How Roux'ed

   I've gone through years of meals without knowing how to properly use oil. My basic kitchen knowledge said that it keeps foods from burning. And even though this went against my environmental training, reminding me that oil itself is flammable, I never considered where exactly the smoke in my kitchen was coming from. "Shirley, it must be the food burning. Perhaps I need more oil!" And dealing with the aftermath of the pots and pans led to several wasted hours of scrubbing attention (because my roommate and I were at least keen on retaining the finishing with soft sponges) and, in one case, a rust-ruined wok.
   There is definitely science in this part of cooking, and while ignorance may only kill you slightly more quickly, awareness—and application—will actually boost your confidence in the kitchen. If you're frowning, don't worry; you're not alone. I loathe chemistry as much as the next foodie. But the beauty of science is that it is there whether we care or not, and often whether we've discovered everything about it or not. As far as this discussion on oil covers, there are as many health benefits as concerns, which are each dependent upon 1. freshness, 2. source, and 3. temperature.
   I realized I missed an opportunity in my last post to quote Julia Child, so I will do such here. "Freshness is essential. That makes all the difference." If people can complain that oil is bad for you, then certainly we can all agree that bad oil is bad for you. Most often, this issue would arise in your pantry, where you may have kept oil past its shelf life. According to this site, a 2-year maximum is possible, though 1 year is more common, and these clocks begin when the [olives] are harvested. Presumably, these shelf-life standards apply to any vegetative oils. Butter, on the other hand, which is made from cream, can last 2-4 weeks after the printed date (depending greatly upon how it is stored) or up to 9 months if frozen. Lard, which is fundamentally animal fat, lasts longer than butter but shorter than vegetable oils.
   Don't worry. You'll never find me using [commercial] lard. I've rarely even cooked with butter, because I've been taught that it burns, and so, that it should really only be used for flavor. But any oil is flammable, and hence burns. What makes the difference is how you cook it. This is commonly explained by the smoke point. When I started cooking, I was under the impression that more heat meant less time. Time being always against me, I'd crank that burner and fill my stomach sooner. But all oils are not created equally. Some will smoke sooner than others—i.e., at lower temperatures. And generally, this is bad. Higher numbers mean an oil is capable of holding more heat without denaturing its fats and other nutrients. In short, the smoke point is the maximum temperature. Once an oil exceeds its smoke point, it begins to smoke. Which is burning. Which is carcinogenic. Which is bad.

A Well-Oiled Engine

   There is a world of research you can unveil listing the nutrients of different oils, the flavors they impart, and the cooking methods they're best adapted to, so I'll leave that Google-search to you. For my purposes, I've traditionally only used olive oil and canola oil, the latter of which, in our kitchen, has questionable age. But when I needed to make a roux, I realized that neither of these would do. This is because my first impression of roux was hot oil and flour. That's all it takes to make a roux, so whenever you see the word, just think of that. Doesn't that sound appetizing?
   I used to think that flour only belonged in bread and other baked items; hence, I never paid it attention. But for a roux, flour is a must. It's the type of oil used that changes, depending ultimately upon preference. Apparently, you will find many proponents of grease or butter because of the flavor it would add. But, because heat is essential in both cooking the flour and allowing it to dissolve smoothly, using these generally low-smoke-point oils requires careful attention. Remember: oil holds heat, but if it gains too much, it will burn. I say "generally" because any given oil's smoke point decreases with age, which, interestingly, brings us back to being fresh.
   Without straying too far from topic, I did my research and decided I was long overdue for an oil change. No, not in my car. In my kitchen. The canola has been less than satisfactory, while the olive oil in the tin can is mostly there for sentimentality. Both of them are wasteful to pour, but that's really beside the point. The fact is, they smoke too easily for most of the cooking I do, and while I perhaps should simply be using less heat, that's no excuse to keep holding onto bad oil. All oil will eventually go bad one way or another, to the point where even consuming it raw—say, in a salad dressing—would contribute no benefit to your palate nor nutrition.
   So, what oil(s) should you be using? Canola and olive oil, if that's what you're into. Seriously, it boils down to preference. I, for one, recently switched to sunflower oil. This has a high smoke point and imparts neutral flavor, so it can be used in many recipes. It is perhaps as rare a find as avocado oil, which boasts the highest smoke point among cooking oils. Peanut oil, common in Oriental cuisine, also has a very high smoke point, but its flavor is also strong. Generally, any oils like these are commonly used for deep frying, as well as for sautéing and stir frying.
   By contrast, extra-virgin olive oil has a notably low smoke point. If cooked, it should be treated like butter: high in flavor, but easy to scorch. Unlike butter, however, burnt EVOO is nothing more than wasted money. For this reason, I only use it raw. More refined or processed olive oils are able to tolerate more heat, but there are probably better-adapted oil sources for the cooking method you're looking for. If you're health-conscious, pay attention to the saturated fats. These are normally responsible for low smoke points, while unsaturated fats usually yield a higher smoke point. Trans-fats occur when unsaturated fats are hydrogenated (processed with hydrogen) to be transformed (often "partially") into saturated fats. Fun Fact: Saturated fats tend to be solid at room temperature. So when you see grease, lard, butter or even coconut oil, compare their low smoke points with more common vegetable oils, some of which are thinner and runnier among themselves.
   To be fair, oils with low smoke points have their place, too, such as baking and low-heat sautéing. As long as you know what you're dealing with, you should be fine.

R.O.U.S.

   I had once heard that flour was a thickening agent, so I sprinkled it into my pan of delicious drippings and was immediately perturbed by the lumps that resulted. I remember telling myself, "Maybe I was wrong." That was years ago. But recently, I had a greater desire to make gumbo, from scratch, with no idea what I was getting into. I researched it over a period of several days, initially finding sources which called for a roux, and later finding out that more traditional recipes don't include one. I've heard of a rue; I thought it was a street in France. So, the majority of my studying began to focus on this one aspect which many chefs apparently call the base of gumbo.
   A lot of the opposition to the roux seems to be just that it gets so much attention when in actuality it is simply a part of the dish, working hand-in-hand with all the other ingredients. Really, when I first settled on making gumbo, I instantly thought, "It's not gumbo without andouille sausage!" Then I found such fervent support for the roux that I began to think, "It's not gumbo without a roux." So, naturally, I put all of my efforts into doing it right.
   We went to IKEA. And I broke out the gift card my brother had given for my birthday almost a year ago. Because, among the kitchen supplies Jes received at her bridal shower, a sifter was not one of them. Quintessential, I believe, for a proper roux, the flour you add must be lump-free. I certainly did not want a repeat of my first flour encounter. Next up, we bought a wok. From IKEA. I know. Who does that? I'll tell you who: someone cheap. If it survives one recipe, I can't complain. It was no cost to me, regardless.
   To me, a wok is easy-to-use. Contrast with a cast-iron skillet. Optimally, I would have used the latter, because among its strengths is its ability to retain heat. We are in the ownership of one already, and though we haven't used it yet, ours has a sad story to be told—but that will be for another day. (Ha.) In my research, I found two videos explaining the ease with which one can make a roux, and both of them utilized a cast-iron pan. At least one of them stressed the effect of "carry-over heat," which, for cast-iron, means when you turn off the burner, the food can continue to cook for upwards of 10 minutes. And this being my first time dealing with a roux, I figured the last thing I needed was to worry about a 10-minute buffer. So I stuck to my wok, which is a perfect alternative. It's also much lighter.
   Next comes the question of ratio. A roux is simple enough in that it only requires two ingredients: oil and flour. A safe bet is 1:1 (measured by weight, apparently). I do not own a scale, of any kind, nor did I even follow that ratio. I had found a forum—which I think is the next best thing to surveying people—which ultimately settled that the ratio is left to preference. More oil means a wetter roux, while less means drier. I ended up using 1:2 (that is, 1/3 parts oil, 2/3 parts flour), but I measured by volume. Looking back, that was actually about 3:4 by weight. (Vegetable oil is ~7.5 lbs/Gal, while wheat flour is ~5.0 lbs/Gal.) That means, if you're aiming for 1:1 by weight, 3:2 by volume is much closer. If I bought a scale, I know I'd waste even more time in the kitchen. And math is fun, so I don't mind the trade-off.
   This is where it helps to have 4 hands. Heat the oil, make it shimmer. We have an electric range at home (not our choice), but for this meal we were moved to a better-equipped kitchen. The flame, or the number, should be high, especially if you're using an oil with a higher smoke point. If you're doing this right, your flour should be sifted before you measured it. I did not, hence the need for more hands. I stood above the wok, stirring with my wooden spoon while Jes pulled the trigger and slowly added flour to the pan. The idea here is to keep the flour moving to avoid both clumps and burning.

July 22, 2015 - Roux, Stage 0

   The roux will go through what's called "stages" determined by the length of time in which it cooks. Be forewarned: for a gumbo, you are likely looking for a dark stage, which can take upwards of an hour to reach. That's with constant stirring. Lighter stages have their purposes too, but my sources indicated that what is called a "dark chocolate roux" is optimal for [my] gumbo. Never having made any color roux before, I didn't really know what I was looking for, and if we can both be perfectly honest, I probably went beyond the optimal stage. But I believe that's what makes a roux what it is: trial and error. That's why no one can agree whether to include one, let alone what should go into it, how much, and for how long it should cook.

July 22, 2015 - Roux, Stage 1

   We are basically frying flour, at this point. Depending on how much flour you add at once, the thickness of the overall product will go up. Do not be alarmed if you get something like homus in your pan (pictured above). Just ease up on how fast you're adding flour and, as always, keep stirring. Be sure to scrape that wooden spoon all over and up and down so nothing starts to get stuck. If you're looking for a thickener, this is the stage to stop at, because the further along you go (essentially, the more the flour cooks), the less that property will be of use. Instead, what we're looking for in a gumbo-roux is the increasingly intense flavor of cooked flour. The nutty scent of it will either delight you or get on your nerves. You've been warned.

July 22, 2015 - Roux, Stage 4

   Stage 2 will start to look the color of peanut butter, and Stage 3 a dark shade of pumpkin pie. The stage shown above looks to me like milk chocolate, but as I hinted at earlier, this may be the roux we're looking for. I say this because the next stage, though more comparable to dark chocolate, resulted in an almost too-dark and difficult-to-work-with texture once it came time to start adding other ingredients to the gumbo. So, in hindsight, the above "Stage 4" is where the stove turns off. If cast-iron is being used, another 10 minutes of carry-over heat shouldn't hurt this stage (as long as you continue stirring), because truth-be-told, this took closer to 2 hours to reach. Some people, in getting away from the baby-sitting aspect of this traditional method, have devised ways of making a roux in the oven. Others simply use store-bought mixes. Whatever works. My being an amateur at this, I don't mind sticking to the pan.

July 22, 2015 - Roux Spectrum

   The above not only shows the gradient of roux which you can experience, but it also shows you just how much darker I took mine. In actuality, I think that one might have been burning oil, which explains a lot. But, is it not dark-chocolatey looking? I thought so. Only after adding the veggies did I start to think it was too dark.

Humble Gumbo

   In the line of things open to interpretation, there is another ratio one must consider, and it centers around a simple question: how much roux should you make? If you're making it ahead of time—which is a legitimate business—the bigger the batch, the better. Less time spent stirring, after all. A quart, then, is probably a decent quantity to work with. But I was cooking gumbo for a crowd, and I had no intent of divvying up the roux for another use, nor did I even know how much gumbo to make. Again, I was led to the forum, and I settled on one rule: 1 cup roux to 1 gallon gumbo.
   Normally, I'd rather make too much than not enough. I was reminded of my grandfather, who'd literally cooked for the army, and while I was perusing the wares of IKEA, I found that none of their pots could suffice. The largest we own is 6 quarts (I believe). So, naturally, I ended up borrowing an 18-quart pot from an a-nonni-mous donor. I settled on making 3 gallons, because then the 3 cups of roux would be easy to measure, if you recall my 1:2/oil:flour math problem.
   With all the numbers settled, all that was left was an actual recipe. I'd found several, even read through one that Emeril made, and settled with this lady, because her video for making the roux was informative enough. Like the ratatouille, I didn't follow it to the letter, and that's really how cooking is supposed to be: You work with what you have.

July 22, 2015 - Shrimp Gumbo

   Mmmm, doesn't that look delicious? First, I will say this was my moment of disappointment. I'd just taken care of a roux from conception to full-term, more than two hours of stirring almost nonstop (I had to take pictures), and as soon as I add the vegetables, I get this mess. As you'll notice, the delectable, velvety, brown hue has become a gelatinous black substance that may easily enough be confused with Texas tea. And stirring? Ha. Impossible. Seriously.
   Water and oil don't mix. Cooking 101. The second those fresh veggies hit the blazing hot oil, their outer layer was seared and a sizzling steam escaped the pan. I got my thickener alright; I almost feared adding the remainder of the vegetables.
   Let's go back a little bit. Gumbo is a soup, or stew, depending on whom you ask. Whenever you're making broth, for any soup, there are three main ingredients that go into it: carrot, celery, and onion. These are the foundational flavors on which almost anything can be built. But in Louisiana cooking, that southern spice calls for a replacement: bell pepper for carrot. Capsicum is responsible for much of the heat we consider in spicy foods. The white of a pepper, and namely the seeds, contains varying quantities of this. Eat a single seed of a bell pepper (normally known for its mild taste) and your tongue will get a kick. Alternatively, eat only the green flesh of a jalapeño pepper and you'll swear you had them all wrong.
   There's a name used in vain for this triplex of soup-base, and a worse one when they throw in garlic. The take-away is, sometimes garlic provides that special umph. Most of us can probably agree with that. The chefs in my family can. The thing to know, however, is that garlic burns easily, and there's nothing chalkier than having to swallow a blackened clove. Like oil, too much heat too quickly distorts the flavors. So, while garlic may be included with these other three, it is not added into an environment where it can easily scorch, but is set aside for later use.
   Most recipes for gumbo in which a roux is first prepared tell you to add [the triplex] once the desired stage of roux is reached. Maybe one-third of them, including the one I'm following, tell you to add the onion separate, first. Because, if you paid attention to my last post, you'll know onions deal very well with heat. You actually want to distort that flavor, to sweeten it, just a little, before adding the bell pepper and celery.

July 22, 2015 - Shrimp Gumbo

   It starts looking better when you add some much needed liquid. Homemade stock (described here) is the majority of what you see above. I'd advise against using extra water, only because that tends to dilute flavors you're otherwise trying to accentuate. Other ingredients added at this phase include all of your aromatics: fresh thyme, dried bay leaves, halved garlic, salt and pepper, and a pinch of cayenne (it's very subtle, and for someone not keen on spice, I'd actually have preferred more). The other factor of liquid (and color) seen here comes from canned tomatoes—canned, because I hadn't the time to skin my own, else I definitely would have. Canned vegetables, in my opinion, have their place in the scheme of freshness.
   While this is brought to a boil, it's time to deal with the meats. You'll notice "shrimp" throughout the captions. This is because the stock I had prepared was shrimp-based, and of course I had more to add. But shrimp cook so quickly (and easily!) that they're actually the very last item to enter the pot. Andouille is already cooked—smoked, to be precise—so the minimal effort of slicing it will prepare it for its bath. You may also choose to char some of its edges in a pan, for that extra carcinogenic flavor. I'm convinced the roux-base is actually burnt, so why not go all-out? Speaking of, assuming it's reached its boil, give it a poking stir and let it simmer while we move on to the chicken.

July 22, 2015 - Shrimp Gumbo

   Whether you live in the outback or you grew up with well-meaning, health-conscious parents, poaching seems to have gotten its share of opposition. I'm not a fan of eggs, so I've never poached anything that wasn't already a science experiment. Nor would I ever consider eating what you see before you. But that, in fact, is poached chicken. Why? Because. We're simply taking away its raw factor so that when it's added to the soup, it will certainly be done. The above pieces have been cooked to rare for that purpose.
   I used deboned chicken thighs, though you can certainly omit or replace it. Gumbo can handle almost any meat you wish to put in it, and there are even fully seafood varieties—making use of clams, lobster, crawfish, langoustines, shrimp, and even actual fish! The important thing is not to overload your pot. A lot of traditionalists stress the concept of gumbo not being a stew. That is to say, you shouldn't need a fork. Of course, if your gumbo turns out to be very stewlike, who cares? My first attempt at chicken soup ended up losing all of its liquid.

July 22, 2015 - Shrimp Gumbo

   The final product. The chicken and sausage are added together, along with a mystery item you may have a natural aversion to: okra. These were frozen—again, used for simplicity. The interesting thing about okra is that everyone who's had it knows its quirk. The slime it exudes when cooking is not exactly pleasant to consume. It's actually quite snotty. It's true. I don't know if it being frozen affects this, but I truthfully hoped it didn't. Because, believe it or not, that slime is the key reason it's being added. Since many traditional sources despise the roux for the belief in its thickening power, they use okra instead to achieve that touch of viscosity. The slime breaks apart and works its way throughout the pot to help bind the liquid.
   Raw, cleaned shrimp is added the moment you turn off the heat. They'll cook through within 10 minutes, just enough time for you to set the table. You may also choose to fish out the bay leaves and thyme sprigs, or if you were smarter than me, search out the sachet, cheesecloth or twine that binds them all neatly together. I simply went the road of warning my guinea pigs to avoid the papery leaves. Just before serving, you may also have a great desire to taste the pottage, because if you made it exactly like I did—burnt roux and all—a hefty addition of salt may help to balance out the flavors. I don't like using salt, but sometimes it's just needed.
   Thicker versions may be able to stand up against rice, in a similar way that ratatouille pairs with it. For this creation, however, a sliced baguette seemed the perfect complement. Now, if only we had slathered them over with room-temperature butter.

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.