A Blithe PALATE

Cioppino

A few weeks ago, when Hubby and I were in Arizona visiting Peggy and Sunil, we went to dinner at T. Cooks, where a cioppino was featured as one of the evening's specials. I was sorely tempted, but had been warned that seafood wasn't the greatest in Scottsdale. When I passed in favor of another dish, Peggy noted with surprise, "I remember when you ate cioppino at every restaurant we went to for almost a year."

And that year would have been 1998; I had cioppino for the first time at The Food Studio and fell in love with the saffron infused seafood stew. Cioppino was fashionable that year - it seemed to be on every menu at every restaurant we visited. I've eaten countless versions of this stew, a San Francisco answer to the French bouillabaisse, but I think that first dish is still the best. Like bouillabaisse, cioppino is a stew that evolved from the ethnic tastes of its inventors, and the largesse of the ocean.

Although its history has never been verified, most agree that cioppino was created in San Francisco though they can't pinpoint when; it wasn't until after World War II that the stew became known outside of San Francisco. The first published recipe appeared in 1918. The story goes that cioppino was invented by the Italian and Portuguese fishermen who concocted the stew based on the day's catch. Cioppino was originally prepared on the boats while the fishermen were at sea, with fresh catch straight from the water. Its name was supposedly derived from ciuppin, a possible corruption of the Genovese word for suppin, or "little soup." Another theory is that the name came from the foreigner slang to "chip-in-o," or, to chip in, as the fisherman partaking in the stew were expected to contribute fish to the meal.

As a result of the haphazard ingredients, based on what the ocean yielded, cioppino is a happily versatile dish. It's usually a stew based comprised of tomatoes, onion and garlic, but the herbs run the gamut from thyme to sage, and within the soup itself clams can be substituted with mussels, different white fish can be used, and red wine occasionally replaces white wine (I prefer the latter). It's really a matter of preference and availability.

I made a mistake today substituting tomato sauce for tomato paste; it made the resulting stew entirely too tomato-y and red. I'm also much more partial to the pale, reddish-gold stew I first had at Food Studio, which owed its hue and fragrance to a liberal dousing of saffron. Still, it's hard to go wrong with a fresh seafood stew.

Carnival Squash Bisque

I normally only eat crookneck squash, butternut squash or zucchini -- for a few reasons: they're the only squashes readily available in my part of the woods; I generally don't enjoy eating squash(es); and finally, they're the only ones I recognize right off the bat.

I stopped by the farm market yesterday and saw a nice selection of squashes. I thought about making a butternut squash soup -- one of my favorite things to eat -- when I saw small, rounded yellow and green striped squashes in the same bin. Acorn squash, I thought. A few years ago, I had dinner in Atlanta where I was served an acorn squash soup in the hollowed squash shell. I had brief taste memory of sweetness and rich creaminess. Soup and sandwiches would be good for lunch, I decided, selecting two nice sized ones. Confidently, I marched up to the counter with my acorn squash. Or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when they were rung up at the register as Carnival Squash (remember the squash ignorance I mentioned earlier?). That deflated me for all of ten seconds because as I figured it, a squash bisque is a squash bisque; and as it turns out, Carnival Squash tastes like a cross between sweet potatoes and butternut squash. Bisques originally referred to thick seafood soup puréed with cream, but have come to mean a smooth, puréed soup finished with cream or butter. As we're making no attempt to exercise (although we bought goggles and pretended we'd swim in the indoor pool), I decided making a "creamy" soup with less cream was in order.

I'm going to have to make good on my promise to myself to try new vegetables soon. I've gotten so lazy, using the same things over and over -- and not always because I don't have easy access to a greater selection. I can't even imagine what nice surprises lie in wait.

French Onion Soup

We were making pizza two Sundays ago – or rather, Hubby was rescuing the pizza making effort from my ham handed start – and I asked him if he liked French onion soup. Deeming it best to remove me from any dough activities (kneading, punching down, rolling), he had instructed me to take care of toppings, one of which was caramelized onions.

“Yeah, I love French onion soup,” he answered, trying not to snicker as he removed the crusty top off the dough that I had placed to rise in a too warm oven. Pizza is problematic for me. I do not like to eat it anywhere except at home; and then I do not like anyone’s pizza but Hubby’s – not even, and especially not my own. My friends very kindly eat and praise the pizza I have made for them; but in absence of having eaten Hubby’s pizza, they are kind only in their ignorance. You would think that water, yeast, flour and salt would be easy to put together, yes? But though I can make a crispy French baguette, tasty pastries, and lovely little cakes, pizza dough is beyond me. Let me put it to you this way: we once used one of my failed doughs to play softball in the house, Emil (at the time not yet Hubby) playing catcher and teaching me to pitch with the water-flour-yeast-and-salt blob; and when the dough doubled in volume after 30 minutes of catch, we switched to playing soccer, kicking the dough back and forth like a hackeysack until it became too unwieldy (and began to hurt when it smacked against our bare legs and feet). This was after I had previously served him a pizza crust so thin he noted, "Honey, if we cut this crust into stars, we can use them as shuriken (Japanese throwing stars)."

“I love the fall,” I said, happily stirring the browning onions. “Comfort food time.”

“Baby, why is there so much dough?”

“Oh. I doubled the recipe. That’s six cups of flour.”

“And it made sense to you to put it this bowl to rise?” He pointed at the vessel which for all intents and purposes was little more than a cereal bowl.

I ignored him. “I love comfort food.”

I love the fall; the colors, the smells, the sounds. I love the way I can smell firewood burning in busy chimneys as I walk a street; I love the sound of the leaves crunching beneath my feet. I love that the stupid birdie who hangs outside my window doesn’t wake me up with his maniacal chirping at 6 am. I love the rusty colors in the yard, and the mahogany leaves on the Japanese maple. I’ve been in Georgia too long: fall’s nice here, but I miss the sensory overload of a fall like the ones I grew up with in Arlington, Virginia. And Hubby yearns for the autumn of his New York youth. He’s taking me to Vermont next month for our fall vacation; I cannot wait.

But most of all, I love the foods that come with autumn: rich, warm, soothing meals; risottos, soups and purées, braised meats so tender they fall off the bone, and lush pot pies. Mmmmmm...

I have two recipes for French onion soup. The first is the one I grew up with, the one that my mother made when we were little. It’s the recipe by which I judge all other French onion soups – and the standard by which all others fail; I am too used to the distinct flavors of her soup. The second recipe is based on Scott Peacock’s Caramelized Onion Purée. He hasn’t made the dish in several years; and I never thought to ask him for the recipe. Chef Peacock heads up the kitchen at Watershed, one of my favorite restaurants in Decatur. I call him the God of Soups. His soups are mesmerizing – straightforward and Southern comfort, but always with a clever twist. The caramelized onion purée is his take on French onion soup.

The problem with French onion soup nowadays is that it’s ubiquitous. It’s become fast food. It’s widely available, but never (unless I am in Paris) made correctly: it’s usually oversalted, cloudy, lacking any depth or richness, with limp white onion strips, topped with mushy bread and stringy cheese that has congealed into an inedible globule. Raise your hand if you have had to do battle with the greasy cheese ball in your soup.

The trick to French onion soup for me is that it can’t be rushed. The onions need to be caramelized slowly, in a heavy pot, and the stock is best when it’s homemade.

Sure, it can take a while to make the stock. But wouldn’t you rather have a bowl of perfectly clear consommé than a murky out-of-the-can beef broth? Of course you can take a short cut and make it with a high quality ready-made stock (or if you’re lucky and you live in a city where certain restaurants sell their freshly made beef stock you can buy some) – but making stock can be fun. Really.

Then you slice the onions –oh how lovely to have Vidalia onions nearby – into nice, thin little strips and let them get soft and brown and sweet in the pot; temper with a little Madeira, pour in that stock, add a splash of Cognac for that essential kick, and ladle the soup into a heavy crock. Get some crusty bread from a great bakery, toast it slighty and top with high quality Gruyère cheese, broil a few minutes and voilà; soupe a l’oignon as it should be made and eaten.

And Chef Peacock's soup is pure, rich comfort food. A smooth, velvety sweet onion soup swirled with cream. Just take those caramelized onions, puree them in the stock, then strain and finish with a dollop of crème fraiche. Add a couple of toasted croutons, some chives or parsley for a green touch, and you're good to go...

Perfect soups for the fall.