Recipes

Granola with black sapote puree

November 19, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

The black sapote is a popular tropical fruit in Mexico, and it’s a funny-looking thing when it’s completely ripe. The hard green skin turns soft, dimply, and sunken-in in parts. It looks like a shrunken head, kind of.

After cutting it open, the flesh resembles dark-chocolate brownie batter. It’s glossy and wet and easy to scoop out with a spoon.

I bought a sapote (pronounced “sah-POE-tay” in Spanish; locally they’re known as zapote negro) for the first time last week at the tianguis, figuring I’d think of something fun to do with it. It supposedly makes a great tart filling, jazzed up with a little lime juice. But I nixed that idea, since we were leaving for Tulum in a few days.

Then I remembered a granola recipe I’d seen on David Lebovitz’s site not too long ago. The recipe called for mixing the oats with an apple or pear puree. Why not substitute sapote? I’d tasted some at Alice’s house, and it had a mild, lightly sweet flavor. And we could eat our granola on the beach.

So I put my little dimply sapote on a plate, and took a picture of it, because it was so round and cute.

And then I cut it open and scooped out the flesh. Didn’t I tell you it looks like brownie batter? Or pudding? Its other name is the “chocolate pudding fruit.” The sapote is in the persimmon family, by the way.

I pureed the flesh with a spoon — with entailed about five seconds of stirring on my part — and then mixed that with a bit of oil and agave honey. (Agave honey isn’t as sweet regular honey, and I wanted to err on the side of caution.) Added pumpkin seeds, sliced almonds, oats, cinnamon and a few other spices. Also discovered a forgotten bag of sucanat in the back of my pantry, so I used that instead of regular sugar, since I was being experimental and all. (Sucanat is a pebbly, unrefined cane sugar, with more of a molasses-y taste than regular brown sugar.)

Spread it all onto a baking sheet and just about died while it cooked. The house filled with this warm, spicy-sweet smell of toasted oats and cinnamon. Desperately wanted to Twitter: “I cannot wait to try my black sapote puree granola!” but then I thought that’d be lame, so I kept my giddiness to myself. (Actually, I think I emailed Alice, because she was the one who told me she loved black sapote in the first place.)

After it cooled, it tasted just as fabulous as I’d hoped: slightly sweet, nutty, crunchy. The spices and the sapote mixed together beautifully — nothing overpowered anything else, while at the same time, it all seemed like it was somehow meant to go together. Crayton tried a handful after I made him and then went back for seconds, and thirds.

I’d like to say I’m open-minded and that I’d try this granola with another type of fruit puree, but right now I’m so in love that I can’t. What if another fruit transforms my granola into a sickly sweet mess? Right now, it’s black sapote for me or bust.

Granola with pumpkin seeds, almonds and black zapote puree
Adapted from David Lebovitz’s Top Granola post
Makes about 5 cups

Ingredients

1 medium black zapote, equal to 1/4 c. plus 2 tablespoons black zapote puree
2 1/2 c. oats
1/2 c. pepitas, unsalted
1/4 c. sucanat, or sweetener of your choice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/4 c. honey
1 tablespoon vegetable oil

Preheat the oven to 175C or 300F. Cut open your zapote, scoop out the flesh into a bowl, and puree lightly with a spoon. (It should have a lumpy-pudding like consistency.) Set aside. In another bowl, whisk together oats, pepitas, sucanat, cinnamon, ground ginger and sea salt, until well combined.

In a small saucepan, gently warm the puree, honey and oil together. Add the warm puree sauce to the oat mixture, and mix well. Spread on an ungreased baking sheet and cook for 50 minutes or until deep golden brown, stirring every 10 minutes to ensure even browning. Cool on a rack. When it’s completely cooled, store in an airtight container. Resist the urge to stuff handfuls in your mouth.

Nicuatole, a creamy corn masa pudding

November 9, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Nicuatole stole my heart when I first tried it at a Mexico City restaurant a few months ago.

The waiter had described it as a corn-based dessert, and it arrived as two off-white, triangular wedges sitting in a puddle of vanilla sauce. As soon as I tasted, my mind turned to ooze. The nicuatole (pronounced “nee-kwah-TOLE-ay”) was milky. Earthy. Grainy. Sweet. The corn had this sharp, almost granite-like flavor that reminded me of a homemade corn tortilla. And god, for two wedges, this stuff had maximum comfort power. It was the equivalent of eating cubes of bread soaked in warm milk. Or Cream of Wheat on a cold day.

Came home that day and googled furiously, trying to learn more about it. (Or, in a perfect world, find a recipe.) I had no luck for about a month, until my friend Jesica casually mentioned that she may have seen a recipe in a cooking magazine she’d bought at the grocery store. Trying not to squawk, “WHAA?” I asked her kindly if I could borrow the magazine. She said yes.

It turns out Ricardo Muñoz Zurita himself had written the recipe. He’s the chef at Azul y Oro, where I first tried the nicuatole. I ended up following his instructions exactly — to mix milk, sugar and corn flour until it’s “uniform and thick” — but I failed at my first attempt. I didn’t cook it long enough; it came out soupy.

Ever determined to conquer, and finally having the time now that I’ve returned from my five million trips, I tried again yesterday, using some leftover half-and-half I’d picked up at an organic grocery store. I told Crayton to watch the clock while I mixed my milk and sugar and Maseca flour and stirred, and stirred, and stirred.

“How many minutes has it been?” That was me, standing at the stove with my wooden spoon.

“Nine.”

Then, later: “How many minutes has it been?”

“Fourteen.”

I cooked the thing for 21 minutes, until it had the texture of a thick pancake batter. It cooled to room temperature, and the result was a dense, sweet pudding that was plain, but pretty bewitching in its simplicity. A tart fruit sauce — strawberries or raspberries — might jazz things up even more, which I may try to do next time. Also, even though I used half-and-half, I think it added a little too much density. I’d use whole milk next time.

The recipe’s below, if you want to try it yourself. It’s the simplest, most comforting treat you can whip up for a sweet treat at home.

Nicuatole
Adapted from Ricardo Muñoz Zurita’s recipe in Sabor a Mexico
Serves 4 1/2 cup servings

Ingredients

500ml whole milk (about two cups)
50g Maseca corn flour (this is widely available in Latino supermarkets, if you don’t live in Mexico)
75g organic sugar

In a saucepan over low heat, whisk together milk, corn flour and sugar. Continue stirring almost constantly for the next 20 minutes, using a wooden spoon if you’ve got one. [Note: This time reflects our high altitude; if you’re in a normal altitude, I’d guess it might take about 10 minutes.] Occasionally scrape the bottom of the pan or remove it from the heat to ensure that the mixture doesn’t stick or burn. It will slowly thicken from a soup-like consistency to a thick, cream-of-wheat-like consistency; and then, finally, to a mixture resembling thick pancake batter. Scoop some onto your spoon and let it fall back into the pan — if it plops into the pan in thick dollops, it’s done.

Remove from heat to molds, or small ramekins. Let cool to room temperature and serve.

Banh mi tacos

October 28, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

A few days ago, while wondering what the heck we were going to eat for dinner, I had a moment of inspiration and made a quick version of a banh mi sandwich. I took a chunk leftover baguette, smeared it lime juice-spiked mayonnaise, and layered on cilantro, pickled carrots and jicama, and chunks of roasted chicken. (The latter leftover from the great huazontle disaster.) I placed it on a plate and served it with leftover quinoa, drizzled in a miso-honey glaze.

Crayton looked at it. “What’s this?”

“Banh mi!” I said, supremely proud of myself.

Of course the real banh mi is made with liver pate. Or, as Andrea Nguyen describes in her cookbook Into the Vietnamese Kitchen (a must-have, if you’re into Vietnamese food), it’s made with nearly any “boldly flavored” meat, such as five-spice pork or garlic-roasted chicken.

My chicken was plain, but the thing still tasted great. The mayo mingled with the French bread, which mingled with the cilantro and pickled carrots, creating this sweet-savory mess that you just wanted to bury your face in. I wanted to make them again the next day, but we were out of bread. So I got out my package of tortillas from the fridge.

I half-burned one on the gas flame, and then added the chicken, two heaping spoonfuls of pickled carrot and jicama, a handful of cilantro, and a dab of sriracha. The result was just about as good as the sandwich — except with less bread, I had direct contact with the hot sauce, which made my tongue swell up. I love it when that happens.

Really, the secret here is the pickled veggies, which add just the right note of tangy-sweetness. Alice gave me this bunch, but I can’t wait to make them on my own. They’re my new fridge staple.

Banh Mi Tacos
Serves 4

4 corn tortillas
1/2 cup pickled carrots and jicama (the NYT has a great recipe here; just swap out the daikon for jicama)
Two to three pieces leftover roasted chicken, or boldly flavored meat of your choice, cut into chunks
1 handful cilantro
Sriracha sauce

Heat up your corn tortillas on a comal or gas flame. (Or, if you don’t have either of those, wrap them in paper towels or a dish towel, and stick them in the microwave.) Zap your chicken in the microwave for 10 seconds, just to warm it slightly, and add it to your tortillas. Top with at least two tablespoons of pickled carrots and jicama, and add cilantro and a dollop of sriracha. (Note on the latter: A little goes a long way.)

For the miso-honey quinoa: For 1 cup of cooked quinoa, cooked according to the package directions — In a small bowl, mix 1 tablespoon of brown miso paste in a bowl with about 2 tablespoons of walnut oil. Add honey (I used agave because it was all I had on hand), and soy or worcestershire sauce to taste. I also added a splash of Chinese cooking wine for depth. Drizzle this mixture over your quinoa, and stir to blend.

How to cook a tortilla

October 27, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

When I was growing up, my mom used to heat up tortillas by placing them, one at a time, on our stove’s gas flame. We usually had flour instead of corn, and she’d put one on the flame and then go away for a few seconds. When the air started to smell like charred toast, she’d come back and flip it. One side of the tortilla would be covered with black, burned splotches.

“You burned it!” I’d tell her.

She’d say: “I like them that way.”

I used to think eating burned tortillas was weird. But lately, I’ve started leaving my corn tortillas on the flame just a little bit longer. The burned parts give it this smoky, carbony taste, and it makes the tortilla a little crisper, without turning it into a tostada.

Here in Mexico, our stove has a comal between the burners. I used it once to heat up my corn tortillas, and I’m kind of ashamed to admit that I didn’t like it too much. The tortillas came out too soft. Not enough burnt parts.

How do you like your tortillas? And how do you cook them?

Garbanzo bean soup with celery greens and mushrooms

October 13, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Yesterday, feeling crappy and not fit for mingling among the living, I decided to raid my fridge and make soup. I was picturing Caldo A La Lesley: a rich stock of onions and carrots and chicken, dotted with garbanzo beans instead of noodles.

Opening the fridge brought me back to reality. Missy — (sometimes I call myself missy in my head, because it reminds me of my mom, who used to call me that when she was annoyed) — Missy, you have just returned from a week-long trip. You don’t have an onion. Or carrots. Or — even though the freezer does have egg whites, hamburger patties and ice cream — chicken.

I couldn’t go grocery shopping, because that required leaving the house. My head and stuffy nose couldn’t handle that.

So I thought about what I did have: garbanzo beans. And, surprisingly, celery greens. I’d frozen them a few months ago, when I bought a particularly leafy stalk and couldn’t bear to throw the tops away. I’d washed and dried them, wrapped them in plastic wrap and tin foil, and forgotten about them. But their day had finally come. And I could use the dried shitake mushrooms I bought at the Korean market months ago.

Now I had a plan.

So I put my garbanzo beans on the stove, which I’d helpfully soaked overnight, assuming I’d use them for some type of soup. Added my frozen block of celery greens and let the whole thing simmer for about 45 minutes. Then I added my mushrooms, a hefty dose of salt, and let the whole thing simmer for an hour more.

I was surprised how good it turned out. Simple, and light, and kind of sweet from the celery. Not only that, but the greens were actually the star of the dish. (I assumed they’d be overly bitter for some reason.) They were mild, with a soft celery flavor. And they were hearty enough to bite into. They weren’t as toothsome as spinach or kale — two hearty, dark greens I adore — but perhaps only one or two notches below.

And the best part is, I used my entire celery stalk! And made a soup without having any fresh produce.

The recipe’s below. Now that I’ve whet your appetite for celery greens, here are a few other ways to use them:

From Saveur: Crisp Celery Green Fritters
From Serious Eats: Braise them with garlic
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My jamaica flower honeymoon

September 8, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I think I’ve told you of my deep admiration for the jamaica flower. Called hibiscus in English, they’re dried, deep purple flowers sold in supermarkets here, and all you do is toss them into a pot of boiling water and sugar. Maybe 15 minutes later, boom, you’ve got two edibles: the slightly tangy agua de jamaica, to drink, and the plump flowers, which you can then sauté and toss in just about anything.

Seriously, in this economy, how cool is that? You’ve got two things for the price of one. And these babies are pretty cheap as it is.

On Sunday, when cuñada and cuñado were in town, I whipped up a batch of whatever’s-in-the-pantry noodles and tossed in some jamaica flowers that I’d sauteed in butter, onion, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sugar. Added some roasted asparagus. Topped that with a handful of fresh parsley, literally overflowing at the tianguis that day, and a sprinkling of shredded manchego cheese.

We all dug in, and no one really talked, except for the occasional, “Mmmmmmm.” I was amazed at how many textures could fit into one dish. The flowers were buttery and toothsome, which made the whole thing feel hearty, as if I’d added meat. The parsley added a nice, vegetal crunch, and the creamy manchego glued everything together. Overall, every ingredient felt useful and important. This stuff was good. And I had created it. Me!

Of course, at the table, I couldn’t stop babbling about what else I’d do with jamaica flowers. If I could somehow harness them into one dish, to where they were on full display…

“A jamaica flower tart!” I declared.

Just now thought of another one: jamaica flower empanadas.

My sis-in-law was equally as enchanted, which lent credence to my jamaica-flower honeymoon theory. Once you try these things, that’s it. Your life will never be the same.

Recipe below.
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Crunchy lil’ buttermilk biscuits

August 25, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I have seen the light, and it is fatty, soft and pearlescent.

It’s lard. And it’s freaking heavenly in biscuits.

Made a batch of biscuits this morning, for the first time in years. My friend Tricia is hosting a South Carolina shrimp n’ grits meal at her house later today, so I decided to whip up some biscuits to go on the side. I’m always looking for excuses to try out Southern dishes, being married to a Southern boy. And I hadn’t tried the biscuit recipe in The Gift of Southern Cooking, my favorite Southern cookbook ever. It called for lard only. No butter.

Luckily, lard is everywhere in Mexico. After doing the stairstepper for an hour at the gym this morning (ironic, no?), I stopped by our local teeny mercado, and bought 10 pesos worth. In USD that’s less than $1, and it equaled about two cups. It looked like a French cheese. Isn’t it pretty?

When I got home, I mixed together my flour and baking powder, and then squished in the lard with my fingers. I rolled out the dough and proceeded to cut out the biscuits with a drinking glass. (Biscuit cutters don’t reside in my house.) Unfortunately, I ignored the “DO NOT TWIST YOUR BISCUIT CUTTER INTO THE DOUGH!” rule, because really, I’ve always twisted my cutter, in the umm… maybe three times that I’ve made biscuits. How the heck else do you make a clean cut?

I should have headed Mr. Peacock and Ms. Lewis’ advice, though, because when the biscuits came out of the oven, they were disappointingly flat. Crunchy and hot and yummy, but flat.

The next round, I did not twist. Too bad I only had three biscuits left to make. But they emerged light and fluffy.

Who knew twisting your biscuit cutter would make such a difference?

Recipe below, if you want to try it yourself. Just please, please don’t twist your biscuit cutter into your dough, or else this biscuit will swallow you with his gigantic biscuit mouth.

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Roasted carrot tacos with zucchini, and sweet n’ spicy Korean chili sauce

August 14, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Ever since I fell in love with the spicy, sesame-studded Korean Fried Chicken chili sauce, I’ve been slapping it on everything. Hot dogs. Tostadas. Tacos. I’ve offered some to Crayton, but he just looks at me weird and continues eating his food.

The other day, I decided to roast some carrots with honey and olive oil. And because I stick everything in a tortilla, I thought: Why not carrot tacos? Out the sauce came from the refrigerator, in its little recycled peanut butter jar. I slathered it on a hot flour tortilla and added the carrots, blackened and sticky in parts, and some zucchini and shredded chicken.

One bite and — MAN. It was a flavor explosion. Something about the sweetness of the carrots mingling with the tangy sauce. It was just about perfect. At the time, I happened to be sitting with Crayton at the dinner table.

“You have to try this!” I begged him.

He politely declined, and continued eating his tacos. Living with a crazy food-obssessed person is probably not as fun as it sounds.

Recipe below. If you’re not a taco person, eat the carrots as a snack or a side dish. They’re that good.
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From the Recipe Exchange files: Korean Fried Chicken

August 10, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I’m sorry I don’t have a better picture of the Korean Fried Chicken we whipped up last week. It was so good — crispy, and sticky, and sitting under a warm Mexico City sun just begging to be eaten — that I only managed to snap one photo before digging in. And then licking my fingers. And then wondering: what the heck else can I put this sauce on? (It turns out, it also goes fabulously with grilled hot dogs.)

So yeah. Korean Fried Chicken. Crayton first told me about it last year, gushing when he got back from one of his New York City trips that he’d tried the best chicken ever. I vowed to search for it in Dallas, but promptly forgot about it, obsessing over quinoa and homemade bread and all the other things that fill my brain on a given day.

Then, a few weeks ago, I saw a Korean Fried Chicken recipe on the excellent Viet World Cooking blog. The chicken — thick chunks of thigh meat, fried until crispy, and then mopped with a sweet-and-spicy, sesame seed-studded sauce — sounded heavenly. It was my turn to host our recipe exchange anyway. I hit the Korean markets intending to buy two ingredients: red chile paste and toasted sesame seeds. I ended up buying both and a wee bit more.

So, the girls arrived last Wednesday afternoon and everyone brought something. Julie brought a warm spinach salad with goat cheese and balsamic dressing. Tricia brought a truly sinful brownie pie with Reese’s crumbles on top. Alice brought pickled cucumber and daikon. Daniela brought a fabulous green veggie dip with yogurt and cilantro, which I need to get the recipe for. And there was Rosé. And melty camembert drizzled with honey and topped with almonds. And Korean snacks that tasted strangely like cereal.

I’d already marinated the chicken for a few hours in grated onion and garlic, and so we munched and talked, and eventually created the thick, gluey batter. A few others made the chili sauce, using the paste, ketchup, sugar and lemon juice. (The lemons, a rarity in Mexico City, had been discovered that morning at Mercado San Juan.)

When it came time to fry it all up, Alice manned the pot of hot oil. Daniela oversaw batter-dunking responsibilities. The rest of us watched and ate more Camembert.

By the time the chicken was done, Alice and Daniela were sweating, and we’d set up our folding table outside, to eat on the terraza.

When we sat down — a platter of warm chicken in the center, and a big bowl of salad, and each of us with a small glass of Rosé — Alice said: “I feel like we’re on a cooking show!”

And that was really the nicest thing she could have said, because I did too. You know that part at the end of the show where everyone sits down and eats, and laughs and talks? I always feel a teensy bit jealous during that part, because it’s one of life’s pleasures to cook something in your own kitchen and then eat it surrounded by friends. Yet here we were. Each of us contributing, and each of us bringing something valuable to the world in our own way. I felt blessed to know so many smart, cool women.

Thankfully, the chicken was pretty darn amazing, too: spicy, with just a hint of sweetness. And covered in a thick, crackly crust.

Recipe below, if you’re interested.
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Bacon-wrapped jalapeños… in a tortilla

August 5, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Back when Crayton and I were still dating, when I’d just gotten the cooking bug, I proposed (not that kind of proposal) that I whip up a Sunday brunch. We could have eggs. And cajeta pound cake. And these little things I’d just read about in a newspaper article: bacon-wrapped jalapeños stuffed with cream cheese.

This was circa 2002, I believe. Or maybe 2003. All the years have started to run together lately…

In any case, my friend Michelle came over to be my cooking co-pilot, and we cut and seeded jalapeños, and took turns stirring the liquid cement-like pound cake batter. (This is when I realized the handiness of electric mixers.) Everyone loved it all — but it was the jalapeños that captured everyone’s heart. They were smoky, and creamy, and just a wee bit spicy. You could eat four before you even know what you were doing. It was a jalapeño hypnotic state.

Since that day, I’ve made the jalapeños pretty much every year, usually at manly inspired events such as The Super Bowl. On Saturday, I made them for So Drunk in the August Sun Day, which is a holiday Crayton and his friends came up to honor sitting outside and drinking. We popped the jalapeños on the grill and they were a huge hit.

Seriously, if you want a go-to appetizer — and you have friends who are not vegetarians — this is pretty much it. On Sunday we also threw ’em in tortillas, because we live in Mexico and we roll like that. It was quite good.

Recipe below.
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