Baja Sessions

“If you drive down the California coast and just keep goin' and goin' you'll find yourself in a place called Baja – more cactus than people, more time than worries and surrounded by the ocean and the sea...” (from Chris Isaak's Baja Sessions album cover). And this is exactly what we did, my companion and I, driving from Southern California all the way to Lands End, Cabo San Lucas and back. In 8 days.

It was a pretty long time ago. When Baja was dreamy, Cabo San Lucas was made of dirt roads and there was more livestock than cars on Highway 1. We were zigzagging back and forth from the ocean to the sea, skinny-dipping whenever we dared. Now and then, we got stuck in the sand and used our frying pan to dig out our old bronze Chevy van. The only real headache was if we needed to put on shoes so we wouldn't step on scorpions.

Wherever I looked, the slopes along the road were vivid from the chili peppers that were laid out drying. I fell for the colors: the bright blue sky, the softest white sand, neon-green limes, strikingly red tomatoes, nearly black avocados displayed at the little mercados. I admired the huge pale green cacti with their violent-looking thorns and was in awe of the unbelievably kitschy sunsets. Our diet consisted of Coronas at 10 cents a pop, rice, beans, tortillas and fresh seafood. Some mornings we went clam digging and fried them right there and then. And I discovered ceviche.

A perfect hot-weather food, fresh fish is marinated in lime juice until no longer raw. Succulent with the wonderful tang of lime, every bite is tender yet firm, and the flavor is complemented by juicy tomatoes, tiny dice of sweet onion and a few flecks of cilantro. A little jalapeño pepper adds some bite, and a pinch of fragrant Mexican oregano a kind of earthiness. I ate buckets full.

We were limping back across the border with the obligatory stomach bug on Sunday late at night just in time for my job Monday morning, bright and early at 7 am. Oh, but Baja is so worth it.

Baja Ceviche

Serves 4

½ pound of sushi-grade fish (salmon, scallops, halibut)

Juice of about 3 - 4 large limes

1 small tomato, chopped, seeds removed

¼ fresh jalapeño pepper with seeds

1 tablespoon finely chopped sweet onion

2 tablespoons chopped cilantro

1 healthy pinch of Mexican oregano

salt and pepper to taste

Cut up fish into 1/2 inch pieces and mix with lime juice (start with the juice of 2 limes) to almost cover. Refrigerate 3 – 4 hours or just until fish looses transparent look, replenish lime juice as needed to keep fish submerged. Stir occasionally. Scallops will take the least amount of time, salmon the most. Add tomato, jalapeño, onion, cilantro and crumbled oregano. Let stand for 1 – 2 more hours.

Season with salt and pepper and serve with creamy avocado and crisp tortilla chips.

Try the jalapeño pepper before adding and adjust quantity according to spiciness. I sometimes toss in a little cayenne at the very end.  

Teeny Tiny Household Jam

Our household is a pretty tiny one, so cooking happens on a much smaller scale, which is not a problem unless I mull over jam-making. A lot of recipes ask for copious amounts of fruit and that makes way too much for our modest needs. I have visions of cabinets jam-packed (sorry, had to do it!) with jars that no one will ever eat. My cousins still have their late daddy's jam that he made almost 20 years ago.

Although it's really nice when friends and relatives share their yummy homemade jams with us, to me it just seems wrong not to make my own. To be perfectly honest, besides the slightly absurd quantities, one of the other drawbacks is actually the canning. The whole process just stumps me; the need for a large canning pot, sterilized canning glasses, lids and rings, pectin, the pop-pop of the seals. It seems inordinately involved when all I want is a couple of jars of preserves.

And then, last spring, Bon Appétit magazine gave me just what I've been trying to find, a no-fuss recipe for a beginning-of-summer strawberry jam. It fills two small glasses with my favorite fruit jam, it's a piece of cake to make, and best of all, no canning required!

From our farmer's market I get the very freshest organic strawberries which are small, fragrant and brightly colored. The distinctive aroma of strawberries wafts through my kitchen while I stir them over low heat with a wooden spoon. I gently mash the berries and admire their lovely red hue with its matching pink fizz trimming. The tangy apple and zesty lemon juice bring out the pleasingly sweet and exquisitely strawberry-ish taste. It has bits and pieces of apples and berries, vibrant until the very last spoonful. Oh, and if I run out, I can quickly whip up another batch.

Bon Appétit's Easy Strawberry Jam

Enough to fill two small glass jars (approx. 7 oz each)

1 pound fresh strawberries, hulled and quartered

2/3 cup sugar

1 large Granny Smith apple, peeled and coarsely grated

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Combine quartered strawberries and sugar in a medium-sized pot. Stir in grated Granny Smith apple. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring and breaking up strawberries, until sugar dissolves. Simmer until jam is thickened, about 15 minutes, fold in lemon juice.

Transfer to a bowl and let cool. Fill two small glass jars with lids and chill until set, about 2 hours. Keep refrigerated and use within a few weeks.

Tastes great on a fresh baguette or brioche smeared with sweet butter; stirred into plain yogurt or as a filling for paper-thin pancakes.

P.S.

happy popper - happy hour

Illustration by Majalisa

It’s always Happy Hour somewhere

I’ve always thought that whoever invented Happy Hour was ingenious. Sure, Happy Hour has been an American institution since the sixties, and there are still plenty of Happy Hours around with reduced prices for drinks and appetizers, even Starbucks has one! But the Happy Hour I am thinking about dates back a few years, when most of my friends and I lived from paycheck to paycheck, and drinks were really cheap. A few dollars took care of a pleasant little buzz and dinner. 

Once a week or so, when slipping out of work around 5 o'clock, I could always count on a handful of friends and coworkers who were in for Happy Hour. I loved the really dark bars, where I needed to give my eyes some time to adjust before I could even see a barstool. They felt cozy yet a little bold at the same time. Fancy sweet cocktails were just what we itched for with peculiar names like Fuzzy Navel, B52 or Sex on the Beach.

Cheap drinks were one thing, but the free food was just as important. I had a knack for snooping out the best places, and we often snacked on little meatballs speared with toothpicks, taquitos, chips and salsa, vegetables and dip, spicy chicken wings, and always lots of dangerously delicious fried food.

Surely one of my all-time favorite bites at these Happy Hours were jalapeño poppers: bright green and slightly spicy jalapeño peppers filled with mild, velvety cream cheese, breaded with fine crumbs and deep-fried to a golden brown. They were served piping hot with ranch dressing. I loved how the flavors exploded in my mouth: spicy, cheesy, crunchy and hot all at the same time, that was one yummy food rush! 

Peach Schnapps and Bailey's Irish Cream are not high on my list anymore, but for poppers, I still have a hankering. 

Skinny Poppers
Inspired by Rachael Ray

8-10 large jalapeno peppers, cut in half lengthwise, stems and seeds removed 

Filled with a mixture of:

4 oz each of softened cream cheese and finely grated Manchego cheese

½ shallot, finely chopped

1 cup cilantro, very finely chopped

Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste










Roast in 425 degree oven for 12 - 15 min until peppers are slightly charred and filling is tinged golden brown.

Great as a side to all kinds of grilled meats or chicken.

Grandma Elsa's Elderberries

My maternal grandmother Elsa was a tough cookie with a frosty disposition. She was clearly not your typical doting granny; I don't think she ever gave me a hug or even a gift, except some money on birthdays.

From what I've been told, Grandma Elsa was born when there was still a Kaiser in Germany and was brought up in a virtuous household. She went to a strict Catholic school and experienced both world wars: the first one as a child, the second one as a married woman with children. She was a widow as long as I can remember, lived in a wonderfully airy apartment overlooking our small town, smoked like a chimney and had huge bunions, which were always of great fascination to us kids.

Nevertheless, she showed her affection for my sisters and me in other ways, and one of my better memories of her is feeding us delicate elderberry blossom fritters. Elderberry bushes are prolific in the foothills of the Alps where we grew up. Although we were told to stay away from the actual berries because of the freaky fact that they are slightly poisonous, the blooms are a different story altogether. In spring, Grandma Elsa picked their delicate clusters of ivory blossoms with their heady and uniquely fresh and fruity scent. She brushed them carefully to remove small insects and debris and dipped them into a silky and eggy pancake batter. She quickly fried them to fritters light as air and dusted them with powdered sugar. We girls loved munching on them, giggling about the powdered sugar that stuck to our noses.

It's a good thing that the French liqueur St-Germain has brought the subtle fragrance of elderberry blossoms to America. There are tons of cocktails mixed with St-Germain, but I prefer the simple concoction of an elegantly pale gimlet. Sweet-tart lime juice is a great accent to aromatic gin perfumed with a splash of elderberry blossom cordial. It’s very tasty, pleasantly boozy, and makes me instantly think of Grandma Elsa and of springtime in Germany, a grown-up reminder of a childhood memory.

French Gimlet
(I like to call it the Elsa Gimlet)

Adapted from the St-Germain website

2 parts Gin

1 part St-Germain and maybe an extra splash for a sweeter version

½ part freshly squeezed lime juice

Pour into ice-filled cocktail shaker and shake well. Strain into a small martini glass and garnish with a lime twist.

“She got a bottle of tequila, a bottle of gin, and if I bring a little music I could fit right in.”

- Counting Crows

Sweet Vespa

Ever since I caught my first glimpse of a real Vespa, I have been in love. To this day, the pleasing muttering of their engines and their happy sounding horns make me think of a warm summer evening in Italy, of licking a gelato in a piazza, my hair blowing in the wind, not a worry in the world.

The closest I ever came to a Vespa was a little automatic Zündapp motorbike, which was the German version of the beloved Italian scooter. I worked on my mother for an entire year, until she finally broke down, and I rolled my very own shimmery purple beauty right out of our family's motorcycle business-showroom. It drove all of 15 miles per hour, no driver's license or helmet were needed, and the only requirement was being 15 years old. It was pure joy.

Unfortunately, I find that neither a little motorbike nor a Vespa are very practical for me these days. But I still like all things Vespa, not only for the great memories of my little motorbike, but also for the Italian tie-in. It's amazing how many Vespa accoutrements are out there, and they all keep my love alive. My latest is the cutest little scooter cookie cutter that my sister Sophie sent from Italy. I have baked Vespa cookies ever since.

My cousin Carol, who always comes up with a new Vespa accessory, has given me the most perfect cookie recipe. I don't typically go crazy over cookies, and I am not too fond of ones with frosting, but these are an exception and just too yummy to pass up. They are rich and sweet, crumbly and tender, and the icing melts in your mouth. A hint of spicy-fragrant nutmeg gives the cookie character and sprightly lemon zest in the buttery frosting is just the ticket. They are happy little cookies and any shape works: hearts, stars, you name it. I just happen to love Vespas!

Cousin Carol's Sour Cream Cookies

1/2 cup butter

1 cup sugar

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 2/3 cups unbleached flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon soda

¼ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg

Lemon zest of 1 lemon

½ cup sour cream (not low fat)

Heat oven to 425 degrees.  Mix butter, sugar, egg and vanilla in a bowl using electric mixer until well combined.  Mix dry ingredients together with lemon zest and nutmeg in separate bowl. Add to creamed mixture alternately with sour cream and blend on low speed until ingredients start to come together. Finish kneading dough by hand until smooth. Wrap in clear plastic wrap and let rest in refrigerator for ½ hour. Roll to 1/8 inch thickness on well floured surface.  Cut with your favorite cookie cutter and place on parchment paper-covered baking sheet. Bake 8 to 10 minutes until fragrant and golden brown.

Lemon Butter Cream Icing

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 tablespoons milk

Zest of 1 lemon

2 cups powdered sugar

Mix all ingredients, using additional milk if needed to get the desired consistency. Spread on cooled cookies and enjoy.

Der Wienerschnitzel

Years ago, when America was still new to me, it cracked me up when people told me with conviction that Wiener Schnitzel is a hot dog. While I was longing for a crispy breaded pork chop when driving by one of the tall Wienerschnitzel restaurants with their steeply pitched roofs, folks where happily chomping down on a hot dog.

The name is very tongue-in-cheek funny and a clever example of America 's ingenious way of playing with words. A “Wiener” is indeed the slangy name for a hot dog in Germany, coming from “Wiener Wuerstchen,” but that is where the similarities end.

A true Wiener Schnitzel is made of a thinly pounded piece of veal, breaded and quickly deep-fried. In its hometown of Vienna, Austria I've seen them larger than dinner plates, the meat thin as a sheet of paper, served with lemon wedges and sometimes with a little mound of local cranberry preserves. 

On the other hand, in Germany, I know Wiener Schnitzel as a boneless pork chop: tenderized, breaded and quickly pan-fried in butter. It's slightly chewier than veal with a pleasantly meaty taste. I have devoured Cotoletta alla Milanese in Italy where lean bone-in breaded veal is cooked in olive oil. And in Argentina, my beef-loving friend of same origin, Carola, tells me, a Milanesa is typically prepared with a flattened piece of filet (beef or pork).

In the end, it's always a lean cut of meat, pounded very thin, and dipped first in flour, then in a salt-and-pepper-seasoned egg wash, and lastly in fine breadcrumbs. It's quickly pan-fried to crispy deliciousness, served hot with a flavorful interior while mouthwatering scents hang around the kitchen. I pile a salad of spicy arugula and a few sweet cherry tomatoes tossed in a lemony vinaigrette on top. A perfect juxtaposition of hot and crunchy with cool and fresh. Nothing against hot dogs, but when it comes to Wienerschnitzel, this is what I'm talking about.

Wiener Schnitzel with Lemony Arugula

Serves 4

8 Pork loin chops, boneless and wafer thin, 2 ½ oz each

1 cup all-purpose flour

1-1 1/2 cups fine, unseasoned breadcrumbs

2 eggs, whisked and generously seasoned with salt and pepper

Trim any excess fat from chops and with a meat tenderizer, pound to about 1/4 inch thickness. Distribute flour, eggs and bread crumbs into three different soup plates and dredge one pork chop at a time first in flour, shaking off any excess, then into the egg mixture until coated evenly and finally in the fine bread crumbs. Sauté in plenty of olive oil approximately 3 minutes per side until cooked through and golden brown.

Lemony Vinaigrette

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed Meyer Lemon juice

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon mayonnaise

1/4 teaspoon sugar

salt and pepper to taste

Whisk all ingredients vigorously until creamy and brightly yellow. Mix a few handfuls of Arugula and a couple of halved cherry tomatoes and toss with dressing. Pile high on hot Schnitzel and serve immediately.