I love cookbooks. I collect cookbooks. Sometimes, I read cookbooks in bed before going to sleep. I have been gratified in recent months to realize that a number of people also treat cookbooks as literature, but then I had this realization: I was only using them as literature.

Somehow, despite having already accrued 34 cookbooks here in Minneapolis (in addition to the maybe more than 100 I have at home in Berkeley), I never cook out of cookbooks anymore. Blame the internets. Somehow, somewhere along the way, cooking out of a book became a rarity for me, and one that seemed like a greater undertaking than pulling a recipe from the world wide webs. This was, of course, totally irrational: recipes from cookbooks don’t, by definition, take any more effort than recipes from the internet, plus most of the recipes I get from the internets came from books originally.

So, I decided to reacquaint myself with my cookbook shelves, beginning with this wonderful, Wonderful stew from my beloved, Beloved Jamie Oliver.

I love Jamie Oliver, and whether it is cool to love him or not, I don’t know, but I credit him with the beginnings of my interest in cooking. Well, him and my mom (who truly deserves the credit), but Jamie is the one who taught me that you don’t have to measure most things, that you don’t have to pull parsley or cilantro leaves off the stem, and that you can juice a lemon directly into a dish, using your fingers to catch the seeds.

His books are beautiful and lush, brimming with beautiful dishes that frequently avoid exact recipes, providing guidelines instead. And, most recently, he is doing really, really good work with school lunches and the obesity epidemic in America. And he has a show about all that coming out on abc! He is my hero.

He is my hero because of all the extra-good stuff he does, but he wouldn’t be able to do all that extra-good stuff if he hadn’t laid a foundation of really really delicious food. A Jamie Oliver recipe has never done me wrong, and this stew was no exception. Hearty, smoky, and easy-peasy, to last for days and only get better as leftovers (smokier, more complex). This is like a really upgraded chili, all the more classed up with chopped hardboiled egg as a garnish, for a little contrast. Go make it, tonight, from my cookbook to your computer, and perfect for this inbetween time of year that’s not quite winter and not quite spring.

Chorizo and Chickpea Stew

Adapted from Jamie’s Dinners

Serves 8

Ingredients

-       6 oz. chorizo sausage, chopped

-       1 onion, peeled and chopped

-       1 clove of garlic (or more!), peeled and finely chopped

-       2 sticks of celery, chopped

-       2 bunches (maybe 1.5 lb) spinach, washed and chopped

-       1 – 28 oz. can tomatoes, with juice (either pre-diced, or you can chop them; also, JO calls for fresh tomatoes here, but it’s winter in Minnesota, and so that’s just not happening)

-       1 – 28 oz. can chickpeas, drained

-       5 cups chicken stock

-       2 oz. prosciutto (or Spanish ham)

-       hard boiled eggs

-       olive oil

-       salt and freshly ground pepper

1. Heat a couple tablespoons of olive oil in a large pot. Add the chorizo. Cook for a few minutes until fat is rendered, then add onion, garlic, and celery. Reduce heat and cover, cooking for about 15 minutes (without coloring the onions, though no harm will really befall you if they get a little brown).
2. Add spinach, tomatoes, chickpeas, and chicken stock. (Add more chicken stock or water if you think you need more liquid.) Bring to a boil, then lower heat and let simmer for about 40 minutes.
3. You don’t have to (but I did): Remove about a third of the soup and puree it in the food processor. This will make things more stew-y, rather than soup-y. Return puree to pot and give everything a stir. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
4. Remove from heat. Stir in prosciutto and 2-3 tablespoons olive oil.
5. Serve with grated (or finely-chopped) hardboiled egg on top.

Kevin is off gallivanting in Massachusetts and asked me to post in his stead. I’ve been roommates with Kevin for some time and have long a been beneficiary of his Food Junta posts, but this is my first official entry into the books. I’m glad I waited for this dish, because it’s really something.

And it’s especially something because, in true Food Junta fashion, it’s enormously easy. Risotto with a twist.

A quick word on the medium of risotto. There is a rumor going around that risotto is a difficult, forbidding dish. It requires patience, yes, but practically no skill. I find continually stirring the rice for 30 minutes calmly meditative, while others may find it simply annoying (and rightly so). If you are in the latter camp, I suggest you pay or trick someone into making it for you.

In any event, the time I put in on this dish was worth it. My friend who was over for dinner pointed out that risotto is really nothing but fancy-seeming macaroni and cheese. And it is. But there’s nothing wrong with that. This recipe balanced perfectly the brightness of the lemon against the richness of the risotto and Parmesan. Also, in the past, I have found myself straining to fully appreciate possibly-too-subtle notes of a mushroom or artichoke risotto. Here, flavor is not lacking.

I don’t have any inside knowledge to contribute, but, after several attempts at risottos that ended up tasting like chicken broth, I finally had the foresight to dilute the broth in half (3 cups chicken broth, 3 cups water. I imagine that this could be replaced with vegetable broth). Also I used the zest and juice of one whole lemon, and that seemed to be the right amount. I was able to feed four people with the dish, supplementing with roasted asparagus (pictured above) and bread and cheese. A wonderful time was had by all. And we all had risotto-filled, lemon-scented dreams.

Lemon Risotto
from Bon Appetit

6 cups canned low-salt chicken broth
3 1/2 tablespoons butter
1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil
2 large shallots, chopped
2 cups arborio rice or medium-grain white rice
1/4 cup dry white wine
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese (about 3 ounces)
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
4 teaspoons grated lemon peel

Bring broth to simmer in large saucepan over medium heat. Reduce heat to low; cover to keep warm. Melt 1 1/2 tablespoons butter with oil in heavy large saucepan over medium heat. Add shallots and sauté until tender, about 6 minutes. Add rice; stir 1 minute. Add wine and stir until evaporated, about 30 seconds. Add 1 1/2 cups hot broth; simmer until absorbed, stirring frequently. Add remaining broth 1/2 cup at a time, allowing broth to be absorbed before adding more and stirring frequently until rice is creamy and tender, about 35 minutes. Stir in cheese and remaining 2 tablespoons butter. Stir in parsley, lemon juice, and lemon peel. Season risotto with salt and pepper. Transfer to bowl and serve.

Citius, altius, fortius, eh?

Good morning sports fans, and merry belated Winter Olympics. Weren’t they great, these past few weeks? Rushing home after work to catch some sweet biathlon footage only to find… really? More ice dancing? Okay, seriously, how many rounds of this are there? But in spite of tape delays, ice dancers and Apolo Ono’s soul patch, there was as always a lot to love about the Winter Olympics. I know that the image of a crowded late-night sports bar with half a dozen massive flat screens turned to a curling match is one I will cherish for years to come.

The host of these past games, Canada, is a surprisingly large country located somewhere north of Seattle, and as the photo above clearly shows, its chief exports include hockey players, beer, and maple syrup. Okay, so there’s no maple syrup in the photo (and honestly one of those silver bullets looks suspiciously like a Coors Lite), but I have it on good authority that the amber stuff is a treasured national resource. Brown gold. Canada-C. You know, like Texas Tea? Oh forget it. Tonight, as a tribute to our hockey overlords north of the border, and as part of Food Junta’s ongoing wall-to-wall Olympics coverage, I present to you: bourbon maple syrup. Swifter, higher, stronger! Sweeter, tipsier, earlier!

Times have changed since Nick Charles woke up and asked for “a drop of something to cut the phlegm” in Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man, and nowadays whiskey in the morning may not seem like the breakfast of champions, but bourbon and maple syrup are a natural combination of flavors. I had never mixed the two over breakfast before, but the pairing is by no means original: big-name distillers Evan Williams and Jim Beam have their own brands of pancake syrup, while on the bartending side maple syrup has become a popular ingredient at whiskey joints. And in Michigan one chef’s brand of maple syrup, aged in bourbon casks, has earned the closest thing America has to a royal warrant: “it’s one of Oprah’s favorites.”

Yet despite the great taste, the marketing, and all the Oprah-atic fervor, finding a recipe to make bourbon maple syrup at home proved to be a challenge, an emotional voyage, a journey of redemption; indeed, it would take heart, passion, spirit and determination, along with grit and an almost superhuman will to succeed, in order to endure all of the Google searches necessary to reach that one proud, golden, magic moment where –

What? Sorry, I’ve watched too much Bob Costas lately. Anyway I ultimately triumphed over adversity and found two recipes, one with a little liquor, one with a lot. The first proposed flaming vanilla beams (sliced open, seeds scraped out) in 2 tablespoons of whiskey, with the remnants being poured into 1 cup of syrup. Problem was, most of the liquid evaporated in the flames, leaving only a very (very) subtle vanilla flavor. Maple syrup is pretty damn good by itself, and this recipe just doesn’t add enough to be worthwhile. As long as I’m quoting literary booze-hounds in this post, Henry Chinaski famously said, “If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise don’t even start.” I assume he was talking about spiking maple syrup, and so today’s recipe, as if you even had to ask, is the one with a lot of booze. It is delicious.

This recipe is very simple, with two pretty obvious main ingredients. First, the booze: I know that bourbon is from Kentucky, not Canada, and I know that there’s even a brand of whiskey called Canadian Club, which really would’ve fit better into the whole narrative of this year’s Olympics. But Canadian whiskey is rye whiskey. Bourbon is sweeter and has a stronger taste, and for our maple-flavoring purposes it seemed like the best choice. So now it’s a NAFTA recipe, sue me.

On to ingredient #2: maple syrup, like ice dancing, has been plagued by scoring controversies. In your average supermarket’s maple syrup aisle (hey, a guy can dream right?), Grade A maple seems like the obvious choice. But be warned, syrup grades are based on purity, not quality. Grade A wins its high marks for being sweeter and lighter colored because it’s been filtered more – because there’s less maple in it. If I just wanted sweetness from my syrup I’d save money and boil sugar cubes. Don’t take the maple out of our syrup! Buy the darker, more flavorful Grade B!

But uh… angry mobs aside, all maple syrup is pretty delicious. And here, arguably, is how to make it better:

Bourbon Maple Syrup

Adapted, oddly enough, from this kosher butternut squash bisque recipe.

1 cup bourbon

½ cup brown sugar

½ cup maple syrup

Optional: 2 vanilla beans (de-seeded) or a drop of vanilla extract

Stir brown sugar into bourbon over low heat until the mixture is thickened, reduced by half. Add maple syrup, simmer for 3 to 5 minutes and let cool to room temperature. I might also suggest adding a couple of vanilla beans (surprisingly expensive) or a drop of vanilla extract during the simmering – adding the one highlight of the first recipe to the strong caramel, maple and bourbon flavors of the second.

Naturally you’ll need some sort of syrup delivery device at this point. Kevin’s Johnny cakes recipe from a couple weeks ago would be an obvious choice. Vanilla ice cream, it turns out, is another perfect match. But I, as usual, fell back on my Dad’s pancakes. This recipe, one of the first things I ever learned to cook, makes pancakes that are a little smaller, denser, and more flavorful than your average fat, fluffy diner flapjacks.

Dad’s Pancakes

Serves 2

Dry:

1 cup flour

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

1 Tbsp sugar

Wet:

1 cup liquid

1 egg

1 Tbsp oil

• Flour: I use 1/3 all purpose flour, 1/3 cornmeal, 1/3 white whole wheat flower. Collecting all those different flours may sound like a pain, but the flavor is well worth the effort and certainly got me hooked – I remember one morning years ago I woke up and discovered my parents were out of cornmeal flour, and I was so fixated on these pancakes that I decided it was worth my while spending 30 minutes using a mortar and pestle to grind polenta (which we did have)  into flour.

• Liquid: I use buttermilk for pancakes, regular milk for waffles. Double the oil for waffles. And if you really get wrapped up in the spirit (ugh, unintentional pun) of your boozy breakfast, go ahead and add a tablespoon of whiskey to the batter too. It’ll add a slight flavor and aroma to the finished product.

When the syrup was mixed, the pancakes fried, and the waffles… ironed?… I invited a handful of hungry friends over, and with Pat, a real, honest-to-Gretzky citizen of Canada, presiding over the festivities, we sat down to ponder whether maple syrup could really be improved. Now I love the stuff at least as much as the next guy, and I still don’t know if today’s recipe is really an improvement. But it is delicious, and it is different: slightly more liquidy, and with a rich caramel flavor. As Kevin mentioned in his Johnny cakes post, even old favorites can use a new twist some times, and it’s always worth experimenting with booze in your food.

Remember the Olympic motto, folks: The most important thing is not to win but to take part. I’m Bob Costas. Good night, America.

Saute onions and/or garlic, add vegetables and/or meat, add water and/or stock, add grains and/or pasta, season. That is the recipe for pretty much every soup that’s out there, and once you’ve mastered it (which honestly takes about 15 minutes), you are a soupier extraordinaire.

In my eating adventures for my other blog, I recently ate the best bowl of mushroom barley soup I’d ever had, though to tell the truth, I can’t remember ever having had a bowl of mushroom barley soup before that one. I think “barley” had always scared me off by sounding a bit too much like a health food ingredient, but I won’t make that mistake again. Barley is delicious, and so is this soup.

This recipe is from Zingerman’s Deli in Ann Arbor, MI, which seems to be a crazy and awesome place. Claire also has a book from there that I think she really likes. Claire?

I made few (by my standards) changes to this recipe: I used vegetable broth instead of meat, replaced the margarine with butter (Kashrut dictates that you can’t mix meat and dairy, but (1) I already nixed the beef broth and (2) I am a big fat butter-loving goy.), and skipped the parsley (you can almost always skip the parsley).

With regards to the broth, I used one quart of store-bought broth plus the mushroom water, plus enough water to make 2 quarts, and the soup came out plenty flavorful. Keep an eye on the soup after you add the barley, because you may want to add more liquid, as I needed to. Just add water a cup at a time and see how much the barley absorbs.

Additionally, instead of scooping the mushrooms slowly into the broth (Anyone know why I would do this?) I just poured the warm broth into the mushroom pot. It just seemed easier that way.

OK, so maybe I actually made more than a few changes, but the soup was good and the perfect supper for what I hope will be one of the last nasty days of this especially nasty winter.

Mushroom Barley Soup
from Zingerman’s Deli

2 tablespoons dried porcini mushrooms
2 tablespoons margarine
1 large onion, thinly sliced
2 ribs celery with leaves, diced
1/4 cup parsley
1 carrot, peeled and sliced
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 pound fresh porcini or other mushrooms
1 tablespoon flour
2 quarts beef broth or water
1 cup whole barley
2 teaspoons salt
1. Soak the mushrooms in enough hot water to cover for a half hour. Strain through a filter. Reserve the water.

2. Coarsely chop the dried mushrooms.

3. Melt the margarine in a stockpot and sauté the onion, celery, 2 tablespoons of the parsley, carrot, garlic, and fresh mushrooms until soft, about 5 minutes.

4. Lower the heat and add the flour, stirring every 30 seconds for about 5 minutes or until thick.

5. In a soup pot heat the broth or water. Add a cup of mushroom mixture at a time to the pot, stirring.

6. Turn the heat to high, and add the reserved mushroom water and barley. Stir well and add salt to taste.

7. Simmer, covered, for about an hour or until the barley is tender and the soup is thickened, stirring often.

8. Add additional chopped parsley, mix thoroughly, and adjust seasonings.

Here at Food Junta, we mention the Minimalist a fair amount. But in all my minimalist reading, I don’t think I’ve ever seen MBittz wax quite as poetic as he did over this ginger fried rice, adapted from his friend and cookbook collaborator (and majorly fancy pants chef) Jean-Georges Vongerichten. Rarely do I read a recipe that I feel a need to make quite as immediately as this, but between Bittman’s effusive praise, the short list of ingredients, and the quick prep time, I was sold.

As Bittman also says, don’t let the multiple steps here daunt you. They each only take a few minutes, and the whole thing can be done with just two pans (one for the rice and accoutrement, one for frying the eggs). The result is — if not as mindblowing as Bittman makes it sound — pretty darn good, particularly for a dish that is composed mostly of leftover rice that would otherwise sit in my fridge for a week before meeting its maker in the trash can. I used leftover brown rice, JGV recommends Jasmine, Bittsy recommends leftover white rice from Chinese takeout. Choose your poison.

The whole dish comes together in twenty minutes, tops; the bits of leek are like little jewels in a sea of rice, reborn, swimming in luscious egg yolk; all topped off with garlic and ginger crunchies, to boot. If you make nothing else from this recipe, do try the garlic and ginger crunchies. You could use them to top just about anything, and when has fried garlic ever made a dish less tasty?

One other note: the Minimalist serves this as a dish unto itself. While it would make a fine supper, I like something a little more vegetable-y and a little less carbohydrate-y for my main meal, so I served this on the side of a tofu-veggie stir-fry. Again, up to you.

Ginger Fried Rice

Adapted from Mark Bittman/Jean-Georges Vongerichten, NYT

Serves 4, but if you’re me, you’d prefer it as a side dish

Ingredients

- 1/2 cup peanut oil

- 2 tablespoons minced garlic

- 2 tablespoons minced ginger

- Salt

- 2 cups thinly sliced leeks, white and light green parts only, rinsed and dried

- 4 cups day-old cooked rice, at room temperature (I used brown rice)

- 4 large eggs

- 2 teaspoons sesame oil

- 4 teaspoons soy sauce.

1. In a large skillet, heat 1/4 cup oil over medium heat. Add garlic and ginger and cook, stirring occasionally, until crisp and brown. With a slotted spoon, transfer to paper towels and salt lightly.

2. Reduce heat under skillet to medium-low and add 2 tablespoons oil and leeks. Cook about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until very tender but not browned. Season lightly with salt.

3. Raise heat to medium and add rice. Cook, stirring well, until heated through. Season to taste with salt.

4. In a nonstick skillet, fry eggs in remaining oil, sunny-side-up, until edges are set but yolk is still runny.

5. Divide rice among four dishes. Top each with an egg and drizzle with 1/2 teaspoon sesame oil and 1 teaspoon soy sauce. Sprinkle crisped garlic and ginger over everything and serve.

I have always heard friends rave about Ben’s Chili Bowl in Washington, D.C. – it’s a bit of an institution to say the least. In fact, it’s become a can’t-miss whistle stop for presidential candidates, local politicians, and celebrities. Bill Cosby eats there. A lot.

Ben’s Chili Bowl is most famous for their “half-smoke,” a D.C. delicacy that I’ve never had the privilege to try. From what I can gather, though, half-smokes are a type of sausage and Ben loads them up with chili topping. Works for me.

After looking at some pictures of Ben’s half smokes online, I decided that approximation – rather than imitation – would be a better course of action. I opted for a veggie-heavy meatless chili topping, rather than the shapeless mess that Wikipedia showed me. After all, I couldn’t have my first post on Food Junta looking like something you wouldn’t risk feeding to your dog. After picking up some Semolina bread and hot pepper Italian sausages, I was off and running.

Good Spice Veggie Chili (All produce measurements in real world units because, really, who knows how many Onions make 2/3 of a cup)
1 ½ Onion, chopped
1 Red Bell Pepper, seeded, diced
1 large Carrot, chopped in rounds
5 cloves Garlic, minced
3 Jalapeño Peppers, seeded, diced
2 15oz. cans Black Beans, drained
28oz. can Crushed Tomatoes
15oz. can Kidney Beans, drained
12oz. can Sweet Corn, drained
2 Tbsp. White Wine Vinegar
Chili powder
Cumin
Cinnamon
½ C Bulgur Wheat

Due to limited pot selection, I chose to cook the chili in a crock-pot – ideally I would have allowed many hours for the chili to really get going, but I only had about two and a half before serving time. Because of this, I started of by simmering the onions, carrots, red peppers, and jalapeños on their own to soften them up. After about 10 minutes, I transferred everything over to the crock-pot, along with the beans, corn, tomatoes, and garlic. Then I got to stirring.  For spicing (outside of the jalapeños) I kept it simple: A dash of cinnamon, a larger dash of chili powder, a few tablespoons of chopped cumin, and a couple of glugs of white wine vinegar. Delish.

After a few minutes of stirring, I left the chili alone, perhaps the most beautiful aspect of crock-pot cooking. After the chili had ruminated for around an hour, it was looking a little too juicy for my liking, though, so I added about a ½ cup of bulgur, a cracked wheat that soaks up water and works nicely as a thickening agent. It did the trick nicely, and after another hour and a half, the chili was chunky and cohesive – perfect.

The remaining steps were fairly simple: Grill sausages, toast rolls, combine. Cover with chili. Eat.

The chili complimented the sausage quite nicely – the spice wasn’t too obtrusive, and the corn provided a sweet pop to balance the pepper in the sausage. It was good enough to hold its own as a stand-alone chili, and the bulgur gave it some extra weight to take it up a hearty notch. On the sausage, the chili was a nice texture complement to the crispy skin, and reassuring not to be overloaded with meat.

The bread held up under the combined weight, and was perfect for sopping up some extra chili that conveniently found itself ladled onto the side of the plate. Knocks against the dish: The chili could have used a little more time for all of the flavors to mesh, and the bread was almost too hearty – one gets the feeling that Ben’s half-smoke rolls dissolve in your hands as you chow down.

So let’s not call it a half-smoke, or compare it to Ben’s (although, photographically, I stand my ground). It’s a cheap, hearty meal. It’s good protein covered in your daily dose of vegetables. It’s a step up from a chili dog. It’s a Chili Sausage, and it’s proud to be one.

You know what else isn’t a trend? Bacon. Bacon is just good. It’s like meatballs in that way. Still, I can’t help but applaud the genius of the good people over at Bon Appetit, who managed to get both meatballs AND bacon on the cover of their January issue. The recipe: Spaghetti and Meatballs All’Amatriciana, which, BA notes, is classically made with guanciale (salt-cured pig’s jowl). Here, they’ve substituted slightly more user-friendly bacon, with the traditional Italian dish supplying a nice front for what I think was pretty clearly a moment of gluttonous genius that had to be gussied up a bit with a foreign language.

Often, in the many, many bacon-heavy recipes that I’ve either cooked or eaten at restaurants, the bacon seems almost an after-thought, like a nod to a trend and a ploy for orders. Not here. Here, the basic plays an intrinsic role, yet without ever taking on the diva-esque position so typical of it. Its smoky flavor permeates both the sauce and the meatballs (it’s included in both), becoming that certain je ne sais quoi that pushes a dish over the edge into new territories of flavor. Especially, I will note, after sitting for a day, an inadvertent discovery on my part when I was eating leftovers and found them all the more smoky and amazing than the day before.

You may want to take note of this observation, not just because you want your pasta permeated with as much bacon-y goodness as possible, but because these little porkers take a little longer than you might imagine to put together. It might just be that I was really enjoying the (three) All Songs Considered I was listening to, but I don’t think so; this is not a dish that comes together in haste. It took about two hours start to finish, frying the meatballs in three separate batches. And you know what, it was worth the work. It’s a pain to get all the ingredients for the meatballs, but their flavor ended up incredibly complex; I was particularly pleasantly surprised by the cheesey aroma they gave off while frying — the caramelization of the Parmesan.

So take your time with these, maybe make them a day ahead, and make them for a special someone, or someones, as I had the pleasure of doing. Serve with garlicy garlicy buttery garlic bread and salad, and a couple bottles of shockingly decent two buck chuck (or is it three bucks now? it may still be two here in the upper midwest…).

Spaghetti and Meatballs, with Bacon

Adapted from Bon Appétit

Serves 8-10

Ingredients

Meatballs

• 6 ounces uncured applewood-smoked bacon (about 6 slices), diced
• 2 large garlic cloves, peeled
• 2 pounds ground beef (15% fat)
• 2/3 cup chopped drained roasted red peppers from jar
• 2/3 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs)
• 2 large eggs
• 1/2 cup coarsely grated onion
• 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
• 1 tablespoon minced fresh marjoram
• 2 teaspoons dried crushed red pepper
• 1/2 teaspoon coarse kosher salt
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Sauce

• 2 28-ounce cans diced tomatoes in juice (preferably San Marzano)
• 2 large garlic cloves, peeled
• 6 ounces uncured applewood-smoked bacon (about 6 slices), cut crosswise into thin strips
• 1 tablespoon (or more) extra-virgin olive oil
• 3 cups finely chopped onions
• 1 1/2 teaspoons dried crushed red pepper
• 2 cups dry white wine
• 1 tablespoon minced fresh marjoram

Pasta

• 1 1/2 pounds spaghetti
• 2 to 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 1/2 tablespoons minced fresh marjoram
• Freshly grated Parmesan cheese

1. For the meatballs

a. Place bacon in processor. Using on/off turns, grind to coarse paste. Transfer to large bowl. Using garlic press, squeeze in garlic. Gently mix in beef and all remaining ingredients. Let stand 15 minutes.

b. Line large rimmed baking sheet with plastic wrap. Using moistened hands and scant 2 tablespoonfuls for each, roll meat mixture into 1 1/2-inch meatballs. Arrange meatballs on sheet. (Can be made one day ahead. Cover with plastic wrap and chill.)

2. For the Sauce

a. Puree tomatoes with juice and garlic in batches in blender until smooth.

b. Cook bacon in large pot over medium heat until crisp; transfer bacon to plate.

c. Add 1 tablespoon oil to drippings in pot and heat over medium heat. Add half of meatballs (or as many as you can fit). Cook until brown on all sides, turning carefully with small metal spatula, about 9 minutes. Transfer meatballs to baking sheet lined with paper towel. Add more oil to pot if needed and repeat with remaining meatballs.

d. Increase heat to medium-high. Add onions and crushed red pepper to pot. Sauté until golden, about 6 minutes. Add wine; boil until reduced by half, stirring up browned bits, about 8 minutes. Add tomato puree and marjoram. Boil until sauce thickens slightly, stirring occasionally, about 8 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.

e. Mix bacon into sauce. Add meatballs; bring to simmer. Reduce heat to low; cover and simmer until meatballs are heated through and tender, 10 to 15 minutes. Season sauce with salt and pepper. (BA doesn’t say this, but in my opinion you could also stop here a day ahead, and just make the pasta fresh for your guests.)

3. For the Pasta

a. Meanwhile, cook spaghetti in pot of boiling salted water until just tender but still firm to bite, stirring occasionally.

b. Drain; transfer to large bowl. Toss with 2 tablespoons oil and marjoram, adding more oil to moisten, if desired. Divide spaghetti among bowls. Top with meatballs and sauce. Sprinkle with cheese and serve, passing additional cheese separately.

Don’t get me wrong, I love pancakes. But we can get sick of even our most beloved dishes from time to time, and after a few months of making pancakes nearly every weekend, I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus recently. But last night, I was reading Deborah Madison’s What We Eat When We Eat Alone (a great little book) in search of inspiration for an easy Sunday dinner, when I stumbled upon a recipe for johnny cakes.

The pancake’s rustic cousin, a johnny cake is a no-frills griddle cake made with cornmeal instead of flour and usually without eggs or baking powder. They’re even easier and more forgiving than pancakes, and the cornmeal makes them seem more hearty and filling than pancakes.

Plus, their name makes them sound like an overweight mobster…

And actually, “Johnny Cakes” is what Vito Spatafore nicknames his lover in the Sopranos. So there’s that.

There are a number of etymologies for johnny cakes: The two most prevalent are that they were originally called “journey cakes” because they were good food for travelers or that they were originally called “Shawnee cakes” after the Native American tribe that Europeans picked up the recipe from, probably right before committing some horrible atrocity against them. Either way, the name got mangled and became johnny cakes.

The cakes are a Rhode Island specialty, and the recommended cornmeal is Kenyon’s White Corn Meal. Recommended or not, I couldn’t find any. What I did find was self-rising corn meal, which just means corn meal that already has baking powder and salt in it. So right off the bat, I was breaking from tradition, which says that johnny cakes are made without baking powder. But who’s going to stop me? I went ahead and added an egg as well, just to be a complete heretic.

The results, traditional or not, were delicious. Slightly thinner than pancakes, the rougher grain of the corn meal gives these cakes an awesome texture and makes the batter much more forgiving in the pan. It only took me about 20 minutes to make enough cakes for two people, and I think these might become a regular pancake alternative for me.

There are a thousand recipes out there for Johnny Cakes. The one below is for using self-rising corn meal, but if you’re working with regular cornmeal, give this one a try.  Either way, be aware that the batter will be thinner than traditional pancake batter and will spread out more in the pan.

Johnny Cakes

1.5 C Self-rising corn meal
1 C Milk
1 Egg
~1 tbsp. sugar (More or less to taste. None is fine.)
1/3 C vegetable oil

1. Combine all ingredients and mix well.

2. Heat a skillet or griddle and coat with butter or (sigh) cooking spray. (Bacon fat is good as well.)

3. Ladle on batter and cook, flipping when bubbles start to appear and burst on the uncooked side of the cake.

4. Serve with butter and maple syrup or honey.

One of the small joys of dating my boyfriend has been discovering another human being who likes his food as spicy as I do. Together, we sought out and loved this meal, have maintained and replenished five different types of hot sauce in our fridge, and collectively swooned when badass/softie at heart Chris Perez took a bottle of hot sauce out of his holster and put it on his pizza in Selena. (Ok, perhaps that swoon wasn’t “collective”.)

But too much spice can be a bad thing (the word “ulcer” occasionally flits through my head) so I’ve been striving more and more to find a balance – meals that are complex enough in flavor and with enough of a kick that I never miss that extra level of heat. This soup fits that bill perfectly, especially when you might be tired of the traditional black bean-pumpkin combo but still want a protein-based soup that is equally as satisfying.

This recipe intrigued me when I saw it flipping through a cookbook. The combination of kidney beans, pumpkin and tomato struck me as slightly odd, but when I spied the words “chili paste” in the ingredient list I knew I had to give it a chance.

I’m glad I did. The pumpkin gives this soup a creamy texture and the cilantro and non-overpowering kick from the chili paste makes this soup welcomingly exotic on a dreary, cold February night. And it doesn’t hurt that this recipe embodies several of the best arguments for cooking at home, it being budget-friendly, healthy, quick to make, and great for leftovers.

Kidney Bean, Pumpkin and Tomato Soup

Adapted from Simply Soup

Serves 4-6

- 1 TB olive or canola oil

- 1 large onion or 2 small ones, diced

- 4 garlic cloves, finely chopped

- 2 celery stalks, diced

- 2 carrots, diced

- 1 box of vegetable broth (4 cups) plus one cup of water

- 2 tsp tomato paste

- 1/8 tsp dried thyme

- 1/8 tsp dried oregano

- 1/8 tsp ground cumin

- 1 bay leaf

- 15 oz  canned diced tomatoes

- 10 oz canned pumpkin

- 2  15-oz cans kidney beans

- 1 -2 tsp chili paste, depending on your spice preference

- salt and pepper

- fresh cilantro, to garnish

1. Heat the oil in a soup pot over medium heat. Add the onions and cook until they are just softened and translucent, stirring occasionally. Add the garlic, celery, carrot and ½ tsp of salt, and continue cooking for 2 minutes, or until the carrots start to soften.

2. Add the stock and water, drained beans, tomato paste and herbs/spices (thyme, oregano, cumin and bay leaf.) When the mixture begins to bubble, reduce the heat to low. Let it simmer on low heat for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

3. Stir in the diced tomatoes, pumpkin, and chili paste and continue simmering and stirring occasionally for another 10-15 minutes.

4. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Ladle the soup into bowls, garnish with cilantro, and serve.

“We who approach our kitchens with ham-fisted dread must defy the Alexes of this world–those breezy souls who can reach into cupboards, rifle among the cereal boxes, and come back forty minutes later with a plate of Tunisian lambs’ jowls heightened with pomegranate seeds. Like seasoned gigolos, such people know only of success, repeated every night with subtle variation; they talk of “mastering” the art of cooking, whereas most of us are lucky to be its slaves, scalded and swearing, doomed to tiptoe along the verge of failure. They are the kings of time, too, wisely marinating their salmon for twenty-four hours, already savoring the triumph to come, while we splash on the fish sauce, the lime juice, and the tarlike lees from the bottom of the soy bottle, poke the flesh for ten minutes, and then, as much from boredom as famine, head for the stove.” – Anthony Lane.

Oh, yeah. And I made a tortilla…

That lengthy quote is from the New Yorker’s food issue that came out in November. I’d set it aside for a rainy day, and finally came back to it on a snowy one. If by some chance you’ve still got that issue kicking around, I highly recommend it, as I think it’s the best food issue of the last five years. The quote is from a short piece by Anthony Lane on eggs. The “Alex” that he’s referencing is a character from a T.S. Eliot poem who is able to throw together complete, delicious meals from whatever he finds in the pantry.

You know these people, and you’re jealous of them. At least I am. That sort of off-the-cuff ease with which I’ve seen people throw together spontaneous meals is a skill I desperately want to develop, but one that I also find elusive. Part of it is experience–I find this kind of cooking easier now than I did two years ago–and part of it is what kind of stuff you’ve actually got in the cupboard. But I think some of it is just unlearnable, and I doubt I’ll ever really be an Alex of this world, no matter how long I cook.

But in some ways, that just makes it all the more satisfying for us non-Alexes when we pull off an Alex-like success, as I did last weekend. Foraging through my fridge on Saturday morning, I came across a container full of the truly awful fries I’d ordered at a diner the night before. Why had I saved them? God only knows, but I was glad they were there, as they gave me an idea. Why does a tortilla espanola have to start with raw potatoes? Wouldn’t these starchy, bland fries make the perfect base?

I started, as is often the case, by sauteing some onions:

And meanwhile, I cut up the fries:

After the onions were nice and soft, I added in the potatoes to warm and beat three eggs in a large bowl. Once the potatoes had heated, I dumped the potato/onion mixture into the eggs and added salt and pepper as well as some shredded cheese that I had found tucked away on a back shelf. (Why not?) I added some fresh oil to the pan, and dumped the potato/onion/egg mixture back in. I waited for it to set (5-10 minutes) and then used a plate to flip it, but you can also throw it in the oven to finish, provided you’re using an oven-safe frying pan.

Alex would have been proud. Or maybe disgusted. I don’t care. Screw Alex, this was breakfast.