Being Fresh

   Our parents learned cooking from TV shows and cookbooks. Their parents learned cooking from recipe cards. And their parents learned from necessity. In this era, we learn as any of these have: from those who've gone before us. Our generation simply utilizes the internet to gain these connections. Jes uses Pinterest, where usually the only prerequisite for being a hit with us is a recipe's simplicity. Take cabbage steaks, for example: baking sheet, foil, sliced cabbage rounds, seasoning, oil, heat, time. They look like flowers when they're done, they're fun to unravel, and top-of-the-list, they taste great.
   Now, if taste had anything to do with the meals we eat, there's one rule to follow: freshness. Produce, spices, meat...oil—whatever you're using, if it's not fresh, something-something-illegal. There's plenty to say about working with fresh foods, and at the forefront of my mind comes this subtle truth: fresh isn't always feasible. So, while it is the one rule to follow, it's also important to know it can be broken. What kind of lesson is this? Just an honest one.
   Depending on the level of freshness you desire, cost is usually directly related to it. That is to say, they rise together. Income may share a similar relationship, but I don't wish to delve into socio-economic studies. I want to keep your attention, after all. What I'm trying to get at is this: if it's cheap in price, chances are it's cheap in freshness, and by extension flavor.* Sometimes, it's cheap because of surplus. Just think of corn. And sometimes it's expensive because of lack. For that side of things, peruse the spice aisle; those prices per pound can get astronomical.
   Don't get me wrong. I'm not bashing cheap dining. I'm a frugal shopper, myself. Older generations have done great things with foods most of us would prefer to tie up in a trash bag, and I for one admire them for that. I mean, kitchen scraps alone can hold so much flavor, and these days they're not even fit for the compost heap. What's up with that?
   *Less flavor is not lack of flavor. Less fresh is not inedible, nor even unhealthy. Fresh fruit is picked when it has yet to ripen. By that extent, ripe and overripe aren't fresh. But I digress. Though I could go on defending the other side, and indeed you won't hear the last of it among our stories, this post is actually, believe it or not, about choosing fresh ingredients.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

   Jes grew up in California. She recalled her family's garden to me recently as we both seemed wide awake at 2 in the morning:
   They lived on a cul-de-sac, right at the end with a big lot. Her mother had fenced off a portion of the yard, tilled the earth and dug troughs, and planted a row each of corn, cucumbers, zucchini, yellow squash, and tomatoes. On the mound of dirt at the end, they had cantaloupe-sized watermelons and cantaloupe-sized pumpkins, but no cantaloupes themselves. When asked if she remembered their using these freshest of foods in recipes, she replied a vehement "Oh yeah." She spoke of a lemon tree they had, how they'd made fresh lemonade every summer, "cut them in half, put the thing on the thing" (exact words). And her grandmother's garden grew raspberries, blackberries, apples and oranges.
   My memories mostly only lacked the joy of home-grown citrus. Until college, I'd not known New Jersey to be capable of growing oranges, but even so, they're not the same. You may know New Jersey as "the garden state," and I grew up calling it that as well, but that's more a historic label now than anything. Still, I believe we're the nation's #1 producer of cranberries and blueberries. That, or #3. Our soil is perfect for berries, of which the tomato is also a type.
   My grandfather's house had the only true vegetable garden that I can recall. Cucumbers along the fence, a plot of tomatoes with those ring-guards staked around them. A blackberry bush, and peppermint. And of course, the grape vine. In my childhood, we ate the grapes by squeezing them out of their tough skin, biting into their lychee-like flesh, and spitting out the peppercorn-sized seeds. But the leaves— those were the real reason for the vine. That will get its own post...when I feel up to it.

   There is nothing quite like an Italian garden. Jes and I have a friend, truly an adopted grandmother, with the greenest pair of thumbs in the world. If she were all thumbs, that would have to be a compliment. For the purposes of this post, she will have to remain a-nonni-mous, but she has taught us much about food, and cooking, and cuisine, and gardening, and family. And to that we owe her much.
   Among her present garden, she grows oregano and mint, figs and peaches, and containers of tomatoes, peppers, basil, lettuce, broccoli (R.I.P.), eggplant, and even a lemon tree or two. This year, the tomato plants have surpassed my height, and that is saying something. In the kitchen, she has defined for us what it means to be passionate about cooking. There are several of those in each of our families, I believe, but this woman takes the cake...and shoves it down your throat until you agree it's the best thing you've ever had. But in all seriousness, her approach to food is simple: it is meant to be eaten. And so, we eat it.
   That's all I'm going to say about that. If you know her, you know. But I don't want to belittle the fact that she cooks out of habit. I, on the other hand, am at the level of cooking out of necessity, and time is my greatest threat. Actually, it always was, no matter the field. But I greatly admire those who do not share that weakness, especially in the kitchen.
   Her daughter, we are all glad, has the same gene: good home-cooking. There is a dish she makes, one of her personal favorites, which is really the epitome of freshness. When I made it the first time, it was delightful. When I made it the second time, it was scrumptious. When I make it again, I hope it to be vibrant and perhaps crisp. If you haven't guessed by now—because really, what kind of clues are those?—I'm talking about ratatouille.

The Rat in the Kitchen

   Maybe, if you're like me, the first thing you think of when you hear that word is "rat." Whether by virtue of the spelling or the influence of Disney, we can't avoid it. But if you've ever had it proper, it's rich in flavor and full of vitamins. It can be eaten hot or cold, alone or as a side. It pairs well with grains, and is 99% vegetable. The other 1% is mineral, referring to the salt you may wish to include, and of course the dirt that might make its way into the dish, because like I've said, fresh is best.
   I remember my mother making this once or twice, and it was just like Jes's and my adopted mother's recipe. The American tradition seems to be cubed vegetables sautéed and reduced. I was put in charge of stirring, which is only more exciting than watching water boil because of the aromas that waft through the air. I think I'm due for another taste, because I only remember heating the leftovers with spaghetti, calling it pasta primavera, and slapping my name on it. Talk about being cheap.

July 24, 2011 - Pasta Primavera

   The first time my roommate and I cooked for our mothers, we served spaghetti and fish sticks. Little do they know how much of our hearts went into that meal. By the time I decided to make ratatouille, Jes was living in NJ and my cooking abilities had risen above Level 0. Jes is actually partly responsible for keeping my concoctions tame. The other part happens to result from the research I do. You see, when I'm under the stress of cooking something right, you can bet there's a recipe behind it. Like, a concrete, written and measured recipe. When I enter my personal modus operandi, however, there are no spoons...only eyeballs. For me, the measure of cooking is to cook without measure (to borrow from Saint Francis de Sales).
   If you're cooking something for the first time and you want it done right, you best follow in someone's footsteps. There's no shame in admitting ignorance, after all. How would we learn if there were? By making our own mistakes? Who likes doing that? My first home-cooked filet mignon was raw in the middle. Not pink, not cool red. Raw. When I owned up to making my own steaks (the second meal I decided to tackle), they were tough and unpleasantly monotone. An equal flaw, in my opinion, but Jes and I normally like our steaks cooked through.
   Anyway, back to the rat. For both the reasons that I like being different and that I like to beautify things, I chose a recipe off of smitten kitchen. It was based on the movie's meal, which in turn happened to be based on a dish more accurately termed confit byaldi. The differences are subtle, but a ratatouille is traditionally a vegetable stew, while a confit implies slow-cooking in—specifically here—oil. I didn't know all this at the time, but Shakespeare taught us that names matter little; it'll taste the same regardless of what you call it.

April 18, 2012 - Ratatouille à la Film

 
   I followed that recipe like a pirate keeping to The Code: just guidelines, really. I replaced the bell pepper with an Anaheim solely because it was as narrow as the other vegetables. I added tomato slices because I wanted to. I didn't own a mandoline, and I didn't go out to get one. I forgot to buy parchment paper, so I settled without it. And I substituted dried rosemary in lieu of thyme. All in all, from the first cut to the delivery into the oven, at least an hour was had for preparation. That's actually good, for my standards. It's when I have no idea what I'm doing that time gets away from me.

The Ramblings of a Recipe

   As I enjoy transforming dishes, my second round with ratatouille came three years later. It was more traditional, in a sense, with a twist only I might be allowed to pull off: I cooked each ingredient separately. And it would probably make more sense if they had stayed separate, but no. This is ratatouille. They must be eaten together. I was still fighting the clock because I'm a perfectionist at heart, and cutting vegetables is not my forte, but it was a joy nonetheless, and Jes—who doesn't particularly like ratatouille— was adoring the scents.
   First, you start with an onion. I presume any one would do because I don't know much about onions. This one was yellow. That and Vidalia seem to be the only types we buy. You trim the onion, wash the onion, peel the onion, and then cry about the relationship you're about to have. Throw the skins in a bag or Tupperware container so that you can later freeze them along with whatever other useful kitchen scraps you get from this. Slice said onion into quarter-inch rounds, throw them onto a square of foil, wash your hands free of their radical enzymes, and then swear to have nothing to do with them ever again. Douse the onions in some sort of oil flavored to your liking; give them enough to bathe in. 50-50 would probably be too much. Then toss some oregano their way (I used dried. *gasp* In a post about freshness, too!). These beauties are about to be steamed. Wrap them just tight enough and pop 'em in the oven. Who needs a pan? Bonus points if the thing looks like a giant onion.

July 4, 2015 - Layered Ratatouille

   Next, we actually do need a pan. Judging by the amount of onion you started with, cut up twice as much squash. Green or yellow doesn't matter. I went with grey, which is just green speckled with white. I cut them up like steak fries, spread them out on a foil-covered baking sheet, drizzled them very lightly with oil (because I want these to toast, char, or even catch fire if that's possible), and sprinkled rosemary around. Again, dried. They probably did absolutely nothing for these, but I guess it's nice to know they tried. If I had to do it again, I'd probably choose to infuse the oil with fresh rosemary ahead of time. But only for the squash. Because there's a method to my madness, and if this were for a dinner party, these would remain separate to let their individual flavors stand out. As it was, this dish was for a picnic not my own, so it was a side, not a star.

July 4, 2015 - Layered Ratatouille

   If you're wondering how long to cook these and at what temperatures, you won't find numbers from me. Thankfully, Jes will spare you and say 350 degress. OK, but for how long? The onions...forever. They can never be overcooked. The squash...preferably before they become shriveled into oblivion. I'm sorry I can't be more precise than that. Time is my nemesis, after all. Truthfully, the way I cook any vegetable is to follow my nose. This works especially well with herbs, ground pepper, garlic, and just about anything of the sort. If the smells are escaping, you're on the right track. If the smells are dense and flooding, or in Jes's case you can smell it from another room, it's almost done. If the smells are starting to warp, it's too much! Remove from heat A.S.A.P. If all else fails, the next time I make this, I'll be sure to have my mother present. She'll be writing up every detail, for herself, yes, but I'll try to get you a copy.
   You cannot have ratatouille without eggplant. The first time, I used a skinny, Japanese one so that the slices fit the other veggies. This time, to go with the squash, I happened to find a Dominican variety. The skin had a similar design, while the shape of it resembled a small Italian...eggplant. These got sliced just like the squash, only they went straight to the frying pan. A little oil, a little heat, and a little ground cinnamon. Jes hates when I add sweet things—or things that go with sweet things—to generally salt-based meals. Now, it may be of interest to some that there is 0 salt in this dish, but the thought is still there. This is a rustic meal, not a sauce or Chopped-featured dessert. So, truth be told, I try to keep these sorts of things secret from Jes until she asks the right questions, or admits she likes it, whichever comes first. I like to pair flavors, and I like to take risks. Hence the "guinea pig" badge. Cinnamon and eggplant? I'm not going to lie. I couldn't tell it was there. Either it needed more, or it was a good thing it didn't stand out. It could probably be replaced by ground pepper, or even basil. Traditional ratatouille is made with herbes de Provence. Go figure, the meal is also from Provence, France. The blend goes well with tomato-bases, so if you don't have it in your spice rack, you can't go wrong with basil, oregano, thyme, savory, and other sorts of delights.

July 4, 2015 - Layered Ratatouille

   The hardest part of the eggplant was not crowding the pan. I'd like to include not burning the oil, but unfortunately that did happen.
   Last but not least come the tomatoes. I used 3 or 4 of those on-the-vine ones. Pop them off and drop them into a pot of boiling water. Blanch them for 1 minute, like most things you would blanch. Their skins will start to peel, and that's what you're looking for. Then pour out the hot water and replace it with cold. If you're a sissy like me, you may want to rinse them like this over and over, because they'll be holding onto a lot of heat, and the only thing we want to take away from them is their skin. Whatever your means of skinning (knife or fingernail), take out that woody part at the crown. Discard as much water from the pot as possible and plop your skinned cats inside once more. Coat the bottom with oil and then give them high heat, uncovered. Poke them as you stir, making sure to give them "a break." Literally. You want them to break. These babies are getting stewed. When they've released some liquid, add in two sliced cloves of garlic. This will cook until it's been reduced, or until your clock runs out. For this reason, I would probably suggest making this your first step, not your last.

July 4, 2015 - Layered Ratatouille

   If you're the better chef, you might time every bit to be done simultaneously. I still haven't been able to do this, so as things finished, I layered them into a deep baking dish. At 2 quarts, the overflowing bounty of cooked vegetables took a while to settle enough for the lid to fit, so 2.5 might have worked perfectly. Do they make those? Also, glass would have really made it presentable. I like to think of this recipe as a veggie-parfait. Just before serving, it was stirred to showcase just what was hiding beneath the layer of red. Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of the final, plated product. But when I make it again (slightly transformed yet again), Shirley, you'll see it here.