When the year 2008 ended last week (or at least that's how it feels), this blog was only 2 months old and writing a year-end blog summary at that time would have been weird. Now that the blog is one year and two months old, a bit of reminiscence is kind of fun.
First of all, let me toast you with this blood orange-infused vodka.
I assume by now all of my readers know how to make Laab, Larp, Lahb, Lahp, Laap, Larb (ลาบ ) blindfolded. If not, won't you take a minute to visit my old post on how to make Laab in the archive and find out how ridiculously easy it is to make this Northeastern Thai meat salad as well as why I am irritating you with so many spellings of Laab? Yes, please go. I'll wait for you here.
It seems to me that the food scenes in Thailand have in the last few years moved away from the east-west fusion madness. Panaeng curry pizzas are now the thing of the past. The somewhat new trend is to reinvent the old-fashioned, classic dishes. Som Tam (ส้มตำ ), the nationally (and internationally) beloved salad featuring crunchy green papaya strands, has been given numerous innovative makeovers. Vegetable tempura Som Tam. Som Tam with salted duck eggs. Som Tam with steamed roe crabs. The list goes on and my head hurts.
People weren't happy when I detailed the virtues of my Calvados Fennel-Green Apple Confit with merely a breezy mention of the homemade liver mousse with which I claimed the confit went very well. They demanded the recipe. Threatened by the hungry, angry mob, I am here giving you the recipe for said mousse - the smoothest, creamiest, best liver mousse I have ever had. I'm not a fan of foie gras, especially foie gras torchon, but this liver mousse I love.
“Can I give you a word of advice?” my cabbie said to me as we were approaching my destination, Central World, a huge mall in the center of Bangkok. “Of course,” I said. After over an hour of discussing every topic imaginable, from the state of the country to the state of his dermatological and prostate health, our bond, at that point, was stronger than titanium. “I noticed when I picked you up that you were carrying your purse on your right shoulder,” he assumed a parental role now. “It’s better to carry it on your left shoulder when you walk in the same direction as the traffic like you did. That way, it’s harder for the thieves on motorcycles to snatch it from you.” In a left-hand traffic country like Thailand, this makes perfect sense.
That was not the first time I learned something valuable from Bangkok taxi drivers. It would not be the last.
Paris, though every bit as romantic and magnificent as they say, is not exactly a place where you can stroll mindlessly. Sure, you can look anywhere you want, admiring things the City of Light has to offer. But, as anyone who has spent any amount of time on the Parisian streets would tell you: if you don't train yourself to shift your vision downward every few seconds, you could very well become another innocent victim of the so-called canine minefield.
And just what I was thinking dedicating the first paragraph of a food blog post talking about man's best friends' byproducts, I don't quite know.
I consider myself a fairly well-trained Paris pedestrian. Being from a bustling city like Bangkok certainly helps. When you grow up learning how to make way for dashing motorcycles while walking on a sidewalk or look both ways before crossing a one-way street, circumnavigating Paris pavements is easy.
Yet, there's one area, along the short stretch between rue Sainte-Isaure and Jules Joffrin metro station in Paris 18ème, where I always, always, step on one of the mines. The small street, meandering through eateries, shops, produce stalls, rôtisseries, and charcuteries, is my Achilles' heel. The moment I enter the area, I'm instantly distracted by the sight and aroma of all sorts of grilled and smoked meat and I can't help but look around. Then, boom. I step on a mine and limbs get blown up everywhere. It's gruesome. (This has gotten better over the years, but, yeah, there was a time when it was pretty bad.)
One of my favorite rôtisseurs has a shop in that area, and he makes really good lapin rôti or roasted rabbit among other delicious things. Every time I visit his shop, I always leave with at least 5-6 pieces of rôtisserie bunny. The bone-in, skin-on rabbit pieces are smothered in his house-made herbes de provence, an aromatic blend of dried herbs in the style of Provence, that is better than any store-bought herbes de provence blends I have ever used.
These past few years, I had tried out many different formulae and, though some were quite good, none had come close to what my favorite guy puts on his bunnies. Like other spice blends such as curry powder or garam masala, no two blends of herbes de provence are alike. Everybody has their own formula/formulae and they all are referred to as herbes de provence. However, since the blend comprises five main herbs: thyme, rosemary, savory, marjoram, and lavender, I started with these. But still other than the fact that thyme is to be the most dominant flavor, you will not find a consensus on what's considered traditional.
After playing around with different ratios of the aforementioned herbs, it came to my attention that some formulae contain additional herbs such as oregano, tarragon, and fennel. That got me thinking of what could have been missing. Maybe you're different, but for the life of me, I can't tell the difference between oregano and marjoram. I mean, in a side-by-side taste test, I could probably tell the difference. But if you shove a spoonful of one of them into my mouth and force me to tell you if it's oregano or marjoram, I would most likely fail the test. With that in mind, I knew right away, that with marjoram being part of my formula, oregano couldn't have been what I thought was missing.
What about tarragon? I thought about that and decided it couldn't have been tarragon. For reasons I can't figure out, I hate tarragon. I hate it fresh. I hate it dried. I hate it like some people hate cilantro. What this means is that tarragon could not be part of something I find delicious. One more herb got eliminated.
Then in the process of making fennel-green apple confit and realized that there was something that reminded me of the herbes de provence-covered bunnies I had in Paris. Fennel is what had been missing from my previous replicas of my favorite herbes de provence formula. Eureka.
After a few tries, I think I've finally found a formula that I like the best. It may or may not be your favorite version. But if you've never made your own herbes de provence, this formula is a good starting point. Then you can play around with the ratios until you come up with what you like the most. If you own a dehydrator, by all means, use it to dry fresh herbs from your garden. If not, make sure you get your herbs from good sources so that they don't taste like sawdust.This makes an inexpensive, but classy and highly usable hostess gift or holiday present. It's great on all kinds of roasted meat and vegetables.
A jar of herbes de provence from your kitchen sure beats squirrel pants or inflatable fruitcakes.
My Favorite Formula of Herbes de Provence
Printable Version
6 parts dried thyme
5 parts dried rosemary
3 parts dried savory
2 parts dried marjoram
2 parts dried lavender flowers
1 part fennel seeds
Just mix all the herbs together and keep the spice blend in an airtight container in a dark place. The dark purple lavender flowers are so beautiful that I don't want to break them apart. However, I've noticed that unless your spice blend is ground quite finely (not completely pulverized, though), the bigger bits tend to burn and become bitter when you put the blend on meat that is cooked at high temperature. So for presentation, I keep the herbs whole. But just before I use them, I rub the herbes de provence between my palms to break them apart and release the wonderful aroma that we all love. The lavender flowers, especially, smell heavenly when broken apart just before being added to your recipe.
Cooked fennel, cauliflower, and onion, blended together, form a thick, "creamy," and silky-smooth purée that a touch of cream at the end seems almost superfluous. I call this a 3-2-1 cream soup, i.e. 3 parts fennel, 2 parts cauliflower florets, and 1 part onion. Sweat these roughly-chopped ingredients in a heavy-bottomed pot until soft and translucent. Add just enough chicken or vegetable stock to barely cover the vegetables, and blend everything with an immersion blender, right in the pot.* Bring the mixture to a gentle boil; add just enough cream to achieve a thick, velvety consistency. Turn up the heat just to warm the soup through, but do not let it boil. Throw in some toasted fennel seeds, season with salt and pepper, and serve. That's all there is to this delicious soup with which I think I have redeemed myself from the great iniquity of a recent vegicide.
This curry is no more than just a way to show you how versatile the green coconut-based Thai curry can be. Though eggplants and bamboo shoots are predominantly used to make the most traditional versions of Thai green curry, any mild vegetables with firm texture can be used. I'm not particularly fond of using cruciferous vegetables in Thai curries, however. But that's a personal thing. Also, while most types of meat can be used, I personally can't stand salmon, mackerel, sardine, or anything other than firm-fleshed, mild fish in my curry. But that's a personal thing as well. Other than the aforementioned ingredients, pretty much anything works.
The "simpler is often better" concept is easy to intellectually grasp and mentally accept, but, in my case, has proven a challenge to apply in real life. After showing up somewhat empty-handed and red-faced at our first Beet 'n Squash YOU! roundup last month, I fell yet again into the ever-so-alluring trap of over-exertion of effort and over-enthusiasm to impress. With the deadline for Battle Fennel approaching, the pressure was mounting, and more and more innocent bulbs of fennel perished on a daily basis at my murderous hand.
Invariably, Yam Khai Dao (ยำไข่ดาว) or Thai fried egg salad is made out of fried chicken or duck eggs. I prefer to use quail eggs. When you use fried chicken or duck eggs, each fried egg needs to be cut into quarters to make it easier to eat. Once the quartered fried eggs are tossed in the dressing along with the other ingredients, the yolks get separated from their whites since they've been cut open. It's not the worst thing in the world, and some people even prefer that since some the integrated yolks get mixed into the dressing which makes the dressing a bit creamier. I don't.
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