I’m told that as a small child I was caught multiple times with a saltshaker in hand, the holes clogged up with clusters of wet salt. While I had a severe slug phobia, and may have brandished the shaker as a weapon against potential assault, the deliciously salty pattern of dots on my tongue gave away my true purpose. I was branded a Saltshaker Licker. Later, I could be found burrowed into whatever cozy spot in the house took my fancy at the time – a pile of pillows in a corner, a plush armchair with my legs draped over the side – deeply engrossed in a book, holding a cube of chicken bouillon, granular streaks of deep yellow dissolving on my tongue.
When my family lived in Japan in the early 70s, I was introduced to osembei, the roasted rice crackers glossy with soy sauce, which had the added satisfaction of being crunchy. Japan was also where I developed a liking for the one-two-three-punch pucker of the sweet, sour, and salty Li Hing Mui, a shriveled mauve-colored plum. I could nibble on the fleshy perimeter of the seed for hours, like a mutant albino squirrel working at a nut.
Considering my history, it should come as no surprise that my biggest sin in the kitchen is over-salting. The rule about tasting the dish before reaching for the salt was made for people eating at my table. I have learned over the years to steady my hand, to consciously hold back, but there is still the occasional mishap when I’m spacing out thinking about something else, not tasting enough as I go, where (gasp!) even I think it is too salty. I can easily get carried away on a soup, for instance, but fortunately by throwing in some kind of starchy vegetable, grain or pasta, perhaps, they can be easily saved. That said, the following soup I made was perfectly seasoned. (I know, big salty lead-in and then I kill it. Creative license, baby.)
When my family lived in Japan in the early 70s, I was introduced to osembei, the roasted rice crackers glossy with soy sauce, which had the added satisfaction of being crunchy. Japan was also where I developed a liking for the one-two-three-punch pucker of the sweet, sour, and salty Li Hing Mui, a shriveled mauve-colored plum. I could nibble on the fleshy perimeter of the seed for hours, like a mutant albino squirrel working at a nut.
Considering my history, it should come as no surprise that my biggest sin in the kitchen is over-salting. The rule about tasting the dish before reaching for the salt was made for people eating at my table. I have learned over the years to steady my hand, to consciously hold back, but there is still the occasional mishap when I’m spacing out thinking about something else, not tasting enough as I go, where (gasp!) even I think it is too salty. I can easily get carried away on a soup, for instance, but fortunately by throwing in some kind of starchy vegetable, grain or pasta, perhaps, they can be easily saved. That said, the following soup I made was perfectly seasoned. (I know, big salty lead-in and then I kill it. Creative license, baby.)
A few days ago it was a dark and stormy day in Shorelandia, and I was reluctant to leave the shelter of the house (lazy and didn’t want to get wet), so rustled about in the pantry and fridge until I had the makings for a lentil soup. At this point, I would usually start by sautéing some onions, adding garlic and spices, the (salty on purpose) stock I recently made from the stripped chicken carcass, the lentils, and go from there. Leftover spinach in the freezer? In it goes. All is fair in love and cooking, right? But I’d remembered seeing a recipe on Pinterest that caught my eye, and low and behold, it had the added serendipity of being in one of my favorite cookbooks! This one is adapted from an adaptation (at what point does it just become your own recipe, I wonder?) of the one from Once Upon a Tart, a bakery/café in New York whose owners had the generosity of spirit to share their recipes with the world. Next time we go to that whirlwind of a city I’m finding this place and hugging them while I reach for a muffin. From tarts, both sweet and savory, to soups and salads every recipe in this book has been a wonderland of goodness!
This soup will fill your house with the scent of warm spices, and hearty soup. Enjoy!
This soup will fill your house with the scent of warm spices, and hearty soup. Enjoy!
Lentil Soup with Coconut Milk and Indian Spices
Serves 4
1 1/2 cups French green lentils
(or brown, or even split yellow or red lentils if that’s what you have in your pantry—keeping in mind they’ll make a thicker, creamier texture and cook quicker)
6 cups vegetable or chicken stock
1 1/2 tsp. turmeric
3 Tbsp. butter, vegetable or coconut oil
1 large onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1/2 tsp. ground cardamom
1/4 tsp. ground cloves
1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
A pinch of freshly-ground nutmeg
1 (14oz) can coconut milk
A few handfuls fresh spinach (or frozen, thawed and squeeze-dried), chard or kale, washed, tough stems discarded and cut into ribbons (optional)
salt and freshly-ground black pepper, to taste
Rinse the lentils and pick out any *debris. Combine them in a pot with the stock and turmeric and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat slightly and simmer until the lentils are soft, about 20 minutes.
While the lentils are cooking, heat the butter or oil in a smallish skillet and sauté the onion over medium heat, stirring frequently, until browned and caramelized in places, about 12-15 minutes. Add the garlic and spices and fry just until deeply aromatic, about 30 seconds. Scrape the contents of the skillet into the pot with the lentils, and add the coconut milk and optional greens. Bring everything back to a gentle boil and cook another 10 minutes, or until the flavors have blended and the greens are tender. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Serve hot, or keep warm until everybody gets in one place and you’re ready to eat.
As the picture shows, I served it with homemade pita bread, but that recipe is for another time.
*Every recipe I’ve ever read using lentils says to “rinse and pick out any small stones or debris found” which makes one wonder who fell down on the stone pickin’ job, and what possible other ‘debris’ there could be in there…
Serves 4
1 1/2 cups French green lentils
(or brown, or even split yellow or red lentils if that’s what you have in your pantry—keeping in mind they’ll make a thicker, creamier texture and cook quicker)
6 cups vegetable or chicken stock
1 1/2 tsp. turmeric
3 Tbsp. butter, vegetable or coconut oil
1 large onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1/2 tsp. ground cardamom
1/4 tsp. ground cloves
1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
A pinch of freshly-ground nutmeg
1 (14oz) can coconut milk
A few handfuls fresh spinach (or frozen, thawed and squeeze-dried), chard or kale, washed, tough stems discarded and cut into ribbons (optional)
salt and freshly-ground black pepper, to taste
Rinse the lentils and pick out any *debris. Combine them in a pot with the stock and turmeric and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat slightly and simmer until the lentils are soft, about 20 minutes.
While the lentils are cooking, heat the butter or oil in a smallish skillet and sauté the onion over medium heat, stirring frequently, until browned and caramelized in places, about 12-15 minutes. Add the garlic and spices and fry just until deeply aromatic, about 30 seconds. Scrape the contents of the skillet into the pot with the lentils, and add the coconut milk and optional greens. Bring everything back to a gentle boil and cook another 10 minutes, or until the flavors have blended and the greens are tender. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Serve hot, or keep warm until everybody gets in one place and you’re ready to eat.
As the picture shows, I served it with homemade pita bread, but that recipe is for another time.
*Every recipe I’ve ever read using lentils says to “rinse and pick out any small stones or debris found” which makes one wonder who fell down on the stone pickin’ job, and what possible other ‘debris’ there could be in there…
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