Do you know the Kosher Cooking Carnival? If you don’t,  it’s time you did.

It’s a collection of links to blog entries discussing recipes, food traditions, stories, Jewish law, restaurant or cookbook reviews – anything related to kosher food. For example, this month mominisrael shows us a cooking ingredient spreadsheet; Pesky Settler presents a psychedelic tie-dyed cheesecake; and I submitted my cholent entry.

Batya at me-ander is hosting this month’s KCC, up now. Be sure to visit and get the full story on what the kosher foodies are talking about and cooking.

And next month’s KCC will be here, at Israeli Kitchen. Submit your link here to show the blogosphere your food thoughts. Deadline for submission is October 25th. Hope to see your link soon!

The Big Move is behind me. With the High Holidays over and Sukkot  just around the corner, I’ve been thinking about meals and menus without much interruption. Plenty of time to think about all that because for the past several days I’ve been lying in bed, blowing my nose.

Oh, woe. If I’d only drunk my daily cup of kefir, I could have avoided this cold and gone to a post- Yom Kippur breakfast, met some interesting new people…and look, I had even made some flan to take.

Many food historians claim that this elegant dish goes back to the ancient Romans and an egg-and-honey custard. Although the ancient Romans had a sophisticated cuisine, I suspect that flan in some form, under other names, existed long before them. We don’t know who first baked bread, brewed beer, or pickled olives; nor do we know if the ancient Phoenicians invented custard and brought it to Spain, where the Romans first sampled it. I lean towards the last theory – it evokes an even more ancient time, when some barefoot farm wife found herself with an excess of creamy milk, not enough to make cheese but a few dipperfulls. And say her hens had just laid an unusual number of  eggs. It wouldn’t have taken much imagination to mix the two in a clay pot, bake the mixture in the embers of a fire, and douse the custard with honey. People have always loved sweet things and that would have been a treat for a seafaring husband, something to make him miss home.

Well, that’s just romance and speculation. For a good read on the history of puddings, custards, and creams, with many historical recipes, go here.

But flan, flan takes me back to my childhood in Venezuela. I remember spooning up the silky custard with its veil of caramel syrup, allowing that tiny burnt taste to just approach my senses before it yielded to sweetness and the blander taste of cream and eggs. I still love flan. When thinking of a light dessert to please a crowd who’d been fasting 25 hours, that was what rose in my mind. Never mind… guess we’ll just have to eat it all ourselves, here at home.

Out on the Net, almost every recipe calls for cans of condensed and evaporated milk. You can get those here, but they’re expensive and not kosher enough for everyone as they’re chalav nochri (milk produced by Gentiles). This recipe, needing only whipping cream and milk, is adapted from one I found on Epicurious.com

Note: flan does shrink in cooking, so ramekins make a prettier presentation than a ring or a pie plate. I doubled the recipe and used a silicon bundt pan plus a pie pan, as I was going to transport them in a car.

Traditional Spanish Flan

printable version here

6 servings

Ingredients:

1 and 3/4 cup whipping cream

1 cup milk

pinch of salt

1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise

*******

1 cup sugar

*******

3 large eggs

2 large yolks

7 Tablespoons sugar

*******

hot water for steaming the flan

Method:

1. Combine the cream, milk, and salt.

2. Scrape the seeds out of the vanilla bean into the cream mixture. Add the bean. Over medium heat, bring the mixture to a simmer. Turn the flame off, cover the pan, and allow it to infuse for 1/2 hour.

3. Now preheat the oven to 350°F – 180° C.

4. Get your ramekins or mold ready: place them (or it) on a baking pan.

5. Put the cup of sugar into a medium pan. Allow it to  dissolve and caramelize over a medium flame. Keep a sharp eye on it – it takes only a few minutes for the sugar to brown. Once it goes black, it’s bitter and inedible. Break up any chunks with a spoon. As soon as the sugar smells only a little burnt and has a deep orange color, pour the syrup into the mold. Be very careful – burnt sugar causes painful burns on the skin. Best is to wear gloves. Now tilt the mold so the syrup coats as much of its inside as possible. Let it cool till the 1/2 hour of cream infusing with vanilla is up.

6. You’ll need to fill up the baking pan with water to half-way up the mold, so heat the water up in a kettle now.

7. Whisk the eggs, yolks, and 7 Tablespoons of sugar together in a medium bowl.

8. Whisk the infused cream into the yolks, gently. Try not to make foam, which will create air holes in the texture of the finished flan (can’t avoid them entirely, but small ones don’t matter).

9. Pour the custard into the mold, through a sieve. Sieving removes the pieces of vanilla bean and the skin which formed on the surface of the cream .

10. Pour enough hot water into the baking pan to come half-way up the mold.

11. Bake till the center is gently set: 40-50 minutes.

When it’s done, remove the whole thing from the oven, baking pan and all. when the water in the baking pan has cooled, lift the flan mold out and set it to finish cooling on a rack for an hour or two. Then cover and store it in the fridge. Serve the flan cold.

To serve, run a knife around the inner edges. Turn the flan over onto a plate. Shake it gently to loosen it. Lift the mold carefully and watch, entranced, as the caramel syrup runs over the baked cream custard.

Coconut Flan: use 1 can coconut cream instead of the milk. Use only 1 and 1/2 cups whipping cream.

Mango Flan: Add 1 cup sieved, puréed mango pulp and 1 Tablespoon rum to the recipe.

“Please, come in,” I said. Two Hassidim in long black coats and round, black felt hats walked in and sat down, looking shy. Behind them came Tuvya, a wine crony of mine from the grape purchase co-op, in a white shirt showing some purple splashes. He had a big, pleased grin on his face.

He said, “How’re ya doing?” and extracted a bottle of wine from a backpack. “Brought some Merlot from two years ago.”

Tuvya and I get together about twice a year: once at the grape crush, and then once again sometime later at his house or mine. We compare our wines from the previous year and talk shop. He’s unusually relaxed about socializing with me, a woman not his wife. Partly because he knew my parents – we also have friends in common – but partly, I think, because my interest in homebrewing  sort of makes me one of the guys. I had entered the co-op on his introduction.

“Great, welcome to the new apartment,” I said. “I’ll bring a corkscrew and some glasses.”

The two others were Yechezkiel, an American baal-teshuva of many year’s standing, and his son Brumy (Avraham). They came to return the grape press they’d borrowed earlier – again, through Tuvya. Because of moving house, I didn’t make wine this year so my equipment was free.

I could tell the father and son felt uncomfortable in my house, which must not look at all like the homes they’re used to. They didn’t remove their big black hats and sat at a modest distance. Although well-mannered and pleasant, they didn’t  address me directly at first. They talked  to Tuvya instead. That was fine. Everyone has a set of mores to live by, and I don’t judge. I thought it quite forthcoming of them to bring the press back themselves.

Maybe a glass of this good Merlot  will put them a bit more at ease, I thought (it was fruity, with mellow oaky tannins, just soft enough).

I have to admit, I do get a kick out of being the only woman in this group. At the crush, some of the men don’t know what to make of me. Religious women don’t drink wine, right? Much less make it. Most, though, are just busy getting the work done. Weighing out the grapes, loading them into the crusher, sealing the big plastic barrels full of crushed grapes and juice. I’m the one that brings the scales, the hydrometer to measure the alcohol, the sanitizing materials.  The guys provide the muscle and call me “Rebbetzin.”

Two years ago at the crush, Yechezkiel and I had chatted briefly about making soap, his eyes never meeting mine out of modesty. It turns out that he buys a ton of olives every year and gets them crushed for oil. That intrigued me. I love olive oil. We discussed, not very seriously, making soap from his excess oil, then forgot about it in the business of the grape crush. Now he and his son were drinking wine at my table, talking about olives and olive oil.

“I’m not optimistic about the quality of the olives this year,” Yechezkiel said. “We’ve had early rainfall, and that’s not so good. The olives fill up with water instead of oil.”

“Same problem with grapes,” I said. “But there’s a kibbutz in the Negev that irrigates their olive groves with salt water, and their olive oil is delicious.

“I love the olive tree,” I went on, risking becoming personal. “Everything about the olive is noble. The tree itself is beautiful, the wood hard and good for carving, the leaves are medicinal, and the fruit makes the best oil.”

Behind their round glasses, Yechezkiel’s eyes lit up with understanding. “I’m planting a small grove on my property,” he said. “To please my wife, I’ve already put in lemons, figs, and pomegranates – a small grapevine too – but I really want to grow at least a quarter of a ton of olives.”

“Where do you crush your olives?”

“I buy them at a moshav up north and get them crushed there in a modern mill. I’m looking for somewhere else to crush them, though. I want it done the old-fashioned way, between two mill-stones. That way I can see everything that’s going on, and I can be 100% sure that the oil will be kosher all year round and for Passover.”

We have something in common, I thought. I’m another who loves to handle raw materials, make everything from the most basic scratch. Possibly because I find ancient, historical methods romantic. But that’s not a word I would use to this black-clad man with his distinction and his air of having just stepped out of the yeshivah.

Brumy, who had remained silent till now, gently said, “A drop of wine is rolling down the bottle – it’ll stain your white tablecloth.”

“This boy has a good mother,” I said, wiping the bottle, and everyone chuckled.

The magic of wine and of olives! The strangers had become, in a strange way, friends.

The Book of Jewish Food by Claudia Roden is becoming my kitchen Bible for this holiday. In the post below, I show how I made lamb from it, and now I’ll show you the holiday fish.

It’s worth putting up a batch of pickled lemons - around now in September the lemons are great. Such a convenient way to put mellow lemony flavor into so many dishes.

Trout Baked with Pickled Lemons

Serves 4

Ingredients:

4 Tblsp. olive oil

3/4 cup water

1 tsp. paprika

1/2 tsp. turmeric

1 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. ground black pepper

4 Tblsp. chopped cilantro

1 1/2 kg. – 3 lb. fish – the original recipe says “1 large fish.” I cooked 2 small trouts.

3 pickled lemons

Method:

1. In a bowl, mix up the oil, water, dry spices and coriander.

2. Pour the mixture over the fish and allow it to marinate 1/2 hour, turning it over at the 15-minute point.

3. Rinse the salt and spices off the pickled lemons. Chop them up.

4. Put half the chopped lemons on the bottom of the baking dish; lay the fish on top and scatter the rest of the chopped lemons on top of it.

5. Bake at 220 °C – 425°F for 20  minutes or until done. The fish, that is.

When I saw fresh quarters of lamb of in the supermarket, I decided that for Rosh HaShanah, it was worth the price.  The butcher sliced off the chops and cut the shoulder and breast into thin pieces about 3 inches across. Not the way I would have liked it cut, but try to argue with a determined butcher who’s already pushing the meat through his electric slicer.

I froze the chops for grilling later and looked at the rest of the cut-up meat. Lots of little pieces with bone in them.  C0oked slowly in wine, they would make a fine, light stew. Could be worse.

My usual way with lamb is to surround it with aromatic herbs like rosemary and thyme, garlic, and dried fruit. But I have this bag of peeled chestnuts, bought with some abandoned recipe in mind. I wondered, how would lamb go with chestnuts? And what inspired cooking am I going to do today, one day before Rosh HaShana?

Sighing, I picked up Claudia Roden’s Book of Jewish Food and looked lamb up in the index. Lo and behold – a recipe for lamb with chestnuts. I cheered up. The dish looked interesting and easy. And so is, if you have pre-peeled chestnuts.

Mrs. Roden’s recipe calls for cooking the meat in water, but I substituted dry red wine for it. I also couldn’t resist adding something fruity, so I found my jar of dried citrus peels and dropped a strip of orange peel into the stew. It was all cooked up in my tajine, and  I discovered all over again how delicious lamb  cooked with cinnamon tastes.

Lamb With Chestnuts

Serves 4

Ingredients:

1 kg. – 2 lb. cubed lamb meat – 1 1/2 kg – 3 lb., if there are lots of bones.

1 large red onion

4 Tblsp. oil

salt and pepper to taste

1 1/2 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 – 1 tsp. ground allspice – I used 4 whole allspice berries.

1 long strip of dried orange peel – or peel a fresh orange, trimming away all the pith and rind, then quarter it.

750 grams – 1 1/2 lb. chestnuts

Juice of 1/2 lemon

3 Tblsp. chopped parsley

Method:

1. If the meat has a lot of fat on it, trim most of it off. Leave some on for flavor and texture, though.

2. Chop the onion and in a large pot (or tajine) sauté it in the oil.

3. When the onion is soft, add the meat and cook it till it’s browned, turning it over occasionally.

4. Add the dry spices; stir.

5. Add the orange peel or prepared fresh orange.

6. Pour the wine in and bring the whole to a simmer.

7. Cook the meat on a low flame for 2 hours or until fork-tender.

About 15 minutes before you’ll want to turn the flame off, add the chestnuts and lemon juice. Stir.

Scatter plenty of chopped parsley over the dish before serving, not only to add a fresh, herbal taste but to make the dish more attractive.

Rice or couscous are classic foils to this stew, as indeed to any.

Something about holidays unleashes a wild craving for sweet and sour meatballs in Jews. That is, I think so. Because come Rosh HaShana or Passover, every caterer advertises them in their newspaper ads and mailbox flyers. Sweet and sour meatballs, just like Bubeh made them! I never see them advertised at other times of the year, just at holidays.

Myself, I don’t recall ever having eaten a sweet and sour meatball. When I think of meatballs, I think of tomato sauce and bay leaf. Basil. Pasta. Italian. But the liking for a subtle blend of sour and sweet is an Ashkenazic taste that displays itself in other traditional recipes: beet borsht, brisket cooked with dried fruit, honey and vinegar, and of course that perennial Jewish favorite, Chinese food.

My oldest Jewish cookbook, Jewish Cookery, has a recipe calling for grated onion, a can of tomato soup, brown sugar and cider vinegar. The Net yielded others that include bottled chili and grape jelly. Then there are the pseudo-Asian recipes adding pineapple, soy sauce, and bell peppers to the meatball sauce.

Nah. I’m in the mood for something more traditional, more…Eastern European. I’d like to try the meatballs as an appetizer. Very small meatballs, just little savory bites to awaken the appetite, not enough to satiate.

So I made them. Of course there is a small amount of soy sauce in there, as well as wine, which isn’t traditional either. What can I do, it’s what I like. And the meatbals turned out very good indeed, firm but tender, savory/sweet. A nice little mouthfull to keep everyone interested. Here they are.

Sweet and Sour Meatballs

6 servings or appetizers for 12

Ingredients for the sauce:

* Optional: Oil for shallow frying

1 medium onion

1 stalk of celery

2 Tblsp. olive oil

250 grams – 1 cup tomato purée

1 cup dry red or white wine (semi-sweet is also OK)

1/4 cup water

1/4 cup brown sugar

1/4 cup vinegar

1 Tblsp. soy sauce

1 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. ground black pepper, or more to taste

Ingredients for the meatballs:

1 kg. ground beef or a combination of ground beef and turkey meat

1 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. ground black pepper

1 medium onion

2 cloves garlic, peeled

1 egg

1/4 cup fine matzah meal or fine, dry breadcrumbs

Method:

First, choose between frying the meatballs prior to cooking them in the sauce, or dropping them into it raw.  Pre-frying makes the meatballs firm and somewhat richer; the raw method is quicker and less work.

Then, make the sauce.

1. Chop the onion and celery finely.

2. Sauté them in olive oil until tender.

3. Add the tomato purée. Stir.

4. Add the wine and the water; stir.

5. Add the brown sugar, vinegar, and soy sauce. Stir again.

6. Season with salt and pepper.

Allow the sauce to simmer. Lower the flame now, cover the sauce, and keep it simmering.

Now for the meatballs.

1. Either blend all the ingredients in a food processor

or blend the onion, garlic, egg, salt and pepper separately (like in a blender) and mix them in with the ground meat. The old way was to grate the onion and chop the garlic finely. Stir the matzah meal into the meat and seasonings, blending well. Set aside.

If you choose to fry them, get about a cup of oil hot in your frying pan. I pre-fried and they were very good, less liable to fall apart in the sauce.

Use a teaspoon to measure out tiny meatballs; a tablespoon if you want larger ones. Either way, roll the ground meat mixture between your wet palms to make balls the size you prefer.

This is how I arranged things:

Frying only takes 1-2 minutes on each side. The meatballs don’t need to be cooked through, just browned. They finish cooking in the sauce. Handle them as little as possible: shake them loose from the pan bottom and scoop them out with tongs.

Then drop them gently into the hot sauce and cook for 20 minutes.

If serving as a main dish, accompany the meatballs with rice. If they are to be appetizers, serve 4 per person.

For a party buffet, keep the dish hot in a crockpot and provide small bowls.

Apologies for delayed answers to readers who have posted questions and comments while I was moving. My excuse is that the computer has been hidden behind a pyramid of boxes for almost a week.

It’s been the most challenging move ever. A massive amount of books and tchatchkes hade accumulated over the years and many had to be weeded out, given away, sold, divested of  somehow, because the new apartment is smaller and there’s much less storage space. I’ve had to take a long, meditative look at the objects that have followed my life. Mostly books.

I see that I don’t have to confess anything or talk about myself for someone to get to know me – my passions, hobbies, loved ones, past and present occupations are out here in plain sight. I’ve never traveled lightly; never liked going back to old places, but have always carried stuff around with me. But I don’t have to keep everything, drag my past around and set it up again each time I move. It was liberating to realize that.We fill bags full of books I’ll never read again and take them out to the recycling dumpster.

And then there’s learning the mores of the neighborhood. I may throw household garbage in the “garbage can room” at the side of the building, but the empty moving boxes have to be dumped in an empty lot across the street where every morning a small bulldozer scoops up all the other old lumber people leave there.  I cruise the new supermarket doubtfully: do they have the particular brand of flour I favor? They don’t, but here’s one I haven’t tried yet. And what are the rules about packing your purchases – do you do it yourself, or do they keep someone around to do it?

We’ve been eating one-pot meals: soups and stews with potatoes or bread. What, oh what am I going to cook for Rosh HaShannah? I guess I’ll be showing you soon – as soon as I can locate my good knife and vegetable peeler. Last time I saw them, they were in the old house.