Oops, wasn’t I supposed to be on vacation? Well I am, but I was feeling so guilty for abandoning you for so long that I decided to stop by and share a few bites to tide you over. And, well, it could possibly be that two weeks of uninterrupted relaxation isn’t all it’s cracked up to be…but you didn’t hear that from me!

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Ever wished you could see what really goes on behind the scenes of a professional food photo shoot? Well, this ain’t it, but it is awfully funny.

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Thanks to British Airways and their new ‘entertainment on demand’ system, I had a choice of over twenty movies to watch at my leisure on my flight over, which almost made the nine hours in a sardine can bearable. While I’m usually happy watching anything on planes as long as it takes my mind off the tedium, rarely do I see something I enjoy so much I’d almost consider staying on the plane for the return flight just to see it again. Waitress was one of those movies. In case you missed this wonderfully poignant indie film about love, pies, and pregnancy go ahead and place a big red circle around November 27 on your calendar because that’s when it’ll be out on DVD. The movie is funny, witty and wise with superb acting and first-rate pie porn, but what makes it so heartbreakingly compelling is actually knowing the tragedy that happened behind the scenes. Sweet, sad and highly recommended.

And since we’re on the topic, what are some of your favorite food-centric flicks?

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There’s been some heated debate making the rounds recently about what to call food-focused people. I must be living under a rock, because I had no idea that the consensus for many people is that the term foodie is as passé as cucumber foam, implying culinary elitism and a slavish devotion to trends. It’s not exactly clear to me which term is poised to take its place – chowhound? epicure? food freak? – but whether you agree with it or not, it would seem that self-designation as a foodie is now verging on a political statement.

Let me just say that when I was first discovering food, none of these terms yet existed. When my parents wanted to tell their friends how into food I was, they called me a ‘gourmet cook’. In fact, they still do. The funny thing is that nothing makes me cringe as much as this term; aside from the fact that my interest in food extends far beyond cooking, I’ve always interpreted it as implying that I’m the kind of person who insists on sticking sundried tomatoes in everything and would sooner cut off my arm than serve my guests supermarket-quality balsamic vinegar (neither of which, incidentally, could be further from the truth). At any rate, after years of silently rebelling against gourmet cook, I welcomed the term foodie when it came along, despite the fact that it sounded kind of funny, since here at last was a term that simply conveyed a passion for food, whatever type of food and in whatever capacity that may be. Little did I suspect that within a few short years even this term would carry its own connotations of culinary snobbery, but as linguists are so fond of saying (okay, maybe they’re not, but they should be), the only guarantees in life are death, taxes and semantic shift.

Nevertheless, it kind of puts me in a quandary. I’m not ready to go back to being a ‘gourmet cook’, and none of the other current options quite tickles my fancy either. Thanks to Tea and her grandfather, though, I think I’ve found the solution. Next time anybody even starts to debate food monikers around me, I’ll whip this out of my hat:

"You can call me whatever you want, just don’t call me late for dinner."

Bulgarian Tarator (Cold Yogurt Soup)
 

The beginning of September in Edinburgh always takes me by surprise. After a month of chaos and crowds and revelry the streets are strangely quiet, the nights descend with an unfamiliar chill, and the shaft of sunlight that floods our bedroom every evening vanishes almost before it arrives. I guess it stands to reason that summer has been on its way out for a while, but somehow that fact tends to get lost in all the commotion so that when September does arrive it just feels so abrupt, like someone has flipped the big seasonal switch in the sky. Although I appreciate the delights of fall as much as the next person, and realize that it promises much to look forward to in the food department, try as I might I just can’t shake the nagging thought that I should have made more of summer while it was here, since at these latitudes, it’s only a matter of weeks until we’ll be lugging out the stewpots and casserole dishes and firing up the oven in preparation for another long, dark winter.

Luckily, over the past few days we’ve been given a reprieve. In fact, we’ve had more warm sunny days in a row than we’ve had since, oh, April. It couldn’t have come at a better time, actually, desperate as I am to cling to summer for just a little bit longer, and realizing it may be the season’s swan song I seized the chance to attack some of the backlog of warm-weather recipes I never got around to making. The cold soups in particular were tempting me, and over the past week we’ve enjoyed Ximena’s fantastic gazpacho, a pungent ajo blanco that I’m fairly certain everyone I talked to the next day knew I had eaten (if only I had seen this version first!), and a lovely puree of corn and basil that would have been even lovelier if the corn I bought actually had some flavor. We also had a soup that I’ve been meaning to write about here for ages – probably since starting this blog, in fact – which is so simple and so refreshing and thus so perfect for summer that it’s really criminal I never have until now.

And telling you about this soup, in fact, is really the excuse I needed to say a few words about Bulgaria. Although you’ve all politely refrained from prying, for two and half years I have been mum on the whole issue of how Bulgaria came to be listed among the places Manuel and I have called home over the years. You’ve heard more than you probably ever wanted to about Spain, Ireland, Germany, California, Seattle and New Orleans, while poor Bulgaria has been sitting forgotten in the corner like the crazy old uncle everyone avoids at family reunions. In all fairness, though, I tend to write about what I know, and in fact I don’t know that much about Bulgaria since it wasn’t me who lived there, it was the other half of my household.

Manuel moved to Bulgaria in 1988, when he was twelve. At that age it obviously wasn’t his decision; it happened because his mother married a Bulgarian she met through her job in Germany, and he took them back with him to live in Sofia. It was, I am told, a rocky time to be there, what with the downfall of communism and food shortages and all, and the fact that the marriage was soon on the rocks didn’t really help matters either. They did manage to make it work for four years, though, during which time Manuel integrated himself pretty well in his strange new surroundings, learning important things like the language, that Bulgarian girls were just as mysterious as their German counterparts, and that bribery was an art all but necessary to live in any kind of comfort.

He also, of course, learned quite a bit about Bulgarian food. In fact, although those four years were, as he says, some of the most challenging, confusing and difficult of his life, the one thing that seems to have left an imprint on his psyche greater than all the hardship was what he ate. Now, I have to stop for a minute and explain that this is a man who has always amazed me by how unattached he is to the foods of his childhood. While there are a couple of exceptions, namely a spaghetti Bolognese recipe from his mother that features curry powder (!) and a strange packaged dessert from Dr. Oetker called Rotweincreme (a mousse-like substance made with red wine he has been bugging me to duplicate for years, so if anyone has a recipe, please do speak up), for the most part, when he waxes lyrical about food it concerns things he’s developed a taste for as an adult; e.g. nachos, jerk, tiramisu and anything with peanut sauce.

Bulgarian food, however, brings out something in him nothing else does. Whether he’s recalling the cheese-stuffed pastries he used to buy on his way home from school, the eggplant dip and walnut baklava his step-grandmother made, the simple country salads and spindly feta-stuffed peppers that were a staple of every meal, his eyes get all misty as if each one were triggering him to relive the experience all over again. Many of his best-ever food memories come from that time as well, and time and time again he’ll eat something – anything from yogurt to vegetables to desserts – and tell me that while good, it really can’t hold a candle to the way it tasted in Bulgaria. In fact, his connection to this food seems far deeper than four years should account for; the only thing I can figure is that the intensity of experience of those four years was so profound that it shaped not only his perception of the food at the time but the way he views it in his memory.

Bulgarian food is by and large simple, hearty stuff, and this soup, along with being one of Manuel’s (and my) favorite Bulgarian dishes, is one of the simplest. It’s called tarator, which you may recognize as sharing a name with this Turkish sauce, but trust me, the two are nothing alike. This tarator can be eaten thick (in which case it is considered a salad) or as a thin and highly refreshing soup, which is how Manuel learned it. It contains very few ingredients, just cucumber, yogurt, garlic, salt, and a handful of fresh herbs (dill, mint and parsley are all used but we prefer just mint); some recipes additionally call for ground walnuts but I prefer the slightly non-traditional embellishment of a crown of toasted almonds, which even Manuel (who tends to be quite the purist when it comes to Bulgarian food) agrees is an awfully fine innovation. In Bulgaria it’s a quintessential summer dish, eaten, I am told, nearly every day by most of the population as a prelude to meals. While we don’t eat it nearly that often around here, I do have to agree that very few things are better at reviving a flagging appetite on a warm summer day, if, like us, you’re lucky enough to still have a supply of those. If you’re not, well, I’m sure it’ll go down down just as
well as a prelude to stews and casseroles and all manner of rib-sticking fall fare too. In fact, give us a week or two and I’m sure I’ll be able to confirm that for you firsthand.

Bulgarian Tarator (Cold Yogurt Soup)

Serves: 4 as part of a larger meal

2 large cucumbers, peeled and diced
2 cups (500ml) thick Greek, Bulgarian or wholemilk yogurt
1-2 cloves garlic, peeled
1 large handful fresh mint leaves (or use a combination of dill and mint)
about 1 cup (250ml) cold water
salt
lemon juice, to taste
1/2 cup (50g) sliced or slivered almonds, lightly toasted, for garnish

In a blender combine about 2/3 of the diced cucumber, the yogurt, garlic, mint and water and blend until completely smooth. Add more water if necessary – the consistency should be like thin cream. Transfer to a lidded container and add salt and lemon juice to taste. Don’t be shy with either – the soup should be pleasantly tangy and salty. Stir in the reserved diced cucumber and chill, covered, for at least an hour to allow the flavors to blend. Divide among bowls for serving, and top each one with a garnish of toasted almond slices. Serve cold.

Good news! The October issue of Food and Travel is now out, and inside you’ll find my full report on why Belgium should be your next food destination. In fact, this issue is nothing short of a food blogger extravaganza – the supplement on Singapore packaged with the magazine was written by none other than Chubby Hubby and his wife S (aka Aun Koh and Su-Lyn Tan)! If you’re in the UK you’ll find it on newsstand shelves now; U.S. and European availability should follow within a couple of weeks.

Oh, and I should probably warn you, later this week I’m headed to the US for a much-needed vacation, so don’t worry if I’m gone a little longer than usual. Rest assured that I’ll be eating well, and I’ll see you when I return!

 

Pasta with Fresh Tomato-Avocado Sauce

 
I’ve long held this crazy theory that people who really love food lead ever-so-slightly happier lives than those who don’t. This theory comes from my own experience, mostly, and the observation that however bad I might feel, all I usually need is a bite or two of something tasty to feel myself again. I don’t mean to suggest that I don’t regularly get as down in the dumps as the next person, but when I do, it’s rare that these sentiments survive beyond mealtime; even the very worst of cases are nothing a freezer full of ice cream can’t resolve. By contrast, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have my one true passion be something like, say, glacier climbing or comet watching, or for that matter any activity that is next to impossible to do on a regular basis; maybe I’m missing something here, but those poor folks must spend an awfully large percentage of their time miserable, don’t you think?

That said, however, sometimes a food-focused life can seem pretty frustrating too. There is, for example, the agony that comes from striking up love affairs with foods I can only get ahold of once in a blue moon, or the endless battles against a metabolism that lags far behind the speed at which I can chew, or even the more abstract discontent that comes with having to earn a living rather than, well, dabbling in food all day. And then there’s the particular bane of all us food lovers who love to cook as well as eat: the fact that there are simply too many recipes out there to ever make in one lifetime. Honestly, between the tens of thousands of recipes I have in cookbooks, bookmarked online, clipped from magazines and newspapers over the years, scribbled on the backs of envelopes while daydreaming, and received with great fanfare from friends and relatives, I feel like even if I were able to spend every single minute of every day of my life cooking, I still wouldn’t manage to make a dent in the pile.

While this is plenty frustrating in itself, of course, the icing on the proverbial cake is that even when I find a truly wonderful recipe – which is ostensibly the point of all this collecting, isn’t it? – it rarely stays in the rotation for long. I honestly don’t know how cookbook authors do it; you know how they’re always saying in recipe headnotes how this is one of their favorite things to eat and they’ve been making it religiously for thirty years and blah blah blah? Well I know I’m lucky if I can manage to make something twice before retiring the recipe to the graveyard better known as the "to make again" pile. In fact, if I manage to make something twice that already means it’s beaten the odds; some of my favorite things in the world (many things that appear on this site, even!), I’ve only managed to make once. It’s not that there’s anything less than perfect about them – it’s just that there are too many other undiscovered masterpieces waiting in the wings to waste time on what I’ve already tasted.

That said, when I tell you that today I’m giving you a recipe I’ve made at least a dozen times, I hope you understand how unusual that is. Admittedly, most of those occured in the first three or four weeks after discovering it, but please don’t think that reflects at all on the quality of the recipe itself. It dates to about five years ago, if my memory serves me correctly, to a summer I spent in Germany which defined itself (in retrospect, as these things always do) as our ‘farmer’s market summer’. You see, that was the summer I discovered Manuel had been keeping this very big secret from me, namely that his town was blessed with the most wonderful weekly market offering every variety of ripe, farm-grown product under the sun at ridiculously cheap prices, and all we had to do to partake was drag ourselves out of bed at a reasonable hour on Saturday mornings (well, I called the hour reasonable; he called it some things I can’t repeat on a family-friendly website). In any case, that was the summer I suddenly understood why everyone was always harping on about cooking seasonally, that it wasn’t just about supporting local farmers or reducing carbon footprints or anything like that, it was about how much better everything tastes when it’s in season. In fact, I think I had an epiphany to that very effect the first time I made this pasta, which I ran across one day in one of the few cookbooks then in my possession. It’s quite a simple dish, just some hot spaghetti tossed with mashed avocados, a couple of diced tomatoes and a sprinkle of crispy bacon; yet made with the ripest, candy-sweet tomatoes, buttery avocados and generous handfuls of spicy summer basil, its perfection defies description.

Although we gorged ourselves on this pasta like it was going out of style, eventually the summer passed, the recipe was filed and, like every other once-favorite dish, it was forgotten, relegated to a text file on my computer in one of many overstuffed recipe folders. When I ran across it last week – I was looking for something else, mind you – at first all the memories from that farmer’s market summer came flooding back, but just as quickly my delight at having found it was replaced by frustration, and then a surge of self-deprecation for having being so fickle as to have not even thought about it in half a decade. Why is it, I asked myself disparagingly, that I am so driven to find the next great recipe that I can so easily forget about the ones I’ve already discovered? Is this how the rest of my life is going to unfold, in the senseless pursuit of things I will discard as soon as I possess them?

But then I went into the kitchen, mashed up a bowl of avocados, put on a package of pasta to boil and chopped up some fat, dripping tomatoes. And after scraping my plate clean, I couldn’t quite remember what it was I’d been so worked up about. Who knows, maybe that theory of mine is not as crazy as it seems?

Pasta with Fresh Tomato-Avocado Sauce

This is one of those recipes that works best if you follow your instincts. Find the raw onions too overpowering? Leave them out. Have more tomatoes in your garden than you know what to do with? Stick a couple more in. You get the picture – just make sure, whatever you do, that you use only perfectly ripe, in-season ingredients. If you can’t (and I realize it’s not summer for everyone reading!), do as James says in the recipe headnotes and "please choose another recipe".
Source: inspired by a recipe in James McNair’s Favorites
Yield: 4 generous servings

for sauce:
3 large ripe Haas avocados
3-4 large ripe tomatoes, diced
1 small red onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, pressed or finely minced
1-2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar, or to taste
large handful fresh basil leaves, roughly chopped or torn
salt and pepper

about 1 lb (500g) spaghetti or fettuccine, cooked al dente
cooked, crumbled bacon (I usually cook 2 strips per person; you can easily leave this out to make it vegetarian)
freshly-grated parmesan cheese (this time I actually used crumbled feta and it was excellent as well)

In a large serving bowl, mash the avocados, leaving a few chunks. Stir in the tomatoes, onion, garlic, vinegar and basil. Add salt and pepper to taste, being mindful of the fact that you’ll be topping it with salty bacon and cheese later.

Boil the pasta in salted water until al dente, drain and then immediately comb
ine with the cold sauce, tossing to combine. Sprinkle with the bacon and cheese (or you can pass these separately if you wish) and serve immediately.