The Dinner Files

It ends up that yes, you can freeze tomatoes. Not tomato sauce, not tomato paste, not tomato puree (although all those things freeze just fine, too), but actual tomatoes.

I learned this indirectly from my aunt. Indirectly because she was not talking to me, but rather had left instructions with my cousin (her son) while she was out of town to pick the tomatoes from their ample garden as they ripened and put them in the bag already started in the freezer that she kept for all the tomatoes they couldn’t keep up with.

It’s been a great tip – especially since my dashing husband overestimates even his impressive tomato-eating ability when tomatoes are ripe and plentiful and cheap at the market. Once frozen, the tomatoes won’t work as fresh tomatoes – you wouldn’t want to make caprese salad with these, for example – but if you’re going to cook them anyway, it’s perfect. If you were going to peel them in the process then freezing has the bonus prize of making the tomatoes extremely easy to peel without the usual step of blanching them first.

So when I found a bag of Early Girl tomatoes from last summer in the freezer the other day, I decided to pretend it was summer (I needed a distraction from these gray days we’ve been having on the West Coast), if just a little bit. I smeared petrale sole with a paste of ginger and mint (notice all the mint on my table lately? That’s because mint grows like an invasive weed in Northern California, especially when it rains) and baked them, cooked a pot of rice, and peeled a few frozen tomatoes and then gently heated them up in a spicy yogurt sauce. I know it sounds a bit weird, but it is an unbelievably delicious flavor combination. The delicate fish – rice – tomato in spicy yogurt sauce combo was sublime.

Tomatoes in spicy yogurt sauce

I developed this recipe when I was working at Sunset and can never get over how good it is, or how tasty that sauce is on rice. I can now add to its many wonders how delightfully it makes use of frozen tomatoes.

8 ripe but firm tomatoes

2 teaspoons vegetable oil

2 teaspoons cumin seeds

1 teaspoon mustard seeds

2 Tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces

1/4 teaspoon turmeric

1/4 teaspoon cayenne

6 cloves garlic, minced

2 small hot green chiles, seeded and minced

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup plain whole milk yogurt (low-fat or fat-free versions will curdle)

If you’re using fresh rather than frozen tomatoes, blanch tomatoes to make peeling them easier: bring a large pot of water to a boil and prepare a large bowl of ice water, cut a small “x” in the bottom of each tomato, dip tomatoes in the boiling water for about 30 seconds and then use a slotted spoon to transfer the tomatoes to the ice water, drain tomatoes and pat them dry.

If you’re using frozen tomatoes, just take them out of the freezer. In any case, the next step is to use a paring knife to gently peel off the tomato skins and set tomatoes aside, whole or at least as whole as possible.
In a large frying pan, heat vegetable oil over medium high heat. Add cumin seeds and mustard seeds and cover. The seeds will start popping within about a minute. Cook until the popping slows down, about 2 minutes total.
Remove the lid and add the butter. When the butter has melted, add turmeric and cayenne. Stir and cook until brightly fragrant, about 1 minute. Add garlic, chiles, and salt. Cook, stirring, for about a minute. Reduce heat to low and add yogurt. Stir to combine.
Add tomatoes to yogurt mixture, Gently stir to coat the tomatoes with the sauce. Cook over low heat until tomatoes are just warmed through, about 5 minutes. Serve warm.

As in love as I am with this Terrine cookbook, it is not for the feint of heart. Not only are many of the recipes for rillettes and patés and other creations that not everyone wants to see made, much less make themselves, but it is also clear that tested though the recipes may have been in the gram/milliliter measurements, the American measurements were not. Lots of details are missing, too – things like what size pan to use.

Don’t get me wrong: this terrine was delicioso. Mucho so. It just doesn’t look a thing like the picture in the book, which was cut into neat slices and had a whiter overall color. Granted, I used smoked black cod instead of smoked haddock, less black radish because I don’t see how three would have fit into the mix, and added some extra horseradish because that root rocks the house, but none of that fully accounts for the softer, less set texture. Nor does it account for the giant chunks of fish in the picture when the recipe calls for one to “thinly slice” the fish (me thinks a stylist took some liberties). As for the color, I’m assuming my fancy-pants, orange-yolked eggs from free-ranging, active birds who scratch for weeds and bugs might have given the custard its decidedly golden tinge.

I would make it again to fix the texture and report to you about it then. I’m tempted, I really am. It was a hit with the whole family. But look at that list of ingredients – it’s not exactly the kind of thing I feel like eating everyday. Plus, the book is filled with layered creations I want to try. I’m looking forward, not backwards. So it will be awhile before I make it again. Here’s what I did. If anyone out there wants to firm it up, experiment on my behalf, would you, and report back?

Winter terrine of smoked black cod, horseradish, black radish

This is a lovely, gentle, rich creation. Equally good warm after unmolding and cold out of the fridge the next morning.

1 medium black radish (a.k.a. Spanish radish)

8 oz. smoked fish, I used black cod, haddock or halibut are mentioned in the original

1 1/4 cup heavy cream

5 eggs

1 Tablespoon freshly grated horseradish

2 shallots, as finely chopped as you can manage

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly grated black pepper

Heat oven to 350. Line a small (8-inch) loaf pan with plastic wrap, letting it overhang over the edges by several inches.

Scrub the radish clean (don’t peel it, you want that black skin to show) and then cut in slices as thin as you can – a mandoline is useful if you have one.

Remove any skin or bones from the fish. Cut or pull into bite-size pieces.

Whisk cream, eggs, horseradish, shallots, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl. Pour a thin layer of cream mixture in the pan. Lay down a layer of radish, cover with egg mixture, layer in some fish, cover with egg mixture, and continue layering until all ingredients are in the pan.

Bring the edges of the plastic wrap over the top of the terrine to seal in.

Set the pan in a larger roasting pan. Fill the roasting pan with boiling water – it should go at least half-way up the outside of the terrine pan, three-quarters of the way up is even better.

Bake until terrine is set, about 45 minutes. Remove from water bath and let cool to warm before unmolding the terrine onto a serving platter or cutting board.

“Well that won’t do us any good,” I overheard my dad saying last week into his phone, “Molly won’t be here then to cook it for us!”

That comment may make him sound like an opportunistic slave-driver, but it really was very sweet. He and a friend were making plans to hire a guide to take them fishing for walleye pike on a neighboring lake that actually has more then two or three of the coveted lake fish. They are experienced and avid fishermen who were looking to mix things up a bit from the bass and northern pikes they catch-and-release on our lake all the time. Plus, walleyes are known for being awfully tasty.

They came back with plenty of walleye. We invited seven people to dinner. Beforehand, my dad and I took a swim while Ernest fished off the dock. We were quite aways away when we heard a shriek. We saw my mom helping Ernest hold up the line with a really rather large fish on the end. We clapped our hands as we tred water and then headed back to see the prize.

It was a three-pound bass. It had pretty completely swallowed the lure. My dad removed the fish from the line as gently as he could. He moved the fish forward through a water a few times to give it a chance. He let it go and it tilted to its side. He grabbed it and coaxed it forward again. He let go and the fish started to float. No chance. He pulled it from the water and, luckily, I had been planning to take pictures of Ernest fishing and my camera was on the dock:

He and Ernest headed to the other dock and my dad showed my son how to clean a fish:

He gutted it and filleted it and rinsed it in clear lake water and handed me the fillets to add to our dinner.

And I was there to cook it and so I did the best thing I know of to do with delicate lake fish fillets: I pan-fried them. Sure, deep-frying works too, but the control and bit of moisture and cracker-crumb or cornmeal crust you can add so effectively – not to mention the lack of a giant vat of hot oil – makes pan-frying ever-so-much-more appealing.

Before you pan-fry, however, you must coat the fish with something to protect its delicate flesh from the heat. I did a triple-dip of flour, and then egg, and then cornmeal.

I worked up a guide to How to Pan-Fry Fish, with step-by-step photos taken on the cabin kitchen counter with my tri-pod set up quite precariously in the sink. Most people would then pan-fry on the stove, or, if camping, over a fire. We took a large cast iron pan and put it on a hot charcoal grill because who wants to wipe down the entire kitchen? We had everyone get their plates, grab a chair on the deck near the grill, and take the fillets as they came out of the pan.

I kept the bass separate so Ernest would be able to taste the fish he caught. We each had at least a bite and agreed: Walleye may be venerated state-wide, but the bass was tastier.

We started with these:

Lake trout, two fillets sprinkled with salt and pepper and drizzled with olive oil (for the record, this was my suggestion on how to prepare them) and one lightly spread with hoisin sauce (for the record, not my idea and not, in the end, the best combination).

They were caught and cleaned by:

My Uncle Denny, griller of chicken and smoker of fish. In this case he merged these impressive skills and helped my father and my husband (how many dudes does it take to grill some lake trout? it ends up quite a few more than you may have guessed) cook the fish thusly:

And then we had:

I made the coleslaw and the potato salad (my trick for such delicious potato salad? dress the warm potatoes with vinegar and let cool to room tmeperature, then add whatever else you like in your potato salad – be it mayonnaise and hard-boiled eggs and bread-and-butter pickles or olive oil and capers – and serve at room temperature without ever refrigerating the potatoes), my mom made her famous corn pie. It involves canned corn and canned cream of corn and corn meal and it is very corny and quite amazingly delicious.

The extra nice touch is that we ate the lake trout that my uncle caught and cleaned and helped grill on placemats his wife, my Aunt Nancy, made and gave to us more years ago than any of us might care to calculate.

Oh, Kokkari, how do I love thee? Last night I was invited to a pre-sale booksellers dinner for a book coming out in April. The book sounded interesting, the dinner was at Kokkari, and, honestly, I didn’t know I was a token member of the press but had thought it was more of a press event and I would see friends and schmooze and whatnot, so I said yes. Glad I did. Along with the excellent food I’ve come to expect at this fancy-pants Greek restaurant in downtown SF*, I also got to chat with independent book sellers. What a commited lot! What verve! What love of books! I also got dragged into a “difference between Los Angeles and San Francisco” discussion as well as a “difference between New York and San Francisco” version, which are not comparisons I ever find very interesting. It all seems as plain as day, doesn’t it? San Francisco is colder than one, smaller than both, and terribly terribly pretty. Telling the New Yorker about the difference between San Francisco and the East Bay, however. That was kind of fun. Ridiculous, but fun.

* The whole broiled fish is just so delicious and moist and flavorful – something about the fire, I’m thinking. The Greeks, I’m telling you, they know how to cook a fish. And lamb, they know how to cook lamb too. And, as I’ve done at professional dinners at Kokkari before, I peer-pressured everyone near me into trying the octopus. It’s fired up in the oven and sprinkled with lemon and some kind of magic that makes it always super tender and yummy. In short, if you’ve never tried octopus try it there because it is as good as it gets. Arg, I want some more right now.

People tend to get nervous when I come to dinner. They seem to think I am there to judge their food. They forget something very important: I am happy I didn’t have to cook. I didn’t have to come up with something to cook. I didn’t have to go to the market. I didn’t have to unload groceries. I don’t have to clean up. Not that I really mind any of these things, but it’s always nice to have someone cook for you. And it’s nice to not have to make a reservation and menu decisions in order for that to happen. For me part of the joy of being invited to someone’s house for dinner is this simple: I only have to decide what to wear. After that, it’s up to them.

My dashing husband and I went to a dinner party last night. New people, fresh faces, lively conversation. And grilled trout. Presented, mercifully without messy heads, on a large platter:

I was brought instantly back to Lac du Bois, the French camp I attended for many years as a kid. Where, truth be told, I also worked as a counselor for two summers. My time at French camp (and my love, love, love of it) is a fact about myself that I don’t usually trot out right away when I meet people. But that platter of trout… it brought me right back to the dining hall* at camp, where the kitchen served up vaguely French-like food. Baguettes, butter, jam, and hot chocolate for breakfast; a big lunch with a starter of pâté or shrimp, a main dish of stewed chicken or bœuf Bourguignonne, a green salad for which each table made their own dressing (3 parts oil, 1 part vinegar, plenty of dijon mustard, salt and pepper), dessert of chocolate mousse or apple tart; a lighter dinner of soup and more salad with perhaps some cheese and fruits afterward. It wasn’t gourmet fare, but the spirit was French. One day, though, the kitchen got ambitious and put in a little extra effort: Platters of trout – with the heads and tails still attached – were paraded out to the tables with great fanfare as the kitchen staff stood ready to receive our delighted thrill at the special treat.

They were met instead with shrieks of disgust. Fake barfing sounds filled the air. The crowd went wild with horror, which was odd since most of the kids there were from Minnesota and must have seen fish caught and gutted before. But it’s true, Minnesotan fishermen tend to leave the heads and tails outside.

Later that day we all got a lecture from the director on what can only be described as basic manners and the frailty of human feelings. She had to connect the dots a bit, breaking it down, if I remember correctly, to explaining that the kitchen staff were human and thus had feelings.

Did I shriek and feign disgust? Probably. But I also ate that trout. It was good. It wasn’t quite as moist and perfectly flaky as the one I downed last night, but it had the delicate texture and faintly earthy flavor that makes me crave fresh-water fish.

* The buildings at French camp were all named after cities, towns, and regions in France. The dining hall was, as you might guess, Paris. The beach was the Côte d’Azur. We learned Breton-style lace-making in arts and crafts. We had folkdancing. Camping trips were modelled on the French-Canadian furtrapping voyageurs. And every Bastille Day we “re-enacted” the French Revolution, drawing lots the night before to see who got to be “aristocrats.” I’m telling you, they were good times for a dork like me.

It was an accident, I swear. It started with a conversation with my mom about streamlining and editing the Christmas Eve menu. Before I knew what had happened it seemed I had hijacked the menu and was put in charge of executing it. Clearly, my mom was ready to pass the torch. Plus, she’d rather play with her grandson than cook and, if I’m honest, I’d rather cook than play with her grandson.

I’ve always loved how my family celebrates Christmas. First of all, we celebrate on Christmas Eve. Second, we make a meal of appetizers. Third, when I was growing up the menu revolved around fish and seafood. A sample menu from 1987, according to notes Santa left in my stocking:

• cashews
• veggie pizza
• veggie dip
• brie en croute
• muffins
• shrimp
• smoked salmon
• eclairs and cookies

Does not that sound delightful? I have no memory of the “muffins” and can’t imagine how that would have fit with the rest of the menu, but I imagine it’s code for something. Somehow that morphed into this collection from 2006:

• nuts
• whitefish
• smoked sturgeon
• nova salmon
• chicken wings
• ribs
• marinated veggie salad
• veggie pizza
• paté
• cheese and fig spread
• crackers, rye crisp, pumpernickel
• roasted veggies
• black bean and corn salad
• brie en croute
• olives
• cheese plate

Hum. Kind of random, right? Three kinds of cured fish plus shrimp plus ribs plus wings? Everything on that menu was tasty, but it was a lot of food (if memory serves, it didn’t all fit on the table).

So we pulled it back a bit this year and returned the menu to its roots.

• smoked whitefish
• shrimp (U.S. wild-caught white shrimp lightly steamed)
• crackers & rye bread
• gougeres (cheese puffs)
• garlic-stuffed mushrooms
• crudité platter with spicy yogurt dip
• sheep-milk cheese plate
• celery, date, & walnut salad
• cookies

It was still too much food, but that wasn’t entirely my fault. My uncle sent salmon he had caught and smoked himself. How do you not serve that? Also, the cheese went essentially untouched. Why eat cheese, we all clearly agreed, when an entire whitefish lay before you?

Proving to one and all that halibut kebabs really are a fabulous casual dinner party option, I made them last night for my cousins. One thing I will do in the future: sweat the pancetta a bit before making the kebabs so it crisps up a bit more under the broiler.

Before dinner we had pimentos de padron, some cheese, sweet and spicy peppers, and olives. And wine. Plenty of wine.

Once in awhile I give private cooking lessons. It’s a word of mouth thing and, every so often, I donate one to a silent auction for a good cause. Last night I taught some lovely people how to cook various fish recipes (as well as a better way to chop garlic and herbs, how to hold a knife, and some other basics that can make a *huge* difference for the average home cook). We had a good time and felt terribly virtuous because we were having a good time for Obama–they bought me at a fundraiser.

Shocking, isn’t it, that an over-educated San Francisco resident like myself would be pro-Obama? In many ways it’s a very pleasant little bubble that we have here on the edge of the country. One major advantage, besides the amazing produce and other foodstuffs, is that no one bothers to buy ad time in this market. If we want to see the political ads we have to search them out on youtube. I know what an advantage this is because I’ve made the mistake of visiting my family in Minnesota around Halloween in the past. The ads are relentless, punishing, mind-numbing, crazy-making. I don’t know how people in the swing states stand it.

So with hope in our hearts we cooked halibut and bread kebabs (a fabulous quick dinner that serves equally well for a weeknight meal or a casual dinner party) as a little snack to get us started. Then we dove into salt-crusted striped bass, spaghetti with anchovies, and greens with currants and pine nuts. Just a note on the striped bass. It’s hard to find 3 lb. striped bass. The more common 2-lb. specimens work just fine, but only need about 20-25 minutes in the oven.

I felt bad we weren’t doing a dessert. It ends up the concern that we would miss that little something sweet at the end of the meal was completely unfounded. I have never–ever–seen a candy drawer like they had. It put my mother’s stash to shame:

The Man: Hey, your blog is hilarious!

Me: Thank you.

The Man: It must be really fun to write whatever you want, huh?

Me: Yes, yes it is.

The Man: Who were you writing about? They sound insane.

Me: Um. Yeeesss. They can be pretty difficult to work with.

The Man: So I’m really glad we got that project straightened out.

Me: So A, B, and C with some P worked out?

The Man: They did, they did. [pause] Seriously, who were you writing about? 

Oh internets, how I wish I were making this up. We are all truly blind to our faults, aren’t we?

For dinner I ensickened myself at The Fifth Floor. It wasn’t my fault. What was I supposed to do? Not eat the crazy rich and tender perfectly and barely cooked cuttlefish on a bed of crab salad? I don’t have super-human strength or god-like will power! Should I not have shoveled all the tender tea-smoked halibut down my gullet? Left some brandied cherries and almond custard tart on the plate? Not had a second helping of anise-seeded challah?

I did resist the caramelized melon and sous-vide chicken with a lobster sauce. I both resisted it and did not understand it. Can someone please explain it to me? 

I’ll tell you this: that kitchen is putting out some very tasty food and yet there was no one there to eat it. The place was dead. The manager had a few ideas as to why: it was a Tuesday night, a HUGE convention was around last week so everyone is probably just exhausted, “this week” is a traditionally slow one. But I think everyone was home stuffing whatever cash they could find into their mattress.