Tag: meatless

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.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)3 Comments

Cran You Dig It?

Cranberry beans are a confounding lot. Some of them fulfill their titled promise as gleaming crimson, magenta, and maroon-speckled ovoids, bearing a rough resemblance to the fruits of their namesake. Most, however, deviate from that path, appearing in spotty shades of tan, off-white, and even black.

As one may guess, with such a diverse family tree, this worldly bush bean is hard to sum up in a concise little bio. Better known to the Italians as borlotti beans and to Colombians as cargamanto beans, this American native is one worth knowing in any language.

The Un-cranny Origins of Cranberry Beans

Said to have originated in South and Central America, the earliest written records come from Spanish explorers in the 15th century, transporting their culinary discoveries to Europe. Gardeners can’t even agree if these Phaseolus vulgaris are bush beans, pole beans, both, or neither. Regardless, their most striking characteristic isn’t the actual edible bean, but the vibrantly streaked pink and red pods, only seen if you’re so fortunate to find them fresh. Start searching your local farmers markets from late summer through early fall for a real savory treat. Shelling them is a meditative joy, and their flavor is unmatched.

What Do Cranberry Beans Taste Like?

Dried cranberry beans, of course, are most common and available all year round. Frequently compared to (and sadly substituted with) pinto beans, it’s a grave disservice to sell them so far short. Though they’re both about the same size, shape, and (sometimes) color, pinto beans will puree themselves if you look at them too hard. Cranberry beans stand firm, without being mealy, bearing a toothsome yet creamy, meaty texture that makes it a popular addition to soups and stews. Their mildly nutty, almost chestnut-like flavor plays well with others, whether kept very lightly seasoned or paired with more potent players.

Traditional Dishes Around the World

Given their extensive history spanning many countries, cranberry beans are associated with a number of beloved traditional dishes.

  • Italy: Pasta e Fagioli & Minestrone
    In Italian kitchens, cranberry beans are often the star of pasta e fagioli, a rustic soup of beans and pasta, simmered with garlic, rosemary, and olive oil. They also frequently make an appearance in minestrone, adding body and protein to the vegetable-rich broth.
  • Portugal: Feijão à Portuguesa
    This traditional Portuguese dish features cranberry beans stewed with tomatoes, onions, garlic, and sometimes chouriço (smoked sausage). It’s served with rice or crusty bread.
  • Brazil: Feijão Tropeiro
    Though typically made with black beans, regional variations use cranberry beans sautéed with cassava flour, greens, and spices. It’s a dish born from the resourcefulness of traveling merchants and remains a comfort food classic.
  • United States: Three Sisters
    Native Americans passed on their wisdom of bringing together the essential combination of corn, beans, and squash. The cranberry bean helps fix nitrogen and add nutrients that replenish the soil, making it a beneficial addition for both the planet and the planters.

In today’s global kitchen, the sky’s the limit. They’re fantastic tossed into salads, blended into veggie burgers, made into meatless loaves and balls, and pureed as creamy bean dip.

How To Cook Cranberry Beans

Like any larger legume, cranberry beans can benefit from an overnight soak. They’ll cook faster when they hit the heat and be more digestible in the long run. Drain the soaking water and cook in six to eight times as much fresh water by volume.

  • Stove top: Over medium heat, bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and cover. Cook for about 1 hour, adding more water if too much evaporates; they should always remain submerged.
  • Pressure cooker: Cook on high pressure for 20 minutes, then allow for a natural release.
  • Slow cooker: Add enough water to cover the beans by at least an inch, cover, and cook on low for 10 – 12 hours.

Drain well and enjoy hot, or let cool and store in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 10 days.

Fresh cranberry beans are a whole different ball park. Once shelled, they only need to be simmered with enough water to barely cover for about 10 minutes. Then, you can sauté them with garlic, toss them into salads, and so much more.

Nutrition in Every Nook and Cranny

Beans are the undisputed nutritional champions of the world, bearing volumes of affordable plant protein and fiber in every serving. Cranberry beans are no different, with the added benefit of being notably high in B-vitamins, folate, zinc, manganese copper, calcium, and potassium. Especially high in antioxidants thanks to their trademark coloring, they’re a smart choice for overall health and well being.

When all is said and done, cranberry beans have nothing to do with their fruity namesake. They don’t look like cranberries. They don’t taste like cranberries. They don’t bounce or float like cranberries. The only explanation for their name is that some person with some misappropriated authority had a far more imaginative interpretation of the legume than warranted. The only parallel that can be drawn is that they’re sort of, sometimes, vaguely, red.

Thankfully, none of that matters once you’ve tasted them. Whatever the name, these heirloom beans are at the top of their class. Names may mislead, colors may fade, but such singular texture and unmistakable flavor endures through generations for a reason.

Hannah (BitterSweet)4 Comments

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.

Hannah (BitterSweet)11 Comments

Pot Roast with the Most

Any brisket could be pot roast, but not all pot roasts are brisket. Confused yet? Once and for all, to set the record straight:

Brisket is a specific cut of meat. Pot roast is a method of preparation.

This is what I tell myself, as if it was that neat and clean, but the truth is the lines are blurry and overlapping, especially depending on who you ask. Brisket can become a pot roast if you toss it into a slow cooker, drowning it in broth and aromatics until it practically shreds itself. You could call that a Jewish pot roast with ease, but a born-and-bred Texan might run you right out of town for that declaration. In these parts, brisket must be smoked low and slow over dry heat, not stewed into oblivion.

Hot Take for a Hot Pot

In the spirit of the holidays, let’s just say that everyone’s right. Let’s put down the pitch forks and pick up the dinner forks, shall we? I made a more conventional take on a vegan holiday brisket last year, which I still consider one of my crowning culinary achievements. This time around, to make something I could classify as a pot roast, I thought it was high time to examine the meat of the matter.

Hen-of-the-Woods in Every Pot

Now, the star of the show isn’t seitan, but mushrooms. Big, feathery clusters of maitake, also called hen-of-the-woods, with their wild, ruffled edges and umami depth that’s downright meaty, maintain a distinctly fibrous yet tender texture, not unlike shredded beef. The protein not the cut for pot roast is a crucial element of what makes the dish, which is why it translates so seamlessly to a plant-based table.

Marvels of Maitake

I used dried maitake here not just for their concentrated flavor or long shelf life, though both are undeniable perks, but because they’re the embodiment of wealth and abundance for me. Every fall, my mom forages them from the wilderness of suburban Connecticut, scouring the base of old oaks with the focus of a seasoned treasure hunter. She dries them carefully, filling mason jars and brown paper bags with feathery clusters that smell like the forest floor after rain. Rehydrated, they spring back to life with even more intensity, deep and woodsy with a hint of smoke. You could substitute roughly a pound of fresh maitake if you don’t have that same incredible fortune.

A Pot Roast by Any Other Name

Somewhere, a food purist is clutching their pearls, muttering about prime cuts and the Maillard reaction. They’ll say it’s not a roast if it doesn’t begin with marbled beef and end in pan drippings. But when I press a spoon against a tender heap of maitake mushrooms that have been stewed into supple submission, bathed in onion-y gravy and served alongside carrots and potatoes that melt in you mouth, I’m not thinking about taxonomy. I’m thinking about warmth, comfort, and how the house smells like the Hanukkahs of my childhood.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)8 Comments