Tales of a Noodle Extruder

I'm not going to say for certain one way or the other, but it's a distinct possibility that one sunny day in mid-October, I asked Santa if I could have a noodle extruder for my husband's birthday.

I realize that at this juncture—despite your best intentions to hear me out—certain pressing questions may occur to you, including but not limited to:

(a) Don't people usually ask Santa for presents for Christmas, not birthdays? and
(b) Aren't these people usually under the age of 10? and
(c) Aren't you not under the age of 10? and
(d) Don't we usually focus on gifts for the person actually having the birthday rather than associated household members? and
(e) What on earth is a noodle extruder?

 

Fortunately for you, Santa proceeded to actually get me a noodle extruder for my husband's birthday, which means I can answer (e) with pictures. It doesn't really shed light on (a) through (d), except to point out that my request wasn't nearly as futile as you (and, frankly, I) originally assumed. I'm thinking Santa might be a closet foodie.

According to various online dictionary sources, a noodle extruder is: "Not Found," which is in direct contrast to my own personal experience and suggests that the authors of said dictionaries may not be in particularly good North Pole standing.


Which leaves defining a noodle extruder to me. And, technically, Google. Which would probably do a much better job. But you're here now, so why not stay?





Perhaps unsurprisingly, a noodle extruder's main business is to extrude noodles. You put the pasta dough in the top, turn a crank, bounce up and down once or twice before noticing that you're right in front of the kitchen window and several neighbors are passing by looking in curiously, rearrange your facial features into a solemn and nonchalant "whatever, I'm just here extruding some noodles" expression, and then forget yourself in the next instant as you catch a glimpse of the first homemade fusilli you've ever made just starting to peek out (see bounce-inspiring photo above).

Then you cut the noodles, turn the crank some more, stop suddenly as if struck by a brilliant idea, pull down the shade so you can bounce in peace, and continue on your merry way accumulating an entire cutting board full of endearingly misshapen fusilli. Or macaroni. Or bucatini. Or whatever your favorite shaped pasta happens to be.

Of course, there are still a few tricks to iron out. The multigrain pasta dough recipe we use for our pasta machine ended up a little too tacky to make perfect noodles, which need a bit more structure to stand up without folding in on themselves. And perhaps each noodle shape needs its own tailored dough recipe. We clearly won't know until we've tried every one. And because we are selfless, generous cooks who care first and foremost for the welfare of our readers, we are going to do this. For you. And for Santa. Because we care. Also because the kitchen shade is still down, so no one can see if we're bouncing.

Bucatini, anyone?

Mixed Greens with Garlic and Toasted Walnuts

This turns out to be a perfect side dish for pumpkin soup. Or just about anything else, for that matter. Make it when you have an assortment of dark leafy greens on hand and want something fall-like and delicious and quick to dress up the side of your plate.

Ingredients

Olive oil

1 garlic clove, smashed

Mixed braising greens (e.g., baby mustard, baby kale, chard, beet greens, amaranth greens, etc...chop larger greens or cut crosswise into ribbons)

Splash veggie or chicken broth

Coarsely chopped walnuts

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Heat a glug of olive oil in a nonstick pan over medium heat. Add the smashed garlic and saute for 2-3 minutes until it softens, then add the greens and toss to coat. Saute, tossing occasionally, until the greens start to wilt. Add a splash of broth, cover, and let simmer and steam for a couple minutes (if using baby greens) or 4-6 minutes (if using big greens). If the pan gets too dry, add a little more broth. Stir every couple of minutes or so.

Meanwhile, toast the walnuts in a pan over medium heat, shaking from time to time, until lightly browned. Remove from heat.

When the greens are tender, uncover the pan, steam off any excess liquid, and then serve on a warmed plate. Drizzle with a little olive oil, sprinkle with walnuts, salt, and pepper to taste, and serve hot.

Curried Pumpkin Soup with Ginger

This soup is straightforward and fairly quick as homemade soups go, and involves (are you ready?) both pumpkin and curry leaves. Needless to say, I adore it. It's good on its own, and downright heavenly if you pair it with toasted strips of whole wheat lavash bread—just take a sheet of lavash, slice it crosswise into 1-inch strips with a pizza wheel, and lay the strips on a baking pan that you've lightly coated with olive oil. Toast in a 400°F oven for 4-6 minutes or until golden brown and crispy, then use the strips to dip in the soup as a sort of edible spoon.

Which brings me to a point that's been bothering me for seven to ten seconds now: Why aren't all spoons edible?

Ingredients
Olive oil
10-12 fresh curry leaves
1 large sweet onion, chopped
Medium-hot, good-quality curry powder
Fresh ginger, sliced thinly and julienned (about 1 tsp or a bit more)
15 oz canned pumpkin (one can)
1/2 bay leaf
3 cups chicken and/or veggie broth
Ground cumin
Freshly ground white pepper
Pastured cream
Fresh cilantro for garnish

Heat a soup pot over medium heat. When hot, add a glug of olive oil. Add the curry leaves and let sizzle, stirring occasionally, for about 30 seconds, then add the onion and saute until golden around the edges, turning the heat down slightly if necessary.

Push the onion to the side of the pot, and add about a tbsp of olive oil to the empty side. Add a spoonful of curry powder and the ginger, and toast in the oil for 10-20 seconds, then stir to combine with the onion.

Stir in the pumpkin, broth, and half bay leaf (the half is so you can figure out which is the bay leaf rather than the curry leaves later on, to fish it back out). Cover, bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and simmer for about 30 minutes.

Turn off the heat, remove the half bay leaf, and blend with a hand blender until smooth or desired consistency. Add additional ginger, a dash or four of cumin, and freshly ground pepper to taste. Stir in a slosh of cream.

Garnish with the chopped cilantro, and serve warm (rather than piping hot, which actually obscures some of the flavor) with strips of toasted lavash or pita bread.

Serves 3-4.

Polenta Pancakes

I could go on and on about polenta pancakes. The slight crunch of golden toasted cornmeal on the outside. The creamy sweetness of yellow polenta on the inside. The all-consuming desire to track them down at a local breakfast place. The slightly deranged look on my face when I announced, after getting home from a disheartening encounter with an inexcusably dry and mealy "corn pancake" at a restaurant whose name I have blocked out of my memory due to the trauma of unmet expectations, that FINE then, fine, you know what? We'll just learn how to make them ourselves. What do you say to THAT? (The restaurant, by now severely out of earshot, did not in fact reply. But we showed it. Oh yes.)

Admittedly, our first attempt was dry and mealy. So I can commiserate, I suppose, with the forgotten restaurant's corn-based difficulties (but seriously, shouldn't they have tried more than once before putting it on their menu?). Our second attempt, adapted from this recipe in the New York Times, yielded a true polenta pancake in all its glorious perfection.

 

Ingredients

1 cup coarse-ground corn meal

1/2 tsp kosher salt

1 1/3 cups boiling water

1/2 tbsp chickpea flour
1 1/2 tbsp whole wheat flour (plus extra if needed)

Olive oil (yes, extra virgin as always)

1-2 oz pastured whole milk

1/4 cup pine nuts, lightly toasted

a scant 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Mix the cornmeal and salt in a medium bowl and add the boiling water. Whisk immediately to combine and let sit for 10 minutes to allow the cornmeal to soften and absorb most of the water. Stir in the flours halfway through.

Slowly stir in the milk with a wooden spoon until the batter is "spreadable but still thick," as it says in the original recipe. (You can add another 1/2 tbsp whole wheat flour if needed to keep it from getting too thin.) Stir in 2 tbsp olive oil, the vanilla, and the toasted pine nuts.

Heat a nonstick skillet or frying pan over medium heat. When very hot, brush quickly with olive oil (you want a thin layer along the bottom) and then pour in the batter in 1/4 or 1/3 cup scoops. The scoops should spread out slowly in the pan -- if they don't spread, add a tbsp more milk to the remaining batter, and if they spread out quickly and get too thin, add a little more flour.

Cook for 2-3 minutes until the edges look dry and the bottoms have turned a lovely medium golden brown. Flip carefully, and cook another couple minutes until both sides are golden. Keep the pancakes warm as you cook the next batch (either on a plate on the stove under foil or in the oven). Try not to stack the pancakes too high on the plate, since they'll start to stick together.

Serve with a little butter and maple syrup, or raspberry jam, or blackberries, or whatever else strikes your fancy over the top.

Serves 2-3.

Bread and Butter and a Watermelon Radish

Speaking of simple yet addictive, try this one, suggested by our CSA box insert long ago and resurrected after my mom gave us a watermelon radish.

A watermelon radish, in case you don't know, is what Gandalf would be if Tolkien wrote salads instead of books (and you've already met Sauron). Putting radishes and butter on bread is apparently a French thing, and at first glance not related to Tolkein in any way, until you have it as a 10am second breakfast one morning and realize you're going to need to introduce third breakfast as an excuse to eat another before lunch.

Ingredients
Freshly baked bread, sliced
Pasture butter (or a good quality, salted, European-style butter)
Radishes, thinly sliced

Lightly butter the slices of bread, and cover with a single layer of radish.

Seriously, that's it. The crunchy bite of the radish brings out the creamy sweetness of the butter and makes this a perfect mid-morning snack. Or mid-afternoon snack. Or post-dinner pre-dessert snack. Whichever.

Pan-Fried Zucchini

I know what you're thinking. Off she goes for a whole week, and all she comes back with is zucchini slices? But before you judge, consider this: Happiness is three mostly-plant ingredients, a pan, and a recipe that will take less than ten minutes. For those nights when you want french fries rather than vegetables. (Until you make this and decide what you really wanted was pan-fried zucchini. You just didn't know it yet.)

Ingredients
Zucchini or other green summer squash, sliced into circles*
(go for 1/8 to 1/4" thick. The thinner the slices, the faster they cook.)
Olive oil
Kosher salt

Heat a nonstick pan over medium heat. When hot, drizzle the bottom lightly with olive oil. Add the zucchini slices in a single layer (a little bit of overlap is fine, but use a wide enough pan that you don't have to double the layer, since they'll release some moisture and too much liquid will prevent them from browning).

Pan-fry until golden brown on the bottom, then flip the slices and brown the other sides. If your slices are on the thicker side, you can cover the pan after a few minutes to steam them a bit and help them cook through (unlike most other vegetables, I tend to like zucchini better the softer and more cooked it gets). Uncover the pan again if you start to see a pool of liquid building up, and let it evaporate before recovering.

When the slices are well-browned and soft, turn off the heat. Sprinkle with salt and serve hot.


*If your name is Luke, please ignore the recipe from this point on. Instead, sprinkle with heat and serve.

Ode to the Curry Leaf

It's hard to be sure, of course, in the absence of rigorous scientific experimentation, but I am nevertheless 60-82% certain that the majority of the world's problems could be solved by the curry leaf. For example, wars. Given the choice between going to war and eating a perfectly cooked mustard seed crusted salmon filet wrapped in curry leaves, most people would obviously devour the latter, at least if you set it down in front of them and they could smell the rich scent of toasted curry leaves wafting from their plate.

Also lots of other problems. I don't have time to go into them now. Too busy plotting our next excursion to acquire more curry leaves.

So here is my advice to you: Buy them. Borrow them. Don't necessarily steal them from old ladies because I can't bring myself to publicly condone that sort of behavior (although obviously if an old lady had ALL the curry leaves in the area and utterly refused to give you any when you gently encouraged her to share by pulling as hard as you could on the bagful that she was carrying, an extra-hard tug might be justifiable). If you're in Berkeley, Vik's has them (as well as most or all of the ingredients for the dal below); in NYC, go to the little store underneath Sigiri (after stuffing yourself at Sigiri, of course) and look in the refrigerator case.

Anywhere else, look for an Indian spice store somewhere and ask them if they know where you might find some in the area. (If you've had curry leaves before, note that it is understandable yet nonetheless considered poor form to grab people urgently by the collar as you do this.) The leaves will keep well in the freezer without losing much taste for up to a month or so. And they're DIVINE. Have I mentioned that? Divine.

What to do with your curry leaves, once you acquire them? Heat some olive oil in a pan, add several fresh curry leaves and saute for a couple minutes, then add other things. Cook and eat. Repeat as needed. Or make this (I'm sorry, that conjunction was entirely incorrect. Allow me to rephrase: AND make this).

Sri Lankan Dal Curry over Yellow Basmati Rice

I have no idea where we found the original recipe that gave rise to this dish (so let me just go ahead and thank anyone on the planet who knows how to cook Sri Lankan dal, for making the world a much better place), but we've adapted it over the last few years to come as close as possible to the lentil curry at the incomparable Sigiri in New York. It looks much more complicated than it is, because of all the spices, but it's actually a very straightforward recipe once you have the ingredients on hand.

Dal Ingredients
Olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
2 large cloves garlic, pressed
1 tsp black mustard seeds
1/4 tsp yellow mustard seeds
2 stemfuls of curry leaves, washed and dried (when in doubt, err on the side of more rather than less)
1 tsp Aleppo pepper (or 3/4 tsp if you want to keep it mild; can sub a minced hot pepper)
1 1/2 cups toor dal (small yellow lentils), picked through carefully, rinsed, and drained
1 cinnamon stick
1 tsp turmeric
1/4 tsp ground fenugreek
3 cardamom pods, cracked
2 cloves, lightly crushed
1 can coconut milk, divided (reserve 1/3 cup for the end)
Salt

Rice Ingredients
Olive oil
1 tbsp sliced almonds
2 tbsp golden raisins
4 curry leaves (optional)
2 generous pinches saffron
1 1/2 cups white basmati rice


Heat a generous glug of olive oil in a medium-to-large pot. Add the onion and saute over medium heat until soft, then add the garlic. Saute for a minute more, then add the mustard seeds, curry leaves, and Aleppo pepper. Saute for another minute or two, stirring occasionally.

Add the dal, cinnamon stick, turmeric, fenugreek, cardamom, cloves, most of the coconut milk (reserving 1/3 cup), and 2 cups of water. Stir, cover, and bring to a simmer. Turn the heat down to low and simmer rapidly until the dal is tender (about 20-25 minutes), stirring every 10 minutes or so. You may want to leave the lid ajar for the last ten minutes or so if it seems very soupy (or leave well-covered if it seems to be drying out).

Meanwhile, heat a teaspoon or so of olive oil in a small pot over medium heat. Add the curry leaves and almonds and saute for a couple of minutes until they just start to turn fragrant (but before the almonds have really started to brown). Add the saffron and golden raisins and stir a few times, then add the rice and stir to coat evenly. Pour in just over 1 3/4 cups water, cover, and bring to a boil. Turn the heat down to low and simmer for 15 minutes or until the rice is cooked through (the ratio of water to rice is going to change slightly depending on your rice and stove and pot, so check a few minutes before it should be done and add a tablespoon more water if necessary, or leave the lid ajar to boil off excess liquid).


When the lentils are tender and soft, turn off the heat, stir in the last 1/3 cup of coconut milk, and season to taste with salt. Remove the cinnamon stick, cardamom pods, and cloves (as far as we can tell, it is only possible to find three out of four of the smaller whole spices at a time. If you're worried that your dining companions will stare at you accusingly if they happen upon a particularly pungent bite, tell them that whoever finds the last one "wins." Kind of like a King Cake, only with a cardamom pod where the plastic baby should be.)

Serve the lentils over the rice, with a side of sauteed greens.

Serves 3-4.

Eggplant and Tomato with Fried Basil and Quinoa

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away from our stove, fried basil met a balsamic reduction. It was, of course, love at first sight, but their affair began in difficult times: In the absence of grocery shopping, the protein choices had dwindled to quinoa or lentils. Eggplants and tomatoes from the produce box shifted anxiously on the counter, unsure of how to play together. A lone garlic clove stood watch in the fridge, while two tired and hungry cooks waited impatiently for inspiration, or a lost and unsuspecting pizza delivery guy. Whichever came first.


Then we made this. It had no right to be either delicious or filling, but it was both, and we'd make it again in a heartbeat.

Ingredients
1 cup mixed red and white quinoa (you'll have a bit extra for leftovers)
1 1/4 cups vegetable broth
1 clove garlic, smashed
2 small japanese eggplants, halved lengthwise and cut into 1/2 inch slices
2 tbsp veggie broth
Black mustard seeds
20 leaves fresh sweet basil, chiffonade
1 medium heirloom tomato, thickly sliced
3 tbsp balsamic vinegar
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Rinse the quinoa and then let soak in cold water for 15-20 minutes. Drain well.

Combine the quinoa and broth in a small pot, bring to a boil, and turn down the heat to low. Simmer for 20 minutes or until the liquid is absorbed.

Heat the balsamic vinegar in a small pot over medium heat until it simmers, then turn down the heat and simmer gently until the volume is reduce by half. Set aside.

Meanwhile, heat a nonstick frying pan over medium heat. Add a generous glug of olive oil and the smashed garlic clove, and let it cook for a minute to flavor the oil. Add the eggplant and toss to coat lightly with oil. Sprinkle in a light scattering of mustard seeds and a pinch or two of salt. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant begins to brown.

Add the veggie broth and cover the pan, turning down the heat to medium-low. Let steam for 2-4 minutes. The eggplant should have mostly cooked through. Uncover, let any remaining liquid evaporate, and push the eggplant to one side of the pan. In the other side, heat about a teaspoon of olive oil (turn the heat back up to medium), and then toss in two-thirds of the basil. Fry for about a minute, then stir to combine with the eggplant. Add the tomato slices, gently stir a couple of times, sprinkle with salt, and turn off the heat.

Mix about two-thirds of the quinoa with a little olive oil, a teaspoon of balsamic reduction, a pinch of salt, and some freshly ground black pepper in a bowl. Divide into dishes. Serve the eggplant-tomato mixture on top, and drizzle with balsamic reduction before serving.

Serves 2, and pairs well with (I can't believe I'm saying this) roasted beets.

Roasted Romas

Lest we ever be accused of size-based tomato discrimination, let us be clear: we run an equal opportunity tomato roasting operation here. And yes, roasted cherry tomatoes are amazing. But let's not forget that tomatoes of all shapes and sizes deserve a chance to be roasted. And we are here for them. Oh yes. Right here.

 

For roma tomatoes, start the oven at 325°. Halve lengthwise, turn face up on a nonstick baking sheet, and drizzle with a little olive oil. Roast for 30 minutes, then sprinkle with salt and turn the oven down to 300°. Cook for another 15 minutes.

Remove from oven and drizzle each tomato with a little balsamic vinegar. Replace in oven, roast for five more minutes, and then serve garnished with basil chiffonade and freshly ground black pepper.

Roasted Tomato Salad with Basil and Balsamic Reduction

We're pretty sure, having tasted this, that anyone currently in possession of cherry tomatoes is morally obligated to roast them.

Seriously. A raw cherry tomato is delightful. Roasting makes it...I don't know how to put this. Profound. World-changing. I now strongly suspect that the key to world peace will ultimately be found inside the roasted cherry tomato. You say I'm exaggerating. I can see where you'd get that intuition. But I say, try these. Then tell me what you think.

Ingredients

1 basket cherry tomatoes

Olive oil

Kosher salt

2 tbsp balsamic vinegar

A few basil leaves, chopped or chiffonade
(or fino verde, separated into individual leaves)

Black pepper

Preheat oven to 300° F.

Halve the cherry tomatoes (crosswise if round, lengthwise if oblong). Toss gently in a bowl with a little extra virgin olive oil and a pinch or two of salt. Pour onto a nonstick baking sheet, spread into a single layer, and turn face up. Roast in the oven for 30-35 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat the balsamic vinegar in a small pan or pot over medium heat. When it begins to simmer, turn heat down to medium low, and simmer gently until the volume reduces by half. Remove from heat.

When the tomatoes are done, serve in a bowl, sprinkle with a little basil and black pepper, and top with a spoonful of balsamic reduction.

Serves 2, but you'll want more, so why not go ahead and double the recipe?