HAKUNA FRITTATA

I eat eggs all the time. Sometimes I eat them twice a day. Love, love, love eggs, especially because they always come to the rescue when I’m looking for a delicious and nutritious dinner that won’t take hours to make. The Mister and I had been unpacking and organizing the new place and though I had intended making coq au Riesling, it just wasn’t meant to be. So, I searched my fridge and pantry and thought, “Of course! Frittata!” I had Italian sausage, spinach, potatoes, onions, and garlic, but really, you can toss in whatever you like – although this combination was stellar…and reminded me a little bit of pizza.

Here’s what you do:

Remove the casing from the sausage and cut into chunks.


Cook until brown in an oven-safe non-stick pan – make sure it is completely cooked through, no pink spots, please.
Put sausage aside in a bowl.


In the same pan, cook some sliced onion in a bit of olive oil over medium heat. While that’s going on, thinly slice a potato and toss it in the pan along with the onions. Season generously with salt + pepper. Cover the pan and allow the steam to cook the potatoes.


Meanwhile, in a separate pan, sauté fresh spinach (I used about half of a 10 oz. bag) in a little olive oil and season. I like to add about ½ tsp. of minced garlic, as well. Place spinach in bowl with sausage, and, with kitchen shears, trim it to avoid having frittata with long straggly greens (this is my mom’s trick).



Crack 6 eggs into a large mixing bowl, season with salt and pepper and whisk.
Preheat your broiler.


By this time the potatoes will be ready. Decrease the heat to low, add the reserved spinach and sausage, and, while whisking, pour the eggs into the pan.


Make sure the eggs evenly cover your mixture, but don’t stir – just allow the eggs to sit and set over low heat.


When only the top remains runny, place pan in oven… and if you have an oven light, turn it on and watch as the top puffs and browns in glorious little hills. Once golden, pull out, plate, and eat!

THINGS THAT MAKE YOU GO HMMMM...

I saw this on display at a bakery in Brooklyn. Seriously, it's for real.

TEMPS PERDU

Not too long ago I wrote about a certain food being like Proust’s madeleine, opening up the trapdoors of childhood memories – I can’t quite recall, but it must have been toast with guayaba jelly. Regardless, I am writing this to set the record straight. Whatever that food was was an impostor, taking the madeleine name in vain. For what actually takes me back are polvorones.

Polvorones were cookies of the prepackaged supermarket aisle variety, made by a company called Marinela; the Little Debbie of Mexico, if you will. Marinela also produced pingüinitos (little penguins – clever!!!) – aka cream-filled chocolate cupcakes - you know, the ones with the little doodle of white frosting on top? Polvorones, though, were my favorite. They were rich and crumbly like shortbread, but with a softer mouth feel, and they were dusted with powdered sugar which I greedily licked off my fingertips. Alright, alright, I admit it – I was a junk food junkie when I was a kid. One of these days I’ll write exclusively about all the empty calories I consumed in the ‘80s.

It would be many moons until I would once again have a polvorón. I was at Citarella in New York one day when I came upon a box of Russian tea cookies. Turned out I’d hit the jackpot: these cookies were exactly like Marinela’s. And then as you’d expect I wanted to make them. I simply couldn’t rely on Citarella – God forbid one day they should decide to stop making them. Or I should move to Boston and not have a Citarella.

But it would be even more time till I discovered that polvorones in the U.S. go by the name of Mexican wedding cookies, and that they aren’t a super-secret recipe, as I suspected. Bon Appétit published a recipe in 2003, and I made them today. You should, too:

Mexican Wedding Cakes
Bon Appétit | May 2003

Polvorones
These "cakes" are really festive cookies.
Makes about 4 dozen.

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, room temperature
2 cups powdered sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups all purpose flour
1 cup pecans, toasted, coarsely ground
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Using electric mixer, beat butter in large bowl until light and fluffy. Add 1/2 cup powdered sugar and vanilla; beat until well blended. Beat in flour, then pecans. Divide dough in half; form each half into ball. Wrap separately in plastic; chill until cold, about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350°F. Whisk remaining 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar and cinnamon in pie dish to blend. Set cinnamon sugar aside.

Working with half of chilled dough, roll dough by 2 teaspoonfuls between palms into balls. Arrange balls on heavy large baking sheet, spacing 1/2 inch apart. Bake cookies until golden brown on bottom and just pale golden on top, about 18 minutes. Cool cookies 5 minutes on baking sheet. Gently toss warm cookies in cinnamon sugar to coat completely. Transfer coated cookies to rack and cool completely. Repeat procedure with remaining half of dough. (Cookies can be prepared 2 days ahead. Store airtight at room temperature; reserve remaining cinnamon sugar.)

Sift remaining cinnamon sugar over cookies and serve.

BEER, IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER

A couple of years ago I experienced some dizzy spells. It felt like I was looking down over the edge of a tall building even though my butt firmly seated on a chair and the soles of my feet stuck to the floor. It was vertigo. Yes, like the Hitchcock movie, minus Jimmy Stewart. Anyway, I zigzagged to the doctor and got a prescription that knocked me out cold, and then a few days later I was fine.

My good friend C. loved to tease me about this wacky malady, but I didn’t mind because it was all in the past. Or so I thought. For three weeks now I have been walking on unsteady ground. It’s like I’ve just gotten off a roller coaster. Or woken up after downing a bottle of champagne, my cerebellum floating in day-old fizz. Only this is far worse because I didn’t get the cheap adrenaline rush from the ride or had a good time boozing last night.

I finally went to see a doctor yesterday, but was more upset going out than coming in. I think one spends more time with the cashier at a fast-food drive-thru than with one’s PCP. Still dizzy, and now in a tizzy, I returned home and decided making dinner would make me feel better. Besides, I needed to see if I could cook in the Elf Kitchen.

To keep the dizzy theme going I set about making beer stew. It was rather delicious; I think Rizzo was on to something when she said that a little sneaky peek gets the party going:











BEER STEW FOR TWO
*At The Mister's insistence, I must tell you that this will yield plenty of leftovers. I'd say it was enough for four, but I like to be selfish and reheat the remaining portions because it tastes so much better the next day.

2 lbs. boneless beef chuck, cut into 2-in (bite-size) pieces
3 TBSP. all-purpose flour
Vegetable oil
Butter
Salt & pepper
Granulated sugar
1/3 C. pancetta, cut into 1/3”-thick pieces
Half a medium-sized onion, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
4 whole canned tomatoes, crushed
Fresh thyme
Bay leaf
2 bottles of ale (I used 11.2 oz. bottles of Leffe)

Vegetables*
*Note: I like to eyeball the amount of vegetables going into the stew, because I, for instance, love pearl onions and add quite a few, but if you prefer, say, carrots, you may want to add more.
Pearl onions (preferably fresh, but frozen will do)
Baby carrots
New potatoes
Peas (frozen)

1. Generously season beef chunks with salt and pepper.

2. Add about 2 tsps. vegetable oil to a very hot, smoking stew pot and add half the beef. You want the beef to get nice and brown on the outside. Don’t overcrowd the pan because the meat will steam rather than sear. Transfer the beef to a plate and sear the remaining amount. Set aside.

3. Lower the heat to med-lo and, if the pan is dry, add a bit more oil. Add the pancetta and allow it to render some of its fat. Next, add the minced onion and cook, stirring 3-5 minutes until translucent. Add the minced garlic and cook for an additional minute. Remember, the pan shouldn’t be too hot because the finely minced garlic will burn and impart a bitter taste.

4. Add the crushed tomatoes and cook just until some of the liquid has evaporated, about one minute. Increase the heat to high and pour in the beer. Bring to a boil and return the seared meat to the pot. Reduce to a simmer, add the thyme and bay leaf, cover and allow to cook 1 ½ - 2 hours. Do not boil or risk toughening the meat.

5. In the meantime, prepare your vegetables. Sauté the pearl onions in a bit of butter and season with salt and pepper. Add 1 – 2 tsps. of granulated sugar to aid in caramelization. Once the onions are nicely golden, set aside.

6. Repeat steps with baby carrots and set aside.

7. Cut potatoes into large dice and reserve in cold water.

8. Add the onions, carrots, and potatoes to the stew when it’s about 20 minutes away from being done. Add the peas at the very end right, as they will cook very quickly. Adjust seasoning and remember to take out your bay leaf before serving!

FRUSTRATED IN FLORIDA

A mere 24 hours after alighting in Boston I flew down to Florida to visit my mom and little brother. Adventurous bird that I am, I took the subway – err, “T,” as they call it here – to the airport. Paranoid about being late, I left super-early, only to arrive at my gate a mere hour after I left home. I was thus, super-duper early for my flight. And then, of course, it was delayed. Twice.

Finally, my plane landed just around midnight. It seems that down there in the Land of Disney not only Cinderella’s coach turns into a pumpkin at 12 o’clock, but the Turnpike, too. Finding the highway closed, we took the scenic route home. We drove past several pawnshops, the usual fast food joints, “gentlemen’s” clubs, more pawnshops, and then…a Nicaraguan fritanga and food shop. Was this a mirage? Had those eight hours at the airport addled my brain? No, my mother’s husband assured me, it was really there. In fact, we could go there when it was actually open.

That night I went to bed dreaming of what I would order: tajadas (fried plantains) and maduros (fried ripe plantains), fried cheese, chorizo, carne asada, cerdo adobado (seasoned and sautéed pork cubes) and ensaladita (a slaw of sorts, made with shredded cabbage and diced tomatoes moistened with vinegar)... These things are all easily made at home, but it was the novelty, the thrill of finding this quaint little spot in the hyper-commercialized strip that is the not-so-aptly-named Orange Blossom Trail was what was really fueling my appetite.

The field trip was pushed back to Sunday morning, because yours truly was forced to attend a few sessions with The Porcelain God. All notions I had of eating fried things were completely erased, but a ravaged stomach had not weakened my resolve to visit the fritanga.

It must be noted that the Fritanga Santa Bárbara is in the same lot as the Topp Clazz gas station, and that such a grand title (and spelling!) sent me into a rapture because it was just what you’d find on the side of the road in Nicaragua. Spirit soaring like a helium balloon, I skipped into Santa Bárbara only to be met with…blaring Mexican music. And ogling from the patrons.




The air slowly and steadily started leaving the balloon version of me. I tried to be casual about the staring men, but I could feel their heavy stares. I wanted to identify myself as a fellow Nicaraguan and almost yelped out “Soy nica!”, but decided they wouldn’t care because they were about as Nica as the Salvadoran cookies and Cuban sugarcane juice they had for sale there. It was a sham! Though I really wanted to take pictures because there were some interesting products from Central American countries that also exist in Nicaragua, like jarred jocotes (the label called these plums, but I think they’re more akin to olives) and nancites (yellow cherries? I think not! These little yellow fruits are stinky, like dirty belly buttons!) but I decided against pulling out the camera because I was worried there would be trouble.

Now, to be fair, I Googled Fritanga Santa Bárbara and found one or two reviews; it seems that the regulars find the atmosphere welcoming and the food appetizing. Unfortunately, I was met with a less than warm welcome and the food I spied behind a glass case was not what I’m used to. There were canned mixed vegetables in some dreadful red sauce! So my apologies to the proprietors of Santa Bárbara, but, this is my blog and I am going to tell it like it is.

HHF

P.S.
There is a great fritanga in Miami (three locations!), Fritanga Monimbó (www.fritanga.com), that I eat at every time I’m in town that is wonderful. The people are friendly, the food is delicious, and they sell my favorite soda, Milca -- so bright red and sugary that I'm positive Willy Wonka invented it.

TWO SIZES TOO SMALL

The new apartment is crammed with boxes, from floor to ceiling and from side to side. Many would look around and not know where to begin, but not I. I know that Kitchen is Queen and must be tended to first. Sure, I knew this place was going to be a tighter fit than my previous abode, but I was not prepared for drawers so narrow, so very, very narrow that my little separator thingy where I keep the silverware did not fit! Neither did the other separator thingy where all my miscellaneous utensils are stored.

I kicked the air in front of me and sulked.

But I plowed on and kept pulling newsprint out of boxes and focused intently on breathing slowly and smoothly. And then, another speed bump: not enough cabinet space for pots and pans. What was this, a Fisher Price kitchen for an 8-year-old? Was the person who designed this place imagining a home for elves? Am I Alice and did I unwittingly eat something that turned me into a giant?

Another air kick. More sulking.

And I’m not done yet. The drawers in the refrigerator are itsy-bitsy, too. Two medium-sized crowns of broccoli are apparently too much for them to digest. AND! The stovetop is one of those tricked out ones, all smooth surface and bright red lights. The stupid thing even needs a special cleaning fluid. Sissy!

I’m visiting my mother in Florida this week, but upon my return I shall enter the so-called kitchen and attempt to cook. Expect more air kicks and plenty of sulking.

With knickers tightly knotted,

HHF

See how it doesn't fit?!

HOT POCKETS

On March 31st, after much aggravation and cursing like sailors (The Mister wasn’t cursing – just me), we loaded up a rented minivan with our most personal of personal belongings and hit the road, never to return (sniffle, sniffle). We were starving and slightly giddy, but it was a good thing because we had carefully built into our journey a detour to North Bergen, NJ, home of Los Andes Bakery. Almost a year ago at a Chilean girlfriend’s birthday BBQ, I devoured some of the most perfectly seasoned beef empanadas I had ever tasted; black olives, sautéed onions, plump raisins, chunks of hard-boiled eggs, juicy meat...

Los Andes Bakery

While in line at Los Andes hunger took full possession of my senses and I ordered a sandwich, four beef empanadas, and two cheese ones. And then I got back in line and ordered a pastry, which I forgot about on the first round. The sandwich was steak layered with avocado, lettuce, tomato, and a thick schmear of mayonnaise. You may think this combination odd or repulsive even, but in my world, all sandwiches should have avocado and mayo (except PB&J – there are limits to my mayo-avocado crush).


My appetite was satiated, however I couldn’t resist taking a peek at my empanadas, all tightly nestled into a white cardboard box, carefully Scotch taped at the seams, just like a birthday present. I took a bite, and I have to admit, although painfully, that I was the tiniest bit disappointed. Perhaps they were too cold. Perhaps the crust wasn’t as delicate as I remembered. Perhaps I had built them up too much in the months since I’d first had them…Perhaps my friend had a secret Chilean password that got her especially prepared empanadas for her party. Anyway, the next day there was not a crumb to eat in the new apartment, except for the leftover pastries. They were warmed up in the oven and actually resurrected quite nicely.

Empanadas

I feel inspired after this experience to seek out empanadas in Boston and also to prepare the Nicaraguan version (as soon as I finish unpacking): pastelitos – olive and raisin studded as well, but pork-based, deep-fried, and sugar-coated. Doesn’t that sound scrumptious?

P.S.
No, I do not know where the beef in my empanada came from, I regret to say, and even though they were tasty, I have been worrying about it. I feel worse about it than when I forgot it was Lent and ate meat on Fridays. But please understand that moving is a deeply traumatic occurrence in a person’s life and she cannot be blamed from veering off the straight and narrow path.