Deceptively simple, it took me awhile to get my rice right.  The directions on the package never quite worked and by cutting down traditional Cuban recipes to a reasonable amount (they’re built for extended families), I’d end up with either undercooked grains or pots of mush.  I considered getting a rice cooker or “Hatachi” – so ubiquitous in Cuban homes that it’s in the brand name pantheon with Band-aids, Kleenex, and Xerox.  My mother, who doesn’t cook, made brilliant rice using just a pot, a slatted metal cover and a paper towel (which routinely caught fire but the rice turned out well).  I knew there was a trick to it and I couldn’t lose the counter space to a cooker until I found out.

Finally, I ended up where I should have started with Nitza Villapol.  Rather than combine the water, rice and oil at the start, a few cloves of mashed garlic are sauteed in oil to infuse it with flavor.  Once you’ve added the rice and water and brought it to a simmer, it’s set over a low flame and left undisturbed while it finishes cooking so it can’t burn, overcook, or generally get away from you.  I usually made rice haphazardly so I decided to pay attention for once and question everything to get it all down.  I’ve included those notes below.  Unfortunately, while I was thinking about it, I wasn’t responding to the initial text and my sister went riceless.  I’ve  added the desperate email she sent me in the comments section but please keep in mind she’s prone to rich mischaracterization so serve over fluffly white rice.

Arroz Blanco/White Rice
Adapted from Nitza Villapol’s Cocina Criolla.  The first question that came up was whether or not to rinse.  I always did but wasn’t sure why.  It turns out, a rinse washes away excess starch that makes the rice clump together (good)  as well as the nutrients added to replace what was stripped during processing (not so good).  I could see the benefits of both – clumpy rice that’s healthy versus fluffy rice that’s nutritionally deficient.  I decided to treat myself to a rinse.  I typically use brown rice or other hearty grain when I’m looking for a nutrient-rich option so I can keep white rice simple depending on the texture I’m looking for.  Plus, to be honest, the rinsing felt ritual so I hated to skip it.

The other thought I had was whether or not to cover it completely or loosely while it’s cooking.  I tried both methods and by leaving the lid slightly off, the rice came out firmer but still cooked through, so it’s really a matter of preference.  The water also evaporates more quickly so it’s important to check it so sooner.  When I’d like the rice to be a little creamier, I keep it covered.  After it’s cooked however, it’s best to leave the cover firmly on and let it sit off heat for 5-10 minutes before fluffing it with a fork to separate the grains.

The final problem was adding the water.  Once you’ve heated the oil, it has to be completely off heat before pouring in the water.  It will send up a billow of hissing steam.  If I’m feeling skittish, I set a frying screen over the pan and pour the water directly through the screen.

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 clove of garlic, peeled and mashed
1 teaspoon salt
1 ½ cups water, hot
1 cup long grain white rice, well rinsed with cold water until it runs clear

In a heavy saucepan, heat oil over medium heat.  Add mashed garlic and cook on both sides until golden.  Remove garlic from oil and discard.

Off heat, carefully add hot water and salt (See Notes).  Bring to a high simmer over medium heat.  Immediately stir in rice and return to a simmer.  Cover and cook undisturbed over low heat until the water is absorbed and the rice tender, about 20-30 minutes.  Remove from and heat and let stand covered about 5 minutes.  Fluff with a fork and serve.

With so many possibilities, I decided to get specific, choosing a version of Ecuadorian humitas from Maria Baez Kijac’s The South American Table, my new favorite. Lighter than the pork and chicken filled tamales I’d had before, these were made of fresh corn pureed with scallions then blended with egg yolks, milk, cheese, and a little brandy.  The filling is wrapped in corn husks and steamed then topped with ají criollo, a hot pepper sauce.  Most recipes tell you that the water content of North American corn is too high in water and too low in starch.  Kijac solves this problem by adding cornmeal to get the right consistency.

I was tempted to make them with whatever corn I found but waited for fresh, whole corn to reach the markets instead.  Once you scrape the kernels, the cobs can be used to line the bottom of the pot to create a shelf that’s lined with loose corn husks for added flavor (and Swiss Family Robinson efficiency).  I set  the wrapped humitas over the improvised steamer, covered them with the remaining husks, and brought the water to boil.  Of course, I could have used my metal steamer or added a tamalera to my precariously packed shelves.  I didn’t have to use the cobs, and won’t always, but at least this time, I wanted to.

Humitas Ecuatorianas
Adapted from The South American Table from Maria Baez Kijac.  Filling the corn husks can be tricky and the size will vary depending on the size of the husks and your stuffing skills.  I started out messy but got better as I went along.  Click here for Saveur’s guide on handling humitas.  

6 to 8 ears corn (4 cups of kernels)
1/4 cup chopped scallions, white part only
1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted
3 large eggs, separated
1/2 cup cornmeal, or more if needed
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
6 ounces Chihuahua, mozzarella, or Muenster cheese, shredded
1 tablespoon brandy
Kitchen twine, cut into 15-inch lengths
2 cups water
Ají Criollo (see recipe below)

Bring a large part of water to a boil.  Cut through the corncob at the stem end where the kernels start and carefully remove the husks.  Set aside the largest for wrapping and blanch them in boiling water for a couple of minutes to make them more pliable.  Remove from the water and drain on paper towels.  Cut the rest of the husks into strips for tying or to cover the humitas before steaming.

Remove the silk from the corn and rinse.  Cut the kernels from the cobs, adding the milk scraped from the cobs. Reserve the cobs for later use. Place the corn and scallions in food processor or blender and pulse until finely ground. Add the butter, egg yolks, cornmeal, baking powder, salt, sugar, cheese, and brandy.  Pulse until well incorporated and smooth and transfer to a bowl.  The mixture should be thick but not runny. Add more cornmeal, as needed.

In a seperate bowl or using a stand mixer, whip the egg whites to form soft peaks. Carefully fold the whites into the corn mixture.

To assemble the humitas, place two husks on the worktable, slightly overlapped. Place a few spoonfuls of corn batter in the center of the husks. Fold bottom edge over the mixture, fold down the top half, then fold in the sides to form a packet.  Tie with string or corn husk strips.  Repeat with remaining batter.

Place the cobs in the bottom of a large saucepan. Add the water until cobs are almost covered. Cover the cobs with the remaining husks. Place humitas open side up over steamer. Cover with remaining husks. Cover the pot and bring to a boil. Steam until the humitas feel firm to the touch, about 30 minutes for small and 45 minutes for large. Add more boiling water if needed.  Remove from heat and serve with ají criollo.  Leftovers are great for breakfast and can be reheated or pan fried.

Makes 12-16 humitas.

Ají Criollo

4 hot red or green finger peppers, 3 to 4 inches long, seeded and chopped
6 tablespoons water
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup minced scallions
2 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro or parsley leaves

Place peppers, 2 tablespoons of the water, and the salt in a blender and process until smooth.  Transfer to a small bowl and add the scallions, cilantro and remaining water and mix well.

It’s hard not to be drawn to a recipe by a beautiful photograph.  Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc at Home, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid’s Mangoes & Curry Leaves: Culinary Travels Through the Great Subcontinent, and Francis Mallman’s Seven Fires: Grilling the Argentine Way have all escaped from my kitchen shelves to my coffee table (where both the books and I feel they belong).  Not surprisingly, Santiago Soto Monllor won this year’s James Beard award for Best Photography for Seven Fires.

Still, despite the incredible food images in print and on line, it was the Chilean name, panqueques celestinos for crêpes filled with dulce de leche that caught my eye.  Pale blue heaven wrapped in a crêpe? It had to be dulce de leche.

Popular in Argentina, Uruguay, and Chile, I always order them at Che Tito’s, the Argentinian restaurant I visit whenever I’m home.  A non-descript spot wedged between a pet store and a frame shop, it’s a pizza place that grills an incredible churrasco de entraña, there’s usually a soccer game playing on the big screen tv, and it’s always full but you never have to wait for a table, the restaurant just magically expands.

With the grilling season in full swing, I thought it would be a good time learn how to make them myself.  Though there are several versions, including a great one in Seven Fires I referred to often (that can be made at home or over a wood fire of course), I consulted the always calm and cool Julia Child, the politely short-tempered Madame E. Saint-Ange of La Bonne Cuisine, and the cheerful Maria Baez Kijac for the crêpes.  A seemingly simple task that’s tripped me up before, Julia explained the importance of letting the batter rest, allowing the flour particles to expand insuring a tender and light result, Madame Saint-Ange emphasized using just the necessary amount or clarified butter or purified fat so that your crepes don’t have that “sweaty, unpleasant look” (author’s emphasis), and Baez Kijac’s advised how to work ahead to keep the summertime living easy.  More text than illustration, I love these books too for what they don’t have.  With a few helpful details that describe the why as well as the how, they helped me find my own way to an image that started with a couple of words.

Panqueques Celestinos/Panqueques de Dulce de Leche
For the crêpes, I followed Julia Child’s recipe for Pâte à Crêpes from Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  Quickly blended then allowed to rest, I used half the batter for dessert and used the remaining crêpes for leftovers.

1 cup cold water
1 cup cold milk
4 eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

4 tablespoons clarified butter or canola oil or more as needed
1 cup dulce de leche

Put the liquids, eggs, salt, flour and melted butter in a blender jar.  Cover and blend at highest speed for 1 minute.  Scape down the sides with a rubber scraper as needed and blend for 2 to 3 seconds more.  Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours or overnight.

Heat a heavy cast-iron skillet or crêpe pan over moderately high heat.  Brush with about tablespoon of clarified butter or oil.  Take pan off heat and, holding the handle of the pan, pour 1/4 cup of the batter into the middle of the pan.  Tilt the pan in all directions to so that batter evenly  coats the bottom of the pan.  Return to heat and cook for 30 to 60 seconds until lightly browned.  Turn and cook on the other side an additional 30 seconds.  Cool on a rack before stacking on a plate.  Add more butter or oil as needed and repeat with remaining batter.*

Spread crêpes with heaping tablespoon of dulce de leche.  Roll jelly-roll style or fold in half.  You can also add toasted walnuts or pecans, shredded coconut or chocolate sauce.  Sprinkle with powdered sugar or whipped cream and serve.

*Crêpes can be kept in a 200 degree oven until ready to serve.  They can also be made in advance and reheated before using or frozen.  If frozen, thaw overnight in the refrigerator then reheat in a 300 degree oven for 5-10 minutes.

Makes 12-16 crêpes.

I’ve wanted to make chilaquiles for awhile but was a little overwhelmed by the choices.  I love the precision of cooking and there was no set way to go about making these. The tortillas can be fried or baked, topped with chicken, chorizo or eggs, sprinkled queso fresco or Cotija, sauteed or covered on Oaxacan cheese then baked, the sauces can be red or green or mole, the peppers fresh or dried.  Elbow deep in books and online recipes, I saw a an opportunity to throw in some staples that I overbuy but under use testing the tips and side notes that the cookbook obsessed pick up and file away.  They can be a breakfast or brunch dish, a perfect way to use leftover tortillas, and a sometimes cure for hangovers.  A generous dish.  With no set path, there was no way to fail.

Chilaquiles Veracruzanos
This recipe is adapted from Diana Kennedy’s The Essential Cuisine of Mexico based on a recipe from Señora Josefina Velázquez de León.  I chose this version of chilaquiles to start with because I have a weakness for any recipe that starts with making your own broth.  While I think I have wherewithal to make large batches of stock to store and use as needed, I know for a fact that my packed freezer does not.  I thought I had everything when I started but had to replace dried Ancho chile with a Poblano pepper.  I tried the recipe a second time with the right chile and found that I missed the freshness of the Poblano.  I’ve included it in the version below.

1 whole chicken breast
Salt to taste
1 large garlic clove
1/4 cup white onion, roughly chopped
2 sprigs cilantro
2 sprigs fresh mint
2 cups water

Sauce:
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 Poblano chili pepper
8 ounces of fresh tomatoes
2 large garlic cloves
Salt to taste
1/4 cup water
1 cup reserved chicken broth

Totopos:
12 6″ corn tortillas, dried*

Additional toppings:
Queso fresco, crumbled
Sliced pickled onions (see below)
Avocado
Cilantro, chopped

Put the chicken, salt, garlic, onion, cilantro, mint and water in a large saucepan.  Bring to a simmer then lower heat and cook until cooked through – about 20 minutes.  Allow the chicken to cool off in the broth.  When cool enough to handle, drain the chicken and shred into pieces.  Set aside chicken and reserve broth.

Drizzle tomatoes, garlic and pepper with one tablespoon of canola oil.  Place under a broiler until lightly charred, about 6 minutes.  Place pepper in a plastic bag for 5-8 minutes so that the steam will help loosen the skin.  When cool enough to handle, peel and stem the pepper, removing seeds.  Combine tomatoes, garlic, peeled pepper, and water in a blender and process until smooth.

Heat remaining tablespoon of oil until hot but not smoking.  Add sauce and bring the mixture to a simmer, about 5 minutes.  Add the chicken broth and continue to cook an additional 3 minutes.  Adjust the seasonings and remove from heat.

Cut each tortilla into 6 wedge pieces.  Add the oil to a large heavy skillet, about 1″ deep.  Heat over medium-high heat.  Working in batches, carefully add tortilla wedges to oil.  Cook until they just start to stiffen but do not brown.  Remove and drain on paper towels

Return sauce to a boil and stir in tortillas.  Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until most of sauce is absorbed, about 5 to 8 minutes.

Serve the chilaquiles with queso fresco, sour cream or Mexican crema, shredded chicken, chopped avocado, onions and cheese.

Serves 4.

Totopos
I’ve recently become addicted to making my own totopos (or tortilla chips) as a way to use that leftover corn tortillas that only seem to sell in sky-high stacks of 50 and alternative to store-bought chips.  If the tortillas are left to dry out (overnight if possible) and the oil is brought to the right temperature (about 375 degrees), they will not take on excess oil.  However, if you’d like to cut out the oil altogether, the wedges can also be baked at 350 degrees for about 40-50 minutes.  Times may vary depending on the the thickness of the tortillas so they should be checked and turned frequently.

Mexican Crema/Sour Cream/Créme Fraîche
I pride myself on going far to get the right ingredients but good crema is often just out of reach.  Buttermilk and heavy cream, however, are two ingredients I can’t use fast enough.  I followed Diana Kennedy’s suggestion and tried Julia Child’s crème fraîche recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1 which surprisingly had just the right pourable consistency.

1 teaspoon of buttermilk
1 cup of cream

In a small saucepan, combine buttermilk and heavy cream.  Heat to no more than 85 degrees then pour in to a glass jar and set out 5 to 8 hours until thickened.  Stir and refrigerate.

Note:  Another option is to add milk to sour cream, one tablespoon at a time, until it reaches the right consistency.

Pickled Onions
While I like the acidity of pickled onions, I have to admit that I’m really into it for the color.  In Simply Mexican, Lourdes Castro suggests submerging red onions in red wine vinegar.  Left to marinate overnight, they’re my go to topping when I need a little pink.

Firm but creamy, spicy but soothing with the thin layer of caramelo, I liked it despite myself but it was never my favorite.  I’d work around the walnuts, figs, or prunes to get to the cinnamon rich pudding.  My grandfather might ask why I was leaving behind the best parts, but he never altered the recipe.  Why should he?  He was right and I was wrong.

Pudín de Pan con Nueces y Dátiles/ Bread Pudding with Walnuts and Dates
Of course now, I love the combination of dried fruits and rum drenched pudding.  This weekend, I decided to make the Cuban version of pudín de pan to take to a friend’s barbecue.  As I was cutting it up to serve, someone asked what made it Cuban.  Taken aback, I said it was the rum.  That answer seemed to satisfy everyone, but it wasn’t entirely truthful.  The real answer, sugar, would have been confusing.  After all, most desserts include sugar.  But it’s the the thin layer of caramelo that I most closely associate with Cuban desserts and pudín de pan in particular.  I love watching the sugar go from granule to liquid to gold and trying to catch it just before it becomes bitter.

1/2 pound of bread, crust removed and cut into small cubes (challah or brioche)
2 cups whole milk
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg

4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 tablespoons dark rum
Freshly grated zest of one orange

1/2 cup walnuts halves
1/2 cup dates, pits removed and quartered
1 tablespoon of unbleached, all-purpose flour

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a large bowl, pour milk over cubed bread.  Stir in cinnamon and nutmeg and set aside.

In a mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and 1 cup of sugar together on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes.  Add eggs one at a time and beat well after each addition.  Reduce speed to low and add vanilla extract, rum and orange zest.  Add bread mixture and mix until well combined.

In a separate bowl, combine walnuts, dates and flour and then fold into bread mixture.

Pour remaining 1/2 cup of sugar into small saucepan.  Place over medium heat and move pan frequently but do not stir until it takes on an amber hue.  Pour caramel into mold (like a loaf pan) and swirl so than bottom and sides are lightly covered.  The caramel will be very hot so it should be handled carefully.

Add the prepared bread mixture to the mold.  To prepare the baño de María, place it in a larger roasting pan.  Pour enough hot water into the pan so that it comes at least two-thirds up sides of the mold.  Carefully place both pans in the oven and bake for two hours.  The pudding will be done when an inserted knife comes out clean.

Allow to cool completely before un-molding.  To un-mold, invert over a serving plate.  It will take a minute or so to release.  Serve warm or cold, with whipped cream or ice cream.

Makes 12 to 16 servings.

A few weeks ago, a friend gave me a list of Puerto Rican classics to try that included asopao de pollo.  As she described it, it’s a Puerto Rican risotto that’s not quite soup and not quite stew.  My soups often go to gumbo by mistake so I was curious to know what would happen if I made it that way by design.  At Jennifer’s suggestion, I checked my Puerto Rican Cookery book first.  I realized after additional searches that there were thousands of recipes for asopao, a one-pot, comfort food solution for family dinners and leftovers.  After reading them over, I finally circled back to Carmen Aboy Valldejuli.

One reason I chose Valldejuli’s version, is that she recommends making your own chicken broth.  Actually, she doesn’t recommend it, she just lists it in the recipe as a matter of course.  Throw in the neck, save the giblets, get it to a boil, add the broth.  I realized that I’d been taking the easy road the last few months, relying on store bought chicken broth, a handy solution but no substitute for the real thing.  In the same vein of self reliance, I decided to cut up my own chicken.  A small feat for most but a big deal for me because well, I’m just that prissy.  With a butcher shop around the corner, I’m used to stopping in, placing my order for whatever configuration I need, and heading home with a perfectly prepped chicken and neatly wrapped giblets.  That was before I started daydreaming through Thomas Keller’s ad hoc at home where he offers a step by step, beautifully photographed explanation of how to do it yourself.  If he’d included sound effects, I probably wouldn’t have tried it.  Still, when the snapping stopped, I did know my way around that chicken as promised.  While the butchering fad can go on without me, it felt good to know that if trapped on a dessert island (full of chickens) I was one step closer to not starving (provided of course someone else kills, plucks and dresses the bird).

Once the chicken was cut into 10 (to my eyes) perfect pieces, giving it a massage was positively soothing.  As the broth boiled with the spare parts, I mashed the rub together to season the rest of the chicken.  While that marinated, I set to chopping the rest of the ingredients.  When I had initially looked over the list the day before, I came across sweet chili peppers or ajíces.  In the past, I’d substituted red or green bell peppers but that didn’t seem right.  A staple of Puerto Rican sofrito, I thought it would be worthwhile to seek out.  When a local bodega told me it would be impossible to find, I was even more determined.  It had been awhile since I’d gone food questing so when I failed in Carroll Gardens I headed to Essex Market in the Lower East Side.  The Batista Market there has yet to fail me.  Right at the front, they had my peppers, small, green and shaped like habaneros but without the burn.  Next to it was the culantro, cilantro’s Latin American cousin that I was learning to do without but was thrilled to find north of Miami.

Gathering the rest of my ingredients, I started chopping, filling the kitchen with the scent of green.  In a few minutes, I’d used every used every mixing bowl I had to prep my one pot meal.  From there it was fast – a little heat and a new element every few minutes.

Despite my efforts, I let it go a little too long when I added the rice – definitely more risotto than soup and had to add a little more broth to correct it.  I was happy that I’d the effort to get it every detail right but, like most things that seem easy, it’s never so simple.

Asopao de Pollo/Chicken Asopao
Adapted from Puerto Rican Cookery by Carmen Aboy Valldejuli.

3 pounds dressed-weight whole chicken

2 peppercorns
2 garlic cloves, peeled
1 teaspoon, whole dried oregano
1/8 teaspoon paprika
2 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 1/2 teaspoons olive oil
1 1/2 teaspoons champagne vinegar

2 1/2 cups rice

9 cups of water
1 tablespoon salt

3 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 ounce salt pork, rinsed and diced
2 ounces lean cured ham
1 chorizo link (2 ounces), cut into 1/2″ rounds

1 green bell pepper, seeded and finely chopped
2 sweet chili peppers (“ají dulce” or “ajíce” for short), seeded and finely chopped
1 yellow onion, peeled and finely chopped
8 fresh culantro leaves, finely chopped

1 cup (8 ounces) tomato sauce
1 cup fresh or whole canned plum tomatoes, chopped
8 green olives stuffed with pimientos
1 tablespoon capers
1/2 cup (4 ounces) pimientos, chopped in their juice
1 tablespoon achiote paste (optional)

1 cup petit-pois, frozen
1 pound asparagus, cut into pieces (optional)

Set rice to soak in water to cover for one hour.

Divide chicken into 8-10 pieces (drumsticks, thighs, breast, wings).  Separate backbone, carcass, neck and giblets.  Wash both well and set aside.

Using a mortar and pestle, mash peppercorns, garlic, oregano, paprika, salt, olive oil and vinegar to a paste.  Rub reserved chicken pieces with seasonings.  Cover with plastic and marinate in the refrigerator, at least one hour.

Add reserved backbone, carcass, neck and giblets to a large, heavy stock pot.  Add water and salt.  Cover and bring to a boil over medium-high heat for 15 minutes.  Reduce heat to medium, and simmer for an additional 30 minutes.  Strain and reserve broth and discard carcass.  Optionally, the giblets can be reserved to add to the asopao with chicken or discarded.

Heat oil in a heavy pot over medium-high heat.  Quickly brown salt pork, ham, and chorizo, about 3 minutes.  Reduce to low and add green peppers, aji dulce, onion and culantro.  Saute and additional 10 minutes.

Add tomato sauce, chopped tomatoes, olives, capers, pimientos and achiote if using and saute an additional 5 minutes.

Add whole chicken pieces and bring to a boil over medium heat.  Cover and cook an additional 30 minutes.

Add broth (about 6 cups) and giblets if using and bring to a boil.

Drain rice and add to pot.  Bring to boil over medium heat.  Reduce heat to low, add peas and asparagus.  Cover and cook until rice reaches soup consistency.

Makes 8-10 servings.

A few months ago a friend recommended Frida’s Fiestas: Recipes and Reminiscences of Life with Frida Kahlo.  Written by her step-daughter Guadalupe Rivera and Marie-Pierre Colle, it’s part cookbook and part food memoir.  Organized by month, each chapter centers on the holidays and seasons as they were celebrated in the Blue House in Coyoacán.  Describing a trip with Frida to the pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacán, the author writes:

After offering us the traditional refreshment of agua de chía, doña Rosa invited us to eat.  She had prepared a number of Lenten dishes typically served throughout the central Mexican plain, where the gods that Frida invoked in her paintings had once upon a time resided.  As it turned out, doña Rosa and don Tomas extended their hospitality to us for three more days, days in which reality was inseparable from magic.

It’s one of my favorite cookbooks to flip through so I decided to make something from it yesterday.  Enjoying the early thaw, my first instinct was to jump ahead to April until that description inspired me to give March a chance.  Though I usually see it as the month to be gotten through, there’s also something great about a long cross-fade – it’s all anticipation.  Running through the park this weekend, I was surrounded by the same bare trees but for the first time I could see what was coming.  Deciding to be honest to the time, I chose something from the March menu and was rewarded with plenty of green.

Papas en Salsa Verde/Potatoes in Green Sauce
Adapted from Frida’s Fiestas: Recipes and Reminiscences of Life with Frida Kahlo by Guadalupe Rivera and Marie-Pierre Colle.  As the book suggested, I served the potatoes with refried beans topped cotija cheese and totopos ( fried small tortilla triangles). 

2 pounds of small potatoes
2 pounds of tomatillos, husked and rinsed
4 serrano chiles, roasted, peeled and seeded
Sea salt to taste
3/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro
2 tablespoons lard
1 large onion, finely chopped and divided

In a heavy pot, bring potatoes to a boil in salted water.  Simmer covered until just tender about 15 minutes.  Drain the potatoes.  Peel when cool enough to handle and set aside.

Add the tomatillos, garlic and half of the chopped onion to a heavy pot with enough salted water to cover.  Bring to a simmer over medium heat and cook until tender, about 10 minutes.  Drain the tomatillos reserving one cup of the cooking water.  Let cool slightly.

In a food processor or blender, combine the tomatillo mixture, chiles, and cilantro.  Puree until smooth adding water to reach desired consistency.  Do not over blend.

Melt lard in a heavy skillet over medium heat.  Add the remaining chopped onions and saute until translucent, about 5 minutes.  Add the tomatillo puree and cook until for 10 minutes.  Stir in the potatoes and continue to cook until completely tender and warmed through, about 15 minutes.

Serves 8.

Frijoles Refritos/Refried Beans
To make the refried beans, I used the frijoles negros I had frozen but pinto beans are also popular.  Using the beans and their cooking liquid creates a deeper flavor but canned beans can also be substituted.

3 tablespoons lard or canola oil
1 onion, finely chopped
3-4 cups of cooked beans with their cooking liquid
Sea salt
Grated añejo cheese
Totopos (fried small tortilla triangles)

Melt lard in a heavy skillet over medium heat.  When it starts to smoke, add the chopped onions and saute until golden, about 5-8 minutes.  Add the cooked beans one cup at a time.  Mash the beans to form a puree as you stir them in with a potato masher or the back of a large spoon.  Season with salt to taste.  Raise the heat to medium-high and continue to stir until the puree pulls from the bottom and sides of the pan.  Adjust seasonings.  Serve on a platter and top with cheese and totopos.

Until recently, I rarely fried anything at home.  I hated the smell, the splatter, the guilt.  When I started writing about Latin American food, I knew I couldn’t avoid it much longer and finally bought a deep fryer.  While it produces perfect batches of churros, empanadas and buñuelos, it’s the SUV of fryers requiring such a massive amount of oil that I keep it parked most of the time.  It wasn’t practical for smaller, any-night batches of plantains.  Maduros I can handle.  Overly ripe, they caramelize and brown in a second while using grapeseed oil keeps them light.  My tostones or chatinos, the green plantains fried twice till they’re crispy gold, however, were disasters.  I’d buy bright green plantains but put off making them till they were just about to ripen, somewhere between a maduro and tostone.  Overly cautious when I added the plantain chunks, I’d stand too far back, giving it a nervous last-minute flick, that sent oil everywhere.  Taking too long to cook because I hadn’t let the oil get hot enough, they’d soak up every extra drop.  Finally, I’d put them in a tostonera to smash down but they’d go to the side instead.  They did not look like flowery golden discs, they looked run over.  By the time I got to the second frying, both the tostones and I were exhausted and covered in oil.

That was my story until this Christmas Eve.  Papo, a friend of my Uncle’s had come over to help set everything up for dinner.  A one-man catering company, he’d been working since the day before preparing the pig for the roast, peeling yuca, and chopping plantains.  He’d just started frying the plantains but got called away to the kitchen when the oven wasn’t equipped to handle the massive amounts of rice required for a Cuban family of  fifty.  The resulting domino effect meant that in fifteen minutes we were suddenly two hours behind.  Wanting to help out, my mother, from whom I’d inherited my fear of frying, and I volunteered to take over the tostones.  I’d been pestering Papo with questions all day and was dying to do something.  He took one look at us gingerly mashing the too hot plantains between to worn pieces of aluminum foil and the defeat in his eyes was heart wrending.  He went back to the kitchen and came back with two cans of beans for even mashing.  We went to work, improving a little with each batch.  Making a dozen or so every few months hadn’t helped, but making over 200 in an hour, I learned fast.  With no time for jitters, I got used to the bubbling oil, the draining, and mashing by being careful not skittish.  In the end, the rice cooked, the pig roasted, the plantains fried, and the family ate.  Once the momentary panic was over, it was hard to remember why we’d gotten so worked up in the first place.

Tostones  (or Chatinos)
I think the reason I had so much trouble with them is that I was relying too much on the directions rather than what I had in front of me.  It is easier to wait for a digital timer to tell you it’s 365 degrees than to watch the plantains to make sure they’re cooking as quickly as they should.  Similarly, if they don’t mash evenly, they just need to be fried a couple of more minutes so test one before removing the entire batch from the oil.  If you’re making them in advance, they can be frozen after the initial frying and mashing, then fried the second and final time just before serving.

3 large green plantains
1 cup corn oil
Sea salt

Cut the ends off the plantains and slice down the middle.  Remove the peel and cut into 1″ chunks.  Heat one cup of corn oil in a deep frying pan until hot.  Add plantains in batches and fry until golden all around, about 3-5 minutes.

Test for doneness by using a can or flat bottomed bottle to smash to desired thickness.  The plantain should spread out evenly but hold together from the center.  If so, remove from oil and drain on paper towels of brown paper.*

Refry a second time till evenly crisp.  Drain once again and add sea salt to taste.  Though they’re best eaten immediately, they can be warmed in the oven a few minutes before serving if made in advance.

*At this point, they can also be soaked in warm salted water a few minutes.  This works well for thicker plantains making them more tender.  Drain well before frying the second time.

A little beginner’s luck is a dangerous thing.  I made truffles for the first and only time a couple of years ago for a dinner party.  They came out well and everyone raved.  I was outwardly modest but secretly thrilled.  Hoping I’d discovered a secret talent for handling chocolate, I could see the Brooklyn storefront in my future -warm chocolate shop, pretty apron, tiny smudge on my cheek.  Though I hadn’t made them since then, a mixed bag of failures and moderate successes have shown me just how difficult it is to work with chocolate.  It has a temper and when it turns on you, it is not cute.

I needed a gift for a friend who loves truffles so I decided to make a batch infused with orange syrup and rum.  Having attended a truffle demonstration by Kir Rodriguez, a former monk and self-described current agnostic in love with food, I followed his recipe.  As I started working, my mind wandered.  Having already set up a small chocolate factory in my kitchen, why not knock out a few extra batches for my brunch friends the next day or for the person who’s coming to hang my shelves next week?  Unfortunately, while I imagined gifting the neighborhood with prissily packaged homemade truffles, the orange syrup got gloopy, the cream boiled over and I took a small rum bath when I was trying to adjust the measurements.  The chocolate and cream did not emulsify beautifully as described, or even girlfriend cute.  Anxious to see if any of it was salvageable, I refrigerated my bowl of chocolate puree to see how it would set.  It was edible, but not giftable.

Despite my first success, I’d waited so long try truffles again partly because it had come so easy.  Friday’s fiasco on the other hand sent me immediately back for more.  I read the recipe more carefully, got the recommended chocolate, and started again.  I infused the zest and honey in the cream and remembered to measure it again after it had boiled to make sure I was adding to the right amount of liquid (260 grams add milk as needed).  Once I added the cream to the chocolate, I agitated it from the center out to create the emulsion and allowed it to set overnight as directed resisting the urge to refrigerate.  By the next morning, I could see they were in good shape, night and day from the previous ones.  I considered quitting while I was ahead and just rolling them directly in cooca powder instead of dipping them beforehand in tempered chocolate as Chef Kir had recommended.  Having regained some ground on my second try, I  couldn’t stop now.  For the couverture, I tried the accompanying easy and foolproof tempering method.  It was in fact foolproof and worth the additional step.

A little rougher than the perfectly formed spheres I’d imagined, they weren’t flawless but were certainly giftable.  I know that people enjoy the tiny imperfections that indicate something truly homemade, but I am not one of them.  I always want everything I make to be the perfect reflection of my intentions, though that rarely, well really never, ever happens.  In this case however, having seen all the tiny things that could go wrong, I could really appreciate what went right for once, and leave perfect for another day.

Orange Rum Truffles
The original recipe for the Orange Grand Marnier Truffles can be found Kir Rodriguez’s blog, The Chocolate Whisperer.  An instructor at the French Culinary Institute, he’ gives several options and possible substitutions.  I used 30 grams of rum in place of the Grand Marnier and dipped the set truffles in tempered chocolate before rolling in cocoa powder.  Click here for the original recipe for Orange Grand Marnier truffles and here for his recipe for the easy and foolproof tempering method.

With the holidays coming fast and furious, I had the uncharacteristically practical thought that it was time to make empanadas, an easy way to use leftovers.  So sensible, but after a poor initial batch involving sirloin tips and too-buttery dough, I had to start from scratch.  I was looking for something in a chicken, baked not fried, and maybe a little sweet.  That’s when I found Anya Von Bremzen’s recipe for pastela moruna, Moorish chicken with dried fruits and nuts baked in puff pastry, a specialty of Granada.  As she explains, local food historians trace its origin to the Alhambra’s Moorish aristocracy though its likely to have come from North Africa.

Van Bremzen also cites Sophie Coe’s description in America’s First Cuisine of a banquet given by Hernán Cortés in Mexico City in 1538 where an enormous empanada was served.  When the crust was broken, live rabbits and birds leapt out.  I decided to save the puff pastry for another time but knew I’d found my filling for the empanadas.  It wasn’t leaping rabbits and palace tales, but spiced with sweet paprika, ginger, cumin and cinnamon, it was like making a tiny pastry suitcase for my favorite things then eating it.

Empanadas de Pollo a la Moruna
Adapted from The New Spanish Table by Anya von Bremzen. That didn’t happen here, unfortunately.

For the filling:
1-2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 cup onion, quartered and finely diced
1/4 cup chicken stock or broth
1 1/2 cups skinned chicken, torn into bite-size pieces (from 1 medium-size rotisserie chicken)
1/2 tablespoon sweet (not smoked) paprika
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch of cayenne
1/4 cup plum tomatoes, diced, fresh or canned
1/4 cup dark raisins
Coarse salt (kosher or sea)
1/8 cup lightly toasted pine nuts
1/8 cup lightly toasted slivered almonds

Empanada dough (see below)
1 egg yolk beaten with 1 tablespoon of water
Sugar

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the onions and saute until soft, about 3-5 minutes.  Continue to cook over medium-low heat until translucent and just beginning to brown, an additional 10-15 minutes.  Add 1-2 teaspoons of  olive oil or chicken broth if skillet dries out.  Add chicken and cook for 1 minute.  Stir in paprika, cumin, ginger, cinnamon, and cayenne.  Add chicken broth, tomatoes, and raisins.  Cover and cook for an additional 12 to 15 minutes until most of the liquid has evaporated.  Remove from heat.  Season with salt to taste and set aside till cool.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

On a floured surface, roll out the dough to about 1/8 of an inch and cut it into circles about 5 inches in diameter. Lightly brush ridge of circle with egg glaze.  Place two tablespoons of filling in the center of each circle and fold in half. Seal the edges with the tines of a fork or the pinch and twist method.*

Brush with egg wash and lightly sprinkle with sugar.  Bake in upper and lower thirds of oven, switching position of sheets halfway through baking, until golden, about 25 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool at least 5 minutes.  Serve warm or at room temperature.

*Click here for an easy to follow demo of the latter technique posted by From Argentina With Love.

Homemade Empanada Dough
This recipe is adapted from A Taste of Old Cuba by Maria Josefa Lluria de O’Higgins.  I’d only used this recipe to make smaller, fried empanaditas but they dough worked well.  Click here to jump to a related post.

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 cup unsalted butter
2 eggs
1/4 cup dry white wine
1 1/2 cups filling (see above)

Combine flour, salt, and sugar into a large bowl. Cut in the butter using a pastry blender or two knives crossed like scissors until the mixture resembles coarse cornmeal.

Mix the egg with the wine in a small bowl. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and pour in the liquid. Toss the mixture gently to blend then knead the dough until well mixed. Chill for 2 hours.

Makes 24 small or 12 large empanadas.