Honey Garlic Miami Ribs: The Musical

This blog is dedicated to my Israeli nephew, Noam, on the occasion of his engagement to his beloved, Hadara.

The curtain rises. A fiddler is sitting on top of the roof of a little house in a European shtetl. Music.

(Barbara)
Honey Garlic Miami Ribs. Sounds crazy, no? But in our little home in Thornhill, you might say every one of us loves Miami Ribs, trying to eat as many of the yummy, sweet and tender morsels as possible without overeating. It isn't easy. You may ask, what's so special about them? It's because they are connected with so many wonderful, happy occasions..And why must they be served with green beans and rice? That I can tell you in one word...Tradition.

(Chorus)
Tradition, Honey Garlic Ribs, tradition
Tradition, Yummy ribs, tradition

(Barbara)
Because of this tradition, I've kept my butcher busy for many, many years. Here in Greater Toronto, Miami Ribs (aka Short ribs for some of you) are not always so easy to come by....sometimes it's the wrong day of the week, sometimes there were none on the delivery truck, sometimes even, it's too near a yom tov. For instance, once, when it was between Yom Kippur and Sukkot, at the last minute the family from Israel decided to come. I ALWAYS serve them Miami Ribs, so I called the butcher in a panic, but he said that he hadn't received his order....but then, miraculously he called, telling me that he had managed to find some for me....This shows my constant devotion to my butcher. You may ask, how did this tradition start? I'll tell you--I don't know. No wait, I do! I used to eat them at a favourite restaurant when I was a little girl, and I loved them. So I served them in my own home, and then my children loved them. Now, it's a tradition....Because of our traditions, my butcher knows that when the relatives are coming, we'll expect him to have some on hand for us.

(Barbara)
Who day and night
Must scramble for some short ribs
To feed the fam and children
And any other guests
And who has to drive
Out to the kosher butcher
So there will be enough for all?

(All)
This blogger, this blogger...tradition
This blogger, this blogger...tradition

(Barbara)
You must know the way to make it properly
You fry them first, 'til tenderly (it has to rhyme...give me a break!)
Then you drain the fat and add the VH Sauce
And cook and baste until they're nice and done

(All)
VH Sauce, VH Sauce....tradition
VH Sauce, VH Sauce....tradition

(My kids)
At three I used to cut them up
At ten I licked the plate
I like to dip green beans in them
I hope....they're crunchy

(All)
The children, the children....tradition
The children, the children....tradition

(The Butcher)
And who will sell the ribs
In small shops in the 'burbs?
Withholding them from one-offs
For faithful customers?

(All)
The Butcher, the Butcher...tradition
The Butcher, the Butcher...tradition

(Barbara)
And among ourselves, we get along perfectly well. Of course, there was the time when she insisted that ribs be eaten with the rice and he liked them plain, but that's all settled now. Now we live in simple peace and harmony and....

(Daughter)
Eat them with the rice!

(Son)
Just the ribs!

(Chorus)
Rice!
Ribs!
Rice!
Ribs!

Tradition, Honey Garlic Ribs, tradition!
Tradition, yummy ribs, tradition!

(Barbara)
Miami Ribs. Without this tradition, our lives would be as corny as....as a Food-ler writing spoofs!

My Secret Stash

As I was putting on my coat this morning, I reached into my pocket. Yes! My little piece of chocolate from last week's coffee date with my bff at Aroma was still there. I laced the wrapper through my fingers for a second or two like it was a worry bead and then off I went to begin my day with a grin of guilty pleasure on my face.

I've had a secret stash for as long as I can remember. When I was a little girl, I always kept a chocolate bar or two in my night table drawer. Why, you may ask? It was an insurance policy. I used to think that in case I'm sent to bed without dinner, I'll have something to tide me over until morning. Thing is, I was never, ever sent to my room (not that I didn't misbehave...let's get that straight from the get go), let alone sent without dinner. I have no idea where I got this thought in my head (TV?), but for years and years, there was an O Henry bar in my drawer. It never got eaten. It just sat there because, well, you never know.

This stash thing goes back generations in my family. We lived with my grandmother, and she always had what seemed to be an endless supply of mints in her purse that she would pull out at any given moment. And these weren't just any mints. They were clear, rectangular 'silver' mints that she would buy at Eaton's candy department. Invariably during car rides she would ask, "Would you like a mint?". Before anyone could answer, the clip of her purse would open. Nanny, as we called her, would dig in and pull out a few. "Here! Na!", she would say with a nod and a smile. Even if I didn't want one, I'd take one.

Some people and their stashes have made life extra special for me. Near the top of my list growing up was the 'old' man at shul (when you're 6, anyone over 20 is old) who had a magic tallis bag. He had an endless stash of candies for all of the little kids who passed by his seat. It was actually worth going to shul for the candies. This man had a great stash, no doubt about it, but there are stashes, and then there are magical stashes.

Far and above all others when it comes to stashes that appear out of nowhere, is our old neighbour and father to my bestest childhood friend. The man who my children call Uncle Jack is in a class by himself. From the day I met him as a little girl, to this very day in his very vibrant, early 90's, he has always been able to somehow produce candy at any given moment from every pocket of his clothing. Just when you think there couldn't be any more, Uncle Jack is able to make boxes of Smarties appear from nowhere. His can only be deemed a miracle stash!

For me, my secret stash has always been about 'just in case'. In our house, the last few drops of every pot of chicken soup goes into a small container and straight into the freezer. It's always just enough soup for one person. That little container of leftover liquid is not taken lightly; in fact, I believe I can safely say that my children consider it holy. It even has its own name; it's known affectionately as, 'emergency chicken soup'. If someone comes home from school or work feeling sick, there's always chicken soup if needed. It's soup stash.

And it seems as though the concept has managed to catch on to the next generation. I received a phonecall from a stuffy nosed daughter-o'-mine a while back, asking me what I had used as criteria for dipping in to the emergency chicken soup stash. "Do you have a fever?" I asked. "Okay", she replied, "I get it", thus ending the conversation. I don't know if she ended up using hers or not, but I suppose there must always be unwritten laws, even for secret stashes.

Secret stashes are naughty and comforting at the same time. They can, at the best of time, be used to delight and surprise others with their sudden appearance.

Does everyone have a secret stash, I wonder? Do you?

Tree x Ten = Tu B'shvat Seder

I love Tu B'shvat (New Year of Trees). After Sukkot, it's my favourite holiday. There's no, 'they-tried-to-kill-us-it-didn't-work-let's-eat' component. There are no yom tov/Shabbat restrictions. It's simple,  it's joyous, I love the concept of celebrating trees, AND I get to eat fruit, which I love. Even extra super-duper is the fun I have in hosting our annual Tu B'shvat seder at home.

For those of you who have never heard of one or been to one before, the Tu B'shvat seder is structured like the Passover seder. There are four questions and four cups of wine. Because the seder is kabbalistic, spirtitual in nature, we take time to appreciate all that trees do for us. While we savour the fruit, we begin to draw comparisons between the physical nature of fruit and the spiritual nature of mankind (have I lost you yet?) For instance, if we look at the 'sabra', the prickly pear, we see that it is unapproachable on the outside, but quite tasty on the inside. Have you ever met someone who appeared to you as aloof, or perhaps physically unattractive, but when you got to know them turned out to be extraordinary? As we step back a minute to delve into the physical aspects of fruit, we begin to learn a bit more about ourselves, all the while munching on some yummy deliciousness.

Usually, we like to hold the seder on the Shabbat afternoon closest to Tu B'shvat. For some insane reason this year, I came up with the notion that a pot luck, dairy supper/seder might be fun. With words of caution to my daughter Keren, (whom we affectionately call 'Moira' after the character in Robert Munsch's classic storybook, Moira's Birthday because whenever there's a party she always likes to invite the immediate world), we set the date for Tuesday night (erev Tu B'shvat) and a Facebook Event page was born.

Before we knew it, the numbers started to climb. I began wondering what to make as the main course for the evening. Although they aren't exactly fruity, I decided upon pizzas (olives are fruit). Pizza is fun and finger-friendly, plus it goes with a lot of 'sides', which the guests were (so I hoped) bringing. And I know what you're thinking, although I did toy with making a fruit pizza (which I have done in the past), I decided against it.

Ten days before the seder I was pretty much prepared, or so I thought. I had made 3 of the 4 pizzas the weekend prior, baked them and froze them. I had made a double batch of cauliflower soup. Keren was making gazpacho, so we had the first course covered. All was well. Until I panicked.

In the wee hours of last Sunday morning (4:30 a.m. to be exact), two days before the dinner, I woke up in a sweat. I realized that even if I had enough of a main course (which I realized I hadn't), there were not enough 'sides'. The number of guests had risen to thirty. What was I going to do?

Somehow, I managed to doze off again, but by 8 a.m., I was in the kitchen working at full steam. First, I got the bread machine going with another batch of dough to make the fourth pizza. I raided the freezer, where I had cookie dough, and baked 100 cookies. By the time all the cookies were baked, the pizza dough was ready. I got that all assembled and baked, and then went to buy some groceries. But before I did, I put out an SOS bulletin on Facebook. I needed salads! With the notice out, and my head focused, I was off to the store. I was in the zone!

I came home with some veggies and whipped together an asperagus as well as a broccoli quiche. While they were in the oven, I checked my email. Glory, glory, Halleluyah! Everyone was responding to my plea! I began to feel the tension being relieved. Keren came over and we set the table together. All of a sudden, I sensed that this 'event' was going to come together. All we needed was another table. New Hubby swooped me up and off we went to Home Depot. He had already been a great help, especially with shopping for and designing the cool centrepieces! Now, we had another table. Life was good!

On Tuesday afternoon (the afternoon of the seder), while I was at work, Keren and her friend, Rachel got the seder plates assembled, and got all the last minute details completed. Before we knew it, the guests, and all of their goodies began to arrive.

Fruit showed up in many interesting ways, via the guests. We had yummy, veggie stuffed grape leaves, salads with fruit, and of course, chocolate (c'mon, it's a fruit!). The seder was incredible. We sang, we laughed, we planted (parsley), we talked, and boy, did we eat!

And Pesach is in, what..two months?

Pizza dough  adapted from a recipe from Allrecipes.com

Ingredients

Mushrooms, roasted garlic, broccoli, red onion
Yummy!

• 1 cup flat beer
• 2 tablespoons butter (or margarine)
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 tbs. garlic powder
• 1 tbs. dried rosemary
• 1 tbs. dried basil
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 ½ cup whole wheat flour
• 2 1/4 teaspoons bread machine yeast

Directions

1. Put beer, butter, sugar, salt, garlic powder, rosemary, basil, flour, and yeast in a bread machine in the order recommended by the manufacturer. Select Dough setting, and press Start.

2. Remove dough from bread machine when cycle is complete. Roll or press dough to cover a prepared pizza pan. Brush lightly with olive oil. Cover and let stand 15 minutes.

3. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C).

4. Spread sauce and toppings on top of dough. Bake until crust is lightly brown and crispy on the outside, about 24 minutes.

Makes one extra large pizza.

Kale! Kale! The gang's all here!

Why is it that all of a sudden and out of nowhere, there's this vegetable called kale? Growing up, there was surely no such thing; it most certainly did not exist 50 years ago, I am positive. I never saw it in a store, never heard of it on a menu in a restaurant, and FOR SURE never tasted it. The only leafy vegetable that  did exist was spinach...and the five year old me remembers that it smelled when boiled eerily similar to scrambled eggs but was far grosser to look at and eat. Spinach was enough of a torture to humanity (or so I thought as a child), but when did they invent kale? And who came up with such an unattractive name for a vegetable with leaves that remind me of Dumbo's ears?

For some reason, this vegetable that came from nowhere, this behemoth that requires untold amounts of refrigerator space, is touted to be tres healthy and oh so chi chi. And it seems that I've lived on a different planet all my life, because this little relative of the cabbage has been around for ever. Go know!

Kale is one of those things that you never know about until you do, and then once you do know, you realize that everyone else knows about it, too, and always has (which makes you feel completely stupid). I don't remember where I first heard of it, but now, I hear kale talk everywhere I go! It's quite unnerving. I've even heard whispers of recipes involving kale in the staff room! Well, good for kale! I could happily live my life without it, or so I thought...and for quite some time, I was able to avoid the monster all together, until my daughter came home from university this past winter break.

The two of us were on a grocery shopping run, planning that night's dinner. "Why don't we make a vegetable soup, Mom", she had suggested, hence the trip to the vegetable aisle. My vegetable soup is generally a mix of whatever needs to be used up in the fridge, added to a Streit's Split Pea tube soup. I believe my thinking at the time we entered the store was that I had everything I needed at home (carrots, onions, potatoes, some frozen peas, some limp celery and parsley), except the tube soup. Obviously, I was wrong.

"Let's buy some kale to put in the soup!", my chipper little red-head gleefully announced. I stopped cold in the vegetable aisle, stupefied. All my lips could utter was, "Why?"

She then went on to explain that kale is a delicious vegetable to add to a soup, and that she uses it when she makes soup at her apartment in Montreal. She urged me to try it. "Fine", I acquiesced. But what does it look like? Do they even sell it at this store? Well, of course they did....it was right in front of me, staring me in the face. Dutiful mom stuck a bunch in the shopping cart, feeling quite uncomfortable about using this new vegetable, and most unsure as to how the soup would taste.

Once home, we made our soup with all of the above ingredients, including the kale, and some chicken stock (thank you, Osem). As the steaming richness touched my lips, I was reminded of the assurance my daughter had given me at the store. She was right; it tasted great. As they say in French, 'Kale' suprise!

And now, I hear kale talk everywhere. On Facebook, I received a recipe for Kale chips. In the newspaper  the other day, there was a full page dedicated to restaurants that serve up kale in various ways (thegridto.com). Forget about the race to the American Presidency, the real talk is about kale. Kale is hip and current.

So, does the fact that I have cooked with kale once in my life make me hip and current, too? Alas, it does not. But it does make me want to experiment with  fruits and vegetables I haven't played with before now. I can't wait to see what will be next to tickle my fancy and tastebuds!

Our Father, who art in leaven, Challah be thy name

I must say, dear readers, that last week's challah fiasco caused two feelings to emerge inside me. The first was a feeling of abject failure. How, I asked myself, could someone who could create some foods so effortlessly, be completely loser-ific at making a simple challah...in a BREAD MAKER, no less!

The second feeling was just as powerful, but possibly a  bit healthier. It was a sense of determination.  I decided that if so many people in this world had the ability to bake a challah, then by gum, so could I! And with this simple thought and new attitude, I set off yet again on my quest to bake a challah that could not double as a paper weight.

My first stop was to the local library. I pored over bread recipes in beautiful books, but decided upon what I felt I needed most, "Bread Machines for Dummies". With alternating feelings of self pride in recognizing my need for help and seeking it, and the other being utter embarrassment, I sidled up to the counter. With eyes lowered, quite aware that everyone around me was witnessing the fact that this woman is inept when it comes to yeast, I checked out the book. I couldn't wait to get home to find out the answers to my two burning questions, (a) do you have to proof the yeast before adding it to the bread machine, and (b) is there something I need to be doing that I'm not? I had so much to learn.

Thumbing through the manual only got me more frustrated (I was obviously too dumb), so I abandoned the book altogether. The next day at work, I approached my friend and colleague, Tracey. Besides being a great teacher, Tracey is an expert challah baker (I know because she has brought her challah to school a number of times, and it has never made it up the stairs to the staff room). I was confident that she could answer all of my queries, especially because I knew that she uses a bread machine to make her dough. She not only answered my questions ((a) I didn't need to proof the yeast, and (b) I should be using bread machine yeast), but she graciously and generously offered me her challah recipe to try. She promised me that it would work. The thought was suddenly intruiguing...I could use a different recipe than the one I had, and I had guaranteed results. Could it work? I needed to give it a try.

So on Friday, when no one was looking, I grabbed the ingredients and began concocting. As I measured everything into the machine, one thought kept ruminating in my head---'This is stupidly simple. There must be a catch'. I then mused to myself, if it doesn't work, I still have the good one from last week in the freezer. When all of the ingredients were in the bowl, I hit the 'dough' setting on the maching and went off to do my chores.

All seemed fine until I realized that my hearing, or lack of it, had caused me a potential problem. Tracey had instructed me to add the raisins at the machine's first beep. Well, I missed the bleepin' beep! I was so frustrated that I just opened the magic little breadmaker door and threw the raisins in anyway, hoping against hope that somehow the machine would mix again. It didn't.

I did, however, manage to hear the bread maker beep after the mixing was done. I peeked through the window, just like I had done the week before. I took a deep breath and opened the little door. To quote Jed Clampett, 'Weeeell doggies'!

I took out the dough and mixed the stray raisins in by hand. I divided the mixture in two, fashioned two challot, 'took challah' as is the tradition, and popped them into the oven. I then walked away. I couldn't bear the possibility of these guys not rising.

One half hour later, I opened the oven door and....oh my goodness...they looked....AMAZING! All that was left was the taste test.

It was just me and New Hubby for Shabbat dinner....just us and two large challot. After the motzei, he sliced into one of the puppies. Lo and behold, it had worked! The challahs rose. They weren't raw in the middle. They tasted great. Tracey was right...they came out perfect.

Here's the recipe!

Tracey's Sweet Challah

1 cup water
4 tbsp (1/4 cup) oil
1 egg
1/2 cup sugar
3 1/2 cups flour
2 1/4 tst baking machine yeast
1 cup raisins

Combine ingredients in order according to bread machine. Set dough recipe. Add raisins at first beep.
Bake at 350 for 30 min.

Enjoy, and Shabbat Shalom!
A quick P.S. Due to a mishap involving my camera, I do not have the photo of my great opus. You'll just have to rely on the recipe!

Veni, Vidi and....well...

One would think that after conquering the zemel, I would have been satisfied. I had overcome my 'thing' about yeast and that should have been enough. No such luck. Zemels were only the beginning. For some strange reason, the zemel episode had somehow freed the Great Yeast Monster lurking inside of me. Let me explain.

The euphoria had suddenly given me the courage to address the bigger issue at hand--my decades long obsession with my personal Moby-Dick--the sweet challah. In all those years,  I had never quite understood what I had done wrong, why the challah never came out right. Had it been me? The recipe? Was it my technique? Something had made it impossible for me to get it right. Until now. Now I felt that I would be able to tackle it. After all, now I have a secret weapon. Now I have.... a breadmaker! From deep inside me, I could hear Liza singing in my head, 'Maybe this time....I'll be lucky..'. Okay, the song is about a guy, but nevertheless... I was stoked!

So, with an aire of hope and flowers and butterflies and all things beautiful, I dusted off my old recipe. I was Captain Ahab, setting off to capture my Great White Whale!

I sailed around the kitchen, sifting through the fridge and pantry, gathering the necessary elements of the beast. With a sense of higher purpose, I carefully placed everything on my counter. Meticuously, (and with just the right touch of giddiness) I measured everything out and added the ingredients into the breadmaker. When that was done, and with a sense of new found pride, I drew a deep breath and finally pressed the glorious button. The process of kneading the individual ingredients together to create a whole new being began. With child-like wonder, I watched the machine dance (literally). And then, I went to the grocery store, because...really...how long can a person stare at a bread machine?

An hour and a half and a hundred dollars in groceries later, poof! The timer beeped. The moment of truth had arrived. The dough was ready for me to braid. I practically trembled in excitement. Had I really, finally done it?

Furtively I crept up to the window of the breadmaker to see what had transpired (I'm not making any of this up. I actually tiptoed up to the breadmaker, like it was a jack-in-the-box ready to blow). Like Goldilocks,  I peeked inside the little window to see what I could see. There before me, was a beautiful ball of dough!

And then, I gulped. It really should be bigger than this, I thought....but in my desperation I reasoned that it had been many years since I had attempted the recipe...maybe I had forgotten how big the challah should have been. I decided to take it out of the breadmaker for a better look, and to see how it felt.

Hmmm. Not quite a bowling ball, but I could tell this was not boding well for me. Sensing that Moby had eluded me yet again, I pressed on. I broke the dough into thirds to create braids. As I worked, I became increasingly crestfallen as the reality and gravity (in more ways than one) were sinking in. The dough seemed dry. It didn't feel right. I tried to buoy myself by invoking the lyrics to Liza's song...."Not a loser, anymore...". I let the dough sit for the last rising. I egg washed it, made my famous 'crumma crumma' topping (a handful of flour, a handful of brown sugar, some cinnamon and drops of oil...enough to make it come together to the right consistency) and popped it in the oven to the requisite temperature.

And then I waited.

Well, it smelled good, I can tell you that.

I'll get to the point. The challah had turned out, just like the lyrics had suggested, 'Like the last time and the time before". Everyone at the table was very polite. They ate around the part that was raw in the middle and gave me many encouraging words. Luckily for everyone, I had a perfect, store bought challah sitting beside the dud that my family opted not to touch. I think they felt my pain, so they opted to inflict themselves with some of the lead bread in solidarity. And with that meal, so ended my relationship with this particular recipe, and why I'm not sharing the recipe.

Now, any bright person would end the story here. But now, I'm more determined than ever to get this right. Stay tuned for Part 2, because there will be one.

Hit it, Liza!

"All the odds are, they're in my favor
Something's bound to begin
It's gotta happen,
happen sometime
Maybe (the next) time I'll win"

Beet it!

My disdain for beets (and almost all red food...except raspberries) began as a young child at the seder table.

For some ridiculous, insane reason that I could never figure out, my uncle (my mother's brother) did not adore my grandmother's chicken soup, the recipe which remains in my family to this day. I don't get it. It's irrational, I know, but there's no accounting for taste. In order to appease her firstborn, my grandmother made him beet borscht, (and although it could have been served at our house at other times during the year, I only remember this occasion vividly) which he adored.

Each year, I watched as the bowl of soup was placed in front of him. I remember becoming horrified that someone might actually drink that red stuff. To me, the whole event was akin to a vampire lapping up his victim. My stomach turned at the thought, and thus my aversion to most foods red was born.

Beet borscht became even more abhorrent when I saw it served with a dollop of sour cream. Two images constantly came to mind....calomine lotion and Pepto Bismol, neither of which seemed appetizing. For the next almost half century, I managed to avoid beets, and other red foods (save raspberries, which are, holy....well, to me they are), including tomato juice, red Kool Aid and even red Smarties (I definitely ate the red ones last....if at all).

Alas, life moves on. Over the years, I would accidentally and occasionally be introduced to beets. Usually it happened that I would meet them on a dish served to me at a restaurant. Politely I would give them a try, and oddly enough, found them to be...gulp....tasty. Still, it's a long road from giving them a taste and actually buying them and bringing them into my home to cook them.

Enter Facebook.

A few days ago, I got mired (ok, involved) in a conversation with some friends, some foodies and wannabe foodies about how we might decide to eat more vegetables in 2012. Somehow, the topic of how to best prepare beets came up. Recipes galore ensued, and my interest was piqued....but not enough to CTRL C and then paste. However, beets were in the cards.

Enter Jamie Oliver and his Meals in Minutes. What did he choose to cook the very day following this discussion? Beets. That was it..serendipity won. I was off to the supermarket to experiment.

I decided to try a cold beet salad. I grated the beets with visions of beet borscht pasts dancing visciously in my head, creating.my personal, gastronomic post traumatic stress reaction. Nevertheless, I pushed on, adding some olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper as per Jamie's directions. I took a spoonful,

Tasteless. Now what?

I grabbed some raisins and some almonds, and called my daughter into the room to do some taste testing. She so innocently remarked that my concoction reminded her of charoset (even SHE was reminded of Pesach!!!). We did a bit of brainstorming and decided that a bit of honey was in order.

And voila! It tasted pretty...not bad! Everyone seemed to enjoy the salad, which now means that I will experiment with beets more often.

But don't expect beet borscht on the table any time soon!