Collard Green Wraps

June 9th, 2010

I’ve been on a kale kick lately, adding it to everything, from soups and salads to stir frys, not just for its versatility, but for its excellent nutrition. But, it occurred to me that kale, in all its forms but especially the black kale, in all its ribbed, bumpy glory, has been the undefeated champion of greens in my kitchen for quite awhile now. So, I’ve decided to stage a coup with some disgruntled greens that remain, as a whole, haplessly underwhelming – sometimes unknown – to the majority of the population, like the mustard and turnip green, and the hearty, very southern collard green.

Collards – derived from colewort, meaning “cabbage plant,” and known otherwise as the botanically boring tree-cabbage or nonheading cabbage – is a cool-season vegetable rich in the vitamins A, C and K, a bit of B, iron, folate, magnesium, potassium and calcium. Despite the collard’s popularity in raw food circles for its large, enveloping leaves and fibrous nature as a wrap in place of tortillas, the vitamins and minerals contained in the collard green are more accessible cooked than when raw (except for the heat intolerant Vitamin C), and the plant, too, when growing, fares best in warm weather, but still tolerates cold weather better than any other member of the cabbage family. Collard greens are traditionally used as a replacement for kale in Portuguese cuisine – the delicious caldo verde soup of collards, onions, potatoes – but they are best known as a popular food in Southern cooking, popular to the point where they are one of the three foods people immediately associate with Southern soul food – those iconic three of fried chicken, collard greens and black eyed

peas. In the South, collards, along with other bitter greens, are traditionally cooked with a fatty meat, ham hocks and other pork derivatives the most traditional, keeping the collards intact as the main object of attention; the pork meat not only lends a mellowing flavor to the normally astringent flavor of these greens, but also imparts an important digestive function: gelatin.

Broth made from meat and animal bones is a great source of sodium, chloride and iodine, as well as magnesium, potassium and important trace minerals. Broth made from fish carcasses and fish heads is also rich in additional substances that nourish the thyroid gland. Properly made, broth is also a rich source of gelatin, which research has shown to be an excellent aid to digestion and assimilation of cooked foods, even tough ones like the collard green. Unfortunately, when cooking collards (and other dark greens) nutrients are leached out, displaced instead into the cooking water. Most people, including myself, tend to throw this broth of sorts down the drain, without a second thought about what that greenish-yellow hue to the water might really mean. At least the Southerners know what it’s all about: this cooking liquid or “pot likker,” as it is called in Southern states, is often soaked up with a piece of hot cornbread. And, good thing too – not only is it choke full of nutrients, but when cooked with meat bones, it’s also full of gelatin and various amino acids. This creative use of broth has traditional roots in other countries, such as in the Ukraine, where Beet Kvass was traditionally ingested regularly – a digestive drink made from beets, whey, sea salt and water, and then fermented over a few days.  Next time I make some collard greens with a bit of meat, I’ll make sure to keep an open mind about using all the ingredients – pot likker included.

This actually brings up an interesting point: why don’t we use everything from cooking – like carrot tops, animal hooves, broccoli stems, and, most of all, organ meats? Growing up with a mom who was born and raised in Mexico, I grew accustomed to hearing her confounded remarks about American food culture:

*referring to chicken heart* Don’t throw that away! That’s the best part! *nibbles on heart with the utmost satisfaction, murmuring a bit as she chews the very squishy organ, like biting into a tongue that cuts apart like ricotta cheese*

In Mexico we don’t waste a thing – we eat the meat, the skin, the liver, the heart, the brains, the lungs, toes… you name it, we’ve eaten it.

You don’t like the menudo?

It took awhile before I relished open experimentation with sweetbreads and other organs, the best of which, I think, is the liver, of which my mom couldn’t agree more. She loves liver, which is the opposite stance that Mimi, my boyfriend’s mother takes, insisting that the liver is “full of toxins,” it being the filtering organ through which wastes are disposed. I’m more inclined to agree with the eating of organs, if not just for the flavor, then for the fact that foods steeped in cultural tradition – in this case Mexican – tend to be foundational foods for a reason. Foods that trace back years in a culture’s antiquity have stood the test of time usually because a) they’re indigenous to the region, and b) they provide vital nutrition of some kind. Plus, it’s hard to imagine that our hominid ancestors would have nitpicked over their latest kill, deciding to forgo the organs in favor of the muscle tissue they’d reap from their next kill in, oh, who knows when. Right, like they’d take that chance. Oh, and guess what vitamin flourishes in organ meats? That’s right, Vitamin D, only the most vital vitamin to have slipped under the noses of Nutritional Scientists, who recently discovered it to be incredibly important, if not the most important vitamin for all our bodily workings. And, coincidentally enough, we all have ridiculously low amounts of Vitamin D in our systems, even with adequate sun exposure.  Just as luck would have it, I’m sure collard greens have some devastatingly crucial apex in Southern cooking nutrition. What do you have to say about that, Michael Pollan? But, that’s a debate for another post – back to collard greens.

I find that collard greens have a taste unlike other bitters. Mustard greens I still have to develop a taste for- they’re very, very bitter, and must be cooked in the right way, absolutely never eaten raw – and Kale is only slightly bitter, more tart really, that quickly mellows into something more like arugula or baby greens. Plus, kale can be eaten raw by manually breaking down its cellulose a bit, through physically manhandling it with some fat – I like avocado – to soften it. It makes it quite palatable. Collards, on the other hand, must be cooked, or at least that’s what I believe. Collards are very tough, and very fibrous, and this physical mashing technique doesn’t work as effectively as it does on kale, with its softer leaf. Collard leaves can withstand a lot of external punishment, so it’s best to submerge them in a few inches of boiling water, in a longer blanch than usual, to break down its hard, cellulose exterior, and make the nutrients viable. Kale, I think, tastes better with a quick blanch, as well, but collards are greatly improved by a long blanch of 8 minutes or more – it sounds like a lot, but it’s well worth it.

The great thing about the sheer immensity of collard leaves is that they make excellent wraps, which I like to pair with an asian-inspired dipping sauce. For this dinner, I made sure to de-stem the leaves, then blanch them whole until they were bright green and pliable, but still sturdy enough to not rip apart upon rolling. You may fill these wraps with whatever you please – julienned zucchini with basil, some heirloom tomatoes, brown rice and sprouts would be nice – but I chose to make a raw pate of carrots and almonds, with a zesty soy based sauce accompaniment. Depending on their size, they’re quite filling, but they’re great as appetizers whenever you want a showstopping, and still healthy starter for guests at your next dinner party.

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Collard Green Wraps

1 bunch collard greens, de-stemmed, cut down the middle in half, and blanched

2 zucchini, julienned

5 basil leaves, chiffonade

Pate:

1 cup almonds

1 tbsp ginger, freshly grated

2 cloves garlic

1 tsp sea salt

3 carrots, chopped

2 celery stalks, chopped

1/4 cup yellow onion, chopped

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

1/2 lemon, juiced

1/2 cup raisins

ground pepper to taste

Process almonds into a powder. Set aside. Process ginger, garlic and salt, then add the carrots, celery and onion and pulse into small pieces. Add the olive oil, lemon juice, raisins and almond powder back in to mix well. Place a heaping spoonful – approximately 1/2 cup – on one end of a collard leaf, add some slivers of zucchini and basil, then roll neatly all the way to the other end, like a sushi roll. Repeat until all the leaves are used – it’s ridiculously easy. Serve with the following sauce and enjoy a delicious and healthy meal!

Dipping Sauce:

equal amounts of tamari and rice vinegar

splash of sesame oil

splash of chili oil

fresh lime zest

chopped scallion

toasted sesame seeds

finely minced garlic toasted slightly in sesame oil

Toss together. Experiment with the flavors. See what you like best.

Buttermilk Biscuits

June 7th, 2010

Please excuse me while I drool myself into a stupor.

Judging from my tantalizing description for my Cheddar Cheese Rosemary Biscuits, it’s easy surmise that I like a good biscuit. And, I don’t like just any biscuit – biscuits, while easy in principle and easy to master, a “quick bread” they are most typically referred, are still a finicky food for some. I encounter many a biscuit whose delicious potential is tragically marred by the slightest of grievances -  over-beating, having been baked too low in the oven, an improper ratio of wet to dry. The first is the easiest to overlook, since beating is fun – a good shoulder workout, too – and we think too fastidiously about it, wanting to beat out every lump and make a smooth batter. We fail to realize that beneath its cloak of simple mechanics, beating has chemical consequences. Gluten, that persnickety protein, likes to gather its strength from a good, vigorous beating, and thus any biscuit batter beaten into oblivion will have a greater development of gluten. What does that mean for you? Chewy biscuits with no crumble to the bite. We like our sourdoughs to have a dense chew, but our biscuits? Not so much. Biscuits should always be soft and a bit crumbly, never chewy.

There are some biscuit recipes that call for a harder countenance, influenced historically by the reliance on hardtack – that notorious sea men’s food, seemingly impervious to all environmental stress, and composed of equal amounts of flour and water, maybe some salt, and then baked to a rock hard brick that could last for years if stored properly, making it good for those long journeys overseas before the advent of canned foods – but biscuits, largely, are soft creations, meant to be enjoyed with tea or as an accompaniment to dinner due to their simple and bland nature, most recipes calling for only flour, water, salt, baking powder and a tiny bit of butter. To this day, biscuits have hardly had their share of the limelight compared to their close relatives the scone and the muffin. Many cafes rely on the golden tactic of serving coffee alongside a sweet bread of some kind, taking the form usually of pastries (croissants), muffins and/or scones. Due to their popularity, muffins can be sweet, featuring blueberry, chocolate, cranberry orange, lemon poppy seed, and apple oat, or more savory, featuring bran, corn, oatmeal, zucchini dill, and much more. Scones, too, follow along this same spectrum, and like muffins, they may boast sweet glazes and syrups to further enhance their taste. The biscuit, on the other hand, can only adopt savory flavors, it traditionally an after-breakfast food, and so it doesn’t have quite the same fancy panache as the muffin or scone. Biscuits are definitely rustic, peasant fare, probably correlated more with the bland and nondescript dinner roll than either a muffin or scone: the pauper to the prince. But, that doesn’t mean it can’t boast delightful flavor combinations all on its own.

Biscuits may be made with the sparsest of ingredients – just flour and water – so they’re a great recipe to have when you find yourself in a pinch for ingredients after a long weekend of making tarts and flourless chocolate tortes. The best biscuits, however, have a good amount of dairy in them – both butter and milk – to give that fluffy interior that either clouds open in a fluff of steam or crumbles into layers from the richness of butter. My mom always uses a fork when mixing her biscuit batter (or any batter, for that matter), but I prefer to use my hands, given they’re cold enough not to emulsify the butter. The rule of thumb is simple, and can be used universally when adapting any ingredients into your biscuit dough: mix the dry ingredients and cut in the butter (if using), then just splash the whole thing with milk until you form a dough that is wet enough to stick to your hands annoyingly like paper mache, but not so wet that it doesn’t goop together securely in a measuring cup. I always appreciated this slapdash quality to biscuits, where the careful measuring and fastidious adherence to rules rampant in the pastry world need not apply. Biscuit baking fairly defines my mom’s approach to baking – she would mound flour in a bowl, roughly eyeballing its size, and then sprinkle a bit of this, glop a bit of that, and magically work the preposterously unplanned mess into something not only resembling a biscuit, or pie, or cake, but actually make it taste wonderfully delicious, too. When it came to biscuits, she would make the regular, old-fashioned kind, the one you’ll most likely see in Country Living magazine or books on Southern Kitchen foods, that flake apart and have a crispy, golden halo atop the otherwise pale midsection. Then again, she also made some pretty unappetizing, pallid white globs with disturbingly amorphous and spiky tops – the easiest of easy drop biscuit – that led you into thinking they tasted like sandpaper and then, lo and behold, did end up tasting like sandpaper. My mom is not a perfect baker. But, in her defense, I find it hard to call any biscuit perfect.

Cheddar Cheese Rosemary biscuits are hard to beat, but these Buttermilk Biscuits, I think, are almost as good as it gets in BiscuitLand. They’re hearty, rustic enough enough to be baked in a cast iron pan, and so rich they’re a meal unto themselves. They’re incredibly versatile, too, just at home alongside a French Onion Soup as they would alongside some thick, red bean chili and roasted chicken. Frankly, if left to my own devices, I’d eat the entire pan in one, lengthy sitting. That’s usually followed by a day of digestive recuperation, though, so I wouldn’t recommend it.

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Buttermilk Biscuits

2 cups all purpose flour (or whole wheat if you want a heartier biscuit)

1 tbsp sugar

2 tsp baking soda

1 1/4 tsp baking powder

1 1/2 tsp salt

5 tbsp butter, cold, cubed

2 tbsp melted butter, for brushing

3/4 cup buttermilk

1/2 cup heavy cream

Preheat oven to 475 degrees and butter down a 9″ pan. Combine all dry ingredients except one cup of flour and cut in the butter. Stir in the buttermilk and heavy cream, then let stand for 5 minutes, to soften the flour. In another bowl place the remaining cup of flour and flour your hands very well – trust me, this next part is gooey, goopy, and globs of fun. Measure out a handful of dough and carefully toss back and forth in your hands, about three times to coat it with flour and roughly shape it, and then place in the baking pan. Repeat until you have tightly filled the pan with round lumps of dough (for my pan, I ended up with 8 – 7 for the perimeter and 1 in the middle). Make sure they touch each other so they bake into one another. Brush the tops heavily with the melted butter and bake for 15 or 20 minutes, until they’ve browned, almost to the point where they looked burned for a better crust (if they brown too quickly, cover them with foil).

Enjoy.