Tag: side

Smash Hit

It should look like a murder scene when you’ve done it right. Guts splayed out across the inky black hard wood on full display, hemorrhaging fast into the gutters, it’s perverse in how right it feels. Beauty in decay, creation through destruction… Or maybe just a fun way to dispatch a garden variety vegetable.

You know how they say there are people who have a very punchable face? That’s how I feel about English cucumbers. Like water balloons waiting to be thrown, their existence inspires an insatiable urge for a very specific, target aggression. Aside from the instant gratification of destroying something beautiful, bashing cucumbers rather than merely slicing them actually serves a very flavorful purpose. The uneven nooks and crannies created by forcing them to split open allows them to more readily absorb dressing, whereas smooth cuts yield slick surfaces that let it roll right off.

This technique is typically seen in Asian cuisine, paired with fiery chilies to contrast with the cooling effect of chilled cucumbers, but that’s not the only game in town. Inspired by a splash of leftover gin, so scant that it barely seemed worth saving, I turned the classic Cucumber Collins cocktail into a salad. An herbaceous yet subtle foundation, a touch of citrus, and a hint of sweetness turn this act of vegetable vengeance into a thing of elegance and refinement.

Allow yourself the raw, primal joy of intentionally obliterating your ingredients. Amid the chaos, there’s a different kind of harmony, and perhaps a deeper appreciation for their resilience. Broken open, the cucumber is only stronger, more flavorful than ever.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)9 Comments

Fiddle-Faddle Flädle

If you think about it, it’s a very fine line that divides bread and pasta. Leaveners; baking vs boiling; otherwise, it could be the same dough. There’s much more nuance to it, of course… And that’s where things get interesting.

Crepes, AKA pancakes, AKA pan-fried bread, could bridge that divide with remarkable ease. Such thin strips of a lightly toasted wheat batter are tender lengths of linguine waiting to happen. That’s the basic premise behind fläedlesuppe. Swirling in a clear broth, they add body to a brilliantly simple dish, the essence of comfort in a bowl. If you’ve enjoyed the warmth and soul-restorative powers of chicken noodle soup, you already know how compelling this combination can be.

We have the creativity of early Swabians to thank for this specialty. Flädle itself refers to the paper thin pancakes that are rolled and then sliced into delicate ribbons. Traditionally, fläedlesuppe consists only of these sliced crepes and a rich beef broth, perhaps with a few flecks of scallions or chives for color. In Austria, it’s known as frittatensuppe and in France, consommé célestine is essentially the same thing, though sometimes the pancakes are filled with cheese, as the French are apt to do.

Theoretically, it’s a brilliant way to use up leftovers, but practically, who has leftover crepes or pancakes? These are worth making fresh for the sole purpose of swimming in soup. There’s really nothing else to the dish, nothing more to be cooked, so it’s not any more work than it takes to whip up your average stack of flapjacks. If anything, it’s an ideal opportunity to practice your flipping skills; even if they end up torn or misshapen, they’ll just be sliced up anyway.

Especially on cold days, flädlesuppe feels like a warm embrace. It’s a dish that offers comfort in its simplest form—nourishing, soothing, and unpretentious. I see it as a very hopeful dish too. If bread can also be noodles, anything is possible. Even the most basic ingredients can turn into something extraordinary with creativity and care.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)6 Comments

All Aboard the Gravy Train

If I’ve learned anything over the course of 30+ Thanksgivings, it’s that you can never have too much gravy. While battles could be fought over canned or fresh cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts or green beans, everyone agrees that the standard serving size for gravy is about a pint per person. No matter what’s on the menu, it’s always much more palatable when swimming in a pool of this savory sauce.

In my early years as a newly minted vegan, I distinctly remember my first tentative meals with the extended family. It was a classic situation where misunderstandings meant there was chicken stock in the rice, butter in the roasted vegetables, and of course not a scrap of plant-based protein to be seen. Prepared to fend for myself, I did come armed with the one thing I knew would enhance any meal: gravy.

Though simple, made from sauteed onions and blended chickpeas, it was a golden elixir that brightened everything on the plate. My only mistake was offering to share because as soon as it hit the table, the pitcher was dry as a bone. Even my picky, omnivorous family who would never dream of forsaking the traditional spread drank down every drop. After that, I learned to at least double, if not triple, my gravy contribution.

My cooking has evolved considerably since then, resulting in a much more complex gravy that’s even easier to whip up. Adding in volumes of umami flavor with a little pinch, Sugimoto shiitake mushroom powder is the ace up my sleeve. Like whole dried shiitake mushroom caps, this miraculous seasoning gains even greater depth when allowed to soak overnight, which makes it an ideal candidate for including in my greatest make-ahead gravy.

Becoming more flavorful the longer it sits, this gravy is your new best friend for Thanksgiving. Prepare it well in advance of the main meal so you don’t need to worry about such a critical component when the day of the big feast arrives. It can scale up almost infinitely, as leftovers keep like a dream. Since there is genuinely no such thing as too much gravy, you won’t regret making this investment in culinary currency.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)5 Comments

Uncanny Casserole

Thanksgiving as we know it is an entirely modern phenomenon. Nearly every element is so far removed from the original harvest, the original pilgrims and native Americans would find the spread entirely unrecognizable. The “classic” dinner menu is more of a marketing ploy than historical homage, after all. The indispensable green bean casserole is the best example on the table.

Invented by none other than the crafty Campbell Soup Company, it hit the holiday scene in 1955 as a thrifty way to utilize canned goods. As canning technology picked up following WWII and the end of rationing, hapless housewives needed guidance on how best to work with these novel tin cans. The green bean casserole called for just six ingredients, minimal prep, and a short cook time; perfect for a party.

Quite frankly, I never saw the appeal. Mushy green beans with mushy mushrooms baked until they’re mushier? Yum…! Despite that, I’m in clearly in the minority, as the infamous casserole graces the table for over 20 millions Americans every Thanksgiving. This year, I was determined to take back the green bean casserole on my own terms.

For starters, let’s lose the cans. Modern innovations mean that fresh fruits and vegetables are no longer out of reach, no matter the season. Crisp, snappy green beans retain their crunch through a flash fry without oil, but the favorite kitchen toy of our generation: The air fryer.

Freed from their tomb of mushroom goop, the beans get a light coating of crushed fried onions in this festive twist on green bean fries. Better than breading, it infuses savory flavor into every crunchy bite, while providing a naturally gluten-free alternative to bland old breadcrumbs.

Now these slender green dippers can take center stage as an appetizer before the main event, or stand up to competition on the dinner plate as a truly stellar side. Don’t forget to whip up an extra batch of rich gravy for dunking to your heart’s content.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)10 Comments

Bedtime Story Plot Twist

How do you cope when you can’t sleep at night? Do you burrow deeper under the covers and count herds of sheep? Do you reach for your phone and scroll through social media feeds until your eyes can’t focus and the words all blur? Do you get out of bed to pull out a book, or binge-watch the latest trending series?

Me? I head straight to the kitchen. I’m not looking for a midnight snack, though. The first thing I’ll grab is a bag of flour. While the world outside is dark and still, all I want to do is revel in the soothing simplicity of making bread. Watching the yeast come to life, turning a shaggy, sticky batter into smooth, elastic dough. Gently, methodically kneading the warm mixture is almost like a massage enjoyed vicariously, without any messy human interaction.

Wordlessly, thoughtlessly going through the motions, it’s more about the process than the product. It’s usually a simple sandwich loaf I’ll find rising on the counter in the morning, still bleary-eyed and barely awake. Sometimes I’ll get more ambitious and try something new, a curiosity that I can’t decipher until taking a bite later. In other cases, it’s the perfect opportunity to fulfill longstanding cravings, set aside as being too time-consuming for the average day.

Scallion buns, soft as a pillow, twisted into golden strands that dance with green onions, might just be better than a full night’s rest. The stars aligned when I pillaged the fridge to discover a bouquet of fresh herbs already past their prime. This was their big chance, and mine, to make something magical.

The results would be equally satisfying steamed or pan-fried, but in my sleepless stupor, it was easiest to turn on the oven and walk away. Don’t go too far though, because they bake quickly, meaning you can leave the shaped buns in the fridge to finish off bright and early, rather than staying up all night.

Adapted from The Foodie Takes Flight, I would implore you to watch the superlative video to see how a real pro shapes these twisted sisters. Words can only do so much for such a visual technique.

Next time sleep is elusive and the hum of the oven beckons, I know exactly what I’ll be making. Do you?

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Hannah (BitterSweet)7 Comments

Serial Stalker

Watery. Stringy. Bitter.

These insults are regularly lobbed at celery by picky provocateurs, myself included. Provided as an afterthought alongside buffalo wings, or stuck unceremoniously into a bloody Mary, it’s the last vegetable I would ever pick off the crudites platter. Even raw cauliflower florets have more appeal when angling for that last smear of hummus.

Limp stalks with little flavor to speak of, they’re all fiber, no flavor. Digestible dental floss, if you will.

Despite that, somehow, celery has wormed its way into the very foundation of French cuisine, thus cementing its place in the greater culinary canon abroad. Making up a third of the classic mirepoix, it seems like every soup, stew, sauce, braise, and beyond calls for one or two of these stringy green sticks. That’s how I end up with an abundance of the very vegetable I despise: Find a new recipe, buy a whole bundle, use about 1/30th of it. Rinse and repeat.

Still, I do staunchly believe that anything can be made delicious with the right treatment. Besides, I’m not one to waste perfectly good food, even if it’s not my favorite. Borrowing a page from childhood snacks to appeal to basic cravings, I sought inspiration from good old ants on a log. Thick, sticky peanut butter filling the the void with sweet raisin “ants” marching down the line, celery is merely the vehicle, adding mostly crunch, with a subtle salty undertone.

All grown up in a simple, crisp slaw, this is the recipe to win over celery haters. Texture is absolutely essential, no matter how you prep your celery; floppy stalks are never acceptable. If they get a bit tired waiting around in the vegetable crisper, slice about an inch off the bottoms and pop them in a jar of ice water, like a vegetal bouquet. In about an hour, the cells will absorb water and reinflate, good as new.

Having “too much” celery just became a very good problem, indeed.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)2 Comments