Tag: entree
Easy Bake Sushi
Sushi, though truly timeless and everlasting, isn’t typically thought of as a wintry dish. It’s a common misconception that it’s a dish best served cold, but unlike revenge, it’s still better with slightly warm, not chilled, rice. Regardless, when the thermometer outside is tracking single digits and warmer, heartier fare is top of mind, sushi doesn’t exactly make the cut. Perhaps, we’ve just been thinking of the wrong kind of sushi.
Hot Dish, Hot Off the Presses
Originally pitched as a “sushi casserole” roughly 15 years go, the concept really got hot when it was rebranded as a “sushi bake” during the height of the COVID19 pandemic. In the era of feta pasta and dalgona coffee, it fit right into the conversation about accessible global cuisine, comfort food, and culinary escapes. Familiar yet novel, easily adaptable to suit any available ingredients; looking back on it now, it made perfect sense. What I don’t understand is why it seems to have disappeared just as quickly.
Sushi for the People
Consider the sushi bake as sushi with training wheels, both for the cook and eater. No patience for hand-shaping individual rectangles of rice? Zero skill for rolling with sheets of nori? Throw everything in a pan and call it a day! Those of the most voracious appetites can finally satisfy the urge to eat an entire family platter of nigiri without being seen as gluttonous, and everyone can walk away from the table fulfilled. Especially during the colder months of the year, I can’t imagine a better way indulge in homemade sushi.
Layered with seasoned sushi rice, umami furikake, surprisingly convincing spicy crab made from shredded tofu, and a battery of crisp cucumbers, buttery avocado, and lashings of more savory sauces, it’s the complete package in every bite. You could easily double it and bake it off in an 8 x 8-inch pan for the whole family, or even quadruple it with a 9 x 13-inch pan for a genuine sushi party.
Serves You Right
Served warm, straight from the oven, a sushi bake is meant to be spooned, scooped, and shared with abandon. A brief rest on the counter allows the layers to settle into a more sliceable strata, but it should still arrive at the table hot, the rice plush and fragrant beneath its generous toppings. Set out stacks of toasted nori sheets or seaweed snacks and let everyone build their own bites, folding heaping spoonfuls into crisp wrappers that crackle against the creamy filling. It’s informal and tactile in a way traditional sushi rarely allows, encouraging seconds, and thirds, without ceremony or apology.
While I wouldn’t reheat it once topped, any leftover sushi bake is still just as delicious the next day, served cold. After winter relinquishes its grip and cooler cravings return, perhaps it can be a summertime staple, too.
Wordless Wednesday: Green with Envy
Bodhi Viet Vegans – Veggie Stir Fry
Bodhi Viet Vegans – Broccoli Nuggets
Ho Ho Chinese BBQ – Black Mushrooms, Bamboo, and Snow Peas
House of Three Gorges – Dry Sautéed Green Beans
JJ’s Wok – Dry Fried Green Beans
JJ’s Wok – Edamame
Sheep Heid Inn – Pea & Asparagus Risotto
The Cavalier – Feed Me, Seymour
Yellow Ranger – Wok Fried Green Beans
Endless Einkorn Pastabilities
I very nearly destroyed my stand mixer trying to make einkorn pasta. I’m no stranger to the art of pasta making thanks to a brief but immersive obsession during COVID19, so I had full confidence that this simple experiment would be a wild success.
I was wildly wrong.
Wads of wet, sticky, yet impossibly thick dough clogged the extruding attachment from top to bottom, inexorably stuck in pasta purgatory. No amount of prodding could convince it to come out, nor additional flour, water, or even oil. Only time could heal this wound, letting the einkorn paste dry up to a point where I could chisel it out a few days later. I vowed then and there that I would never make einkorn pasta again. Fortunately for me and you, I don’t have to.
Buy, Don’t DIY
Grand Teton Ancient Grains, my favorite resource for whole grains and the instigators of my whole einkorn infatuation, now make luxurious long strands of einkorn angel hair, spaghetti, and linguine. This stuff is the real deal, made with 100% einkorn semolina and nothing else. No filler, no nonsense. That means they pack a punch, nutritionally speaking, with more than twice the amount of protein as standard white flour pasta. It’s a good thing they’re packed in two-pound bulk bags because I can’t keep my hands off of these beauties.
Bronze Takes First Place
Bronze-cut pasta is the gold standard for quality pasta production, pioneered by the Italians in the 17th century. Otherwise known as trafilata al bronzo, the bronze dies create a rougher surface as the dough is extruded. That means the resulting noodles have a more satisfying bite and are better suited to capturing and holding on to whatever sauces you throw at them. The technique fell out of favor as modern manufacturing demanded faster turnaround times, but the difference is obvious. Modern bronze-cut pasta exemplifies a philosophy of patience and respect for ingredients without having to say a word.
Taste Beyond Compare
While the deep flaxen hue may look like standard whole wheat, the flavor is anything but. Subtly sweet and delicate, there’s none of the off-putting bitterness that the bran of modern wheat can impart. Naturally buttery, honeyed, and slightly toasted, it has a softer, rounder flavor that doesn’t dominate sauces. Einkorn pasta gives you the best of all worlds.
Guardian Angels
Angel hair is typically my last choice when cravings come calling, but this version grants it a massive upgrade on the noodle hierarchy. After a mere two minutes in the water, they’re already supple and ready to serve, yet stronger than the average gossamer strands. Tender without collapsing, delicate without disappearing, I finally understand the enduring appeal of this much maligned noodle.
Spaghetti Theory
Einkorn spaghetti invites a bolder approach. Thicker and more robust, it has the structure to stand up to assertive flavors and sturdier mix-ins without losing its elegance. This is the pasta I reached for when making Dirty Martini Pasta, where briny olives, sharp citrus, and glossy olive oil demand a noodle with both backbone and nuance. Einkorn’s naturally earthy flavor softens the high notes, keeping the dish balanced rather than abrasive. Each bite feels cohesive; salty, silky, and just indulgent enough to honor such sophisticated cocktail inspirations.
Lingering Over Linguine
Wider lengths of linguine possess a certain grounded grandeur. Like slightly flattened ribbons, it has a natural grace that makes it feel composed even before sauce enters the picture. It holds space beautifully, lending a hearty bite to any dish it stars in, and yes, it will easily steal the spotlight. This is the kind of pasta that invites intention, rewarding thoughtful pairings rather than excess.
Eat Like a Rockefeller
That balance made it the obvious choice for making Oyster Mushrooms Pastafeller, a plant-forward nod to the flavors of Oysters Rockefeller. Feathery oyster mushrooms take on the role of velvety seared seafood, bolstered by briny capers and kelp granules, while herbs, aromatics, and richness envelope the whole dish. Al dente linguine entwines in a comforting tangle, paying proper homage to the inspiration without attempting imitation.
While I’m not happy about the original pasta maker mishap, it does give me a greater appreciation for the artistry that goes into a ready-made solution. The difference is knowing when to let go of DIY bravado and trust true craftsmanship. That’s what made Oyster Mushroom Pastafeller possible and ready on a whim, without bringing out the heavy artillery. Grand Teton Ancient Grains delivers einkorn pasta that honors the grain without asking you to wrestle it into submission. Sometimes the smartest move isn’t trying harder, but choosing better.
Address to a Vegan Haggis
If there can only be one woefully misunderstood and unfairly vilified dish in our collective culinary canon, my vote would go to haggis. Yes, I’m prepared to defend the savory Scottish pudding that takes all forms of organ meat stuffed inside of a sheep’s bladder or stomach. Like any good controversy, there’s much more to it than flashy headlines, and far greater nuance than just excess organs and entrails.
Criminally Misconstrued
As of 1971, it is in fact illegal to import or produce traditional haggis in the US. Concerns stemmed from the use of sheep’s lungs, which were deemed particularly susceptible to contamination, which could in turn spread disease. While this ban still stands, more contemporary versions of haggis, made without the offending offal, are permitted. The easiest way to bypass the restriction is to simply leave the entrails in the past.
A Short History of Haggis
To fully appreciate this medieval meal of subsistence, it’s important to understand how it came to be. Sheep outnumber the human population in Scotland, making them the obvious fodder for all sorts of traditional dishes. Waste not, want not; everything remotely edible would be chopped up and heavily seasoned to detract from the more gamey flavors, heavily salted to prevent spoilage, and stuffed into some sort of casing for easy transportation. Though sausage-like in construction, it has more in common with savory English pudding in practice. The stomach or bladder would be cut open and emptied after cooking and summarily discarded. So much for all that shock value.
Somewhere along the line, shepherds began to settle more into farming, and stretching their meat with grains. Oatmeal, specifically Scotch oats or porridge oats, became an equally iconic cultural touchstone, finding its way into this amalgamation. The earliest written record from 1430 CE lists sheep’s heart, liver, lungs, oatmeal, onion, suet, and stock as the key ingredients.
Burn’s Night: Address to a Haggis
Haggis is redeemed by the annual tradition of Burn’s Night, January 25th, marking the birthday of Scotland’s national poet, Robert “Rabbie” Burns. Mr. Burns immortalized haggis in his 1787 poem Address to a Haggis, a florid, passionate ode that elevates the humble pudding to near-mythic status. In it, he celebrates not only the hearty dish itself but the rugged self-reliance of Scottish culture. So exuberant and impassioned were his words that generations have since treated the poem as both sacred text and dinner entertainment.
A Modern Answer to an Ancient Problem
Like any other recipe that’s been around for a few centuries, endless variations have sprouted from that original seed of inspiration, and vegetarian haggis is no stranger in Caledonia. By the mid–20th century, more Scots were living in cities, fewer were butchering their own livestock, and a growing number of people were deciding, out of ethics, health, or pure squeamishness, that eating minced organs packed into a stomach wasn’t quite for them.
The earliest meatless versions began appearing in the 1960s and 70s, coinciding with the rise of the modern vegetarian movement in the UK. A wholesome amalgamation of oats, legumes, root vegetables, and aggressive seasoning, it was first commercially produced in 1984, and now makes up for 25% – 40% of all haggis sales.
Makar’s Mash Bar – Vegan Haggis Interior
Bringing Haggis Back Home
When I visited Scotland last year, the single best thing I ate was the vegan haggis at Makar’s Mash Bar. Incredibly rich, tender yet toothsome, the combination of chestnuts, seeds, lentils, and oats put it over the top. Combined with the traditional pairing of neeps and tatties (rutabaga and potatoes), plus decadent whisky cream sauce, I was hooked on haggis from the first bite. Since then, I’ve been dreaming of recreating that experience and finally, the time has come.
Skipping the questionable casing entirely, since it would only be scrapped anyway, I baked my haggis in ramekins for easier prep and serving alike. Make no mistake though, this is not a quick fix meal. Your best bet is to make the main in advance, and plan to reheat when you’re ready to serve. It’s an entree worthy of a celebration, and not just Burn’s Night; my original batch went to the Thanksgiving feast, and I can see this being right at home at a Christmas dinner or Hanukkah party, too.
Haggis for the Whole Herd
Warm, peppery, a little earthy, mushrooms lay down a savory foundation, all umami and bass, while chestnuts chime in with mellow sweetness. Beans, lentils, and steel-cut oats create the hearty core of the dish, punctuated by the toothsome bite of roughly chopped seeds. What truly ties everything together, though, is the seasoning. Warm, herbaceous, complex, tart, tangy; it’s a lot to take in at once, but still never too much.
I’ve plated it two ways, and I’m sure there are many more possible. You could even leave your haggis right inside the ramekin and call it a night. In a nod to the original inspiration, I made a little tower from my neeps and tatties, emulating fine dining flair with a bit of homemade rusticity. Of course, I do much prefer the simpler approach, spooning generous portions of each side onto the plate before drowning it all in whisky cream sauce. Regardless of the arrangement, I feel confident that this take could finally sway those on the fence about haggis. After all, it did for me.
Noodles You Should Know: Yen Ta Fo
As pungent as it is vibrant, there’s no mistaking yen ta fo. Known for their unearthly pink color, these eye-catching noodles are an arresting sight, luminous bowlfuls of broth in night markets across Thailand. So bold that it borders on theatrical, yet its origins are anything but artificial.
From Teochew to Thai
Yen ta fo (เย็นตาโฟ) is Thai street food at its best; a riotous mosaic of contrasting textures and tastes. Soft rice noodles, ranging from delicately thin vermicelli to luxuriously wide sen yai, bathe in that unmistakable pink soup, introduced through a curtain of steam. Its origins are somewhat of a collage as well, owing much to its Chinese roots, brought over by Teochew (Chaozhou) immigrants to Thailand. The name itself comes from the Chinese dialects, with “yen” meaning red or pink, and “ta fo” derived from “dou fu” (tofu).
Pretty in Pink, Funky in Flavor
The tofu in question is the single most important part of the dish, the defining factor that imparts that unforgettable rosy hue. Fermented bean curd, preserved with salt, rice wine, and chilies, melts into the broth with a slow-building intensity that lingers in both color and flavor. Its pungency is complex, funky and brash, but also surprisingly mellow when simmered. Some unscrupulous vendors enhance their soup with food coloring, though such shenanigans are wholly unnecessary when working with the genuine article.
Build Your Bowl
What goes into the bowl after that is part tradition, part personal preference. Most renditions begin with the usual suspects of Thai noodle soup, such as airy tofu puffs, tendrils of morning glory (water spinach), mushrooms (most often wood ear, AKA black fungus), wonton chips, and crunchy fried garlic. Historically a seafood-focused dish, the standard build would usually feature various fish balls, squid, sliced fish cake, or the occasional pink-tinged crab stick, though fully vegan versions aren’t too hard to come by.
Season and Slurp
Yen ta fo isn’t meant to be perfectly balanced out of the kitchen. Like many Thai noodle soups, it arrives awaiting your hand at the condiment station. Here, you can fine-tune the experience with a splash of vinegar for brightness, a touch of sugar to amplify the sweetness, chili flakes or chili oil for heat, and a dash of vegan fish sauce for that crave-worthy hit of umami.
Pink of Perfection
For all its flamboyance, yen ta fo is an everyday dish, which is a large part of its appeal. Accessible, affordable, and ubiquitous across Thailand’s markets and food courts, all the locals know the marvels of yen ta fo. It rarely makes its way to Western menus, perhaps because of its peculiar color or its potentially polarizing flavors. That’s a real shame, because yen ta fo is a real sensory delight in its juxtapositions; dressed in neon pink but grounded in deep, savory flavors, its beautiful chaos in a bowl.