Holiday Foods, with an Asian influence

I was assigned Christmas Eve dinner at the Tarr household (my standby locale for the winter holiday season). Growing up, Christmas Eve meant going to church and then eating clam chowder, so my mind automatically went to the happy soup-and-salad place. I like light food the day before Christmas, and even when my night in the kitchen got bumped from Christmas Eve to the night before the night before Christmas, I stuck with that idea.

I meant to serve minted goat cheese (with a hint of lemon zest) on whole grain baguette with pomegranate seeds as an appetizer, but that ended up paired with the second/soup course (see below). It was delicious -- I highly recommend you start mashing fresh herbs into your goat cheese on a regular basis.

Instead, we started with the salad. I have no photos of this salad because I was too busy making a three-course meal for five to document the results, but I am going to tell you about it anyways. I've never told you about my obsession with poached eggs, have I? Pity. It is real and it is encompassing, and it is largely unsatisfied. I have yet to poach an egg well. Still the quest continues, and the interest has yet to wane. So as I was planning this Christmas Eve-Eve salad, I started with the idea of a perfectly poached egg resting on top of some lightly dressed bitter greens (in this case, frisée, watercress, and a bit of arugula). After considerable deliberation I also threw in some edamame, roasted shitaake mushrooms, kalamata olives, and fontina croutons.

The dressing was the real star but I can't exactly tell you what was in it. I'd like to pretend that's because it's top-secret, classified information, but in fact I put so many ingredients into it that I don't exactly remember all of them. I know there was sherry vinegar, olive oil, tahini, pumpkin butter, black sesame seeds, and tamari, and that I may start a new love affair with the humble whisk.

The soup was a pile of roasted tomatoes, garlic, red peppers, and sage, pureed and simmered with a bit of vegetable stock, a splash of almond milk, and plenty of cajun seasoning (cayenne, smoked paprika, lemon pepper, onion powder, and sea salt). I left a little surprise of roasted chickpeas in the bottom of each bowl, and finished it off with a few more fontina croutons and some parsley.

And finally, for dessert I made almond meringues, which were perfect for dipping in Mexican hot chocolate (a favorite) made with almond milk, lactose-free cocoa powder, cinnamon, cardamom, chipotle powder, and brandy.

And now I hang my metaphorical apron until Friday. I find it fortunate that although I despise Christmas, my ladyfriend's day of birth happens to be the day after the big day. As long as I can find crab and artichokes there should be a stellar post coming your way this weekend...

A Belated Homage to the Fava Bean

Always a bit behind the vogue, I noticed the vernal influx of food-o-sphere posts on fava beans, and I wanted to contribute my own herald to the noble dicot.

I first saw fresh fava beans in Toronto's sprawling, vibrant, supremely inspirational Kensington Market. Rifling through the endless stalls of cheese, breads, clothing, smoking paraphernalia, spices, dry goods, and produce, I spied the pile of gnarled, spotted pods, which looked like they could have fallen from Jack's beanstalk. "Ah, fava beans!" I exclaimed, largely for my cohort's benefit, "What luck!"

I, of course, had never seen, cooked, or possibly even consumed fresh fava beans at that point in my young, occasionally brash life. Still, I knew I wanted them, and after selecting large, green pods that felt heavy for their size (well it works for lemons and melons...), I walked away with about half a pound of fava beans and the stirrings of possibility.

Now, how to eat them? First, the favas must be shelled, like peas, or rather, like jumbo peas on steroids. I find it easiest to peel back the stem and attached string running down the seam of the bean pod, similar to removing the strings from snap peas or sugar peas.


Next, run your finger along the seam to separate the shell and reveal a row of plump favas nestled comfortably inside. The beans can be removed, and the amply-padded pods discarded (or, if you're really cool, composted).


The first time I experimented with favas, in my wayward youth, I ignorantly stopped at this step, and honestly I don't think the meal was any the worse for my blissful neglect. They were boiled, then marinated with avocados, cherry tomatoes, and chickpeas in a thick lemon vinaigrette, and served in dripping spoonfuls atop thirsty squares of toasted baguette. Fava experiment number one was surely a success.

However, with a bit less bravado and a bit more research I would have discovered the universally-recognized need to double peel your favas. That's right: there's still a long road ahead until we reach the promised Fava Land. After boiling (3-9 minutes in salted water, depending on whether you're going to cook them further), use a paring knife to split the moderately translucent sac surrounding the brilliant green bean. I took the road less travelled and settled for my very own adequately-dexterous fingers, delighting in each painstaking emerald exposé.


Once this was accomplished I marinated the favas, along with chopped cucumbers and red onions, in a lemon-cumin vinaigrette. A few hours later I added a batch of marinated mushrooms and some very salty feta, and again served my salad with an appropriate bread product (Mediterranean flatbreads this time, still good for sopping and scooping).

Serve favas with an appropriately springy wine to suit their fleeting season (April-May). I like the three Italian V's -- Vernaccia, Vermentino, or Verdicchio -- all of which have lovely "green" qualities: melon, lime, hints of grass. A sauvignon blanc would work well, too, but I prefer a more nuanced Old World origin, like the Loire Valley, to the brash New World producers (New Zealand, Australia).

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For more fava-related inspiration, check out these now-archived links:

Rosa Jackson, in one of her infinitely inspirational experiments, came up with this Fava Bean Gnocci.

Susan at Food Blogga posted this informative post with preparation instructions and a recipe for Fava Bean and Dill Crostini.

The good folks of Swirling Notions presented this post, featuring another Fava Bean Crostini.

Ulterior Epicure offers this eloquent review of his meal at Bluestem, which included a Fava Bean Salad.