Hot Apple Cider

Always make the effort to look for unpasteurized cider. It tastes so much better, fresher, real, like real apples. The people who make unpasteurized cider usually strain it less, so you have greater suspension of apple bits and thus more of the texture that distinguishes tangy cider from sweet juice. If you substitute apple juice in the recipe, it's a different drink.

Apple cider is made when apples are ripe and plentiful. That's why we drink it now. Something's definitely wrong with cider that can sit on the shelf for months. Unpasteurized cider will last a week in the refrigerator. So drink it up, or you'll be hitting the hard stuff.

This recipe is the classic one. I suppose I've tweaked it a bit. Like chai, everyone's got a favorite way of making cider. Use whole spices. Again, it makes a big difference in flavor. Think about it. If you dump in ground cinnamon, you're drinking the bark. It's bitter. You can remove a cinnamon stick. Nutmeg is the exception, since the seed is so large. Buy the spices fresh. They too have a shelf life.

HOT SPICED CIDER

6 cups apple cider

2 cinnamon sticks

6 whole cloves

1/8 teaspoon nutmeg

2 allspice berries (optional)

Heat to boiling. Let it sit on the stove, not quite simmering, for 10 to 20 minutes. Then serve, being careful to strain out the spices.

If you're going to add rum, I would also add 2 tablespoons of brown sugar or a little less than 1/4 cup maple syrup. Avoid using honey; it shouldn't be heated.
And if you're going to add sweetener, why not keep going and add several slices of fresh ginger and a sliced orange, including (especially) peel? The ginger and orange need to be added in the beginning, with the spices.

When I went away to college, I visited a young woman my age I hadn't seen since I was born. She was the daughter of my mother's best friend at the time. This young woman had grown up in the country. In the brief time we were together, I had a glimpse into boundlessness of her life and her ease of disappearing, whereas I had spent my childhood and adolescence seeking out the gaps in the suburban grid.

She decided to take this suburbanite to an apple butter cookoff. We went to a local park, or maybe it was somebody's farm. An enormous black drum sat on the lawn, filled with peeled apples. The apples were being stirred with a pole by different people taking shifts. The apples got sweeter, or maybe stickier, as they cooked. Yellow jackets began to hover over the surface. No one paid any attention. I saw one wasp get too close to the apple butter surface and disappear. I mentioned it to my partner from infancy. She said it didn't matter. It would get strained out. Hmmm.

I went off to college and she to her life. We never met again. I have loved the tang of apple butter ever since.

Halloween Spinach Pie

I invented this dish on the spur of the moment to have something to snack on while we finished decorating the porch for the trick or treaters.  It had to be salty, to offset the Halloween candy we had already begun nibbling on. I reviewed what was in the refrigerator. What stood out was spinach. Oh, yeah, and I wanted something warm, because it's chilly today. Hmmm, we had feta cheese. What does it take to make a spanakopita?
Googling recipes is my favorite source of inspiration. I rarely go to one site and follow their recipe. I prefer to average. In this case, I changed my search terms when I realized "spanakopita" wasn't going to help me deal with the leftover short-grain brown rice I planned to use to make the crust. Neither did "spinach pie." "Spinach pie with rice crust" brought me right there.
Spanakopita is traditionally made with feta. I voted for the creamier recipes, just to take the chill off. I had been sitting in my underheated home for hours, writing on the computer. (No, not for you, dear readers.) Getting up and making a quick casserole before attacking the porch sounded like a great idea.
Hooray! It was. This is one of those dishes that leaves you a lot of latitude if you don't strive for  authenticity. Which this recipe doesn't. The dish might rather resemble a comfort food from the seventies, when cheese was the preferred replacement for meat and brown rice was all the rage. The spinach and ricotta keep the rice moist. The ingredients blend together as they cook. It's a nice, layered, custardy treat. Pair it with candy corn.

SPINACH PIE WITH BROWN RICE CRUST
serves 9 as a snack, 4 as a light lunch

for the crust:
2 cups cooked brown rice (preferably short-grain rice, slightly sticky)

for the filling:
1 10-oz. package frozen chopped spinach
1/4 cup chopped onion
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1/2 cup ricotta cheese
1/2 - 1 cup feta cheese, crumbled
2 eggs, beaten
nutmeg, salt and pepper to taste

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Cook the spinach according to directions until just thawed. Drain but do not squeeze.
Meanwhile, saute onion in olive oil until soft.
Combine spinach, onions and lemon, and set aside to cool.
Oil an 8 by 8 baking dish. Dump the rice into the dish and press it along the bottom and sides to form a crust. (Note: Wet your hands and the rice won't stick to them.)
Combine eggs and cheeses in a mixing bowl. Add spinach mixture. Add a dash of nutmeg and a little black pepper. Combine thoroughly.
Pour the mixture into the crust and smooth till level. Sprinkle lightly with nutmeg for color.
Bake 45 minutes until firm. Serve.

BOO!

Had We But World Enough and Time: Polenta

Real polenta takes work. And time -- a whole lot of precious time. Patience, and time, and muscle, mmm hmm, to do it, to do it right.

Polenta can be made from cornmeal of just about any consistency. Coarsely ground cornmeal produces polenta with a toothy texture. Finely ground cornmeal ends up in an airy, heavenly mush. It all takes the same amount of work. Which is, a lot. So put aside your tubes of premade (with preservatives) and your soupy simmered concoctions and roll up your sleeves. Let's get to work.

Put the tea kettle on; you're going to need 2 cups of boiling water right away. While you're waiting for the water to boil, add one cup of cornmeal to one cup of cold water in a heavy, medium-sized saucepan. Stir to combine.

Add 2 cups of boiling water to the mix. (You can increase that amount slightly if the cornmeal is coarse.) Add a little salt. Turn the heat to medium, and stir.

The mixture is going to thicken up quickly, and if you are like me, you are going to be tempted to stop at that point. The water is absorbed; how can it possibly keep cooking?

Continue to stir. As soon as the mixture begins to erupt with air bubbles, spitting up like lava, you can reduce the heat. You're going to need a good thick spoon with a comfortable handle, because the cornmeal mixture is just going to get thicker and thicker. This where the muscle comes in.

Stir continually until the polenta is done, which will take all of fifteen minutes. Finally, the mixture will begin to pull away from the sides of the pot. That's your signal to stop; that, and a delightful creaminess that overtakes this granular cement that has seemed to be hardening into place.

One final stir: Add a third of a cup of Parmesan cheese and stir until thoroughly combined. Optional step, but the Parmesan gives the cornmeal such a rich undertone that I am always reluctant to leave it out.

Polenta is best served warm, and immediately.

POLENTA
serves 4 to 6

1 cup cornmeal
3 cups water, divided
1/2 teaspoon salt (or to taste)
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese (optional)

Combine cornmeal and 1 cup cold water in a medium-sized saucepan with a heavy bottom. Add 2 cups of boiling water and place pot on medium heat. Add salt. Stir fifteen minutes, until polenta mixture pulls away from pot. Remove from heat. Add Parmesan cheese and stir to combine. Serve.

Serving suggestions: Polenta is a versatile grain that  takes easily to black beans, braised greens, Italian tomato sauces, etc., etc. Leave the Parmesan out and serve for breakfast with maple syrup. Leftover polenta can be sliced up and fried. The polenta you make, when slightly cooled, can be pushed into a glass pie pan, baked for 20 minutes, and used as the base for deep-dish pizza.

Cabin Fever and Thai Coconut Soup

Not long after Hurricane Sandy trashed the landscape, not far into winter, I decided to take on the chef in our kitchen who consistently produces the most intensely flavored, exotic, delightful Thai dinners. His answer to a recipe request for his coconut soup is to say he never makes it the same way twice; nor is he exactly keeping secrets, because the taste does vary as much as the ingredients.

I wanted a coconut soup that was light, fresh and delicious. So I Googled "thai coconut soup," compared the recipes, picked one, adjusted to serve 40 people, and tried it out. No kidding, it tasted very much like the coconut soup at my favorite takeout Thai place! Unlike every other recipe I have given you here, the broth is an exact science: I make it the same way every time. It is very simple. The yellow lined paper on which I computed the original proportions has become an icon. This soup is wildly popular, and people ask for the recipe all the time. Here it is.

THAI COCONUT SOUP FOR 40

broth:
8 quarts of vegetable broth
4 15-oz. cans unsweetened coconut milk
1/2 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup tamari
1 heaping tablespoon turibinado sugar
7 basil leaves, chiffonaded
one bunch cilantro, stems included, chopped

vegetables:
5 to 7 bell peppers of any color, cut into long strips that are then chopped in thirds
2 lb. small white mushrooms, thinly sliced
3 to 5 roasted sweet potatoes, chopped

Bring the broth to a boil, add the coconut soup and reheat, but do not boil. Add the vegetables, bring to a boil, and turn off the heat. Add the rest of the ingredients. Serve.

Okay, you're not cooking for forty, are you. I will give you my adjusted version of the scaled-down recipe, serves 6. But first, a few comments on finishing the soup.

I have used Frontier powdered vegetable broth, because the ashram kitchen stocks it. I can't unequivocally endorse it, because the first ingredient is corn syrup solids. But the powder is a workhorse for the kitchen, and it works for this recipe: 2 cups of broth powder for 8 quarts of water. I bring the broth to a boil and let it sit on the stove for a while. Before proceeding, I usually add as much as a quart of water, depending on how long the broth has been simmering and how much water has boiled off.

This is a fresh soup, a midwinter antidote to Northeast cabin fever from an exotic Pacific locale. You don't want to cook the vegetables overlong; you don't want to boil the lime juice, the tamari or the fresh herbs at all.

A note on the vegetables: The addition of peppers and mushrooms comes from the Thai restaurant's version. Theirs always had red peppers. I have always used green peppers, because that's what we had on hand. To compensate for the reduction in sweetness, I added some leftover roast yams (also on hand). That worked so well I go out of my way to roast yams for the soup. I have also tried green peas, which are fine. Add them at the last minute, even if frozen; they will turn gray if boiled for long. One quarter of a cabbage, finely shredded, can substitute for the peppers.

How to roast a sweet potato: wash it, rub it lightly with oil, put it on a baking sheet in a preheated oven at 375 degrees. After half an hour, it should be done (soft). Check by sticking a knife or fork into it.

THAI COCONUT SOUP

serves 6

broth:
6 cups vegetable stock
1 15-oz. can unsweetened coconut milk
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
2 tablespoons soy sauce or tamari
1/2 to 1 teaspoon turibinado sugar
1 or 2 basil leaves, chopped
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped

vegetables:
1/2 to 1 bell pepper, cut into short strips
1 cup small white mushrooms, thinly sliced
1 small sweet potato, roasted and chopped

Bring stock to a boil, add coconut milk and bring almost to a boil. Add vegetables and simmer one to three minutes. Add all other ingredients just before serving. Note: This soup is richer than the high-quantity version; you can reduce the amount of coconut milk to taste. And see the comments above on suggestions for other vegetables.

Kale Chips Are Easy

Kirtan at the Grammies! And we were invited to dinner with friends and had been assigned an appetizer. What goes with Krishna Das?

I have been eating kale chips from different cooks for half a year now, and only just found the ones I wanted to replicate. Total crunch, light as air and just a lingering aftertaste of vegetal bliss and whatever seasonings are added. I had cruised the ashram kitchen during preparation and begged to be left a sample. Two days later I picked it up -- still crunchy! Still tasty! This was it!

Making kale chips is a lot of fun. You get to mess with the materials, you get your hands dirty, you can open the oven constantly -- I know -- and still produce a diminuitive masterpiece. Yes, be warned, a bunch of kale reduced to chips doesn't go very far. But it's worth it, a celebration of good times from start to finish.

My memory held a subliminal impression of the recipe's main points: slow oven, minimal preparation. After a Web search, I decided on an independent course of action. One bunch of curly kale, washed and spun till very dry, stalks removed and leaves ripped into bite-sized pieces. Drizzle a little olive oil, toss lightly with the hands, scatter the pieces loosely -- less and less loosely as I decided it would all fit on one baking sheet -- and bake slowly, at 300 degrees, for half an hour. Open the oven to sprinkle with salt with a very little cayenne mixed in. Open again, to move the leaves around as the ones in the center seemed soggy and the ones at the edges blackened. Check, and check again, till the kale pieces really were light and crunchy. Take some out, and leave others in a little longer. Really, all that busyness isn't called for, but it doesn't wreck the cooking, either. And it's true what they say of kale chips: there is a narrow margin between done and burnt.

They came out great. I waltzed into my friend's kitchen with them. And there, on the table, was a big bowl of -- kale chips!

So I am giving you two recipes to try. My friend's technique? "450 degrees for 10 minutes. And --" she added -- "I massaged every leaf with oil."  Hers were less crunchy, more colorful, and had more kale taste. Mine were dark, crunchy and light as air. Mine stayed crisp; hers, like French fries, had to be eaten right away or went limp and chewy. Both were excellent. So here are the two classic approaches to kale chips: There is no middle ground.

THIN AND CRISP KALE CHIPS

1 bunch curly kale
olive oil
salt mixed with a pinch of cayenne

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.
Wash kale, remove stalks and dry kale leaves very thoroughly.
Tear kale into bite-sized pieces. In a large bowl, drizzle olive oil over kale and toss lightly to coat. Add salt and toss again.
Scatter kale leaves over oiled cookie sheet.
Place pan in the middle of the oven. In a regular oven, the kale chips at the edges will crisp first, so rearrange placement after 15 minutes.
Bake at 300 degrees for half an hour, checking frequently after 20 minutes and removing leaves as they crisp.
Put all the kale chips in a bowl and serve.

FAST AND JUICY KALE CHIPS

1 bunch curly kale
olive oil
kosher salt

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
Wash kale and dry thoroughly. Strip leaves from stalks and tear into pieces.
Rub each piece with olive oil; people call it "massaging" the leaf.
Spread kale pieces on cookie sheet or baking pan. Sprinkle liberally with kosher salt.
Place pan in center of oven. Bake for 10 minutes.
Remove pan. Immediately place kale chips in a bowl. Serve.

After the Holidays: Winter Squash Soup

It's the slow season. Except dozens of people are still showing up for lunch at the ashram, some from yoga class, some still in residence after the holidays. What to feed them? The kitchen stores are depleted, yet there's a backlog of winter squash and just enough else to make a hearty winter soup. This soup is a variation on an ashram favorite that I usually make with red lentils instead of squash.

TO COOK FOR A CROWD

We have a 60-cup pot with nice curves -- we call it the sexy pot -- that feeds 35 to 40 people, full. I drag it out and fill it two-thirds full with butternut squash (peeled, deseeded, cut in chunks) and enough cold water to cover. While that's coming to a boil on the stove, I add my spices: a big thumb of ginger (flurried), half a tablespoon of cumin, a pinch of allspice, a pinch of cayenne and a bay leaf. While the squash cooks, I slice two of the enormous carrots we have in the cold room; that's equivalent to about four or five carrots of normal size. I saute the slices in coconut oil.

When the squash is soft, I puree the soup with an immersion blender. I add the sauteed carrots and some leftover cooked kale, chopped into small pieces. Since we don't have cilantro, I add a bunch of curly parsley, chopped fine (stems included). I throw in some salt -- probably a tablespoon -- and there you go. It's surprisingly sweet, this soup; the coconut oil and the allspice are subtle brighteners.

WINTER SQUASH SOUP

serves 6
1 butternut squash, peeled, deseeded and cut into 2-inch chunks
water
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1 2-inch piece of ginger, grated
1/8 teaspoon allspice
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1 bay leaf
two carrots, sliced thinly
one small bunch of kale, chopped fine
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
salt and pepper

Put the squash in a 4-quart pot and add enough water just to cover. Bring to a boil. Add cumin, ginger, allspice, cayenne and bay leaf.  Simmer till very soft. Remove bay leaf and puree soup. Return to stove and keep warm on a low flame.
Saute carrots in coconut oil till slightly browned, about five minutes. Add to soup.
Steam kale until tender, five to fifteen minutes depending on the kale. Add to soup.
Add parsley.
Add 1/2 teaspoon of salt, or more to taste. Add pepper to taste.

Feeding Musicians: Middle-of-the-Night Mulligatawny Soup

The retreat center where I once lived and worked occupied the last of a 19th-century estate, with three buildings, including the main house, that hadn't been modernized. This was a good thing, because it meant the buildings remained pretty accurate historically. It also meant that plugging in a coffeepot on a night when visiting musicians had brought their sound systems had the potential to create an immediate blackout. This did happen.

While the estate was old, the retreat center was new. The staff was skeletal (not skinny -- I was the cook -- but rather few; three women worked 83 acres). Indian musicians of very high caliber, on tour in the U.S., discovered us, and offered concerts. But we had never done anything like this before, and there were lots of details to be worked out. The shrine held thirty, and so, while appropriate, was impractical. We converted the classroom. Volunteers built a movable stage (which eventually came to rest in place, of course) and we covered it with rugs from the bookstore and sheets from the linen closet. The sound system was borrowed; the seating was ad hoc. Fifty new folding chairs showed up. Volunteers directed traffic and took donations.

But what to feed the musicians? I had to come up with something that could be made ahead of time (the kitchen could be heard from the performance space); that would be ready to serve right away after the performance; that was simple and fresh.

I found a recipe for mulligatawny soup in an old Fannie Farmer cookbook, part of the estate’s collection of vintage cookbooks. I had never had mulligatawny soup, but it sounded like an appropriate blend of East and West, a recipe from the Raj. The Fannie Farmer recipe called for chicken, though, so I looked online for vegetarian versions. Among the results I Googled was a vegetarian mulligatawny with Southeast Asian overtones, using coconut milk, cilantro and lemon juice, which I replaced with lime juice. With printouts of both recipes on the counter as I cooked, I combined at whim and came up with the following recipe. Luckily, someone asked me to write it down right away, so here it is. All measurements are approximate; feel free to adjust.

We fed the musicians after the concert, late at night. The mulligatawny soup was a hit, and when the company finally dispersed, at two in the morning, everyone was satisfied: those (musicians) who went on to sing and talk elsewhere into the night, and those (retreatants) who went to sleep for an hour before rising to meditate.

Middle-of-the-Night Mulligatawny Soup

In a deep, heavy pot, heat

¼ cup butter or oil

and add

½ cup diced onion
½ cup diced carrot
½ cup diced celery
2 bell peppers, chopped fine
2 apples, peeled, cored and chopped

Saute slowly until brown, stirring frequently. Stir in

1/3 cup flour

and saute briefly. Add:

2 tsp. West Indian curry (at least)
½ tsp. nutmeg
¼ tsp. ground cloves
1 (15-oz.) can diced tomatoes
bay leaf
8 cups vegetable stock

Simmer ½ hour. Add:

1 (19-oz.) can chickpeas (optional)
1 (15-oz.) can coconut milk (unsweetened)
½ cup dried coconut

Cook 10 minutes or so. Puree some or all of the soup. Return to pot. Add:

2 Tbsp. lime juice (or more)
2 tsp. fresh cilantro, finely chopped (or more)

The balance of coconut milk and lime juice is crucial. Salt and pepper to taste.

Since the recipe calls for letting the soup sit for several hours to let the flavors come out, it's perfect for an after-event meal. A vegetarian entree with a coconut curry/lime juice base, it doesn't resemble anyone's idea of actual mulligatawny soup, but the name remains.