Gypsy Kitchens: Mincemeat Pie From Scratch

At the village market in Elgin, we asked a man if his mincemeat pies had meat in them.  "Yeah," he said.  "But it gets confusing this time of year.  Christmas mincemeat doesn't have meat.  Those would be mince pies."  We pointed out that his pies were labeled "mince pies," and yet he said they had meat in them. "Yeah," he said, and shrugged.  "It gets confusing around Christmas."
A woman at the Speyside Cooperage cafe gave us this piece of advice about mincemeat pies - "If it's got all sweet things around it, it's probably sweet.  If it has meat things around it, it's probably meat."
The intrigue doesn't stop there.  Most people make mincemeat pie with jarred filling - it's almost universally regarded as too difficult to make from scratch.  When we began looking into creating a recipe, it actually looked pretty simple.  Except... not really.  As it turns out, we're not fluent in English.  What are sultanas? What's suet?  Can we buy "mixed peel," or do we have to make it?  And, why are there vegetarian versions of meat-less mincemeat?
Here are the answers, and the surprisingly easy recipe for from-scratch mincemeat filling.

"Make the mincemeat a year before and keep it in a jar," is a common refrain.  Some sources even suggest that the key to a good mince pie is to let the apples ferment and bubble.  We made our mix the day before, and it was fine. In England, the pastries are Christmas treats and are usually topped by a star.  Since ours was for Thanksgiving, we thought about topping it with a turkey, but decided to keep it simple.
Our little Keswick rental cottage, in the beautiful lake district, was outfitted with an oven and range - we cooked all day, kept in by driving rain and a sense of tradition.  We dubbed our holiday "Thanksgiving in the Land of Oppressor" and made a feast that was half American and half motherland.  An appropriately sized pheasant, brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy, kale and corn, candied carrots, traditional American stomachaches and traditional English mincemeat pie.

The filling is made up of apple (as a base), citrus peel (in three forms- dried, boiled and zested) and lots of raisins, currants, cranberries, candied ginger - candied pineapple would work too, basically anything dried and diceable.  To this, we add liquor and a bit of onion, nutmeg, cinnamon, clove and brown sugar.  The ingredients are great to munch on, add to stuffing, salads (and sip).  Except for one, which we'll get to.
For the citrus peel, boil a lemon (unwaxed if you can find it) in water for an hour, until it's soft and pungent.  A great kitchen pleasure is smelling the astringency and sourness of lemon vapor as it boils.  After an hour, cut it in half, remove all the seeds and finely mince it (peel and all) or put it into a blender.  Add to this pulpy slop a few tablespoons of fresh citrus zest.  We used clementines.  Also, about a quarter cup of mixed peel (which you can buy in a good supermarket in America), a half cup of raisins and a half cup of sultanas.  So, what exactly is a sultana?  A golden raisin.
From here, get creative - we used candied ginger, because we love it, and cranberries, because it was Thanksgiving.  Chop everything with a knife or blend it loosely with a blender and add in two medium, diced apples.  Saute lightly a few tablespoons of minced onion, then add the fruit and peel mixture to the pan along with a quarter cup of brown sugar, the three spices (1 tsp. each of cinnamon and nutmeg, half that of clove).  Cook until it's beginning to make some noise, then splash in a quarter cup of cheap cognac, brandy or whisky.  Reduce a bit and then add the suet.  And what is suet?

Suet, in America, is generally relegated to the bird feeder.  It's made up of the hard, high-smoke-point fat from around beef loins and organs.  Good quality butchers should be able to source or cut the stuff, but they may need a reminder of what, exactly, it is.  At the Booths supermarket - where the butchers seemed pretty competent - they referred me to this dried, shelf-ready version.  It comes in a cardboard box and looks a bit like white mouse pellets.
Essentially, suet is dried shortening, and it can be used in a variety of roles - a lot of people advocate it as a pastry aid, or as a butter-substitute for frying.  It's not particularly healthy, though - it used to be used most extensively for "tallow."  You know, to make candles and to waterproof boots.  It definitely sticks to one's arterial walls.
Nonetheless, we used a healthy dose of it, mixed right into the fruits and liquor.  It dissolves easily and smoothly, and gives an incredible richness to the mix.  That vegetarian version of mincemeat we mentioned earlier calls for frozen unsalted butter or harder-to-find "vegetarian suet," whatever that is.

Our pastry was a simple butter and flour mix, but use whatever recipe you're comfortable with.  Since the filling doesn't really have to be cooked, bake just until the crust is golden.  We set the oven at 375º fahrenheit and let the pie bake for about 45 minutes.
This filling is extremely citrusy, dark and nicely sweet.  It tastes nothing like most American pies - it's complex, savory and tasty, much in the tradition of chutney.  It goes as well with a sweet ice cream as it does a pungent blue cheese.  The best part is it smells intensely like the holidays.  Our kitchen aroma was of lemon, apple and spices.

It's nice to eat the pie a little warm, before the suet begins to harden up again.  It's fine cold, though, and is even better the next day.  Ours went really well with a slice of local Stichelton blue cheese. Of course stilton would do the trick, as would a nice sharp cheddar.  As the English say, "A pie without the cheese is like a hug without the squeeze."  If you have the time, try making the filling a few days or a week ahead of time, so that the flavors have a chance to mingle.  Go ahead and make more than you think you'll need.  If we weren't vacating our rental two days later, we'd have put the extra in a jar and enjoyed it on cheese sandwiches, leftover pheasant and whatever else we had around.

Here's our recipe:

Thanksgiving Mincemeat Pie Filling
Ingredients:
- 2 medium baking apples, diced
- 1 lemon
- 1/2 cup raisins
- 1/2 cup golden raisins ("sultanas," to the British)
- 1/2 cup combined other dried fruits, such as cranberries, currants or candied ginger
- 1/3 cup beef suet
- 1/4 cup mixed peel
- 1/4 cup cheap, brown, hard liquor (cognac, brandy, whisky, dark rum...)
- 2 tablespoons citrus zest (clementine, orange, lemon...)
- a small amount of onion
- 1 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1 teaspoon nutmeg
- 1/2 teaspoon clove

Method:
- Boil the lemon in water for one hour, until peel is soft.  Cut in half, remove the seeds and mince the peel and flesh. Casually mince the raisins, sultanas and other dried fruit and chop the apples.
- Sautee the onion in a pan, then add all the fruit, spices, peel and a good splash of liquor.  Cook for some minutes, then add the brown sugar and cook over low heat, adding more and more liquor (to both the pan and your glass) until the apples have just begun to soften.  Mix in the suet and wait until it's melted.

Gypsy Kitchens: Baking with Gertie

"Gertie is responsible for bringing lasagna to Dungarvan," Pat told us proudly, but she's really famous for her scones.  In a local pub, we were told we just had to try them.  "You're staying at Kilcannon House? You have to have Gertie's scones."  Pat and Gertie Ormond had a cafe in town for years, one which churned out hundreds of scones and breads per day along with full breakfasts and lunches.  That sort of thing can get exhausting and, unfortunately, none of their three children had an interest in carrying on the family business.  So, now, it's the guests at their in-house B&B, Kilcannon, who get the honor of enjoying Gertie's cooking.  And, in our case, a cookery class with the master herself.

Baking with Gertie wasn't as much instructional as it was experiential and recipes were certainly not the focal point of the session.  In fact, the first lesson we learned was that there doesn't need to be anxiety about the exactness of baking or bread making.  There's always this feeling that 'baking' is more precise, scientific, mathematical than 'cooking,' and that a close focus and carefulness are key.  Gertie's school of thought was much different.  Sure, she knew all the measurements by heart, but questions about if a spoonful should be 'heaping' or 'leveled' or a 'handful' was the right size were always shrugged off with a "that's perfect!"  If we get our hands in there, she stressed, we'll feel that it's right.  Her process was one based on physical memory and an interaction with the ingredients.

Really, we were moving too quickly to take full head of every step of the process(es).  You see,  in about an hour and a half, we made two types of scones and two types of soda bread simultaneously.  One of us worked on one while the other was given a task for the other and all the while, Gertie moved between us taking our hands to help or taking over altogether.  It was more Show than Tell, more Feel than Measure.  She wasn't trying to teach us how to make scones or soda bread, but really how to bake.  Like pushing someone on a bike and then letting go, she was gave us the feeling of doing it, of hitting the sweet spot and trusted that we'll be able to get back there on our own.

This isn't to say that there was anything absent-minded or lackadaisical about baking with Gertie.  There was a process and a science, just one that had less to do with measurements and more to do with the chemistry of it all.  There was never a direction without an explanation, which is a hallmark of good teaching.  You've gotta understand to remember.  She stressed never letting your dough sit too long after adding baking soda, because of the chemical reactions.  Also, adding too much baking soda to white soda bread will make its color brown, because it burns.  A left hand was submerged in the dry mix before buttermilk was added with the right, that way we could feel our way to the perfect amount of liquid.  Something that was of the utmost important was air, "letting lots of air in."  The white flour was sifted three times to get as much air in as possible. 

Ingredients were combined with a soft touch for more air.  Instead of breaking the tabs of butter up inside the dry mixture or folding the raisins or cheese in, we were told to put both hands down deep into the bowl and bring the mixture up and out, letting it all sift through our fingertips.  It was a motion akin to tossing spaghetti, intermingling ingredients instead of mushing them together.   Another trick of the trade was to be careful about adding too much flour.  "That's what makes scones too hard."   This meant minimal handling of the dough once it was plopped down on a floured surface.  Messing with the dough too much also hardens it

Gertie's methods ensured that the scones wouldn't be hard and the soda bread wouldn't be dense.  What's funny is that we always thought hard and dense were words that were supposed to be associated with scones and soda bread.  It was a little like going to France after a lifetime of eating croissants and having someone tell you that they shouldn't be moist or doughy.  Because it's only the real deal croissants that are crusty and flaky.  The ones you don't come across all that often. At the end of our whirlwind baking session, we had a dozen cheese scones, a dozen raisin ones, a loaf of white soda bread and a load of brown.  Every morsel was fluffy, airy, pillowy.

Pat came in just as we were setting ourselves down beside the heaps of warm baked goods and afrench press of coffee.  "Did a little cooking?" he asked, bemused.  "She does this every morning," he said rolling his eyes and slacking his jaw, an expression of bystander fatigue and marvel.  And, indeed, as we said our goodbye the next morning, with a dozen or so scones and a loaf of bread still left over, Gertie went into the cupboard and got her handy 3 gallon container of cream flour.  "The kids are coming over for lunch, so I've got to get started!"

Tricks of the Trade

Sift your white flour three times for airiness
Once the baking soda is added, don't let sit too long
If you're white soda bread isn't perfectly white, there was too much soda in it
Never add egg-wash to the sides of your scone or pastry, it will weigh it down from fluffing up
Or just skip the egg wash altogether. "I wouldn't crack an egg for it.  It's only worth it if you have some egg left over or if you really want to impress someone. " - Gertie
Cut the X into the top of a round loaf with a scissor.  A knife will tear the dough.

Gertie's Top Five Baking Tips (which could also be general advice for life)

Lots of air
Don't mess with it too much
If you feel it, you'll know
Gotta get your hands dirty
Show it who's boss/Handle it gently (whichever is applicable. choose wisely)

Gypsy Kitchens: Potted Potatoes in Edible Dirt

"Your next course is in the flower pot." We were about six courses into the rapid-fire introductory 'snack' portion of dinner at Noma - a dinner we'd nabbed a reservation for three months ago despite a nationwide internet outage in Montenegro, a dinner we'd almost not made it to thanks to the lovely cop who stopped us on the way there for not having lights on our bikes, a dinner at "The Best Restaurant in the World" three years running.   Noma is almost mythic at this point. Do the chefs really forage ingredients from parks and shores around Copenhagen?  Yes.   Do they actually make you eat dirt?  Well, kind of.  The 'edible dirt' filled flower pot, from which perfect carrots and radishes are messily unearthed by hand, is one of Noma's signature dishes.   So, we decided to create our own version as an homage to Noma and New Nordic Cuisine.   Everything in that flower pot is edible.

New Nordic Cuisine is the biggest thing to hit the culinary world since molecular gastronomy and we were lucky enough to be introduced to it at three of the best meals of our lives, Fäviken Magasinet in Sweden and both AOC and Noma in Copenhagen.   In 2004, Noma's founders, chef René Redzepi and Claus Meyer, got all the top chefs and restauranteurs in Iceland, Finland, Norway, Sweden and Denmark together to discuss the concept of a new cuisine.  The idea was to utilize the fruits of the the Nordic's soil and water and its traditions of food preparation and preservation, salting, marinating, drying and curing.  New Nordic Cuisine is doggedly seasonal and place specific. The ingredients are foraged, collected and farmed. The preparation allows the natural flavors to shine.  "Simplicity" is a hallmark, but the actual execution is anything but simple.  Throwing out any rules from world cuisine, the chefs create something beyond easy explanation or comparison.  Now known as "Nordic."

We began with the dirt.  Noma's was explained as "malt soil."   Like just about every explanation that evening, something utterly complicated was stated as simple fact.   Oh, that's just some carrot leather and parsley snow.   Their dirt recipe is no mystery, a quick google search gave us all the instructions which  require two days, two unconventional flours (malt and hazelnut), beer, sugar and precision.  Our own soil is much more basic and required fewer ingredients and less time.  It's a little odd to look at items in a market and gauge how much they look like dirt, but that's just what we did.  Pumpernickel bread and dried chanterelles were obvious winners.  Roasted pumpkin seeds were added in for flavor, a punctuation of salt and fat. The bits of mushroom provided that dirty, earthy taste all soil should have (right?) and, visually, it reminded us of crumbled dry leaves settling into the earth before the winter frost.  Food dirt shouldn't just be edible, but also enjoyable.

What to plant? The radishes and carrots at Noma could be pulled up by their stems, but our own market had trimmed the green right off their veggies.  We'd just passed harvested potato fields on the bus back to Vejle from Legoland.  The idea of unearthing warm root vegetables on a frosty day also held an appeal.  So, we chose fingerling potatoes.  To complement them and get the aesthetic look we needed, chives were ideal. They were sold in a pot of their own, their roots deep in actual dirt. Once all washed up, their thicker white stemmed bottoms made them much easier to work with than shortened all-green chives would have been.  The potatoes were boiled.

At the bottom of Noma's flower pot was a green goop.  We were instructed to harvest our veggies and then use them to scoop up as much of the goop and dirt as we could.  Our own base layer, served a second function, keeping our potatoes upright and their tops high enough that we wouldn't have to dig around too deeply to grab them.  We used Icelandic skyr, a version of yogurt that is a little thicker, and flavored it with chopped chives, parsley and minced horseradish root - a nod to horseradishy Danish remoulade.  The result was a play on sour cream and onion, the perfect flavor combination for potatoes.  In fact, sour cream would work just as well, as skyr isn't widely available outside of Scandinavia.  As would a thick, plain yogurt.

We spooned the mixture over a slice of bread we'd placed at the bottom of our flower pot to cover up the pesky drainage hole.  Then, we stood our potatoes up in the skyr, submerging them about halfway.  The chives planted deeply to keep them as vertical as possible. When the potatoes are added to the cream, the level rises significantly.  So, you want to be careful not to fill your pot so much that there isn't any room for the dirt.  Enough potato should be sticking up that you'll be able to get a good grasp on it when searching around in the soil.  At least an inch of soil on top keeps them well hidden.  As we sprinkled the dirt carefully between our potatoes and packed it around the chives, keeping them vertical, it felt exactly like gardening.  Then came the harvest.

Things got a little messy.  But that's part of the fun!  It was harder to get a grip on the potatoes than we thought it would be and we definitely wound up getting our fingers gloppy.  The potatoes' skyr-covered bottom halves did an excellent job at grabbing onto the soil on their way up.  So, with a little fishing around and yanking, a fingerling would emerge covered in every ingredient we'd put in the pot.  The Potted Potatoes in Edible Dirt were fun to make and fun to eat.  And if you set one of these surprising dishes out at a dinner party, our Martha Stewart tip would be to write each guest's name on a 'plant tag' and stick it right in there.  Then, bask in the pleasure of saying "Your first course is in the flower pot!"

 

 Check out all of our recipes. 

Gypsy Kitchens: Birthday Smörgåstårta

What to make a birthday girl without a sweet tooth?   Luckily, we're in Sweden, the home of smörgåstårta.   "Sandwich cake," as it translates, is not only a traditional celebratory cake, it is also completely unique, semi-bizarre and so much fun to make and eat.   Above, three small cakes make up our batch of smörgåstårtor. Why did we make three?  Well, one is seafood, one is vegetarian and one is meat.  Yes, those pretty little cakes are as savory as can be.   Behold smörgåstårta.

Within an hour of arriving in Sweden, following a Tourist Information sign outside the train station in Göteberg to a shopping mall with a fish market right near its entrance, we'd seen smörgåstårta.   A small white square covered in dill was covered in smoked salmon, tiny shrimp and hard-boiled eggs.  We couldn't figure it out - what's the square made out of?  About a week later, as one of our birthdays dawned, we searched "Swedish birthday cakes" and got our answer. Smörgåstårta is a layer 'cake' made of sandwiches, a pile-up of white or rye bread and spreadable fillings, frosted with mayonnaise, crème fraîche, yogurt, cream cheese or some combination of those.

With smörgåstårta, restraint is thrown out the window.  The cakes, at best, are symphonies of flavor.  At worst, they are sort of grotesque.   When we researched smörgåstårta, there were some focused, elegant creations made of two or three ingredients at most: creamed spinach and salmon salad, pâté and egg salad.  Those were not made by Swedes.  Traditionally, sandwich cakes follow the smörgåsbord (Swedish buffet) all-in model: smoked salmon, shrimp, caviar, pâté, cold cuts, egg, cheese, mayonnaise, vegetables, some or all of the above.  This is not a dish for the indecisive chef, nor the overzealous one - which is why we wound up making three.

The main decision/problem one faces when making smörgåstårta is choosing a bread. Conventionally, the answer is very simple.   Sliced white bread, crusted, is employed most often.   It is firm enough to provide a barrier between layers, sponge-y enough to help it all stick together and - conveniently - already split. However, we wanted ours to be round.   Large hamburger buns work perfectly.   Slice a little bit off the top half of your bun in order to create a flat surface.   This will be your middle layer.   Use the bottom half of your bun for the ground and top layers of your cake - that way you're ensured a level base and a smooth decorating surface.

Choosing your fillings is half the fun.   It's a lot like designing the craziest club sandwich imaginable... with one catch.  There won't be a toothpick holding these layers together and you'll want to be able to slice your finished product like a cake, so make sure not to choose anything that won't stay put.  For example, anyone that's ever bit into a bagel and lox knows that a slice of smoked salmon can get pulled clean out with a single bite.   So, as not to cause catastrophic dismantling, we chopped up our salmon with kitchen shears.  This way, cutting a slice of seafood smörgåstårta would be clean and tidy and the fish would be evenly distributed.

We employed a tried and true salmon binding agent, cream cheese or "Philadelphia," as its called in Europe.   To make it a little easier to work with, we mixed in Greek yogurt until the spread was a mayo-like consistency.  Some chopped dill and shredded romaine lettuce completed the first layer of our seafood smörgåstårta.  The second layer was filled with chopped räk (shrimp) and kräftor (crayfish) mixed with a spicy dijon mustard and diced chives.  Mini shrimp and crayfish, both about the size of a thumbnail, are widely available in grocery stores around Sweden.  Since they are packed in brine, it's best to drain and rinse off the excess salt.  Thin slices of cucumber were thrown in for color and crunch.

Our vegetarian smörgåstårta consisted of a layer of hummus topped with shredded carrot and a layer of diced hard boiled egg and minced red onion mixed with tzaitziki (another common Swedish grocery store item).  Again, cucumber and strips of romaine lettuce were added to the fillings, as well as a good dose of freshly ground black pepper.  This smörgåstårta is, very literally, a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.   We decorated accordingly, with sliced almond around the outside and a carrot on top.

While the veggie smörgåstårta looked the most dessert-like, the meat smörgåstårta was the sweetest.  The bottom layer was liver pâté and lingonberry jam, a Swedish staple that often shows up alongside meatballs, black pudding, liver dishes and meat stew.  The top layer was a healthy coating of our yogurt-cream cheese spread and a pile of paper-thin, bright pink roast beef.  Inspired by all the rose hues, we mixed some chopped beet into our frosting to turn it a bright fuschia.  The cake was jewel-toned and flavor packed thanks to the beets, berries and meat. 

Before frosting, it's best to let your smörgåstårta refrigerate overnight or at least for a few hours. This allows the flavors to mesh and the layers to set.  Frosting a firmer, cold-bunned cake will be much easier. Also, having an easily spreadable frosting is key.  We added thick, plain yogurt to cream cheese until we attained the fluffy frosting texture we wanted.   Make more than you think you'll need.   It's just like frosting a layer cake, you know there will be some unevenness or protrusion that needs a little extra coating to smooth over.   And then you get to decorate!

Making smörgåstårta is sandwich-making, no-bake baking, and a little arts-and-crafts rolled into one.  It's also a cultural experience, a piece of Swedish culinary tradition and a wonderful way to celebrate a birthday. We highly recommend it.

Gypsy Kitchens: Norwegian Fiskeboller

When we visited the Stavanger Canning Museum, we talked with a docent about various fishy things - King Oscar sardines, canneries in Poland, the difference between cross-packed and single layer. After a while, the conversation turned to fiskeboller: what are they? How do you eat them? Do we have to cook them?  How come we've never heard of them before?
Intriguing, cylindrical cans sit with the sild and brisling on Norwegian grocery shelves.  Inside are flat, white, oblong things, almost like huge almonds packed in salty water.  The man at the museum gave us serving directions.
"We don't cook them," he said, in the straightforward manner of Norwegian men.  "We don't make them.  We just buy them in the cans and open them."  How should we eat them?  "With potatoes and carrots."  That's it? "And béchamel sauce."  Béchamel sauce?  "And nutmeg.  Don't use the water in the can."

Fiskeboller are made from white fish, flour, milk and eggs.  They're a little springy, benign tasting and fairly characterless - you could call them bland, fishy dumplings.  Still, they're a very enjoyable thing to make and eat on a rainy day in a campground bungalow.
So, with rented kitchen equipment and lots of curiosity, we set about trying to come up with a more exciting combination than the one our museum friend offered.  Béchamel sauce on fishballs with potato seemed a little too colorless, so Broccoli was substituted for the starch and the sauce got spiced up a little.  We found some very nice chanterelles at the local supermarket - very fresh, wonderfully intact - some thyme and a jar of mustard. The trick would be getting it all hot, cooked and smooth at the same time.

Start by cooking the mushrooms with onion separately - this so that the chunks wouldn't get in the way of de-lumping the flour.  At the same time, make a simple white sauce with butter, flour and milk.  We stirred in coarse mustard, nutmeg, chives and thyme to the mix just as it thickened, then combined the mushrooms and some of their liquid.  It's probably possible, with a practiced hand, to do this in one pot - softening the mushrooms right into the sauce - but playing it safe isn't a lot of extra work.

Cooking any kind of white sauce is an inexact operation, especially on a campground hotplate.  It turned out maybe even better than we expected, with depth and character not always found in these kinds of glop.  We learned that the best employment of the sauce with the balls was to stir the fiskeboller right into the béchamel - the dumplings are resilient and didn't break at all, and it's a good way to heat them up from pantry temperature.

And that was it.  In the soft light filtering through the drizzle, our plates were like mid-century visions of "easy housewifery."  Something about Scandinavia begs for muted colors and reserved roles on the tongue.  In a wooden cabin near the sea, with tall pines behind us and a September chill in the air, the meal felt perfectly appropriate... staid, warm, a little fishy and as timeless as a can on a shelf.
Here's a recipe for our Mustard and Chanterelle Béchamel Sauce.
Ingredients:
- 2 cups milk
- 1/4 onion, finely chopped
- Large handfull chanterelles or other delicate mushrooms, quartered
- 3 tablespoons white flour
- 3 tablespoons butter
- 2 tablespoons course mustard
- 3 - 4 sprigs fresh thyme, de-stemmed
- Chives
- Salt

Method:
- In one pan, soften mushrooms and some onion in a little butter.  In a separate pan, soften rest of of onion in rest of butter.  In yet another pan, warm milk until almost bubbling.
- Stir flour into onions and butter, working until smooth.  Add chives and thyme.  Cook lightly, without browning, for a few moments.  At milk and stir vigorously until there are no flour clumps, maintaining a low heat.  Add mustard, salt to taste.
- Cook mixture over low heat until thickened, about three or four minutes.  Try not to boil.  Stir in mushrooms and some (or all) of their extruded liquid, then check for the right viscosity.  When appropriately saucy, remove from heat and serve quickly.

Gypsy Kitchens: Bosnian Bulgur Pilaf, Freshened Up a Bit

The original plan was to try our hands at traditional Bosnian Red Pilaf, a simple staple which can be served hot or cold. It is similar to Turkish bulgur pilavi, in that the main components are coarse bulgur, tomato and pepper.  What we liked about the Bosnian recipe is that fresh tomato was employed instead of tomato paste, and that onion, carrots and celery root were included. The tomatoes we purchased at the market in Mostar changed our plans a little.  When the first one we sliced open practically hemorrhaged juice, we had a pang of remorse about our intentions to heat them up and cook them down.   Sometimes, wonderful produce just begs you to eat it raw. This set into motion our freshened up version of bulgur pilaf, a play on the Bosnian classic that keeps things a little brighter and more summery.

Bulgur is a wonderful, high-protein whole grain with a nutty flavor and great texture.  It is quicker to cook than rice and healthier than couscous.  So, what's not to love?  The reason we chose bulgur instead of rice, which is also commonly used in Bosnian red pilaf, is the snappiness of the texture and the earthiness of the flavor really appeal to us.  It also does much better sitting in a fridge without drying out, which is essential when you're cooking for two but making enough for six.  We're not great at cooking in small amounts. When, at our very first meal out in Bosnia and Herzegovina, these cracked, parboiled and dried wheatberries made not one but two appearances  - beneath a hot starter of Šampinjoni na žaru (grilled mushrooms) and floating in a big bowl of paradajz čorba (tomato soup) - we knew we'd chosen the right grain.

What makes bulgur pilaf different than just cooked bulgur is that ingredients are sauteed right in the pot before the cooking liquid is added, which means that the grains wind up soaking up all of those great flavors. We softened diced onion, minced garlic and a healthy dose of red pepper flakes in oil to start.  When those were done, we added salt, sliced carrot and water and then upped the heat to bring to a rolling boil before throwing in our bulgur. Many people saute their grain for a minute before adding the liquid. It's a personal choice.   Pilaf is traditionally made with broth instead of water, but we wanted to keep our recipe vegetarian.  We also wanted to utilize Bosnia and Herzegovina's legendary water, which - when you really think about it - is just mountain broth.  Right?  Not using broth is probably blasphemous to pilaf purists, but we were happy with the amount of flavor in our sauteed ingredients.

This was our first time cooking bulgur ourselves and it was amazing to see the coarse flecks of wheat expand and fluff before our eyes.  We'd say it grows to at least twice maybe thrice its dry size when cooked.  Like couscous, it's pretty difficult to screw this grain up.  Just find what works for you and the particular brand of bulgur you've purchased.  Generally speaking, cooking bulgur entails a 2:1 liquid to grain ration and about 15 minutes of your time.   Some people cover, remove from heat and let sit for 20 minutes.  We left our pot uncovered and simmered for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.   As long as the heat is low enough, there's no threat of burning. Just slide a wooden spoon down the side of your pot and push the grains away from the edge to check the amount of liquid left on the bottom.  Once there's none to be seen, you're all set.  To speed up the cooling process, we transferred our bulgur to a bowl right away.

Then, we prepped our raw ingredients.  Leaving the tomato uncooked gave us the idea to do the same with our celery root, that way we could utilize its crunch along with its flavor.  We've found that celeriac and celery are a little like Clark Kent and Superman.  We have yet to see them both sold in the same place.  In fact, we began buying celeriac when we discovered that celery stalks are almost impossible to find in Europe.  The reverse seems to be true in most supermarkets in the US.  In our time on this continent, we've come to love this knobby low-starch root vegetable, which has the same smooth flavor as celery, but a much longer shelf life.  Pushing our cold pilaf even closer to 'salad,' we chopped up loads of parsley and cubed some locally smoked cow cheese we had in the fridge.  The smokiness wound up being one of the things we loved most about our finished product.  A smoked gouda would do the trick or a smoked, firm tofu if you'd like to make the recipe vegan.

Sometimes it's difficult to know when to stop adding ingredients.  However, it's hard to argue with seeds and lemon juice.  We sprinkled roasted pumpkin seeds throughout while folding our ingredients into the bulgur, being especially careful not to wound the diced and seeded tomato too much.  Then, we squeezed half a lemon over the top and mixed once more.  We didn't wind up dressing with olive oil, though a drizzle on each plate before serving would work well.  Storing without added oil, as well as choosing to seed the tomato, really kept the pilaf fluffy and moist without putting it in danger of getting soggy.  This is a dish you can definitely prepare the night before or make a huge batch of on Sunday and enjoy throughout the week.

Bosnian Bulgur Pilaf, Freshened Up a Bit
(serves 2 as a main course or 4 - 6 as a side dish)
Ingredients:
- 1 1/2 cups bulgur
- 3 cups water
- 1 small yellow onion, diced
- 1 large clove garlic, minced
- 1 large carrot, halved and sliced
- 3/4 cup celeriac, match-sticked
- 1/2 lemon 
- 1/2 cup cubed smoked gouda (or smoked, firm tofu)
- 2 medium tomatoes, seeded and diced
- pumpkin seeds, hulled
- bunch of fresh flat parsley
- red chili flakes
- olive oil
- salt

Method
- Heat olive oil in a medium pot.  Add onion and a healthy pinch of red chili flakes.
- Cook until softened and then add garlic.  Continue to cook until onion is browned.
- Add carrot and water.  Bring to a rolling boil.
- Pour in bulgur and mix.  Lower heat to a simmer.
- Simmer uncovered,  stirring occasionally,  for 10 minutes or until liquid is gone.  
-  Remove from heat and let sit for a few minutes.  Then, transfer to another container to speed up the cooling process.
- While grains cool, dice tomatoes, discarding the liquid and seeds.
- Skin and matchstick celeriac, chop parsley and cube cheese.
- Fold all ingredients into bulgur once it is no longer hot.  Salt.  Sprinkle liberally with pumpkin seeds and mix again.
- Dress with half a lemon and either serve or refrigerate.  This is a dish that can be made the night before if you'd like.
- Drizzle lightly with olive oil before serving (optional). 

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Gypsy Kitchens: Njeguški Fruit Salad

The roadside stalls changed dramatically as we reached sea-level again, driving down the mountain from Njeguši.  The men and women selling Njeguški cheese and smoked ham hocks were replaced by ones sitting beside and almost eclipsed by huge piles of watermelons and cantaloupes. This gave us an idea.  In Montenegro, anything termed "Njeguški" on a menu is either draped, stuffed or smothered with the village's famous sir and pršut.  We knew we wanted to make [blank] Njeguški with the ham and cheese just procured in the village, but we didn't know what.  Until those sweet orbs met us back on the coast.

Pršut and sir have a happy marriage in this country.  Rarely does the first make an appearance without the second on its arm.  They seem like an odd pairing, from different animals, one smelling of smoke and the other delicately aged.  Finding the perfect third element to Njeguški-ize, seemed a little tricky.  Seeing those cantaloupes on the roadside reminded us that in Italy, America and the world over, the favored bedfellow of prosciutto is melon.  Cheese and melon seemed like they may clash, but we were willing to see how the three all got along.

To bridge the cantaloupe-cheese gap, we added in some red onion, fresh parsley and hulled sunflower seeds.  All three of those ingredients are extremely popular in Montenegro and around.  Our sunflower seeds were roasted with salt, which allowed us to skip salting the salad itself.  Between them, the pršut and the cheese, there was plenty of tasty sodium to go around.  The melon acted as a wonderful accompaniment to each version of saltiness, rounding them out while holding its flavorful own in the mix.

To further incorporate all the ingredients, we dressed the mix of squared melon pieces, leafed parsley, strips of pršut and cubed cheese with apple cider vinegar and a drizzle of olive oil.  We did this before adding the sunflower seeds so that they would stick instead of just falling through the cracks to the bottom of the bowl.  Since it was a little tricky to get all ingredients in/on one forkful, we were able to see just how different combinations within the recipe worked.  Melon and cheese - particularly this aged, hard, dryer cheese - do go well together, especially with the onion and parsley mixed in.  Any bite with red onion was better and any with pršut was the best.  The smokiness and marbled fat worked with every other flavor involved.  Luckily, cut super thin and ripped into short strips, it was well incorporated throughout the whole salad.

Being as we're already bridging the savory/sweet salad gap, we feel confident saying that this Njeguški fruit salad can also feature in a meal as a side dish, not just an appetizer or dessert.  It would make a heavenly garnish to a main of grilled shrimp.  We can definitely see it working wonderfully aside eggs at a brunch.  Basically, anything that goes well with prosciutto, cheese or melon goes even better with prosciutto, cheese and melon.  It is much too hot to think of melting cheese or stuffing any meat with some more meat (as is the case with Njeguški ražanj - spit roasted meat stuffed with pršut and sir).  So, finding a refreshing way to use these two fine ingredients, purchased from the village itself, was wonderful.  It's also, quite simply, a great alternative to the standard sliced prosciutto and melon on a plate.

Njeguški Fruit Salad

Ingredients:
All quantities depend on how much you want to make. As a rough guide, we'd say equal parts prosciutto and cheese, equal parts sunflower seeds, red onion, parsley. A good melon base and the oil and vinegar to taste.
- cantaloupe
- Njeguški pršut  (or any thin-sliced smoked ham like Italian prosciutto or  Spanish jambon)
- Njeguški sir (or any hard, but cube-able, dryer cheese like an aged cheddar or asiago)
- red onion, diced
- fresh curly parsley, leafed
- sunflower seeds, hulled, preferably dry-roasted & salted
- olive oil
- apple cider vinegar


Method
- Choose your melon carefully by whatever method your parents (or some tv chef) taught you.  Fragrant is good.  Cube into fairly large pieces, about the size of ice cubes.
- Cut your ham into strips.  If kitchen shears aren't available, as they weren't for us, pull apart along the lines of fat.  This works just as well and hands are a little easier to clean than kitchen shears.
- Place your cut up melon into a large mixing bowl and add in your cubed cheese, strips of pršut, diced red onion and parsley.  Always good to work biggest ingredients to smallest when making a salad.  That way, you can really gauge your proportions.
- Coat with apple cider vinegar and drizzle with olive oil.  Mix with your hands.
- Sprinkle sunflower seeds over the top and then mix again.  Add a few more seeds to the top before serving.
- Refrigerate if not serving immediately.

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