Petit Riz

We can think of baking as a science: scrape the excess flour from a cup with a knife and measure your teaspoons of vanilla. What is 1/8 of a teaspoon and what is a pinch of salt? I’ve met women who rarely measure, or if they do it is with their eyes, nose, and tongues. I imagine Lulu Peyraud and Elizabeth David to be in that category, throwing bulbs of garlic into soups or telling us that the onions should cook until soft and melted (but we never know how long, do we?). My mother is so precise with cutting and presentation and yet she says she doesn’t like recipes, she’d rather cook from memory, or just see how something tastes. I’m the one carrying a notepad and trailing after her in the kitchen (oil to coat the pan, and more later, and more again; lots of ginger; however many mushrooms you happen to have in the fridge).

I remember watching my cousin Claire this past summer. We were in my aunt’s kitchen and the doors were open as it was a mild day for Brittany. Claire was making a rhubarb tart. She poured flour into a large bowl and added a chunks of salted butter. She placed the bowl on the tiled floor and her daughter mixed the flour and butter with her hands as Claire drizzled cold water onto the dough. For the filling, she found cream in the fridge and three eggs. She added sugar with a spoon, stirred, added more. There was rhubarb from the garden. Later we asked for the recipe and she wrote down an impressionistic version in her signature cursive writing, and though beautiful, it seemed to strip the natural elegance and ease from those initial gestures. I’ve tried to make this tart, but it never tastes as good and I never feel as graceful as Claire.

These past few days my mother and I have been cooking from memory and books. One night we made milanesas, my brother’s favorite, especially when served with mashed potatoes. The recipe comes from her years in Argentina, Buenos Aires, where my mother lived from 1968 to 87. My brother would go to an old restaurant with his father on the weekends and eat a thick milanesa made with lomo. First the meat is drenched in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs, and finally deep-fried. The tender meat of the lomo makes the milanesa una delicia, according to my mother. I’ve had many of these milanesas, they’re gigantic and regal — they are served with only a wedge of lemon. The sides need to be ordered separately. On Sunday night we made our milanesas with beef that my brother tenderized until the meat was pancake thin. We added parsley and finely chopped garlic to the eggs. Rather than deep-frying, we cooked them in the oven with chorritos of olive oil.

Last night we prepared two winter dishes, a lentil soup and a walnut cake. We were both so enchanted by the recipes that I’ve written them down, for your pleasure.

Lentil Soup

This soup is very good. It is light and smells divine when cooking. The recipe is inspired by Elizabeth David. We used leeks instead of onions for a softer flavor. The squirt of lemon juice at the end brings a lovely, acidic note and the cumin shines through as a spicy after note.  I like to cook the leeks in ghee, but olive oil would work well.

Ingredients:

3 small garlic cloves, minced
1 leek, the white part, diced thinly
2 celery stalks diced thinly and a small handful of the leaves
1 carrot, diced
2 tsp. cumin
3 tbsp. ghee
3/4 cup lentils (French green lentils/Puy lentils as they hold their shape)
4 cups water
1 lemon
1 1/2 tsp. salt
A small handful of parsley, coarsely chopped

Directions:

If possible wash lentils and soak in water for ~12 hours. Drain and rinse.

Warm the ghee in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and cook the chopped leek until soft. Add garlic, cumin, carrot, celery, and lentils and cook for a few minutes so the lentils can absorb the ghee. Add four cups of water, cover, and simmer for thirty minutes. Season the soup with salt and cook for another fifteen minutes. Add the parsley and celery leaves, a squeeze of lemon juice, and taste for salt. I like to add another teaspoon of ghee just before serving.

Walnut Cake

                 

The recipe is adapted from Lulu’s Provençal Table. This cake has a dense and very moist texture. Its top is pockmarked with bubbles like a pancake. I think of the walnut cake as the more mysterious and grown-up cousin of the carrot cake.

Ingredients:

1 stick unsalted butter, softened at room temperature
3/4 to 1 cup sugar (depending on how sweet you like your cakes)
2 pinches of salt
5 eggs, room temperature
1/2 pound walnuts, pulverized in a food processor or a blender (I leave a few chunks)
1/4 cup peeled and finely grated carrot
2/3 cup whole wheat flour

Directions:

Preheat oven to 325 F.

In a large mixing bowl, work the sugar and salt and butter into a creamy consistency with a wooden spoon. Beat in the eggs one at a time, whisking vigorously. Stir in the walnuts and the grated carrot. Gradually sift in the flour, stirring and beating quickly.

Butter a large cake pan and cover the bottom with parchment paper. Pour batter into the pan and bake for 40-50min, until a knife comes out clean.