This is a reblog intro from: Chez moi
How to cook courgette flowers
One of the best things about shopping at farmers markets is the potential to be surprised by the fleeting appearance of unusual and special produce rarely seen in supermarkets. And so it was one morning at the Davies Park Market, when I spotted several trays of bright yellow courgette flowers at one of the stalls we frequent. I have eaten courgette flowers at restaurants a few times, but had never seen them for sale in their raw, unadulterated purity. It is unlikely that you would ever find them at supermarkets because the short life span of the delicate flowers makes them unsuited to withstanding supermarket conditions and customer expectations of reasonable shelf life. The flowers deteriorate quickly, and in an ideal world I would cook with flowers plucked minutes ago from own vegetable garden. However, finding a tray of 20 bright and still-waxy flowers at the market is surely a close second, especially when some random planetary alignment had earlier made me buy a container of fresh goat cheese from the stall around the corner.
The result was a plate of tender-crisp courgettes attached to stuffed, flavour-packed flowers that would make a special nibble to serve with pre-dinner drinks, or, in my case, a luxurious lunch for one.
Then follows step-by-step recipe and photographic instructions for:
Courgette Flowers stuffed with Goat Cheese and Herbs
Now, I wonder what wine you’d pair with that?
Eggplant (Solanum melongena) is a species of nightshade commonly known in British English as aubergine... – Wikipedia
There are few vegetables that I find distasteful, this great purple monstrosity is one of them.
They are related to tomatoes and potatoes (Solanum family), both of which I love. Technically, the aubergine is not a vegetable, but rather a berry.
Nutritionally, eggplant is low in fat, protein, and carbohydrates. It also contains relatively low amounts of most important vitamins and minerals. A 1998 study at the Institute of Biology of São Paulo State University, Brazil, found eggplant juice to significantly reduce weight, plasma cholesterol levels, and aortic cholesterol content in hypercholesterolemic rabbits. – Wikipedia
I know all this, but why does it have to be so obnoxious?
Then I found this, it almost seems appealing; appealing enough to try.
How to make the perfect baba ganoush
Is this delicious smoky dip the ultimate aubergine recipe – and which side of the great tahini divide are you on?
Everyone has their gastronomic tics – those dishes, or ingredients, or techniques, that suddenly make everything else on the menu look like ugly sisters. The word “smoky” generally does it for me, although I’m a sucker for a nice juicy aubergine as well, so if baba ganoush is available, you can keep your boring old hummus – my pitta is only going in one direction.
Like the ubiquitous hummus, this is a dish of indeterminate origins: Levantine is probably as specific as you can fairly get, because it pops up, under a variety of names, from Turkey to Egypt as a dip, a salad, or a vegetable side. It might be loose and smooth enough to scoop with bread, or so chunky you need a fork to tackle it – but never less, as Anissa Helou observes, than “exceptionally good”. And, with aubergine season drawing to a close, this is the time to tackle it.
Where there’s smoke …
Rebecca Seal’s baba ganoush.
Smokiness is what defines this dish, setting it apart from your common or garden baked aubergine. Ideally, I’ve found, this is best achieved over a hot barbecue, but unless the weather’s picked up dramatically in the last few days, you’ll be relieved to know other options are available.
Helou, writing in Modern Mezze, suggests pricking and grilling them, an option also given by Claudia Roden and Rebecca Seal in her book Istanbul. The latter two also, however, give the option of charring them directly over a gas flame, as in Yotam Ottolenghi’s recipe. I find this, though much fiddlier and messier, gives a far better result: the grilled aubergines seem shrunken and almost desiccated, while the others are fairly bursting from their burnt skins.
David Lebovitz hedges his bets, charring them over a flame and then baking them in the oven until soft, but I’m not sure I see the point, as long as you bear in mind the advice given to Seal by Gençay Üçok of Istanbul’s Meze by Lemon Tree restaurant: “If you think the aubergines are done, they’re not done.” They need to be not just charred, but collapsing in on themselves, and decidedly soft all the way through.
Draining and chopping
Yotam Ottolenghi’s baba ganoush.
Once you’ve made a complete mess of your hob charring the skins, they need to come off – Ucok seems to think that some people rinse the aubergines in water to get rid of them, which he strenuously warns against, but none of the recipes I find dare suggest such heresy.
Scooping the flesh out of the papery skins is easy enough: Seal says that some Turkish cooks also reject any flesh that is even slightly discoloured, but, like her, I enjoy the “intense smoky flavour” these bits supply, so I won’t be wasting any.
Even after all that cooking, aubergines are watery little things, and if you’re not to stray into blandly soggy territory, you need to squeeze as much liquid out of them as possible. This is generally done with patience and gravity, but Seal and Roden both suggest squeezing the flesh out in a sieve, rather than letting it drain for Ottolenghi’s “hour at least, preferably longer”, and I must say that, if done diligently, the results seem just as good.
Ottolenghi may be averse to squeezing because he leaves his aubergine in “long thin strips” rather than mashing it gently, as Seal, Helou and Roden recommend. This makes it more of a salad than the dip I’m after – a bit of texture is welcome (Lebovitz whizzes his up in a food processor to give a smooth puree that reminds me more of hummus than anything else), but I also like baba ganoush to have a bit of creaminess about it.
Claudia Roden’s baba ganoush.
Happily, as it’s another ingredient I carry a candle for, garlic is number two in the basic trinity of baba ganoush. Quantities vary, with Helou going for a modest single clove to six aubergines, while Roden uses a clove per aubergine. I like a hefty whack of the stuff, so I’m copying her, but if you’re shy, by all means add it to taste.
The final element of every baba ganoush, mutabal or patlican ezmesi is lemon juice – and again, quantities vary. Helou is once more parsimonious, as is Ottolenghi, while Roden merrily squeezes in as many lemons as she uses aubergines. I’m not going to go quite so far: too much citrussy sourness spoils the smoky richness of the aubergine, but the dish should have a certain zing nevertheless.
Tahini and other additions
David Lebovitz’s baba ganoush.
The great rift in matters baba ganoush seems to be over adding tahini: Seal and Ottolenghi leave it out, and Lebovitz adds a very generous 130g ladleful, which may help to explain why his silky smooth baba ganoush tastes so much like hummus. The dish is pretty good without it, but I love the way the sweet nuttiness works with the creaminess of the slow-cooked aubergine, so I’ve added just a little – not enough to overpower the other ingredients, but certainly enough to make its very Levantine presence felt. Roden also, unusually, adds Greek yoghurt to her recipe. It is lovely, but I feel it robs the dish of its lemony, garlicky punch, so I’ll be leaving it out.
Herbs and spices
Anissa Helou’s baba ganoush.
Lebovitz adds chilli powder, “and sometimes a pinch of ground cumin” to his dip; both ingredients that work well with aubergine and tahini, but neither absolutely necessary for the proper enjoyment of the dish.
Ottolenghi adds 75ml olive oil to his, which makes sense as he’s not using tahini, but as I am, I prefer to do as Helou suggests and ring the dish with oil instead in the traditional fashion, so each dipped pitta gets a little of both. Helou and Ottolenghi also suggest garnishing the dish with pomegranate seeds, which look pretty if you have them, but are less vital than the chopped herbs that most people suggest as a topping.
Parsley and mint are the most usual choices; Ottolenghi uses both, and Helou suggests either/or, while everyone else plumps for one or the other, except Lebovitz, who goes for parsley or coriander. I’m not sure about the latter’s soapy flavour here: the peppery sharpness of parsley seems more fitting, but best of all, in my opinion, is sweet mint, which pairs very nicely with the aubergine.
Lebovitz and Seal stir some of the herbs into the dish itself, which I like – it guarantees a burst of freshness in every mouthful, and stops the greedy stealing the garnish. After all, this is a dish that’s all about sharing.
The perfect baba ganoush
2 large aubergines (about 650g)
Juice of 1 lemon, plus a little extra
2 tbsp tahini
2 garlic cloves, crushed
3 tbsp chopped mint or flat-leaf parsley
1 tbsp pomegranate seeds (optional)
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Blacken the aubergines over a gas hob or barbecue, turning regularly with tongs, until completely charred and collapsed (you may wish to surround the rings with foil, as it can be messy). Allow to cool.
Slit the aubergines lengthways and scoop out the flesh in long strands, discarding the skins. Put in a sieve and leave to drain for 30 minutes, or squeeze out if you’re in a hurry. Season.
In a serving bowl, stir the lemon juice into the tahini until it loosens up. Add the garlic and two-thirds of the chopped herbs, and season again to taste. Add a squeeze more lemon juice if necessary.
Mash the aubergines gently with a fork, and then stir into the tahini mixture. Top with the remaining herbs and the pomegranate seeds, if using. Pour a moat of oil around the edge and serve.
Tahini is a paste made from ground, hulled sesame seeds used in North African, Greek, Turkish, and Middle Eastern cuisine. Tahini is served as a dip on its own or as a major component of hummus, baba ghanoush, and halva. – Wikipedia
What do you know about bananas?
Oh, you know, it’s yellow fruit…
But, did you know that the banana isn’t actually a fruit?
It’s a herb, the biggest variety of herb on the planet.
The banana plant is the largest herbaceous flowering plant. The plants are normally tall and fairly sturdy and are often mistaken for trees, but their main or upright stem is actually a pseudostem that grows 6 to 7.6 metres (20 to 24.9 ft) tall, growing from a corm. Each pseudostem can produce a single bunch of bananas. After fruiting, the pseudostem dies, but offshoots may develop from the base of the plant.
So, now you know that banana tress are not banana trees, they are actually a herb called Musa.
The banana that you are most familiar with is the Cavendish (above), which appeared about 1960s after a fungus that attacks the roots appeared and killed off many plantations of Gros Michel (or Big Mike). You see bananas are not supposed to grow in plantations, but man of course doesn’t recognise these little nuances of Mother Nature; you grow bananas in a plantation and it makes it easy for the crop to be wiped out. Bananas are best grown in individual clumps, away from other clumps, this protects them from the spread of disease.
Pity about the Gros Michel, apparently it was a much better tasting banana than the Cavendish.
How many other varieties of bananas exist?
Lots, in fact there are about 1,200 varieties of bananas and some of them aren’t actually bananas. There are ensets, plantains and many different cultivars.
You can check out this useful link on ChowHound to find out about various cultivars and their uses.