Come close...

A cheap - er, thrifty - person such as myself, who harbors incompatibly expensive tastes, is well-served by the phrase, 'I could just make that.' This is what I said after a gut-splitting, wallet gouging breakfast at Stoneface Dolly's in Ottawa a few months ago. I'd just finished a plate of their Blueberry Ricotta Pancakes, complete with lemon curd and whipped cream, and I knew I'd found a New Favourite Thing. I also knew I couldn't afford to go there every time I got a hankering for those fluffy, fruity, rich pancakes and delectable condiments, especially if I planned on ruining a shirt every single time by splatting butter onto myself like I did on this particular visit.

Watching B eat a breakfast sandwich which, while surely tasty, couldn't have come close to my pancakes, just added to my resolve that I simply had to recreate this breakfast at home, on the cheap, for both of us to enjoy.

Here's what I came up with.

Blueberry Ricotta Pancakes

1 2/3 c flour
1 3/4 tsp baking powder
1 3/4 tsp baking soda

a pinch of salt

2 tbsp melted butter

1 2/3 c buttermilk

1 tbsp demerera (or regular) sugar

2 egg whites

3/4 cup ricotta cheese

2 tsp lemon zest
a few handfuls of fresh (or frozen) blueberries

Sift the first four dry ingredients together a large bowl - preferably one with a spout. Add the butter, buttermilk and sugar and mix well. Set aside.

In another bowl, whip the egg whites until they form stiff peaks.

Fold the ricotta and lemon zest into the milk and flour mixture, followed by the egg whites, being careful not to over-mix. Toss in the blueberries and fold once or twice, lightly. You want to keep the batter fluffy.

Cook these guys over medium heat in a buttered or non-stick pan, like any pancake. Serve them with lemon curd (easy recipe here) and maple whipped cream (like regular whipped cream, but sweetened with a splash of maple syrup instead of sugar). If you can't make lemon curd - and really, there is no excuse! - you could settle for a sweet and tangy sauce made out of 1 part maple syrup and one part vanilla yogurt, mixed until completely combined.

What's in your pockets?

In my pockets, two nights ago, there was roasted squash, sunflower seeds, sharp cheddar and brinjal pickle, but it certainly didn't last long.

It started out like this: we were sitting around in the bike co-op in our old neighbourhood, impatiently waiting for a workspace to open up so we could fix (and, as it turns out, screw up royally) our bikes after a salty, snowy, gravelly winter. I was thumbing through a cycling magazine--one of the least likely places I would expect to find a good recipe--and I came across a whole article on calzones. These "inside-out pizzas" are a regular occurence at our dinner table, given that they take two of our most favourite things--sandwiches and pizza--and essentially combine them to make something better than the sum of its parts. Thus, calzones were nothing new to me when I sat there in the window of the bike co-op, awaiting our turn. However, the fillings this author suggested--one of which I'd never even heard of before!--opened up a new world of calzone possibilities to me. I googled the recipe when I came home, bookmarked it, and more or less forgot about it every time we decided what to make for dinner. Then, the other day, I noted the sharp cheddar in our fridge, remembered to pick up a squash, biked out to the Bagel Shop & Deli to grab the exotic new ingredient, and finally committed to trying this inventive new calzone.

The result was something like a cross between a samosa and a calzone, and just like the sandwich-pizza hybrid that makes a calzone such a beautiful thing, the samosa-calzone union is a near perfect one. It's like we're cross-breeding new epicurean species, and so far we haven't created anything capable of eating us. Whether you're an old pro when it comes to calzones, or a brand-newbie, I think you'll like this.

Calzones with Squash, Brinjal Pickle and Sharp Cheddar

Renders 2 very hungry people stuffed and near-comatose, or serves 6 people with something on the side

Dough:

1 C warm water

1.5 tbsp yeast

Glug of honey

1 tbsp olive oil

1/2 tsp salt

2-2.5 C or more whole wheat flour

Mix the first four ingredients in a large bowl and let sit until foamy, about 7 minutes. Mix in the salt, and then the flour one cup at a time, until the dough pulls away from the edge of the bowl. Keep adding more flour until the dough stops being sticky, but is still able to absorb new flour. Turn it out onto a clean, floured surface and knead for a few minutes, until the dough is stretchy but firm. Put a little oil on your hands and form the dough into a ball, so that it is nicely oiled on the outside. Put it in a covered bowl and let it rise for at least an hour, in a warm spot.

Filling:

1 winter squash (butternut, buttercup or acorn)

1 C sharp cheddar (the older, the better)

2 tbsp Brinjal Pickle (you could use chutney if you were totally unsuccessful in your hunt for Brinjal)

1/4 C sunflower seeds (toasted lightly in your oven or in a skillet)

Roast the squash however you want. I'd usually halve it and roast it cut-side down on an oiled pan for about 40 minutes at 425 celsius (keep it that temperature for the calzone, if making right away). Let it cool a bit, and then scrape out the seeds, peel it, and put it in a bowl. Mix in the pickle and sunflower seeds, and then the cheddar, trying not to add it when it's so hot that it will melt the cheese. Save that part for later!

Divide the dough into 6 portions, and flatten each into a circle. Plop a bit of the filling into the middle of each, and fold over into a pocket. Transfer to a greased or non-stick pan, and use a fork to crimp the edges together.

Bake for 10-12 min at 425. We served ours with a bit of Rinag Bakery's Sweet & Spicy Sauce (usually reserved for samosas), but any dipping sauce is worth a try. As usual, I couldn't snap a picture of the finished product because I was too busy eating it. Picture a big pizza pop and you get the idea.

An Unlikely Pairing You'll Like

My friend E said something along the lines of, "It does sound kind of gross," when I told her the dessert I brought to her house was strawberries with balsamic vinegar. And it does sound kind of gross. I thought so too, when I saw someone else do it. But the white balsamic vinagar my mother gifted me with has been sulking around in our pantry, hands in pockets, head down, scuffing the shelf with one toe, just waiting for a dish to star in. Getting splashed over berries fresh from Parkdale Market seemed like a suitable debut for this angsty little ingredient, and indeed it was. The vinegar draws the flavour out of the berries, and adds a punch of additional sweet-and-sourness. Helped along by a generous sprinkle of brown sugar, and given a slap of creme fraiche or even unsweetened whipped cream on the way to the table, this little ditty of a dessert is definitely going to make a repeat appearance at our house. Give it a try, with regular balsamic if your mom isn't as cool as mine. You won't be disappointed!

Strawberries with Balsamic Vinegar

Strawberries (however many you plan on eating)

Balsamic Vinegar (a generous glug)

Brown sugar (1-2 tbsp or to taste)

Creme fraiche or real, unsweetened whipped cream, for serving

A sprig of mint, if you're a fancy-pants

Quarter or slice the strawberries into a bowl.

Add the vinegar and brown sugar and toss to coat.

Cover and refrigerate for 30 minutes or more.

Serve with the creme fraiche or whipped cream and mint. You could also use this as an ice cream topping, or sandwich it in a freshly-baked shortcake.

The colour (is) purple

Husbands say the darnedest things. We were walking through the grocery store the other day, gleefully stocking up on raw ingredients after being away from our kitchen for almost three weeks, mulling over what to make for dinner over the next few days. Brian--the charming fellow who once ate a bowl of chopped up hotdogs swimming in a broth of ketchup; who has to avoid the canned meat aisle if we're to make it out of the supermarket without a tin of ham; who sits down regularly with a gallon of pickled beets--said, "why don't we have, like, a pizza with purple potatoes and gorgonzola cheese?". I nodded, shocked, as he explained he'd heard something like that on the radio recently and thought it sounded good. We worked through a few more important details--sauce or no sauce? Additional cheeses? Should we try the beer crust our friend Nathan relayed to us while we consumed too much beer? Our conclusions: no sauce, a bit of mild cheese and most certainly the beer crust, although we couldn't remember the recipe, except that it was a few cups of flour, a "thing" of beer, and no yeast. We surmised that it would probably do well with a splash of olive oil and a pinch of salt, and I remembered later that Nathan had mentioned that he liked adding flax seeds, and using flavoured beers. The latter wasn't kicking around our fridge--we used Pabst Blue Ribbon (a.k.a. PBR, the champagne of beers) instead--but we did have a seldom-used bottle of flax seeds lazing around in the back of the dry cupboard, and decided to give it something to do.

The crust turned out a bit weird--it felt and looked like pizza dough before it was cooked, although it wasn't quite as stretchy. When we baked it, it turned out rather dense and chewy, kind of like the crusts we used to get in our Lunchables as kids. In other words, it was a guilty pleasure that defied a few rules of baking and fell way short of normal pizza dough standards, but was satisfying and tasty nonetheless. I just wouldn't try to sneak it by a pizza afficionado. For that reason, I'm going to hang on to the crust "recipe" for now, so we can perfect it and then proudly bring it to the masses. But the pizza--oh, the pizza. Behold it in all its purple pomp:

As if the purple potatoes weren't enough, I remembered the purple basil toughing it out in our planter in the 30 degree heat, and hurriedly put a few withering leaves out of their misery while the pizza cooked. That reddish-purply coloured meat you see is Speck, or smoked prosciutto. Whether or not you like purple, I have no doubt you'll enjoy this pizza. And if you've got a soft spot for blue, it's there too, in the blue veins of the gorgonzola cheese.

Purple Pizza

Pizza dough of your choosing--try this one if you want a no-fail recipe, but be warned: you must make it a day in advance!

7-8 tiny purple potatoes (or 4-5 egg-sized ones), sliced into 1/8" rounds

1/2 C crumbled gorgonzola cheese (or torn into gooey hunks if it's too soft)

1/4 C shredded mozzarella, fontina or other mild, stretchy cheese

4 slices Speck or prosciutto (or Breasola if you want to take the purple theme to new heights)

2 tbsp olive oil

1 clove garlic

Purple basil

Place pizza stone in cold oven, if using (recommended--they're 10 bucks. Just buy one already)

Preheat oven to 450 degrees

Cover the sliced potatoes with water in a small saucepan, and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, roll out the pizza dough on a well-floured cutting board or counter and set aside. Tear the Speck into manageable pieces. Chop or press garlic and add it to the olive oil in a small dish.

Prick the potatoes with a fork, and if they're soft (but still firm), drain them and wait a few minutes for them to cool. Take the pizza stone out of the oven and sprinkle it with cornmeal to make sure the pizza doesn't stick. Place the dough round on the stone carefully, and add the toppings in the following order:

- spread the garlic oil over the crust

- add the purple potatoes, then the cheese, then the torn Speck

Bake at 450 for 10-12 minutes or until the crust is golden in places and the cheese is melted. Scatter the basil leaves (I sliced mine thinly) over the top, slice, and serve.

Zucchini Loves Parmesan

When I was younger, I wasn't very adventurous when it came to food. Although known to slurp back a pound of steamed mussels, freshly dug out of the sandbars in PEI with my Dad and eaten straight out of the pot, sitting on a picnic table, I was also seriously picky about the weirdest things. I was one of those kids whose plate was segregated, the borders between foods strictly guarded through a shrill warning at dish-out time--"don't let the sauce get on my potatoes!!!"--and erecting knife-walls to assist me in safely eating one unadulterated section at a time. I was also the kid who ordered chicken fingers and fries wherever she went. I drank Coca-Cola for breakfast if left to my own devices. I preferred my noodles buttered and salted instead of sauced. I had to have the lumps picked out of my jam. I wouldn't go near yogurt, cooked mushrooms, olives, kidney beans, egg yolks or sauteed onions. If a baked good came near to a raisin or a nut--with a few unpredictable exceptions--I'd sooner opt for a piece of styrofoam. I contemplated running away if I knew we were having steak, stew or--the worst possible news a kid can hear--liver.

Those old habits died hard. As they did, I took on a new obsession: calories and fat. I'd admonish my Mom when I saw her put a glug of oil in a pan. "Why don't you use Pam?", I'd say. "Buy the low-fat cheese", and "I'll only drink skim milk." Both of these legacies--the inexplicable aversions to very normal food, and the rigid avoidance of all things fatty or sugary, have probably left my parents afraid to cook for me.

Given the strange kid I used to be, it's understandably hard for them--Mom especially--to reconcile that past self with the one who barges into their kitchen now, spouting off nonsense about King Eryngii mushrooms, olive tapenade, unpasteurized milk and micro-brewed beer. I cook with butter now, as a rule, and we plough through bottles of olive oil like it's going out of style. But if you're getting the impression that my story is one of constant upheaval, disconnection, rupture and renewal, I'm about to set you straight. I learned a lot about cooking from my Mom and Dad. There are countless recipes they (often unknowingly) handed on to me, one of which made an appearance at last night's dinner: Zucchini with Parmesan.

I don't know where Mom got this recipe, but I was there when we tried it the first time, and I did my best to be home whenever it came back to escort a main course to the table. The ingredients are simple, the cooking practically effortless, and the taste both explosive and mild (yes, it's possible). Zucchini loves parmesan. It's true. While not especially beautiful to look at (particularly if it cooks a bit too long, like ours did last night), it packs that sweet and salty punch--sweet from the onions (my special twist) and salty from the parmesan--into each slippery mouthful. We paired it with grilled cheese sandwiches of Oka and Polish Emmenthal between slices of nut bread from The Moulin de Provence bakery in the Byward Market, but it goes with just about anything. You can save the leftovers to top a pizza with fontina cheese, or grill them in a panini with a bit of grainy mustard.

Zucchini with Parmesan

2 medium zucchini per person, sliced into 1/4" rounds

1/2 a large sweet onion per person, thinly sliced, keeping the rings intact if possible

Extra virgin olive oil

1/3 C finely shredded parmesan (get a block and shred it yourself--none of that Kraft nonsense. It won't work.)

Salt and pepper to taste

Heat a glug of oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add the onions and sweat them until they soften and turn light brown and a bit translucent, pushing them around occasionally with a spatula. Add the zucchini (and a bit more oil if necessary), and cover the skillet, cooking for about 10 minutes or until the zucchini has softened up. Take off the lid and turn up the heat so that the veggies brown a bit more and the water (which probably accumulated under the lid) evaporates, stirring a few times.

Once the veggies are softened to your liking, remove them from the heat and toss with MOST of the cheese, reserving a bit to sprinkle on top of each serving. Salt and pepper to taste, and serve.

Thanks, Mom.

Dusty, Trusty, Tangy, Spicy

A funny thing happened after dinner the other night. We were home, at Brian's parents' house, and we fixed the evening meal for his family since the bulk of them were traveling all day and deserved an exemption from having to cook for us. B's family likes to eat healthy--like we do--with plenty of veggies, whole grains and lean protein. We brainstormed for a bit and decided on fresh tilapia, pan fried and served with my best impression of my friend Heff's mango-tomato salsa, a green salad, and that trusty little quinoa dish that started it all. ("It" being this blog.) We made it from memory, but when Brian's mom asked for the recipe afterward, I consulted Google to see if I could print one off. I typed a close approximation of the recipe into the search bar, and what do you think the second search result was? None other than my dusty old blog, nearly two years old and only 2 posts high--a severe case of malnourishment if I ever saw one.

Having been asked for several recipes by friends and family while we visited our home sweet home, I decided to ressurect Scratch, and use it as a vehicle for sharing recipes with the best cooks I know (i.e., you!). If a few more people find me, that's even better.

One of the first things I cooked (and you'll see, it involves no "cooking" at all) after we arrived in Nova Scotia was one of those request-winning recipes. The girls and I were headed on a car-camping trip. and my task was to make something that would survive a drive down to Kejimkujik National Park and pack enough vegetables to offset the mostly processed, non-vegetable fare I anticipated for the rest of our camping weekend. (It turned out, I was wrong--we managed plenty of veggies and only minimal preserved munchies. Being accustomed to hike-in, backcountry camping, I was envisioning the dehydrated and carb-laden gastronomical experience I'd grown used to.) In any case, I chose a main course salad, which Brian and I had for dinner not long before making the trek out East. The salad, another gem from Bon Appetit magazine, is composed of baby arugula, tossed in a tangy, spicy mango curry dressing and topped with sliced mango, roasted chicken torn into bite-sized pieces, and a dollop of thick plain yogurt. The magazine suggests topping it with nigella seeds (which I did for the camping meal), but I think it scores higher with a generous sprinkling of toasted, slivered almonds. That part is up to you. But there's one thing you MUST promise to do: serve it with grilled naan bread, drizzled with a bit of oil and sprinkled with nigella or cumin seeds. You could even bake your own naan, at home, and tell me how it goes--unless I beat you to it!

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons mango chutney
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon curry powder
1 1/2 teaspoons water
4-6 handfuls of baby arugula (2-3 per person for a main course)
Purchased roast chicken (or DIY if you're amazing) boned, meat coarsely shredded into bite-size pieces (just eyeball it according to people and hunger)
1 large Ataulfo* mango, peeled, pitted, sliced
Plain nonfat yogurt (I like Astro Balkan Style yogurt--no gelatin!)
1 teaspoon cumin seeds

1/4 C slivered almonds

*My friend Riva turned me on to this variety of mango. You're probably familiar with the big ones that fade from red to green; these ones are more yellowy-orange, have a more pleasing texture and sweet-sour balance. If you can find them, get them (and get an extra one to just peel and eat).

Whisk first 5 ingredients in a small bowl to blend. Add more water, just a little at a time, if it seems too thick to coat the arugula, and throw in a bit of salt and pepper. Set it aside. While the flavours get chummy, sidle over to your stove and toast those almonds over medium heat, just until they start to turn brown, and toss them into a bowl immediately to cool.

Go back to your arugula, and divide it amongst your plates. Drop the chicken and mango over top, and spoon the rest of the dressing evenly over each serving. Plop a dollop of yogurt on top of all that, and sprinkle the toasted almonds to finish the plates off.

Move over, Quinoa Salad; There's a new grain in town.

We picked up the Holiday Cooking Special Issue of Bon Appetit at Farm Boy yesterday. It was a very, very good investment, and boy was it persuasive. Until dinner tonight, I really wasn't in the mood for fall food yet. I didn't want squash, or pumpkin, or turkey. A big, hot lasagna was at the bottom of the list. I couldn't stand the thought of stew. But tonight, all of that changed with one taste of this dish: "Wild Rice with Butternut Squash, Leeks, and Corn".

We had it alongside two teeny chicken pinwheels (boneless, skinless chicken smeared with tarragon mustard and wrapped around a blob of brie and a few dried cranberries)--just something I concocted with the ingredients we had kicking around. It was excellent, sure, but I can't really take credit for that--you can't make a mistake with brie and cranberry. And anyway, the chicken was simply not the main event. It was in more of a supporting role, if you will.

The rice salad--warm, filling--with its array of textures--the nubby rice, soft-on-the-inside, caramelized-on-the-outside squash, juicy corn, and crisp leeks--was a meal on its own. Despite having nothing seasoning it except for coarse salt and fresh ground pepper, the flavours were intense and incredibly rich. I implore you to try this dish. It's well worth the work (peeling the squash being the worst of it) and the cost of the ingredients (wild rice is expensive!).

Note: I halved this recipe and it made enough for a HUGE serving for each of us plus another serving left over. The full recipe is supposed to feed 10 people (in a Thanksgiving, multiple-side-dish scenario). Halving it would easily give 3-4 people a reasonable side dish.

Wild Rice with Butternut Squash, Leeks, and Corn

SERVES 10
Adapted from Bon Appetit, November 2008
Nancy Oakes and Pamela Mazzola

• 1 1/2 cups wild rice
• 2 teaspoons coarse salt
• 3 cups 1/2-inch cubes peeled butternut or buttercup squash (from 1 1/2-pound squash)
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) butter, divided
• 1 1/2 cups finely chopped leeks (white part only)
• 1 1/2 cups frozen white corn kernels, thawed
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh Italian parsley

Rinse rice in strainer under cold water; drain. Bring 6 cups water and 2 teaspoons coarse salt to boil in large saucepan. Add rice; bring to boil. Reduce heat; simmer uncovered until rice grains begin to split and are tender but still slightly chewy (Do test them; eat a few grains and make sure they're a texture you'd normally enjoy eating), about 35-45 minutes. Drain. Spread on rimmed baking sheet to cool. Transfer to bowl. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover and chill.

Preheat oven to 350°F. Oil rimmed baking sheet. Toss squash cubes and 3 tablespoons oil in medium bowl. Spread squash in single layer on prepared sheet; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast just until tender but firm enough to hold shape, stirring occasionally, about 15 minutes. Transfer squash to bowl. Cool. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover and chill.

Melt 4 tablespoons butter in large skillet over medium heat. Add leeks and 3/4 cup water; simmer until leeks are tender, about 7 minutes. Add corn; simmer 2 minutes longer. Add rice and butternut squash; simmer until heated through and liquid is absorbed, about 4 minutes. Stir in 2 tablespoons butter and parsley. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer to bowl and serve.