably tackle them again, one day. Maybe it'll get easier, the more often I make them. Ha! Homemade tortellini isn't going to be making a weekly appearance on our dinner table any time soon. Homemade pasta's already a regular, but these individually stuffed and shaped nuggets of delightfulness are a whole different beast altogether.

The pictures above show the shaping process (clockwise from top left). Multiply that by maybe 300. (I'm guesstimating here ... after all, they're tortellini, not tortelloni). At any rate, there were very, very many of them, each one barely three quarters of an inch across when done. Less than 2cm, each one. GAH! I feel a sudden urge to climb under a table, curl up into a ball, and whimper.

I'd made gyoza and potstickers and dumplings many times before, so when I thought of making tortellini I didn't expect much trouble. "Just like a potsticker, but smaller," I told myself. Well. What started out as a frolic in the meadows of HomemadeLand very quickly turned into an epic ordeal. Dinner was at least an hour and a half late that night, and although the boys said it was very good, I wanted none of it. Too much bonding already done with the little suckers.

Knowing myself though, I'll be trying these again. One day I'll conquer tortellini! Just not today.

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Pear sorbet

January seems to be a month of atonement for December's excesses, and if I were at all strategic about my posts I'd be telling you about some super magic cleanse right about now ... but here I am with pear sorbet.

I'd actually been waiting months to make this. When I went to Montreal last summer, my friend Taleen (of the guacamole fame) had me over for dinner. You already know that I would eat anything Taleen makes, without hesitation, so it comes as no surprise that everything on her table that evening was fa.bu.lous. However, I'm honing in on the pear sorbet, because I'm not terribly partial to pears or sorbet, but Taleen scooped exactly that into a little bowl, served it with a très élégante spoon and somehow got me crazy for it.

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Roasted broccoli

I was going to put together something totally different today, but while we were at church this morning, something happened that got me thinking ... and it still has me thinking now. An elderly lady collapsed in the middle of Mass, and regardless of how discreet people try to be while at church, that sort of thing inevitably gets a bit of show-stopping attention ... especially when the priest walks over to the pew and paramedics roll a stretcher down the center aisle. She seemed alright when they took her out - weak, but alright - with the pipe organ playing sort-of-quietly in the background and an entire congregation's prayers accompanying her. 

Years of Sundays, and this was the first time I ever saw something like that happen. It got me thinking about the obvious (life and mortality) and recalling the personal (my son saw 911 paramedics taking my dad to the hospital twice, a couple of summers ago). And I guess the following is on a bit of a tangent, but you know, people gawk all the time, at lots of things. We gawk at accidents that we drive by, at the news, at someone making a scene, at turtles crossing the road ... at practically anything. But it's kind of hard to gawk in a place of worship, and so this morning I think a lot of us present found that the most appropriate thing to do was pray.

After the excitement was over, I wondered: what if we pondered more and gawked less? We'd probably be a lot more effective. Every day we find something to be curious about: some things worthwhile, but most things not at all. On an every day level - because let's face it, we can't all be Socrates - a bit less nosiness (on the street, in Facebook, or anywhere else) allows us more time for what really matters: a prayer for someone who needs it, attention to something that needs to be done, time for the people we encounter, a quiet moment for ourselves to regroup. I'm not the first person to come up with that idea, but wouldn't that be nice?

Roasted Broccoli
Adaped from Barefoot Contessa: Back to Basics

If you don't like broccoli, roasting it will change your mind. I thought I hated broccoli until I tried this. Three of us can put away close to 2 pounds of broccoli in one sitting, when it's roasted. Leftovers are easy to deal with: toss with some chicken or sausage in pasta, or use in almost any recipe that calls for cooked broccoli (just add it close to the very end).


The original recipe serves 6. I've halved the recipe below.


Preheat the oven to 425ºF.

Place in a sheet pan large enough to hold the broccoli in a single layer:
  about 2 lbs/1 kg broccoli

Scatter over the broccoli:
  2 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced (you can skip this if you don't like garlic)

Drizzle with:
  extra virgin olive oli
  3/4 tsp kosher salt
  1/4 tsp pepper
 
Roast for 20-25 minutes, until crisp-tender and some tips are browned.



Sometimes we stop at this point - the broccoli is already delicious like this. But you can also combine:
  1 Tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice
  1 tsp lemon zest
  1 1/2 Tbsp toasted pine nuts
  1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
  1 Tbsp julienned basil leaves
  3/4 Tbsp olive oil

Toss the broccoli with the dressing above. Serve hot.

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Another summer come and gone

That's it. Moving and I are OVER. For some people, 8 addresses in less than 15 years is nothing, but for yours truly, it's 7 too many!

I love our new home, though. It definitely was worth the wait. Plus, for the first time, I have my very own outside space. Knowing my relationship with cooking, it's probably no surprise that our inaugural purchase was a grill! To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what we were more excited about - that we could finally, finally, finally grill in our own backyard, or that we could finally, finally, finally use our grill set.

Let me explain. Eight years ago my husband and I were on the 5th floor of La Baie when we saw the Mother of All Grill Sets (see above). Naive apartment dwellers that we were, within 2 minutes of seeing the display, we absolutely-beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt convinced ourselves that we were going to get tons of mileage out of pictured arsenal. It was stainless steel, shiny, awesome ... and it came in its very own stainless steel, shiny, awesome briefcase.

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April, already?

Good gracious, it's April. Our clocks have jumped an hour ahead, birds are waking us up in the morning (a novelty this time of year that, admittedly, wears off very quickly), and we're having longer and longer stretches of shorts-worthy weather.



Since we last met up over here, I almost, almost made steak for dinner on Ash Wednesday (we had tuna casserole instead), I skyrocketed to SuperCool status in my son's eyes by saving a virtual home from onslaughts of zombies (don't ask; personally I prefer connecting pipes to direct steam), and I have eaten more chocolate than I would like to admit (in the name of research! Research! Actually, I blame stress). And outside of my little bubble, bigger things have happened and are still happening. I'm ready for spring.

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Cold oven pound cake

Last week we celebrated two birthdays - on the same day, two generations and a time zone apart.

Seven and a half years ago, when I told my dad that the due date was just 3 days before his birthday, he predicted that his first grandchild would wait out the 3 extra days and come out just in time for "Grampy's birthday". I rolled my eyes and told him he was dreaming.

My due date came and went, and I couldn't believe it when the first grandchild was indeed born 3 days later, just as my dad had wanted. (Now, if only he could have similar premonitions for upcoming lottery numbers...)

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