I went on an unnecessary but fascinating grocery shopping trip, and as I was unloading my treasures, I put a bottle of juice on the shelf, thinking, “Wow, this shelf has held up really well, especially with all of these glass jars I’ve been putting things in.”

I wandered back into the bedroom and puttered around a little bit when I heard a giant crash in the kitchen. I took a deep breath, emitted a mild expletive, and walked back to the kitchen to see the contents of the pantry making a brightly colored stream of glass and goodies across the kitchen floor. Luckily, only two jars broke (the pantry doors cushioned the blow as the shelf collapsed), and neither of them was liquid. We took it as an excuse to do a little kitchen clearing, and we found all of this… stuff. Everywhere. Too many times I found myself saying, “Ooh, I’d forgotten I had that!”

In the professional kitchen I work in, I feel tremendous guilt when I say that. Finding a case of food in the walk-in freezer that I had insisted on ordering two months ago, and then forgotten about? Not cool. I saw too many unused items in the pantry, and it was time to resist the eating-out temptations that are so rampant in Portland. So I backed off on the grocery shopping for a couple of weeks. I did all right – didn’t go out to eat too much, had a couple of friends over for dinner to help clear things out. On Saturday, I was at the store buying milk and bread, and I spied some cacao nibs.

“All right, self,” I said. “If you’re going to buy these, you need to use them. Soon.”

So I did.

Sugar Cookies with Cacao Nibs
adapted from Mennonite Community Cookbook
makes about 6 dozen cookies

1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs
5 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon soda
1/4 cup milk
about 1/2 cup cacao nibs

Cream together butter and sugar. Add vanilla and eggs and beat until fluffy.

Sift together flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda. Add alternately with milk. Stir until dough is smooth. (I can’t tell you how much easier this is with a mixer than with a wooden spoon and biceps.) Chill in refrigerator for several hours.

Preheat oven to 400F. Roll out to 1″ thickness. Sprinkle top with cacao nibs and keep rolling to 1/4″ thickness. Cut in desired shapes. (I like the plain old circle.) Place 1″ apart on a greased cookie sheet and bake 8-10 minutes. Cool on racks.

Grate or julienne a few radishes. Mix it in butter. Good butter. Sea salt, black pepper.

Now, go back outside. It just got warm.

I’m usually a good cook. Some days I’m a very good cook. When I have the occasion to put cinnamon and garlic in the same pan, I’m a damn fine cook. But there are no culinary revolutions being staged in my kitchen. I spend my days working next to people who were born with the gift of good seasoning, and I’m glad to learn from them. I’d like to think I’ve picked up a lot in my year and a half of professional fooding. Little things, like peeling ginger with a spoon (try it!), bigger things like finding a love for fennel I never thought I could have, gruelingly essential things like scrubbing walls. (And the occasional ceiling, thanks to a long night with butternut squash puree in an overzealous blender.)

My short life in a big kitchen has given me a hundred new ways of looking at food. At first I was so distraught by the amount of meat being processed during my day that I was very nearly vegan outside of work. After a few months, I all but stopped cooking for myself at home, out of frustration and exhaustion. This inevitably resulted in a diet that left me undernourished and cranky, not aided by the fact that I was readjusting to life in the U.S. and going through my first nasty gray gray gross awful gray Portland winter. It wasn’t until spring came that I remembered that I have friends who enjoy it when I cook for them. I had a dinner party for a few people and spent all day emptying my fridge, emptying my winter blues, emptying my culture shock and refilling my lungs with the air of community in food that I have always so loved.

I have people over often, now, for dinner. Or lunch. Or whatever I just pulled out of the oven.

For the past month, Zeke and I have set a challenge for ourselves to not eat at restaurants for a month. A month! We have a couple of caveats, of course – supermarket delis don’t count, and we can go out on the weekends as long as we keep it under $5. (This means that I can continue to have my weekly nosh-and-crossword at Clinton Corner Cafe; there’s just less noshing and more crosswording.) The point? Spend less, cook more. When I told Nico about it, he said, “For you, that’s like breathing with only one lung.” He’s right. My list of the restaurants I’ve dined at in Portland is way over the 100 mark, in a year and a half. Part of this is for the sake of convenience, part of it is wrapped up in socializing, but the majority of it is centered around being a foodie.

On Thursday, I can eat out again. Have I spent less? Hell no. My grocery bills are ridiculous. If I do this again – and I think I will – I will do it with the added rule of a tight weekly grocery budget. Have I cooked more?

Yes. Of course. While some of that “cooking” translates to “making guacamole and heating up a Trader Joe’s Indian meal” (those things are SO good), a lot of it ends up being similar to what I made in Bulgaria. I’m reminded that I don’t mind eating the same thing every day, as long as it’s not leftovers – I’m awful about eating leftovers. If I made myself avocado quesadillas every day, I wouldn’t feel as though I cheated myself out of a good meal. I’m a good cook because I know what I like and what I’m willing to experiment with. I’m not a great cook, because I still have a cluster of Weird Foods in my pantry that I haven’t been inspired to use well.

At the moment I’m reading Deborah Madison’s What We Eat When We Eat Alone. I’d like to think that she and I would have wonderful conversations about food – her writing nearly always calls to mind exactly what I’ve been thinking about and haven’t yet put into words. Heading into the last week of the No Restaurant challenge, I’m glad to be reminded of more small, achingly simple meals that do not come straight from Trader Joe’s. After reading the first chapter, I knew immediately how I should photograph this entry’s dish. It’s absolutely unadorned, with no thought to plating, and it’s next to me on the couch that collects cat hair. Because that’s how I’m eating it. And you know what? It’s luscious and filling and healthy. When I eat alone, the appearance of the dish is important only as far as how much it affects flavor. Friends who don’t cook tell me I have an eye for presentation, but most of the time the fact is, if you’ve cooked something well, it presents itself well.

Here’s a recipe for some wonderful trout cakes. (Nearly vegan, not so much. I’ve started eating fish again.) This is one of my favorite recipes that I’ve posted lately, even if I did burn them a little. It’s a great way to start using fennel if you’re not familiar with it. I put it in anywhere that celery – one of my least favorite vegetables – is called for, and I think it makes things taste quite grown-up. You can make a larger batch of these and freeze them. You can give them a nice sauce and serve them over a bed of greens, with a side of mascarpone-finished polenta. Or you can eat them off your lap on a Sunday afternoon on the couch, before or after you vacuum the cat hair.

Fennel and Red Pepper Trout Cakes
makes 4

1 teaspoon each: black mustard seed, whole black peppercorns, coarse salt, dried thyme, dried marjoram, anardana (optional – a splash of apple cider vinegar will work fine instead)
1/2 teaspoon each: fennel seed, fenugreek seed
1 1/3-pound trout fillet (skin on)

1/4 cup finely diced fennel bulb (half a small bulb)
1/4 cup finely diced red bell pepper (half a small pepper)
1 large shallot, finely diced
1/2 cup finely chopped parsley
1/2 cup panko breadcrumbs
1/4 cup mayonnaise (I like the vegan stuff)
1 tablespoon dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil

In a wide skillet combine all the spices listed before the trout and add enough water to come about an inch up the side of the pan. Bring to a boil, then drop it down to a bare simmer and add the fish. Poach 2-3 minutes, until just barely cooked. Remove from poaching liquid and set aside. Discard poaching liquid, rinse the pan out, and set it aside.

Combine all remaining ingredients except olive oil. Remove any black peppercorns that might be hanging on to the fish, take the skin off, and flake it into the mixture. Combine well and form into four tight patties. Tighter than the ones I made.

Heat olive oil in the skillet over medium high heat. Add patties to the hot oil and turn the heat down to medium. Cook 2-3 minutes until browned, flip, and cook 2 minutes more. Eat.

Did you know, for example, that people actually use their cars every day? And that styrofoam is still being manufactured? I had forgotten this. Fortunately, I slipped into a sweet-tea-induced haze of tranquility that kept me from being too snobby, and a drive through the mountains the day before I got back on the plane helped remind me of many fond memories I had growing up there. It was also wonderful to see so many family friends who blissfully call Asheville home.

I was homesick for Portland all week, though. I got back late last night, and when I woke up this morning, I walked down the street to my favorite breakfast spot, where I think I’m becoming a regular, and had my usual oatmeal, biscuit, and crossword puzzle. Then I strolled over to the co-op and got some veggies to make a pot pie. A red bell pepper and some maitake mushrooms were on the use-it-up-today shelf, so I threw those in the basket (never turn down a half-priced maitake, is my motto) with a bit of broccoli, an onion, some unfancy mushrooms, and a pack’o'seitan. A little fridge rummaging later, I had a wonderful dinner on its way.

Pot pie looks a little complicated to make, but that’s because this is an ideal way to use up little bits of leftovers. The veggies I used went really well together, but you don’t need to follow this recipe to the letter. What I do recommend heartily, though, is a splash of pear liqueur in the gravy. I had a bottle of some, made by Clear Creek Distillery, on the counter, and when I took a look at all the winter veggies I was pouring into this thing, tipping a few drops in was inevitable. White wine, sherry, or an apple brandy would be welcome, too. Or you could leave it without alcohol, and you’d do just fine. I’m going to categorize this as vegan, too, because it’s very easily made so – just use Earth Balance for the butter.

I started thinking about pot pie on the plane yesterday, as I was mentally waxing poetic about everything Portlandy I would be shortly returning to. I wanted some homey comfort food. Because this is home.

Seitan Pot Pie
serves 6-8

1 1/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher or sea salt
8 tablespoons cold butter, cut in pieces
1/4 cup cold water

2 fist-sized potatoes, scrubbed or peeled, diced
1/2 medium-sized carrot, scrubbed or peeled, diced (about 1 cup)
1 cup peeled and diced winter squash

2 tablespoons butter
1 smallish white onion, diced (about 1 cup)
1 teaspoon kosher or sea salt
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
leaves from 1 sprig rosemary
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 cups sliced mushrooms
2 tablespoons flour
2 cups warm vegetable broth
2 tablespoons pear liqueur (optional)

1 red bell pepper, seeded and diced
1 small head broccoli, roughly chopped
1 8-oz package seitan, drained and rinsed, diced

Make crust: in a bowl, combine flour and salt and cut in butter with a pastry cutter (or rub it in with your fingertips) until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add water and mix until dough just comes together. Form into a disc, wrap, and put in the fridge while you make the filling. (If you’ve prepped the filling ingredients ahead of time, put it in for at least an hour.)

Preheat to 375F.

Cook veg: bring a few cups of water or vegetable broth to a boil. Add potatoes, carrot, and squash and let simmer until a little soft but not quite cooked through. Drain and set aside.

Make gravy: While the potatoes are simmering, melt butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Add onion, salt, pepper, and rosemary and cook, stirring occasionally, until onions are softened and browned, 10 minutes. (If they’re going too fast, turn the heat down. You want a nice caramelization.) Add garlic and cook until fragrant, 1-2 minutes. Add mushrooms and cook another 3-4 minutes. Sprinkle in flour, stirring constantly, and cook 1-2 minutes. Add vegetable broth, stir, and let it come to a boil. Add pear liqueur, if using, and simmer 5 minutes. Taste for seasoning. It’s okay to add enough salt that it tastes on the salty side, because you’ll be adding more vegetables later that will take that salt.

Combine drained potato mixture, mushroom gravy, bell pepper, broccoli, and seitan in a 4-quart baking dish. Stir so that gravy coats everything. Remove pastry dough from fridge, roll out, and lay on top of filling, pinching the edges against the edge of the baking dish so gravy doesn’t spill over the sides. Cut a couple of slits in the top to let steam escape so that the whole thing doesn’t blow up in your oven. Put it in the oven so it will cook and be delicious. This will take about 45 minutes. Take it out and let it sit for about 10 minutes so it won’t be too runny when you first cut into it. Eat it so you’ll be happy.

I have been giving myself a basket-slimming assignment every week at the farmers’ market, though: only buy produce I don’t know much about or haven’t used before. Heirloom varieties of “common” produce welcome, of course. A couple of weeks ago this got me a beautiful little orange melon, lemon cucumbers, and pumpkin greens (by far my favorite discovery for a stir-fry). Last week I picked up some purslane, which got a big snort out of my mother – “You paid $2 for a bunch of weeds!” This is what I deserve, I tell myself, for not getting off my ass and going to forage for this bright, earthy… weed.

I haven’t been very successful with it, overall. I did some research on the Interwebs and didn’t find anything that made me run into the kitchen, so I just started adding it in odd places – in a salad with orange slices and shaved elephant garlic was rather satisfying. I do love what it’s done with a Triscuit, though. (Someday I will write 500 words about my love of Triscuits.) I stuck a stem of it in some homemade blueberry jam that I accented with red onion, a nice slice of good white Cheddar, and some black pepper. This is much better than whatever Kraft-product-intensive recipes they put on the back of the box – citrusy greens go so well with sweet blueberries and rich, softly-biting cheese.

His love, too, of wild strawberries made me wonder if he just hasn’t had good strawberries in a long time, or if he’s ever had good Japanese food. As soon as strawberry season rolled in in Oregon, I knew that the former had to be true (I don’t think I ever want to live somewhere without berries this good), and after dragging him out to Biwa when he came to visit, the latter idea started to sparkle. Biwa is my favorite Japanese restaurant so far in Portland, an izakaya tucked away on 9th and Ankeny, just south of Farm.

Well-coated concrete floors and unfinished ceilings give Biwa a very haute appeal, but the warm lighting and recycled Douglas fir woodwork make it accessible and welcoming. There is a note at the bottom of the menu that lists all of its staff by name, and every one of these hardworking izakaya gurus has been knowledgeable and caring about everything that they have made and served us, without an ounce of pretention. This is the soul of foodie Portland – a love of eating, an appetite for daring, a balance of realism.

Food: every time I’ve come here we’ve chosen off the menu with no sense of individual ownership – share everything, because everything is worth sharing. The last time I went, with Farzad, we started off with the seaweed and lotus root salad.

This is a far cry from the seaweed salad you get at the megamart sushi cooler; after the first bite, I knew I could never go back to that gelatinous pile of greens again. This tastes like the ocean. A boldly romantic statement, I know. It deserves it. Aqueous, ethereal, with a light touch of vinegar to help things along. You don’t just eat this salad, you breathe it in.

The grilled fava beans were almost there, but didn’t quite hit the mark. Farzad, who grew up in Iran and has spent time in many fava-intensive households, said they were just undercooked. I imagine this is a result of being grilled over crazy-high heat to make them pretty but just a little too toothsome. A big chunk of the menu here is devoted to foods grilled so simply, though, and I am eager to explore it.

It’s difficult to take a good picture of deep-fried foods, especially when you want nothing more than to be eating them. Such is the case with the deep-friend kimchee. This stuff is crack. The first time I came here, I was with Zeke, and he ordered this and I tasted it and I was so overwhelmed with this new flavor sensation that I didn’t know what to make of it, couldn’t be sure if I liked it. I kept thinking about it, though, through the udon, through the grilled rice ball, through the tea-and-rice porridge, and I was still mulling it over as my head hit the pillow that night. When I woke up the next day, all I wanted was deep-friend kimchee. I went back that night. The server understood.

Finally, the udon. It’s a mainstay of my visits here, handmade noodles in a deep, rich broth, with veggies on top. Slurpable and filling. I, like many vegetarians, am always so happy when the soup at a place is one that I can eat because it’s not made with animal stock, and I’m even happier when said soup is actually delicious and not just made with water. (Water as a base for udon, though, would just be sacrilege.) Biwa makes a vegan udon and an omnivorous udon, as they do with many of their menu items. It’s so nice being able to say, “I’d like all of these made vegan please…” before I begin my order, and not get an eye roll from the server.

I could gush about Biwa all night, but in the end, I will say simply that I think my father no longer crosses Japanese food off his list of theoretical dinner ventures. Next year, I’ll make sure he’s here for strawberry season.

Biwa
215 SE 9th Ave
(503) 239-8830
open daily 5 to midnight

It’s half a sliced avocado, an ounce of cream cheese, a few thin slices of onion, and mango chutney.

My Bulgarian food vocabulary god to be pretty good, especially after working on a cookbook that circulated among volunteers, with a glossary of food terms at the back.  For example, I’ll never be able to dislodge from my poor brain the translation of fenugreek.  (Сминдух.)  Think of the useful fact that could take the place of сминдух!  Quantum physics?  Sorry, out of room.  Сминдух stays.

One word that always tripped me up, though, was кьопоолу.  I’d see it on a menu and frankly, it terrified me.  As soon as I opened my mouth in front of any waitress I was at a disadvantage because she’d hear my accent and know I needed her careful ear; I didn’t want the added emotional expense of having these unctuous syllables piling up around my tongue.  Pointing to the fatal word on the menu and asking the simple question, “What is this?”  No!  Too much to bear!  Could I please have the fries please please?  Thank you.  Insert giant American smile of flustered confusion.

Finally, a year in, I was talking with a Bulgarian friend and asked him what he’d done that weekend.

“I made кьопоолу,” he said.

“Huh?” I said.

“Кьопоолу.” he said.  Then he pronounced it very patiently and carefully for me.  KYO-po-loo.  Then – then! – he told me what it was.  And I’ve ordered it from every menu I’ve seen it on since.  You can tell it’s going to be good when you smell the eggplants being grilled as you walk in the restaurant.

Кьопоолу – kyopolu – is considered a salad to Bulgarians, but it’s more of a chunky sauce in the American lexicon, great on crostini.  It’s really just roasted vegetable heaven, is all, but without any of that slime that one may consider at the thought of room-temperature roasted veggies.  Don’t go overboard with fresh garlic – it only needs the kick of one clove.  (Don’t worry; you’re putting a whole head of roasted garlic in there, so you won’t be lacking.)  You can’t eat just one bite of this stuff.  It’s addictive.  Mediterranean crack, I like to call it.

You might want to make double.

Roasted Eggplant-Pepper Salad (Кьопоолу)
makes about 1 1/2 cups

1 red bell pepper, roasted and peeled
6 finger-sized eggplants, roasted and peeled
1 head garlic, roasted and peeled, plus one fresh clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup minced parsley
2 tablespoons olive oil

Put everything but the olive oil down on a big cutting board and chop it up together pretty finely. (See picture.) Put in a bowl, add olive oil and stir gently, then let sit for at least 30 minutes. Serve at room temperature on bread spread with soft goat cheese, or maybe a little tofutti cream cheese.

So I cook now for a living.  I’m definitely at the bottom of the totem pole, but I’m at a good place, with good people around me who are patient and encouraging, so while the job is far from easy, it’s feeling right so far.  And right is all I need.  I’m still having the occasional “What on earth am I doing in this country?” but I’ve been finding ways to get through those moments, and things are rolling along.

I’ve got the weekend off, and so far, I haven’t really left the house.  Not even for the farmers’ market eight blocks away.  This morning I slept in, read a magazine that told me how to organize every facet of my sorry existence, and put garlic, beets, and squash in the oven to roast for later eats.  I also threw some white beans in to soak and thought about how I never would have had the patience to soak dry beans before I left for Peace Corps.  Tonight I cooked the beans through and tossed them together with the odds and ends of jars left over from a wedding shower my roommate had thrown for her sister last weekend.

For many years, I considered a bean salad something to be avoided at potlucks.  They were canned kidney beans mixed with overcooked green beans, saturated with Italian dressing.  It kept on showing up in buffets everywhere I went, and it continued to win only an averted gaze from my roving eyes.  It wasn’t until I lived in Bulgaria that I finally gave in and tried cold tart white beans (which, in Bulgarian, are called “bob”.  That was one of the first Bulgarian words that I learned, and still one of my favorites) – and, lo and behold, they were tasty!  Not mush, not loaded with chemically-thickened dressing or, heaven forbid, ketchup.  Ever since, I’ve been a big fan, and whenever I put beans on to soak, I expect that I’ll end up making a little salad with at least a few of them.

So here’s a great fridge dump white bean salad.  No, you don’t get measurements.  Trust yourself.  If you don’t have some of the ingredients, use something else.  Root through the chill chest.  Brazenly.  If you’ve got a balance between mellow, fresh, and tart, you’ll be safe.

In a bowl combine a few handfuls of cooked white beans with some diced red onion, the cloves of a head of roasted garlic (squeeze ‘em out like toothpaste), a few capers, some chopped canned artichoke hearts, a handful of halved cherry tomatoes, five or six quartered mini mozzarella balls (bocconcini), six or seven trimmed halved green beans, a little chiffonaded basil, a little chopped parsley, and a couple of glugs each of rice wine vinegar and decent olive oil.  Salt and pepper to taste.  Eat – with bread, if you’ve got it.

Yesterday I made a pie. I screwed it up in several ways, but oh my heavens is it still delicious. This, friends, is the Lyle Lovett of pies – the ugliest sexiest pie I’ve ever made.

My biggest mistake was overbeating the egg whites. I’d never done that before, and I always figured that you’d have to try awfully hard to actually get them to such a point. Turns out, not so much with the trying.

Another stellar move: after cooking the mango curd, I rinsed out a bowl to store it in the fridge for a bit, and I didn’t toss out every last drop of the rinse water, so when I poured in the curd, there appeared little pockets of non-curd liquid that I cursed at and mopped up with a paper towel. This was a Sunday afternoon full of pitfalls. I’m sure I avoided a few of them by cheating on the pie crust. (Store bought! I refuse to feel guilty. I have made hundreds of great pie crusts. Well, maybe tens. But I’ve put in my time. I can buy a frozen pie crust from Whole Foods now and again. So can you. It’s okay.)

In the end, after all my fussin’ and cussin’, when the pie came out of the oven, it was ugly as sin and just as good. The mango curd was strained not once but twice, making it super silky and light. The meringue has just a bit of sugar, and while I would recommend not overbeating the egg whites, this is proof that life goes on even when the albumen disagrees with you. I served this on a plate that’s seen five too many dishwasher cycles – it seems only fitting. And I’m eating it with ginger chips from Trader Joe’s. You could throw some powdered ginger in the meringue and/or the curd for the same effect. Or maybe crystallized ginger in the crust, if you eschew the frozen foods section and make your own crust. Ooh, that’d be good. You’d also do well to serve it with some toasted coconut. But don’t go makin’ it too pretty.

Lyle Lovett Sexy Ugly Pie
aka Mango Meringue Pie
makes 1 pie

1 good quality pie crust

2 large dead-ripe mangoes, peeled and roughly diced
quick squeeze of lemon or lime juice
1/2 cup plus 2 teaspoons sugar
pinch of salt
8 eggs, separated
2 tablespoons butter

Preheat to 400F. Prick holes in the pie crust with a fork and put in the oven to prebake until very lightly done, about 30 minutes. Set aside.

While crust prebakes, combine mango, lemon juice, 1/2 cup sugar, and salt in the blender, and puree until smooth. Add egg yolks and buzz it again. (We’ll use the egg whites in a little while.) Strain mixture through a sieve, discarding remaining pulp, and put it in either a very thick-bottomed saucepan or the top of a double boiler, with the butter.

Cook on low heat, stirring almost constantly, until mixture starts to thicken, 10-15 minutes. Strain it again. Let cool at room temperature, then pour into a bowl and cover with plastic wrap – make sure the plastic wrap is touching the whole surface of the mango curd, so no condensation occurs. Refrigerate at least an hour.

Preheat to 350F. Pour mango curd into prebaked pie crust and bake 50-60 minutes or until curd is still just slightly wobbly in the middle. Turn off the convection heat and fire up the broiler to high. Whip egg whites with remaining 2 teaspoons sugar until peaks form, then pile it on top of the pie, making sure to spread the meringue enough that it covers the edges of the filling. Broil until it starts to brown, then remove from oven and use your superhuman strength to wait until it cools a bit before you slice into it.

ps.  Yes, I saw the Keri Russell pie movie.