It has been at least eight years since we’ve had REAL snow in Nashville, the kind that starts in the morning as flurries and builds throughout the day, big fat clusters tumbling down, blanketing the trees, the front yards, the roads, diffusing light, muffling sound…. ultimately bringing the city to a standstill.

Wow. It got really quiet.

And, while I was home, cozy (and succumbing to a headcold), I decided to enjoy the snowy shut-down by making simple comforts: bread and soup.

I had enough of the necessary ingredients: and handful of vegetables for the soup pot, some flour and an unexpired package of dry yeast for bread. These are, after all, basic foods.

With broccoli as the star, mirepoix the reliable supporting players, and potatoes comprising the creamy base, it doesn’t take long to make this hearty soup. It also isn’t essential that you add any dairy to achieve richness, although a modest cupful of lowfat milk added at the end is rather nice. A few shavings of sharp white cheddar, too.

But this is a much lighter version of Broccoli-Cheddar that is often served out in the world, all floury and cheesy and fat-laden.
The potatoes add the creaminess, body to the soup. As they cook along, they all but disappear.

like under a blanket of snow.

Chunks of potatoes will break down, adding flavor and body to the soup.

The soup is beginning to thicken, a good time to add the broccoli florets.

Creamy Broccoli Soup
3 T. Olive Oil
4 medium Russet Potatoes, peeled and diced
1 head Broccoli, stems and florets separated, stems chopped
2 medium Onions, chopped
3 Carrots, chopped
3 Celery, chopped
3 cloves Garlic, minced
3 1/2 qts. vegetable stock, or water
Salt-n-Peppa to taste
1 cup lowfat Milk
1/2 cup shredded Vermont Cheddar

Warm olive oil in a stockpot on medium heat. Sauté the diced potatoes for 5 minutes. Add broccoli stems and the mirepoix (carrots-onions-celery) and stir into the mix, sauteing another 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic and season with salt and black pepper.

The vegetables will begin to soften, and stick to the bottom and sides of the pot. Keep stirring, then add the vegetable stock (or water)

The soup will get a glazy thickness to it. Add the broccoli florets to cook into the batch last. Once they are softened, taste for salt and pepper. Stir in a cup of milk and some shredded Vermont Cheddar for added dairy richness and tang.

And now, for the bread part…….

The thing about bread is Time.

That’s all. And it’s not time where You are actually doing anything—it’s the yeast that’s doing all the work. After you mix up the dough, you just have to check in on periodically, give it a punch, knead it and leave it be. And, put it in the oven to bake.

So, I amend that—it’s really about Patience. It’s worth it. I would like to bake bread more than I do—I am not mindful enough to put it into the plan of a day. And while the recipe for this Rosemary Cracked Wheat Bread is not exceptional, I share it to encourage you.(and myself!) It’s not hard. It’s fun. And, delicious. Just simply to get in the kitchen and bake!

Serve the crusty loaf warm, with a slap of butter on it.
Or, get out your fave olive oil, dress it up with a few strips of sundried tomatoes, polka dots of balsamic….carve a little parmegiano-reggiano….

Rosemary-Cracked Wheat Bread

1 cup warm Water
1 package Active Dry Yeast
1 T. sugar
2 t. Sea Salt
2 T. Olive Oil
1 cup Cracked Wheat Flour
1 1/2 -2 cups Unbleached White Flour
2 T. chopped fresh Rosemary

Stir yeast and sugar into warm water. Yeast will begin to activate–bubble. Add salt and olive oil. Add cracked wheat flour and at least 1 cup of the unbleached white flour and make a soft dough. (add more white flour if necessary.) Knead until elastic. Form into a ball and place into a bowl. Cover with a damp cloth and allow to rise in a warm place for an hour. Punch down again, reform into a ball.

Score with a knife, sort of criss-cross fashion.
Brush with olive oil, sprinkle with coarse sea salt and chopped rosemary.
Let rise for another 45 minutes.

Bake at 375 degrees for 35-40 minutes. Crust with be nicely golden and the bread will “thunk.”

Yes, but no ordinary chicken, no ordinary pot.

Seasoned with a pesto made of coarse grain mustard, garlic, sage, and rosemary, this free-range bird from Au Naturel Farms furthered the range of its Smiths Grove, Kentucky home with the tastes of Provence. With a savory paste both tucked under the skin and spread over the entire exterior, the trussed chicken got cooked to bronzy succulence in a Dutch oven.

And, yes, it was my trusty fig-colored LeCreuset, doing double duty on the stove top and in the oven. I credit the pot and the pesto for making this chicken glisten in a sauce that required no roux to thicken.

That grainy dijon mustard acts as a vehicle for holding the herbs and garlic in place, and adds a nice piquancy without being overtly, well, mustardy. I do believe, too, that it has thickening powers.

I hasten to add that I did toss in some cooked cranberry beans, which continued to cook, break down, and contribute a little more body to the sauce.

The process began on the stove top, where I browned the bird, and sautéed the sturdy mirepoix. A little water, a few glugs of red wine, and into the oven it went to finish off, for the most part, unattended.

After it emerges from the oven in all its glazed and stewy glory, you can carve the chicken at the table, and serve the vegetables and sauce on the side.

As my contribution to this month’s Third-Thursday Community Pot Luck, I decided to carve all the meat, and place it back to bathe in the sauce and vegetables. It was easy to serve to our group that way. ( cut the chicken into smaller bites, extend the liquid more, and you’ve got a rich soup.)

Some people spooned it over the potatoes dauphinoise, others decided the seven-jewel-grain-casserole was a perfect base, and still more chose to just let a serving swim on the plate with all the other wonderful dabs of dishes brought to the dinner. (Word: our third-thursday pot luck is AMAZING. forty local food lovers, forty unique dishes brought to the table!)

Provencale Chicken in a Pot
1 Whole Roasting Chicken
1 Tablespoon Olive Oil
2 Onions, chopped
3 stalks Celery, chopped
3-4 Carrots, cut into nice chunks
2 sprigs Fresh Rosemary
2 cups Red Wine
2 cups cooked White or Cranberry Beans
1 batch of Coarse Grain Mustard Pesto (see recipe below)

Dutch oven

Spread a nice dollop of the pesto underneath the skin of the chicken breast, and liberally coat the remainder all over the outside of the chicken.

Truss the chicken with kitchen twine.

Heat the Dutch oven on medium, add the Olive Oil and brown the chicken on all sides, starting with breast side down. This process should take about 15 minutes. Add vegetables and sauté them, about 5-7 minutes. Pour in red wine. Then pour in enough water to raise the level of liquid about 2 inches—about 2 cups.
Stir in the beans and place uncovered in a preheated 350 degree oven.
Roast for an hour, periodically basting the bird.

Serve either as a whole roasted chicken, with its savory brown vegetable sauce on the side, or carve up all meat from the roast, return to the saucepot and serve over crusty bread or potatoes.

for the Coarse Grain Mustard Pesto:
2 Tablespoons Coarse Grain Mustard
3 cloves Garlic
2 Tablespoons Fresh Sage leaves
1 sprig fresh Rosemary
2 Tablespoons Olive Oil
Salt and Black Pepper

Place all of the ingredients into a food processor fitted with the swivel blade. Pulse until the garlic and herbs are well chopped throughout the mixture.

Here’s a tale of food blogging interconnections….

I have been reading a most splendid foodblog written by a British woman living in Rome; please go meet rachel of rachel eats. Several of her December posts featured Chestnuts in marvelous incarnations–pâte, soup, cake. Both her pictures and prose really got me longing for them, in some fashion. Alas, with other holiday goings-on, I never got ’round to chestnut hunting.

But I did read the small print on my brand new bag of Christmas Lima Beans from Rancho Gordo, where it mentioned that they were also called Chestnut Limas, due to their exquisite chestnutlike flavor. For those of you who may not know about Rancho Gordo, these are the guys growing all manner and form of wondrous heirloom beans, sought out by fine chefs across the country. And, they make it pretty darn easy for you to get them, too. (a favored stocking stuffer in this household…)

I discovered them through another blogger,
claudia of the esteemed cookeatFRET, through whom, I believe, is also how I found rachel.

So here we come full circle. Rancho Gordo’s Christmas Limas, made into this simple stewy-soup influenced by two foodbloggers, satisfied my two desires: I got to cook up these festive heirlooms during festive times, and I got to have a tasty hint of chestnut.

Trust me, these full-bodied, creamy limas will dispel any unpleasant notions and ill childhood memories of the others, (those awful starchbomb Fordhooks that make me shudder and quease now as I type.)

The pity that Christmas Limas do not retain their gorgeous color and mottling as they cook is replaced by the pleasure of their rich flavor.
Indeed, they have a layer of chestnuttiness…..

You could make this recipe more elaborate, with the addition of something meaty, like mushrooms, pancetta, or spicy chorizo—but there is enough serious-goodness inherent in this already very meaty bean. Keeping it simple best showcases that.

Thanks and shoutouts to foodblogging sisters rachel and claudia for sharing great information and sparking inspiration.

Christmas (Chestnut) Lima Bean Soup
2 T. Olive Oil
1 large Onion, diced
3 fat cloves of Garlic, minced
1 piece of red (or orange) sweet bell pepper, small dice
Sea Salt (about 1 t.)
Black Pepper (scattering of cracked )
Red Pepper Flakes almost 1/4 t.–could be as little as a pinch
1 cup Christmas Lima Beans
4 cups vegetable stock, or water, or combination

The night before: place one cup limas into a pot and cover with filtered water. Limas will more than double in size. Drain, but reserve soaking liquid.

The day of:
In a deep saucepot, saute onions, pepper, and garlic in olive oil until the onions are translucent, with edges beginning to brown. Season with salt, black pepper, and red pepper flakes. Stir in drained limas, then add reserved liquid, then stock/water. Stir well and bring to just under a boil—a rolling simmer. Let this cook along uncovered for about two hours, stirring occasionally. The limas will soften, yield creaminess, giving this soup a thick velvet texture. As the beans cook, the liquid can get very thick. But, it’s so forgiving; if you want it thinner, just stir in some more water.

Makes 4 servings.

Simple elements form the base: garlic, onion, sweet pepper. This is what I had on hand. A little chopped leek or celery would be nice, if you’ve got it.

Letting the beans roll around in the saute before adding liquid is a very good idea.

I am crazy about this color.
For a heartier meal, serve over rice, garnish with arugula.

I like to place a clump of arugula on top of the rice, and then spoon the Christmas Limas over—collapsing the greens. Delicious.

Recently, Whole Foods and Le Creuset co-sponsored a pre-Thanksgiving fundraiser at our Second Harvest Food Bank. For a mere $5.00 donation to Second Harvest, you got to sample quite the array of T-Day mainstays and sides, as cooked up by the Whole Foods catering department.

Tasty stuff, too–including free-range heritage bird and gravy, green bean casserole, potatoes au gratin, sour cherry and pecan pies.

And, you got a raffle ticket–for which, Le Creuset donated a 5 1/2 qt. Dutch Oven as The Prize.

The luck of the draw: I won the raffle! I couldn’t believe it. Happy, happy. I was so tickled by this, I felt like a big goofy kid. Sometimes, it’s really nice to win.

The Le Creuset store manager, Joseph, let me pick out the color. I had get the Fig. Isn’t it gorgeous? This is my second raffle win in as many years (in the spring of ‘08 I won 2 blueberry bushes in a drawing at our farmers market) so, I guess you could say that I’m on a roll…

And, I must say that this wondrous Dutch Oven came into my possession at the most timely of moments–our Third-Thursday Community Pot Luck Dinner was coming up, and I had wanted to make some winey-frenchy-stewy dish using beef rump roast I purchased from Walnut Hills Farm. The recipe is part Boeuf Bourguignon, part Boeuf à la Mode–we’ll call it Boeuf à Ma Mode..(that’s beef, my style)

The heavy enameled cast iron pot went right to work, marinating the meat overnight.

Marinade (for about 5 lbs. Beef Roast)
2 cups Red Wine
1/4 cup Olive Oil
4 cloves Garlic, crushed
several sprigs fresh Thyme
Salt and Black Pepper

Mix up these ingredients and pour over the beef. Marinate overnight in the refrigerator, turning the meat at least once, after several hours.

The next day: Remove the beef from the marinade—save the marinade—and brown it well on all sides. While it’s browning, you can get your veggies ready.

Boeuf à Ma Mode
Marinated Beef
2 Shallots, chopped
2 large Onions, diced
3 ribs Celery, small dice
4 Carrots, small dice
2 Bay Leaves
Reserved Marinade
2+ cups Red Wine
2+ cups Vegetable or Beef Broth
1 lb. Cremini Mushrooms, chopped
2 T. Butter
Salt and Black Pepper
2 Tablespoons Dark Roux
Fresh Thyme and Rosemary

Sauté the vegetables in the browned drippings left by the meat–add a little more olive oil, if needed. These sturdy ones will go far in forming a rich flavor foundation for this stew, and will actually cook down so far —over time with the meat—as to almost disappear.

After you return the meat to the pot, pour in the wine and broth, and toss in the bay leaves.

Then, just cover, turn the heat down low, and forget about it for four hours. In the meantime, you can get your mushrooms ready.

Brown the mushrooms in butter, salt, and black pepper in a separate pot. Enhance with red wine.

When the meat is tender, remove it from the pot and cut into bite-sized pieces. (discarding any fat or gristle.)

Thicken the stock with your roux, stir in mushrooms and meat. Simmer and serve.

This rich savory stew served a lot of folks at the Third-Thursday dinner.

Delicious spooned over noodles or rice, this beautiful beef stew also makes a special, hearty meal when served with this colorful roasted winter vegetable medley. A real winner!

Periodically, as GFM readers know, I duck out of city life–if only for a few daytime hours–to clear my head, breathe in a little countrified air, and cook up something tasty with prima-donna- south-louisiana-cuisinière-extraordinaire, friend Maggie.

Seeing as we each had a little bit of this and a little bit of that, between us, we realized, were the fixin’s for a my-t-fine gumbo.

I had a pound of shrimp and a chicken breast in my freezer. Along with one lonely piece of andouille sausage, Maggie had the veggies, including tomatoes, peppers, and okra harvested from her garden.

And, the essential oil–flour–cast iron skillet. Roux!

Gumbo-making is really an easy process, but you need to allot a chunk of time for the roux. About 1 hour and 10 minutes, in this case. Once made, though, it will last a long time, and serve to thicken sauces and soups, adding that particular toasty note.

And there is something special about a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet–it just does a righteous job taking roux to deep mahogany .

Maggie’s skillet almost disappears on her black stovetop!

The wooden spoon feels like the right utensil for stirring.
This is low heat, low tech, baby! Feel the love.

Oh, yez—it’s gettin’ thick.
Keep moving the flour/oil around in the skillet so that it won’t stick.
Don’t turn your back so it won’t burn—
that would spell the bitter end to the batch!

Whoo-hoo! So shiny and pretty!
Once the roux begins to really get that rich dark red-brown color, remove it from the burner. The residual heat in the skillet will continue to cook it somewhat.
Your roux is good-to-go.

The Roux
1 cup vegetable oil
2 cups unbleached white flour
cast-iron skillet, wooden spoon, a little over one hour of your undivided loving attention. It’s a zen-thing.

makes about 2 cups of nice, dark roux.
_________________________________________
Now, on to the Gumbo….

Some make gumbo with shrimp and andouille sausage.
Some make it with chicken and andouille sausage.
We decided to go for the whole she-bang,
because we could. But the beauty of gumbo is that you can take it whatever direction suits your fancy. If you want to make it with a turkey kielbasa, that’s cool, too.

Maggie maintains that gumbo should have good kick—but not be fire-breathing fierce. That’s why it is traditionally served with hot sauce on the side.

You’ll find that this gumbo will develop more heat over time—thanks to the andouille. It’s better the next day, if it lasts that long.

She also believes that no herbs are needed; if you have good stock, smoky-hot sausage, vegetables, and your brown-gold, you’ll have abundant flavor.

After you’ve sauteed “the trinity,” it’s time to throw in the okra.

Spooning in the roux: Isn’t the contrast amazing?

Everything Gumbo (Shrimp, Chicken, Andouille Sausage)

3 Tablespoons Olive Oil
1 large Onion, diced
2 Bell Peppers, diced
3-4 ribs Celery, leaves included, chopped
4 cloves Garlic, minced
2 cups chopped, roasted Okra
2 cups Tomatoes and juice
1 piece about 1/4 lb. Andouille Sausage, sliced thin
1 cup Roux
1 Chicken Breast, roasted, meat pulled, chunked, pan deglazed for chicken stock (you can use whatever piece(s) of chicken you like)
1 lb large Shrimp, peeled and deveined–reserve shells for stock
Stocks: 2 cups shrimp stock, 2 cups roasted chicken stock**
Salt
a couple of pinches or so of cayenne–you decide

Heat olive oil in a stockpot on medium and add “the trinity”–onions, bell peppers, and celery. Sauté until onion is translucent and begins to brown, about 5 minutes. Stir in minced garlic and cook for another minute.

Add the okra—frozen chopped okra from the supermarket works just fine—most of us don’t have 15 bags in our freezer harvested from our garden like Maggie does!

Then add canned tomatoes and juices. The okra will begin to cook down–adding its own thickening power. Add shrimp stock, chicken stock. Stir well, and put in the andouille sausage. It will impart smokiness and a distinctive kick.

NOW it’s time to stir in the “brown-gold”—the mixture will get all glossy. You can tweak viscosity with more or less liquid or roux.
Taste for salt, and season.
Chicken next.
Last thing: the shrimp. Stir them into the hot pot, cover, and remove from heat. This way the shrimp will cook, but won’t toughen or get mealy.

Serve over jasmine rice. Wow.

Makes over 3 quarts.

**shrimp stock is made quickly–like in 15 minutes of simmering shrimp shells in 2-3 cups of water with a piece of onion, lemon, celery leaves, salt and black pepper.
**chicken stock is made by simply deglazing your chicken roasting pan with 2 cups of water and scraping up all the browned bits

Sometimes a certain dish or ingredient or aroma can trigger a memory:
Food is powerful that way.

After Maggie and I made her south Louisiana red lentil soup, it set me thinking—people all over the world eat these delicious little discs, and in so many different ways.

I recalled how my daughter reported making, with great relish, a simple, spicy, and fortifying red lentil soup when she lived in Bahar Dar, Ethiopia.

In 2006, Madeleine spent four months in this lakeshore town doing her public health internship for the Amharic Development Association (ADA.) She found cooking at home to be a necessary, but daunting prospect.

Her ADA-provided house, located in the faranji (foreigners) neighborhood, appealed at first glance: a cream and periwinkle concrete bungalow in a yard of flowering bushes and a producing lime tree. Its charming garden and cheerful exterior belied its beyond-Spartan furnishings.

The kitchen was outfitted with a library desk, a hot plate, and nothing more. A bare faucet jutted out of the living room wall, around which, at her coaxing, the landlord clumsily hung a long, shallow sink. The refrigerator was absent, a promise never delivered.

“Everything about eating is hard,” she wrote me. “To eat chicken, you must buy a live chicken from the market, take it home, slaughter it and clean it. The onions that I bought on Saturday have already rotted. Tonight I had oatmeal.”

A daughter’s struggles with the very basics of living are the sorts of things that make a mother toss and turn at night —especially when there’s ends-of-the-earth distance involved. So I was ecstatic to learn that she’d found a nutritious dish easily made in such austere conditions. And it tasted good!

There’s precious little required: the lentils themselves, garlic, onions, dried spices, tomatoes, water. And that precious little was accessible to her. Even then, the lentils had to be painstakingly sorted— rocks the same size and color were in the mix. That accomplished, a satisfying meal was just thirty minutes away.

I got to experience “the kitchen” firsthand. As her internship was winding up, Bill and I made the long journey to visit her and this land of extremes. Before embarking on our family adventure south to Omo Valley, we spent a week in Bahar Dar and often cooked meals in her home.

A rough and wide dirt road leading to her ‘hood was lined with assorted vendor stands and shops selling everything from coffeebeans to phonecards, the air laced with dust, spice, smoke from wood-burning ovens. On our walk to her house, we would stop at a favored store to buy water and produce for dinner.

Everything was so small–golf ball sized onions and plum tomatoes, avocados that were mostly pit. Once home, I enjoyed selecting large ripe limes from the garden tree: a squeeze in the mesir wat —vegetarian lentil stew— added brightness.

There’s a real pleasure in living so immediately, using what little you have at hand to make a good meal for yourself.
I’m grateful that it’s a pleasure whose challenge I don’t have to face daily.

Ah, Spice, smoke, dust: some Bahar Dar memories conjured up in a spoonful of thick red lentil soup.

Cooking the spices–”blooming”– in the oil, followed by lightly toasting the lentils before adding liquid brings depth of flavor to the soup.

Northern Ethiopia Style Red Lentil Soup
2 T. Olive Oil
1 t. Turmeric
1 t. Coriander
½ t. Cumin
½ t. Salt
¼ t. Red Pepper Flakes
1 medium Onion, small dice
2 cloves Garlic, minced
1 cup Red Lentils, rinsed
2 cups Water or 1 cup Vegetable Broth, 1 cup water
2 cups diced Tomatoes and juice
1-2 Bay Leaf

Lime juice, plain yogurt
Cilantro

Heat a 2-3 qt. saucepan (using medium heat), and add the olive oil. Stir in spices and allow them to “bloom” in the oil. Add onions and garlic, and stir so that all the pieces are well coated with oil and spice. Sauté until translucent, 3-5 minutes. Stir in lentils and cook for another 5 minutes, allowing the lentils to gently toast. Add vegetable broth, water, diced tomatoes and juice. Stir well. Add Bay leaves. Cover and simmer for 25 minutes. Stir occasionally. The lentils will break down and thicken. Thin with additional water or broth.
Taste and adjust for seasonings.

Garnish with a dollop of plain yogurt, a few sprigs of fresh cilantro, and a squeeze of fresh lime, if desired.

Delicious also served over a bed of rice.

In Ethiopia, one would serve injera–the large spongey pancake made from fermented teff. Lacking said grain, I took Maggie’s recipe for Skillet Buttermilk Cornbread and made corn cakes!

Buttermilk Corn Cakes
1 cup Plain White Corn Meal
1/3 cup Unbleached All-Purpose Flour
1 t. Salt
¼ t. Pepper
1 T. Sugar
½ t. Baking Soda
1 Egg
1 ½ cups Buttermilk
4 T. Vegetable Oil

Measure all the dry ingredients and whisk together in a bowl. Make a well in the dry mix, break in the egg, pour in the buttermilk and vegetable oil. Stir together–so that the batter is well mixed, but do not overbeat. There may be lumps, and that’s okay. Heat a skillet; when it’s sizzly-hot, ladle in the batter.
Flip after about one minute (you’ll see the edges brown and bubbles coming up through the center)
Repeat until you have used all the batter. If it gets too thick, you can thin it with a little buttermilk.

I’m a city girl at heart, but whenever I get the chance to spend the day in the country at my friend Maggie’s, I’m in my little car motoring out to that cozy spread on Bogle-off-Burnt Knob before you can say Bogle-off-Burnt Knob.

Going there is not just a step out of the urban beat; it’s also a step back in time. Don’t get me wrong—everything’s up to 21st century techno-speed— but Maggie (with husband Steve) has created a lifestyle that moves on a slower track, harkens to simpler times.

In the growing season, a day in her life might take in tending garden tomatoes, making zucchini pickles, foraging wild blackberries but it will certainly include walking the grounds to admire the wildflowers, enjoying picnic lunch creekside under the boughs of an ancient tree, or having a coffee and toast on the sun porch— perfect for viewing bluebirds and chickadees at the feeder.

I’ve told Maggie–and she takes it as supreme compliment–that when I’m at her place, I feel like it’s 1978.

We hadn’t gotten together since harvest time last fall; with light green hints of springtime now emerging, I was anxious to visit: review garden plans, inspect the newly-tilled beds, discuss food and life,

And cook.

Maggie comes from a family with Italian and South Louisiana roots—there’s a compelling combo for good food—and she wanted to teach me her recipe for red lentil soup. It’s a common sense down-home recipe—as in down-south-louisiana-home cooking—using ingredients that are simple, readily available, and cheap.

The protein-rich red lentils provide more of a background and body for this soup while the andouille sausage imparts the spice and heat. The package of Savoie’s that she purchased at Publix was made—as it has been for 60 years– in Steve’s hometown Opelousas, LA. A little of this lean sausage goes a long way on flavor.

“And, I guarantee,” Maggie said, “there won’t be an ounce of fat from it either.”

We used a quart jar of insanely sweet (candy!) tomatoes that Maggie had put up from last summer’s harvest—they melted into the soup—but it’s fine to use a can of your favorite red-gold.
I don’t know why I forget about cooking with cabbage; a young head, gently steamed—or poached as it is in this soup– is tender, and adds an earthy-sweet element.

Maggie often makes skillet cornbread—another great recipe I’ll share soon. She and Steve like to break up pieces of it into the soup. In the summer, she’ll scrape in some fresh Silver Queen corn.
Steve swears she’ll make a good cook out of me yet!

South Louisiana Style Red Lentil Soup
2 T. Olive Oil
2 Onions, chopped
4 stalks Celery, chopped fine
5 cloves Garlic, minced
6 Carrots, diced
10 oz. Andouille Sausage, sliced
1 cup Red Lentils, rinsed
1 qt. Tomatoes and juice (or 28 oz. can)
1 ½ qt. water
1 T. Salt
2 cups Cabbage, cut into medium shreds

Heat a large (6-8 qt.) stock pot, then coat the bottom with olive oil. Sauté onions until translucent—3-5 minutes. Add celery, garlic, and carrots. Continue to sauté another 5 minutes, then stir in andouille sausage. Cook for 5 minutes, add lentils, diced tomatoes and juice, and water. Stir well and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes. Stir occasionally, so that the lentils, as they swell and break down, do not stick to the bottom. Add the cabbage last—cook until tender, about 15 minutes. Serves 8 generously.

It’s been manic out there.

The swings in our weather these past weeks, I mean.

Last Wednesday boasted a balmy 75 degrees in my wee corner of the world, with clumps of yellow-tipped daffodils, poised to bloom in the side yard, and shoots of young chives emerging from drab garden pots. Such promise! I was rolling up my shirt sleeves, my thoughts racing: I want to dig in the dirt; I’ll get some seeds started, I want to plant, I want garden lettuces and peas and sugar snaps…

Too soon, the wiser part of me interrupted. It’s. Still. Winter.

Yep, three days later and fifty degrees colder, I’m huddled in the house, loathe to even poke my head out the door to get the mail.
These extreme swings make it hard to adjust.
So, for dinner, I want something to warm and soothe. I’m thinking Soup.
But I’d like something light and green ––the visual means as much as smell and taste—I’d like to spoon up a bowl something embodying the sense of warmer days, call it a promise of spring soup.

A Leek Soup could do just that.

Similar to the classic potato-leek, this one is All About the Leeks—the secondary potato is there to help form the base. I let some other members of the allium family into the mix—garlic, scallions, a few of those baby chives from my garden pot to boost flavors, give the leeks some company.
Simmered in vegetable broth and partly pureed with low fat milk, it is lighter, healthier.
And, its pleasing pale green reminds me that it’s almost spring.

LEEK SOUP
4 Leeks, root end removed, slice in half lengthwise, thoroughly rinsed and cleaned to remove all grit,
discard tough dark green leaves, chop remainder, reserving a few leaves for garnish
3 medium white potatoes, peeled and cubed
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 scallions, chopped
3 cups vegetable broth (can be made with water, or chicken stock, if you prefer)
2 ½ cups 1% milk
3 Tablespoons Olive Oil
Salt
White Pepper

In a 3 qt. saucepan under medium heat, warm the olive oil and sauté potato cubes for 5 minutes. Stir in minced garlic, scallions, and leeks. Season with salt and white pepper. When potatoes seem soft and leeks begin to brown (another 5-7 minutes), stir in vegetable broth, scraping any browned bits in the pan. Simmer, stirring occasionally. Pour in milk, and puree–to a point. You want to retain some nice flecks of leek throughout the soup. You can use either a hand held immersion blender, or transfer the soup into a blender or food processor. Taste for seasonings. Makes 6 cups.

Frizzled Leek Garnish
Thinly slice a few strips of leeks and lightly coat with olive oil. Spread out on a shallow baking pan and roast in a hot (400-425 degree) oven for 10-12 minutes, until crispy brown, frizzled. They will become crunchier as they cool. Sprinkle with a little salt. By themselves, these make a tasty snack.

When I picked up my order from Fresh Harvest Coop, I was drawn to these small white globes lying in a basket on the sales table.

“They’re harukei salad turnips,” grower Tally said.

“Turnips?” For me, turnips fall into the category of something beneficial, but avoidable, like castor oil. “These look beautiful. But, I’ve never been a fan.”

Tally smiled. “That’s been almost everyone’s reaction. But these are so sweet; you can eat them raw. I think you’ll really like them.”

Since I believe that there are few people more trustworthy than our local farmers, I heeded Tally’s words and made the purchase.

When I arrived home, I washed one off and took a bite. I was surprised by its earthy sweetness, a firm but tender texture—I immediately sliced one up and tossed it into a salad. A few nights later, another found its way into a tomato-based vegetable soup. In both instances, the harukei was an amicable background player.

But I wanted to cook something that could bring it to the fore, and show off that sweetness and texture. On a chilly day that begged for more soup, I decided that a vegetable bisque might be the perfect vehicle for these babies.

Potatoes create the creamy base for the bisque without adding any cream. As the potatoes cook down and get mashed up, they provide body. Because I live with a vegetarian, I use vegetable stock to extend the base. If I don’t have some already made, I use the types you find in those pourable cartons. Adding the turnips at the end keeps them chunky and the flavor fresh.

“This is really good,” my vegetarian partner said, ladling another bowl.

“It’s the turnips,” I said.

“Turnips?”

Sweet Turnip Bisque
2 Tablespoons olive oil–divided
1 Tablespoon butter
3 medium potatoes, (about 1 ½ cups) peeled and diced (I used russets, but try others!)
2 carrots, diced small
2 celery ribs, chopped finely
1 medium white onion, diced
2 cups diced turnips (don’t peel)
2 Tablespoons fresh dillweed
2 cups vegetable stock
1 cup lowfat milk
salt & white pepper, to taste
a few grindings of black pepper, a few sprigs of dillweed to garnish

In a 2qt. saucepan on medium heat, melt the butter with 1 Tablespoon oil.
Add potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions and sauté, stirring frequently.
Add one cup of the stock, stir, and simmer until the potatoes become tender, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and mash the potato-vegetable mix with a hand potato masher until the mixture resembles a thickened puree-like base.
In a separate skillet with the remaining Tablespoon of olive oil, sauté the turnips for 5 minutes. Scrape the cooked turnips into the saucepan with the potato-vegetable mix. Add remaining stock and milk. Stir well and return to heat. Season with salt and white pepper. Simmer for 15 minutes.
Garnish with black pepper and dillweed.
Serves 2 hearty main meal appetites, or 4 regular ones