Scalloped Potatoes

It was so foggy out on my walk home yesterday that I could barely see past the tip of my nose. It certainly made for interesting travel, although it was a bit dangerous -- I nearly got smashed by a bicyclist, a bus, and two cabs in my short walk from the bus stop to my apartment. I'd say that I have to be a bit more careful, but this was all on them: stop driving so quickly without paying attention to lights and traffic signals and people! Just because you're riding around in a metal box doesn't mean it's safe to speed.
Anyhow. The fog makes me sad -- it's so drippy and dreary and downright depressing that it's hard to do anything with that outside the window. It wasn't pretty fog, either -- just a mass of grey-white wetness. I am so ready for this weather to disappear, by the way. Where's the sun? Where's my promised early spring, Mr. Groundhog?! While I wait, I'll busy myself with some more winter food -- time is running out for those heavy, oven-intensive casserole type dishes. There's a bright side to every foggy day, and yesterday, that bright side was found in a hot dish of scalloped potatoes. We used to make these when I was growing up, and they're major comfort food. Just the smell makes me feel cozy, like I'm sitting in front of a fireplace with my favorite book, curled up like a cat. Is it time to go home and get under the covers, yet?
Although this is a slightly time-intensive recipe for what amounts to a side dish, it's well worth the effort. We ate the entire thing in one sitting -- but we made a half-recipe, so I suppose that's fair. It's really not all that bad for you, especially since I used skim milk and only two tablespoons of butter instead of the required four. It took me about an hour and a half, from start to finish -- that's with about 45 minutes in the oven, mind you, so it really only took 45 minutes of pure kitchen work and an additional 45 of agonized waiting.
This is a slight adaptation of Julia Child's recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1 (page 523) and the only change I made was adding a middle layer of caramelized onions. Since we only had half of a bag of potatoes -- remember those rainbow beauties I used for the potato soup? -- I was working with a smaller amount of food that I needed to succeed. So I added an onion to the dish to round it out and give it more heft, and by golly, it totally worked; in fact, I think the onion might have been the best part of the whole dish. She calls them Gratin Dauphinois [Scalloped Potatoes with Milk, Cheese, and a Pinch of Garlic]. The garlic, by the way? Totally can't taste it. It's kind of a pointless step, actually, and the only thing it did was make my hands smell like garlic for the rest of the night. But I actually like that.

Scalloped Potatoes with Caramelized Onion
Begin by preheating the oven to 425º.
Slice a medium sized white or yellow onion into long thin strips -- I do this by halving it, taking off the outer layer of tough skin, and slicing it into sections from the tip down towards the root with your knife parallel to the cutting board. Don't slice through the root, however -- it holds the onion together and makes it easier to chop. Besides, it's one of the juiciest parts of the onion and caramelizes wonderfully. After slicing it down the middle, bring your knife to the top, rounded part of the onion and slice into thin strips from the side to the middle and back to the other side. Halfway through the process, your knife will be at a 90º with the board and the onion. It's hard to explain; perhaps I'll take some photos next time.
Heat a heavy frying pan on the stove and add about a tablespoon of butter. When the foam begins to subside, add the onions to the pot. They should make a satisfying sizzle when they hit the pan; if not, the butter wasn't hot enough. This is a trick to master in the kitchen, the butter/foam/heat skill, because the foam is an indication of how hot the butter is. See this wonderful post from cookthink for more details and procedures regarding heating butter over the stove. Throw a pinch or two of salt on the onions -- it helps them sweat, releasing their juices and allowing them to steam -- and cover the pan. Lower the heat to medium-low and allow the onions to cook while you chop the potatoes, stirring occasionally to prevent burning. If they do begin to burn, simply turn the heat down and stir more often.
Child suggests that you peel the 2-1/2 pounds of potatoes, and if I were using russets or something with a tougher skin, I would go with that advice; however, I had those little rainbow babies that just look better skin-on -- and the blue potatoes made the top of my dish look extra-crispy, to the point of being burned, but they weren't burned at all: just blue! Slice them thinly: 1/8 of an inch, maximum, but thinner, if you can. After they are sliced, place them in a bowl filled with cold water and allow them to soak. When you are ready to use them, strain and dry with paper towels.
You need a heavy, shallow baking dish for this recipe, three inches deep, maximum, and about eight inches in diameter. Grab a clove of garlic and cut in half. Rub the garlic on the inside of the pan. Next, coat the inside of the pan with about 1 teaspoon of butter. Remove the potatoes from the water and dry with a towel. Layer half the potatoes on the bottom of the baking dish and top with a shake of salt, a nice dose of fresh ground pepper, and 1/4 cup of grated swiss cheese. I actually used fontina, a cows-milk cheese from Italy, which has a smoky, rich, and creamy flavor. Dot with about a tablespoon of butter, divided. Top this with the caramelized onions, which should be done enough at this point -- they'll be light brown in color (perhaps with a few dark spots where they burned, which is fine) and soft.
Layer the rest of the potatoes over the onions and season as you did with the first layer, with salt and pepper. Top with the remainder of the grated cheese and another tablespoon of butter, dotted across the top. Set the entire dish aside. Measure out about 1/2 to 3/4 a cup of milk -- I used skim, which turned out excellently, but obviously whole would be tastier -- and pour into a saucepan. Heat the milk, whisking all the while, until it boils, then pour it over the potatoes.
Pop the potatoes into the oven for about 35 to 45 minutes, testing after you reach the 35 minute marker. The potatoes will be perfectly soft all the way through with no resistance or firmness when they hit your fork. When they're soft throughout, the dish is ready to serve. D added a dash of red pepper flakes for flavor as he ate them, but they're just as delicious with no extras -- I know, because that's how I ate mine.
I can see why Child's cookbook is slightly daunting after completing this recipe. Although it's fairly simple fare when all is said and done the task of slicing those potatoes as thinly as possible -- with a substandard knife -- was difficult, but well worth the effort. I suppose that's why she begins her book thusly:

This is a book for the serventless American cook who can be unconcerned on occasion with budgets, waistlines, time-schedules, children's meals, the parent-chauffeur-den-mother syndrome, or anything else which might interfere with the enjoyment of producing something wonderful to eat. (Child, Julia, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck. Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1961, 523.)

I may be serventless, but I certainly am concerned with both my budget and my waistline, as well as my time-schedule. Whatever that may be. Still, though, this was a fairly inexpensive dish, and it tasted so fabulous that I feel no guilt over my plans to make it as soon as I get more potatoes in my house -- which may be tomorrow.

Green Beans, Blanched and Provencale

It might be surprising, but green beans aren't exactly the easiest vegetable to cook. It's not that preparing them is actually difficult: you just snap off the ends, throw them into boiling water, and that's about all there is to it. But it's not a forgiving vegetable, like the potato or even the cauliflower. It's a fine art to find that perfect consistency: soft, with a bit of snap. Overcooking them -- even by the slightest amount -- will leave you with mush. No one likes to eat mush, unless they are a dog. But even dogs deserve properly cooked green beans, if that's what they want to eat.
Green beans are commonly called string beans, but if you want to go all fancy-pants, say "Haricots Verts." This is (of course) how Julia Child refers to them in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, and since we're using her recipe, we might as well be fancy here. One of the great things about green beans is their nutritional value: they're high in vitamin K, vitamin C, and vitamin A, and shockingly low in calories. We're talking very, very low here: 43 calories per cup. You could eat two rolls of Smarties and get stuck with a higher calorie count than that. These beans are great for so many other reasons, too: consider the preferred storing method. Just throw them into a plastic bag and stick it in the fridge. They should last a whole week before starting to turn that way, which gives you ample time after purchasing to actually eat them. So many vegetables don't keep in the refrigerator for that long, and it's always a shame when Thursday rolls around and you're nixing the veggies entirely because you just don't have any good ones left.

Blanched Green Beans

Whatever recipe you choose for your beans, always give them a preliminary blanching in a very large kettle of rapidly boiling salted water. Depending on what you plan to do to them later, boil them either until tender or until almost tender, and drain immediately. This essential step in the French art of bean cookery always produces a fine, fresh, green bean of perfect texture and flavor. (Child, Julia, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck. Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1961, 443.)

Green beans require very little cooking, actually -- despite their hearty appearance, they're actually quite fragile little things. Their outer shell, though tough, is only a thin shield for the tender, airy inside portion. It has a large surface area for a vegetable, which gives ample opportunity for those tasty nutrients to escape from the bean as it is being cooked.
One way to watch out for this loss of nutrients is to pay close attention to the color of the beans: they should be vibrantly green when they are fully cooked. Overcook them and you'll end up with a greyish green blob: if you notice your beans beginning to turn grey, they're already overdone (although probably still edible at that point.)
You will start this recipe by bringing 6 quarts of water to a rapid boil. To help the water boil faster, and also help the green beans cook properly, add about 1 tablespoon of salt to the water when you put it on the stove. That may sound like a lot of salt, but it's not: the green beans won't really absorb most of it, but it will help preserve that essential green color.
As the water does its magic and works itself into a boil, prepare the beans. Snap off each end and pull slightly to remove any stringiness that may be attached to the end. This stringiness is less common now than it used to be: most farmers breed their beans to make them less stringy, so you may not have to worry about this. Still, though, you want to snap off the tip on each end before eating.
When the water is boiling, drop in the beans -- about a pound and a half of green beans total for this amount of water -- a handful at a time into the water. Bring the water back to a boil as quickly as possible (I do this by putting the lid back on the pot for a moment or two) and allow the green beans to cook for about eight minutes. After eight minutes have passed, start testing the beans: they should taste slightly nutty and a bit sweet. If they are still too raw, they'll have a kind of freshly-mowed grass flavor, so be on the lookout for that. In addition to the nutty sweetness, they should have a tender texture with just the slightest hint of crunch when they're fully cooked.
Drain immediately in a strainer or colander. Julia Child then suggests that you flip them into a hot, dry pan and toss until the water has evaporated, but I find this step unnecessary if I strain them properly. Maybe that's because I'm lazy, but I just don't find that the extra effort makes the beans any better. If you do decide to dry them in a pan, do not stir the beans -- this will break them -- but toss them gently. These beans will keep for a day or two in the fridge, and all you have to do to reheat them is boil a new pot of water, throw the beans in for just a moment until the water boils again, then drain. This simple reheating technique makes it worth it to prepare a whole pound or two at once, rather than trying to portion out just enough for the amount of mouths you have to feed.
We like to serve these with nothing more than a bit of red pepper flakes and a dash of salt, but there are many ways to jazz up these babies. One of the more exciting recipes in this book is for Green Beans Provencale, which is an involved recipe that will transform the beans into a whole salad. Peel 4 plum tomatoes and cut into wedges. Slice an onion in half, then cut into long, thin strips -- as thin as you can get them. Cover the bottom of a saucepan with water and bring to a simmer. Add the onions, along with a few dashes of dried basil and thyme. Throw in one clove of garlic -- with recipes like this, I merely skin the garlic and roast it in the pan along with everything else, then I remove it when the dish is ready to serve. This allows all the flavors of the garlic to seep into the dish with minimal effort. Bring the water back to a simmer, then cook the onions for about 2 minutes until they are soft but still retain their shape. Pour off most of the cooking juice and reserve.
Add the tomatoes to the pan with the onions and bring to a simmer again, cooking for only one or two minutes. Add some reserved juice if necessary to keep the dish from drying out. You should be left with about 1 to 2 tablespoons of the cooking liquids in the pan. Drain off any excess or add some reserved liquid to make this possible. Stir in about 2 to 3 tablespoons of olive oil and heat for only about 30 seconds, until the oil coats all the vegetables.
Remove the pan from the stove and allow the vegetables to rest until the green beans are ready. Stir in the beans and coat them evenly with the tomato and onion mixture. Allow the dish to rest for about ten minutes before serving -- the longer you allow it to rest, the saucier and tastier it will get. You may add grated cheese if you wish, but any other deviations will take away from the overall fresh, open-air flavor of this particular dish.

Soupe à l'Oignon Gratinée (French Onion Soup)

It must be wintertime, because my dutch oven is getting a lot of use. I love making soup -- it's always been one of my favorite things to do in the kitchen, partially because it's very easy and quite foolproof. Don't have enough potatoes? Only chicken, no beef? It's ok, because a traditional, homestyle soup calls for nothing in particular: just what you have on hand. Another aspect of soup that I adore is that you can use almost dead vegetables, giving you extra mileage in the kitchen for that worn out stalk of celery you didn't get around to using, or those dingy looking carrots that aren't suitable for lunches or general human consumption. No one will know if the carrots started out a little sorry in the end -- they'll be too busy eating!
My parents were kind enough to bestow upon me their original two-volume edition of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, complete with box, after I mentioned that I had procured only the second volume at a book fair. Now I have two copies of volume two, but they're different editions -- which doesn't mean much. Still, if I ever lose one copy, I guess I have another to complete the set. Good to have, I guess. Anyhow, my father is fond of making the infamous French Onion Soup, found in the first volume, so I'm pretty thrilled that I own a copy of the book now so I can make it. Growing up, we had a very important birthday tradition: anything you want to eat was made to order on your birthday. My two most requested meals? Onion soup with chicken wings was one, and the other was vanilla milkshakes and bacon. I can't imagine eating onion soup and wings now (or vanilla milkshakes with bacon for that matter) -- much too heavy -- but when I was a kid, it was like being in heaven. My two favorite things together on one plate! Oh, the possibilities!
It's been cold here, cold enough to freeze the lake over halfway to Indiana, and one of the best winter meals is a hearty bowl of soup. This onion soup is easy to make, because all you need are onions, broth, butter, and vermouth. And time -- it requires a good amount of stirring and pot-watching, but that makes a fine excuse for staying out of the cold.

Soupe à l'Oignon Gratinée (French Onion Soup)
Begin by slicing, in thin strips, five cups of yellow onions (five cups is equal to about 1-1/2 pounds, if you buy one of those mesh bags full. We got a 3 pound bag and used half of it, for example.)
Once the onions are sliced, melt 3 tablespoons of butter with 1 tablespoon of oil in a large, heavy-bottomed soup pan over low heat.
Add the onions and cover, cooking over the low heat for 15 minutes.
Uncover and add 1 teaspoon of salt with 1/4 teaspoon sugar, which helps the onions caramelize and turn a delicious golden brown. Raise the heat to medium and stir frequently, cooking for 30 to 40 minutes more. Do not let the onions burn on the bottom of the pan -- you will probably need to be in the kitchen for this entire amount of time, or nearly all of it. About 20 minutes in, start boiling 2 quarts of beef stock or broth (or brown stock as per Julia Child's recipe, also found in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which isn't extremely difficult but requires meat pieces and a fine strainer or cheesecloth. It's not hard, but it's an involved recipe.) Your onions will turn a beautiful golden brown and you'll want to eat them right away. Don't -- the best is yet to come.
Add 3 tablespoons of flour to the onions and stir for 3 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat.
Stir in the boiling stock or broth. Add 1/2 cup dry vermouth or dry white wine (we used vermouth, which is a nice ingredient when cooking because it's not really used in volumes as a drink mixer, leaving the same bottle to hang around for years before it's all killed off in one martini-binging "lets get rid of this old vermouth" afternoon.) Season with salt and pepper to taste (and, at this point if you so desire, my dad's "secret ingredient": Frank's hot sauce, just a few dashes.) Simmer, uncovered, for 30 to 40 more minutes, stirring and skimming occasionally. You really do want to skim, because a lot of the fat and flour rise to the top and form an unpleasant skin.
While you are waiting for the soup to finish, heat the oven to 325º. Cut a loaf of french bread into 1-inch wide rounds, one slice of bread per customer (or two, if you're serving small bowls.) Place on a baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes. After baking, brush each side with a bit of olive oil, then put back in the oven to cook for another 15 minutes.
Slice a few pieces of cheese -- the recipe recommends swiss or parmesan, but I'm fond of Gruyère -- and also grate a bit as well.
When the bread and soup are both ready, turn on the broiler to high. Place a slice of bread (which is referred to in the recipe as a "croute") in the bottom of a bowl. Ladle over a healthy portion of onion soup. The croute will float; place a few slices of cheese directly on the croute, being careful not to drop them into the soup.
Arrange the bowls on a baking sheet and put under the broiler for about 3 minutes, watching carefully. You do not want the cheese to burn, nor do you want to serve it without the cheese melting. It's a difficult balance to strike properly, but diligent watching will ensure that nothing goes wrong.
Serve, with a bowl of grated cheese on the side as garnish.
As Miss Child would say: "Bon appétit!"