It's time to finally share this joy. In Argentina, fresh fennel is sold as its white bulb with a couple of inches of stalk (treat it like a far superior celery) and a small smattering of leaves. I buy it ALL THE TIME. Here's one of the things I do with it.
Fennel and Nut-Stuffed Acorn Squash (by Sami)
Oven preheat: 375
INGREDIENTS
Half of an acorn squash, approx. 8 inches in diameter
3 TBSP olive oil or vegetable cooking oil
3 large cloves garlic
The stalks of one fennel plant, chopped (if this is less than a cup, chop up the bulb, too)
½ cup chopped onion
2 tsp cinnamon
Salt
Pepper (optional)
½ cup of shelled cashews or almonds
METHOD TO THE MADNESS
Wash all veggies…except the garlic. That would be gross. Especially if you do it while they’re still in the skins. Well, I don't wash 'em. Anyway…
Clean the seeds and membrane out of the center of the acorn squash, reserving the seeds (see Seed Snack below). Compost the membrane. Cut a flat surface on the bottom of the acorn squash so that when it sits like a bowl it doesn’t roll around (guess how long it took me to figure this out…just guess).
Fill a baking dish (wide enough to fit the diameter of the acorn squash) with a half inch of water. Place the acorn squash open-end down into the water. Cook in the oven for 30min.
While it’s cooking, chop the vegetables. Heat a pan over medium-low heat with the oil. Add garlic and cook until lightly gold, about a minute.
Add the chopped fennel stalks, onion, cinnamon, salt and pepper (to taste) to the pan. Cook and stir until the edges of the onion just begin to clarify. You want to just introduce the flavors to one another, no more. Take the pan off the heat and let it cool completely. Add the cashews and stir well.
It should be just about time to take the squash out. Lift it out of the pan so you can drain the pan (I do this by stabbing two forks into opposite sides). Add a little oil to the bottom of the pan to keep the acorn squash bowl from sticking. Set the acorn squash bowl into the pan, opening up. Scrape the insides off until the edges are fairly uniformly ¼ inch thick. Thoroughly mix the scrapings in with your vegetable and nut mix. No need to be exact on your scraping, it’s delicious even of some parts are a bit thicker. Try not to puncture the bowl, though, so that it will hold together.
Spoon the vegetable-nut-scrapings mixture into the bowl of the acorn squash. Put the whole thing back into the oven and reduce heat to 350. Cook for another half an hour. Check for doneness. If you like your veggies medium soft, take it out now. If you like them REALLY soft, leave it in for another ten minutes. Alternately, you can top your bowl with shredded parmesan or Romano cheese for the last ten minutes of cooking time.
Let the food rest outside the oven for a couple of minutes so it will cool a bit, and so that the flavors can keep deepening. Bring into the eating area with great fanfare, because this dish looks pretty sophisticated and cool for being so simple.
Serves two people who greedily hoard all leftovers, or 3-4 people who learned how to share. It’s filling and fairly complete by itself, but you should probably set out seasonal fruit if you’ve got a crowd.
Because it’s a fall dish, serve a mild red dinner wine with it (unless it’s an unseasonably hot night. Then try some Riesling. The fresh fruity flavor goes with…well….anything). Here in Argentina, we drink Mendoza-region Malbec with everything. It happens to go especially well with this dish. Or so I say after the glass and a half that got me through the cooking.
If you’re more of a beer crowd, serve with a red lager or a mildly sweet brown. It will complement the sweetness of the acorn squash and tie in nicely with the cinnamon and the hint of licorice flavor of the fennel.
Oh yeah! The Seed Snacks! (Lots of wine while I cooked, even more wine now that I'm waiting for it to finish...I kinda forgot)
Get all that slippery membrane off the seeds. A wire mesh strainer comes in handy for this. Drain, then drain some more on a towel. Spread them on a baking sheet, toss on a bit of cooking oil and salt. Use your fingers to mix them around, being sure to get your fingers nice and oily. Because it’s fun to get your fingers all oily. Lick your fingers after you're done. Or not.
Anyway, toss this in the oven while your acorn squash is cooking. Pull ‘em out when they’re light golden-brown. It’s hard to say how long, because here in Argentina ovens with temperatures labeled on the knob just don’t exist (nobody nay-say me on this, dammit! I would cry…). Just check on ‘em after 5 minutes, then again after 10 minutes. When they’re just cool enough not to peel the skin from your tongue, serve them to your guests. Or just eat them yourself. I mean, you cooked, you get the delicious treats of your labor.
Too much wine to keep writing. I think I got everything. Enjoy!
Oh! Wait! Keep the fennel bulbs (if you didn't end up chopping 'em up) for a roasted fennel dish and the leaves for a bastard child of cucumber yogurt soup (because there's no dill to be had in all of Argentina. *cries*)
Showing posts with label Argentina. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Argentina. Show all posts
Monday, June 7, 2010
Thursday, October 1, 2009
New Apartment Acoustics
We live in the apartment complex of random music fanatics.
The music of this country isn't Tejano, it's Tango. Where the accordians in tejano make your foot tap and your head bob, the accordian of the Tango isn't satisfied until you understand in no uncertain terms that you're being seduced. It will pull French, then wax lazily to Italian before spinning the tangoistas (who inevitably spring up a block away from the moment you first heard the music in the air) into a simmering Latin dip. So hearing tejano music spilling into the courtyard of our complex from an open window two floors above was something of a surprise. It was really the first time I'd heard any since I left the tejano saturated airwaves of Texas.
We also have a neighbor down the hall who seemingly hosts karaoke every night. Every. Single. Night. Sometimes during the day, too. Now, we can't bring ourselves to be annoyed, because it's just too damned hilarious. Loud and hi-la-ri-ous. He is, apparently, a fan of all things 80's and 90's American pop music. Many a night was a Thriller night. I think I love this city most for its unfailing tolerance. No one is complaining and no arguments have broken out (and we know...we would hear them whether we wanted to or not). It's our own nightly entertainment, and we needn't leave our apartment.
Before I continue, let me just explain that the acoustics of this place are such that EVERYTHING echoes. We may as well be in an ancient stone monastary for all the reverberations: footsteps, water, voices...nevermind the overpowering peal of thunder. It's a musical performer's wet dream.
And so, on to the best part: an opera singer lives one floor above us. The first time I heard that clear, crisp voice spiraling up her stairway of octaves only to plummet expertly to a pillowy contralto roll, I was, understandably, entranced. Classical music and I go way back. It was almost a holy quest, trying to figure out what I was hearing...surely this was no recording! I was in my apartment when the sound hit me, and tears began to sting the back of my eyes. I ventured into the hall to find the door that might be hiding that lovely sound. I may as well have been on a game show, trying desparately to guess which door hid the corvette. The acoustics sent the sound off every wall, every door. Down the hall to the stairwell I tip-toed, but the trilling stopped. I had to stand there, hoping she'd start up again. Not knowing which of my neighbors was this songbird seemed a secret too tantalizing to go undiscovered. Suddenly the sound washed over me again, and I went careening down the stairs. Her voice was getting louder, but less distinct. Wow. The high ceiling and marble floors actually intensified the volume as the sound moved farther from its source. I raced up the stairs as quietly as I could, willing my footfalls not to echo and disrupt the dulcet tones.
Finally, one floor above my apartment, right next to the stairwell, a door was almost vibrating with the sound. But it was far more clear, and so very, very precise. You could shave the hair from a man's face with the exact edge of her notes. I've heard MANY live musical performances (thank you, Austin, Texas!), and even gave a few myself. I know that what I stood hearing, as I leaned against the rail of the stairs, was a professional of a lovely caliper. She never pressed the music, she never overbore her vocal chords. She stopped and started as though thumbing her way through an aria that she knew, but needed only refresh herself on. If only I could force my words to convey the simple purity of her voice with the complex weave of notes and technique, I know you'd almost hear it yourself.
I had to go back downstairs, for fear of a neighbor questioning my statuesque pose on the stairs, and that my own halting, unsure explanation in a language I've not yet mastered would make the singer stop.
To my utter ecstacy, she practices every day.
The music of this country isn't Tejano, it's Tango. Where the accordians in tejano make your foot tap and your head bob, the accordian of the Tango isn't satisfied until you understand in no uncertain terms that you're being seduced. It will pull French, then wax lazily to Italian before spinning the tangoistas (who inevitably spring up a block away from the moment you first heard the music in the air) into a simmering Latin dip. So hearing tejano music spilling into the courtyard of our complex from an open window two floors above was something of a surprise. It was really the first time I'd heard any since I left the tejano saturated airwaves of Texas.
We also have a neighbor down the hall who seemingly hosts karaoke every night. Every. Single. Night. Sometimes during the day, too. Now, we can't bring ourselves to be annoyed, because it's just too damned hilarious. Loud and hi-la-ri-ous. He is, apparently, a fan of all things 80's and 90's American pop music. Many a night was a Thriller night. I think I love this city most for its unfailing tolerance. No one is complaining and no arguments have broken out (and we know...we would hear them whether we wanted to or not). It's our own nightly entertainment, and we needn't leave our apartment.
Before I continue, let me just explain that the acoustics of this place are such that EVERYTHING echoes. We may as well be in an ancient stone monastary for all the reverberations: footsteps, water, voices...nevermind the overpowering peal of thunder. It's a musical performer's wet dream.
And so, on to the best part: an opera singer lives one floor above us. The first time I heard that clear, crisp voice spiraling up her stairway of octaves only to plummet expertly to a pillowy contralto roll, I was, understandably, entranced. Classical music and I go way back. It was almost a holy quest, trying to figure out what I was hearing...surely this was no recording! I was in my apartment when the sound hit me, and tears began to sting the back of my eyes. I ventured into the hall to find the door that might be hiding that lovely sound. I may as well have been on a game show, trying desparately to guess which door hid the corvette. The acoustics sent the sound off every wall, every door. Down the hall to the stairwell I tip-toed, but the trilling stopped. I had to stand there, hoping she'd start up again. Not knowing which of my neighbors was this songbird seemed a secret too tantalizing to go undiscovered. Suddenly the sound washed over me again, and I went careening down the stairs. Her voice was getting louder, but less distinct. Wow. The high ceiling and marble floors actually intensified the volume as the sound moved farther from its source. I raced up the stairs as quietly as I could, willing my footfalls not to echo and disrupt the dulcet tones.
Finally, one floor above my apartment, right next to the stairwell, a door was almost vibrating with the sound. But it was far more clear, and so very, very precise. You could shave the hair from a man's face with the exact edge of her notes. I've heard MANY live musical performances (thank you, Austin, Texas!), and even gave a few myself. I know that what I stood hearing, as I leaned against the rail of the stairs, was a professional of a lovely caliper. She never pressed the music, she never overbore her vocal chords. She stopped and started as though thumbing her way through an aria that she knew, but needed only refresh herself on. If only I could force my words to convey the simple purity of her voice with the complex weave of notes and technique, I know you'd almost hear it yourself.
I had to go back downstairs, for fear of a neighbor questioning my statuesque pose on the stairs, and that my own halting, unsure explanation in a language I've not yet mastered would make the singer stop.
To my utter ecstacy, she practices every day.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The Snazzy World of Guide Books
Guidebooks are magical. I didn't even consider getting one when I studied in France...there were so many guides and historical references offered by the university, I probably wouldn't have had time to plop a guidebook on top of the stack. But now, I've sat in bookstores, perusing different guides, comparing, and feeling out which ones would work best for me during my move to Argentina. Here's what I've found:
Guidebooks are written to a niche. It didn't originally occur to me, but now it seems obvious. Frommers, for example, is written for vacation travelers looking for upper-echelon restaurants, accomodations, and entertainment. There are a LOT of ads inside, and it seems geared to consumer America.
Lonely Planet is geared towards middle- to upper-middle-class Americans that want a broader experience. Sure, there are still some pricey places on the list, but the articles are more down-to-earth, and "budget" is certainly not a bad word. Plus, it offers much more by way of city maps and bus maps than the other guide books I looked at. I was sorely tempted to get this one.
But the one that really caught my heart was Let's Go! It had a similar range of entertainment, shopping and lodging listings as Lonely Planet, but it was geared far more for the adventurous and Earth-conscious at heart. It was, for example, the only one to offer charitable volunteer options, locations to work in a supportive manner abroad and other ecotourism advice. It seemed, all-in-all, to encompass the kind of passion for travel that I feel.
As a side note, a friend of ours stumbled across an older (2008) version of a travel book called Time Out, which he gave to us for our trip. It seemed geared more for British travellers, but it had an inordinate amount of lovely color photos - a rarity among travel books. It was also full of fantastic sidebars and a surprisingly in-depth look at the volatile past of Buenos Aires.
Guidebooks are written to a niche. It didn't originally occur to me, but now it seems obvious. Frommers, for example, is written for vacation travelers looking for upper-echelon restaurants, accomodations, and entertainment. There are a LOT of ads inside, and it seems geared to consumer America.
Lonely Planet is geared towards middle- to upper-middle-class Americans that want a broader experience. Sure, there are still some pricey places on the list, but the articles are more down-to-earth, and "budget" is certainly not a bad word. Plus, it offers much more by way of city maps and bus maps than the other guide books I looked at. I was sorely tempted to get this one.
But the one that really caught my heart was Let's Go! It had a similar range of entertainment, shopping and lodging listings as Lonely Planet, but it was geared far more for the adventurous and Earth-conscious at heart. It was, for example, the only one to offer charitable volunteer options, locations to work in a supportive manner abroad and other ecotourism advice. It seemed, all-in-all, to encompass the kind of passion for travel that I feel.
As a side note, a friend of ours stumbled across an older (2008) version of a travel book called Time Out, which he gave to us for our trip. It seemed geared more for British travellers, but it had an inordinate amount of lovely color photos - a rarity among travel books. It was also full of fantastic sidebars and a surprisingly in-depth look at the volatile past of Buenos Aires.
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