I don’t know about you, but when I discover that a favorite food of mine has a secret life I was previously oblivious to, I tend to get a little irrationally excited. It happened when I discovered coffee could be consumed in solid form; it happened when I discovered olives were for more than just snacking with cocktails, and it happened when I discovered, on my first and only trip to the enchanting island of Bali, that avocados are just as good in dessert as they are in sandwiches, salads, dips and California rolls.

It did, admittedly, take me about a week of seeing it on menus before finally deciding to take the after-dinner avocado plunge. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust local tastes – on the contrary, everything we ate, without fail, was amazing. It was, rather, my culinary narrow-mindedness finally catching up with me. You see, avocados, along with tomatoes, peppers and eggplant, belong to that strange category of fruits that all of us who grew up with the Anglo-Saxon culinary mindset prefer to consider vegetable. Chocolate mousse with tomato coulis? Green pepper tarte tatin? Ugh. Even if we may be more than happy to eat certain vegetables in roles normally reserved for fruit – rhubarb, sweet potatoes and carrots, for instance – these transvestites of the produce world will no sooner be decorating a pot de crème or filling a cake of ours than lamb brains and pickled chicken feet. In fact, as I worked up the nerve to order avocado for dessert that very first time I realized how just how deep my prejudices go – while I’m normally more than happy to experiment on dinner, when it comes to dessert comfort, familiarity and yes, even predictability are the order of the day. And I suspect I’m not alone.

But the invention of avocado-based desserts is not the brainchild of the molecular gastronomy posse or even the delusions of left-wing tofu-cheesecake-consuming health nuts. In fact, as avocado-eaters go, around the world it’s those who confine them to savory preparations who are in the minority. Who would have imagined, gazing across their grilled chicken salads, their California BLTs and their dollops of guacamole, that avocados are eaten for dessert all over Asia and South America? Who would have suspected that the Brazilians blithely blend them into frothy batidos; that Filipinos mash them with sweetened condensed milk to make velvety puddings; that Indonesians innocently anoint them with sugary ice-cold coffee? Not me. But as I was utterly startled to discover that sweltering day in Bali, where I was overcome by the desire for something cold, sweet, and liquid, they really are delicious this way – and fully deserving of the very biological categorization I had never seen fit to agree with.

Of course even with my avocado horizons broadened, I don’t have any plans to stop consuming them in all the savory forms I adore, and likewise at dessert time I doubt you’ll ever find me turning up my nose at good old chocolate and vanilla. But as I’ve happily discovered over the years, it really never hurts to have too many dessert options.

…unless, of course, those options include tomatoes, peppers or eggplant!

 
Creamy Avocado Milkshake

Serves: 2
Notes: Rich and creamy drinks made from avocados and sweetened milk are classic ways of enjoying this fruit across Asia, and are really delicious once you get past any initial ‘this is weird!’ reaction. Watch out for over-ripe avocados, however, whose slightly rancid taste will spoil the drink. The best avocados to use are those that gently yield to pressure, that are free from dark blotches inside the fruit. If you have any doubts, taste a piece first. Also, I really love the citrusy note that a little bit of orange essence adds, but the avocado also has enough flavor to stand up on its own, or to other dessert flavorings like vanilla and dark rum. Or try a shot of espresso, as they like it in Indonesia. p.s. Did I mention this drink is rich?

1 ripe Haas (dark-skinned) avocado, peeled and pitted
4 tablespoons sweetened condensed milk
1 cup cold milk, more or less depending on thickness desired
few drops orange extract, or some vanilla, rum or coffee (optional)
crushed ice and additional sweetened condensed milk for serving

Combine everything in a blender and blend until very smooth (if you like you can add some of the ice here to give it more of a frosty milkshake character). Fill two glasses with additional ice. Drizzle a little more sweetened condensed milk over the ice before filling each with the avocado shake. Give it a quick stir and serve promptly, accompanied by a spoon.

 

 

 
Ah, the utterly alien feeling of opening my home page and clicking on ‘create new entry’. We all know the adage ‘time flies when you’re having fun’, but not many of us know its corollary: ‘time also flies when you have more things to do than time to do them in’. That second part is the only way I can explain how five and a half weeks have passed since my last post, since if there was fun involved it certainly kept itself well hidden. But never mind about the fun, the important thing is that the work somehow got done. Technically the thesis is still not quite finished, but it is close, and you’ll be glad to hear that despite the last niggling bits, I am determined that it will have as little impact on my cooking, eating or blogging as humanly possible from now on. Oh, and before I forget, thank you all for the avalanche of luck you sent my way. It seems to have done the trick.

So what does a panicked, exhausted, house-bound thesis writer cook for herself? I certainly never forgot to eat (as Nicky will be glad to hear), but something about staring into a computer screen until my brain bleeds just saps away the motivation for cooking. Most nights, in fact, when I finally tore myself away from the thesis all I could do was sit slack-jawed and glassy-eyed in front of the television, and whatever made its way onto my plate was fine as long as it didn’t require any effort on my part. I certainly appreciated good food when it appeared before me – Manuel, for example, had the chance to flex his culinary muscles a few times and took advantage of every opportunity to whip up his secret family recipe for spaghetti bolognese (I’ve never been able to confirm it, but I do believe there’s some curry in there…). But alas, he also spent a good part of the month in Germany and when he was gone, I had to fend for myself.

Not having the time or energy to even light the stove most nights, I learned the hard way how easy it is to get into a habit of eating easy, nutritionally-dubious food. If I had the strength to make it to the store I could be found scarfing down tasteless meals-on-a-tray and refrigerated pizza; if I didn’t, you would have found me around dinnertime plating up everything from ice cream with a side of cheese sandwich to chocolate-flavored oatmeal (which in itself was an exciting change from the plain oatmeal I’d had the previous two nights). At a certain point I realized, though, that as important as this thesis is, it’s not worth compromising my general well-being over, and so I quickly decided I was going to have to come up with a new plan. I needed something quick, tasty and healthy, that preferably would engage me in actual preparation mode only once every few days.

Enter chickpea chaat salad. This marvel of a bean dish had all I needed and more. Not only was it quick to whip up and lasted for days in the fridge, but it had everything I required to keep me going: protein from the chickpeas, carbohydrates from the fruit, and plenty of flavor from a beguiling mix of spices, chile, tamarind, and cilantro. Chaat, in case you’re not familiar with the term, actually applies to a whole category of snack foods in India that combine something starchy (usually potatoes or pieces of fried batter) with fresh vegetables, spices, fiery chilies and a souring agent such as lime, tamarind or yogurt. In India you would buy chaat in a million different variations from street stalls, and every region has its own typical offerings. Bombay, I recently learned, is widely regarded to be the center of the Indian chaat-universe, with hawkers on Chowpatty Beach dishing up every combination of salty, crunchy goodness under the sun.

The thing that sets this particular chaat in a league of its own, at least as far as I’m concerned, it the inclusion of fruit. While the few chaats I’ve eaten previously have all been delicious, the little unexpected nuggets of sweetness in this one add that extra dimension that literally pushes this riot of flavors over the edge. The banana, in particular, is a great substitute for the more common potato. I wish I could claim credit for this innovation myself, but actually I was given the idea after trying the unusual version on offer at our favorite local Indian restaurant, where the combination of vegetables, banana and spices goes by the name Simla chaat (after the stately Himalayan hill town, I assume). I don’t know if everyone in Simla adds banana to their chaat, but if they don’t, they should – it’s fantastic.

Though I certainly appreciated the convenience, flavor and nutrition this chaat provided to fuel those long, dark hours of work, I realize now that the best thing about it is that somehow it just keeps getting better with each and every meal. It may not be part of any accepted thesis-writing methodology, but for me it sure seems that a little jolt of deliciousness goes a long way toward coaxing out every last stubborn drop of academic brilliance. Then again, I suppose we’ll have to let my examiners have the last word on that.

Chickpea Chaat Salad with Banana and Pomegranate

Serves: 4
Source: adapted from 1000 Indian Recipes by Neelam Batra 
Notes: To make this dish you’ll need to track down one specialty ingredient, the chaat masala. You should have no trouble finding it boxed alongside other spice mixes in Indian grocery stores, but if you can’t you can try your hand at making it yourself (assuming, of course, you can track down the spices you need). Other uses for this delicious salty-sour-pungent powder include sprinkling on pakoras, roasted potatoes and even nuts. A recipe to make it yourself can be found here.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon peeled minced fresh ginger
2-4 fresh green chilies, minced
1 tablespoon ground coriander
2 teaspoons chaat masala (see note above)
1/2 cup (125ml) cilantro/fresh coriander, finely chopped
2 14-oz (400g) cans chickpeas, drained
1/2 cup (125ml) water
1 heaping tablespoon tamarind concentrate (available at Indian or Asian shops, as well as many supermarkets)
1 small English cucumber, peeled, seeded and diced
5 scallions/spring onions, white and pale green parts sliced
1 large ripe banana, peeled and diced
1/2 cup (125ml) fresh pomegranate seeds

Heat the oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat, then stir in the garlic, ginger and green chilies, stirring until fragrant and golden, about 30 seconds. Add the ground coriander, 1 1/2 teaspoons of the chaat masala, half the cilantro, and stir about 30 seconds more. Add the chickpeas, water and tamarind, and cook, stirring as necessary, until the chickpeas are tender and all the juices evaporate, about 5-7 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and let cool.

When completely cool, stir in the cucumber, remaining fresh cilantro, scallions, banana, and remaining chaat masala. Sprinkle with the pomegranate seeds just before serving. Best served cold or at room temperature.

 

 Sicilian Cannoli

 

The first time I went to Italy, my mother made an unusual request. "So far I haven’t placed any restrictions on you," she said to me over the phone, her voice sounding unusually tense, "but since you’re going to Italy, I have to ask for one thing. Please don’t go further south than Rome."

I was standing in a telephone booth somewhere in southern France, a week or so into my first backpacking trip around Europe, when she dropped this unexpected news on me.

"But why?" I protested, "why don’t you want me to go to southern Italy?"

She sighed. "Because I’ve heard it can be dangerous, particularly to a seventeen-year-old American girl traveling alone."

I laughed out loud. "Dangerous, like what, the mafia?"

"No, not the mafia," she replied, "it’s just that, well, the men there have a certain reputation. That’s all I’m going to say – please don’t go."

I argued feebly for a moment before giving in. It really wouldn’t be that much of a burden to comply – after all, most of what I really wanted to see in Italy was in the north: Florence, Venice, the Lakes, the Riviera. But I still thought the request was nonsense; after all, I had just spent a year as an exchange student in Spain – which, I assumed, had just as many hot-blooded Mediterranean men as Italy – and had lived to tell the tale. How different could Italy be?

As I was about to discover, very. From the instant I set foot on Italian soil, I seemed to be emitting a man magnet. I’d never been one to attract an undue amount of attention from the opposite sex, and on this trip in particular I assumed the grimy backpacker look would send any potential hasslers running the other way, but I couldn’t have been more mistaken. Young, old, suave, disheveled, English-speaking and not, they swarmed to me, stopping me on street corners, sidling up to me in museums, stalking me in supermarkets, softly murmuring "Ciao bella" and "Da dove vieni?". Despite the fact that I was on my feet all day, resting anywhere became a dicey prospect, as the instant I sat down some man would inevitably materialize out of nowhere (even in the middle of deserted countryside), plant himself uncomfortably close, and attempt to strike up a conversation. It didn’t matter if we could barely communicate – understanding each other was obviously not crucial to their plans. In fact I didn’t know what was crucial to their plans, but I usually nipped these encounters in the bud before I could find out. Venice, I recall, was particularly bad – I spent my entire three days there being hounded by one persistent man after another, who would follow me around pleading with me that all they wanted was to share a coffee and practice their English (and lest you think that all I had to do was pretend not to speak English, I tried… it still didn’t work). At first I went to great pains to politely make up excuses for why I couldn’t further our relationship (e.g. mysterious friends who were expecting me, a husband waiting back at the hotel, an imminent train to catch), but I soon realized nothing worked. By the time I crossed into Switzerland one month later, I had been hassled by more men than I dared to count – and I hadn’t even made it as far south as Rome. Who knew what would have been in store for me down south?

But I had fallen in love with Italy, despite the annoyances, and more than anything I wanted to see the south, particularly Sicily. That’s why three years later, when there was no one but me calling the shots, I flew into Rome, and took the first train south I could find. I traveled first to Naples, detoured for a couple of days to glamorous Capri, and then pushed southward, watching how the lush rolling hills gave way to rocky, arid landscapes, open-sided rock quarries and a punishing, relentless sun. The people who boarded the overnight train began to look poorer, more weatherbeaten, like the villages they came from, an impression that seemed to intensify the deeper down the boot we went. By the time we arrived in Sicily I had the feeling we had crossed over into another country altogether – the land, the language, even the people were different.

And this impression held as I traveled around Sicily, though in surprising ways. Although I had braced myself for the world-famous machismo, I couldn’t seem to find it anywhere. Every man I met was polite and reserved; walking around – even stopping to consult my map, the surest lure I knew in the north – I failed to attract even an untoward glance. Black-clad grandmothers would occasionally turn and eye me suspiciously, but no one dared to initiate a conversation; unless of course, there was business to be done, in which case there was plenty of arm-waving and pats on the back. Mostly, though, I found myself wandering the streets of gritty, edgy cities full of young unemployed Sicilian males and not even garnering a whistle, much less bench companions. It was unexpectedly, wonderfully liberating.

Then one day at the end of my Sicilian travels, I visited the cliff-top town of Taormina on Sicily’s east coast. Settled on a hill of the Monte Tauro (just north of Mount Etna), Taormina dominates two grand, sweeping bays and a breathtaking view over almost one hundred miles of Mediterranean sea. It was very different to most of the Sicily I had seen so far – it was clean and well kept; there were tourists, boutiques, lush greenery and fountains gracing a lovely clifftop promenade above the sea. The back streets of the town’s small center were chock-full of interesting little shops, and it was while meandering these that I stopped to admire a window display of pastries. I was particularly fixated on the tower of cannolis with their pistachio-flecked innards spilling out of golden shells – I hadn’t, after all, yet managed to try this most iconic of Sicilian delicacies – when I heard a voice at my shoulder.

"Ciao, bella," it said, "do you speak English?" I whirled around and found a little man, at least a foot shorter than me, probably in his late-fifties, balding, plump, and sporting a business shirt and sneakers. He was grinning a little too widely for my taste. I shook my head. "Français? Deutsch? Español?"

Damn, I thought, he had all the bases covered. I sighed heavily. "English."

His eyes lit up. "Oh good, English is best for me! I am Vittorio." He bowed stiffly and reached out for my hand, starting to raise it to his lips. I snatched it away and took a step backward. Instantly I felt the old evasive maneuvers coming back.

"I’m terribly sorry, but I’m really in a hurry," I said.

"Oh, but I thought we could speak a bit. You see I would like to practice my English…"

I didn’t even give him a chance to finish his thought before turning around and half-running down the street, calling, "sorry, I really have to go," over my shoulder. I didn’t slow down until I was nearly on the other side of town. I guess Sicily has them too, I thought, shaking my head in despair, I knew it was too good to be true. I felt the uncomfortable realization that I would constantly have to be on my guard now. My heart slightly heavier, I resumed my window shopping, looking at leather purses and postcards and Taormina t-shirts.

A sh
ort while later I had stepped inside a pottery shop and was admiring a lavishly painted espresso set when I heard the dreaded voice at my shoulder. "Hello again."

I didn’t have to turn around this time to see who it was. "You are admiring the Sicilian ceramics, no? They are very beautiful." Vittorio picked up a cup from the set I had been looking at. "Maybe I can buy you a little souvenir of Taormina? Something to take home?"

I shook my head vehemently. The last thing I wanted was be indebted to this strange, annoying man. "No, I wouldn’t have space for it anyway," I said, slowly starting to back towards the door of the shop. He put the cup down and followed me.

"Well, then, maybe something you don’t have to take with you? Come, I will invite you to lunch."

Again I shook my head. "I’m sorry, I’ve already eaten," I lied.

"Well then coffee," he said calmly, the smile never leaving his lips. "Come on, no obligation, just a little bit of coffee and a little bit of conversation."

My heart was racing – I honestly couldn’t imagine a worse way to spend my afternoon than having to make small talk with this man half my height and three times my age. I started looking helplessly around at people passing us on the street, but no one seemed to take notice.

"I’m sorry, but I really can’t do that. I have to catch my train in twenty minutes. I can’t be late," I said finally, seeing my only way out. His smile faded, but I barely saw it as I was already halfway down the street.

I took great pains to avoid him for the rest of the afternoon. I tried some delicious Sicilian gelato, had an alfresco picnic under one of the town’s sparkling public fountains, and admired the many gorgeous views of the impossibly blue sea, but never without looking over my shoulder first. Though Taormina was in many ways much less Sicilian than elsewhere on the island, I had to admit this was one of the most stunningly beautiful places I had ever visited, and I was sorry I had left it until the end. I was also sorry that I’d had my streak of hassle-free travel broken here, but I didn’t dwell on that too much – after all, there was still cannoli to be eaten. By the end of the afternoon I realized I’d waited long enough to do exactly that, and navigated the town’s narrow back streets to the pastry shop where I’d seen that mouthwatering window display earlier in the day. Luckily they were still open, Vittorio was nowhere to be seen, and the friendly woman behind the counter was happy to wrap up two cannolis for me in a sheet of greaseproof paper.

Clutching my little pastry parcel to my chest, I stepped back out into the bright sunshine to find a place to enjoy it.

"Oh hello!" a dreadedly familiar voice called out. My heart sank – Vittorio was running down the street toward me. "Oh, I’m glad you haven’t left yet," he gushed. I rolled my eyes and cast a glance to my cannolis, quickly beginning to wilt in the late afternoon heat. "I have to catch my train now, but I would like to give you my address so that maybe we can meet someday if you ever make it to Milano."

My eyes widened as I looked at the address on the scrap of paper he was handing me. "What – Milano?" I sputtered. "You’re from Milano?"

"Why yes, I’m just down here in Sicily for my holidays." He looked slightly confused as to why this should matter. "But I have been here a week and tomorrow I have to go back to work," he said sadly, and suddenly I noticed the large suitcase he was carrying. Before I could even respond, he was bowing in his awkward way, reaching out to kiss my hand, hauling up his suitcase and hurrying off in the direction of the train station.

I stood there for a minute, stunned, watching him recede into the distance. A tourist from the north, I should have guessed. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, I walked across the promenade to a bench with a nice view of the ocean below, carefully unwrapped my cannolis, took a bite, and marvelled at how good it felt just to be left completely, blissfully alone.

 
(Dear readers, I’m sorry to report that this will most likely the last post I’ll be able to put up for a while, as I’ll be taking time off from everything – including cooking and blogging – for the next month or so to work intensively on my PhD. Curse these real life obligations! Don’t ask me how I’m going to survive, but assuming I do, you’ll find me back here in mid to late May. Wish me luck!)

 
Sicilian Cannoli

Yield: 20-24 cannolis
Source: adapted from La Cucina Siciliana di Gangivecchio by Wanda and Giovanna Tornabene
Notes: Ever since trying cannoli that first time in Taormina, I’ve wanted to make my own, but somehow never got around to it until now. I was amazed at how easy they actually are, but you do need the tools of the trade, namely metal cannoli tubes, easily available from kitchen shops or online. I also took this opportunity to try my hand at making my own ricotta, which I hoped would better approximate the incredibly flavorful ricotta filling of those first Sicilian cannoli. While it may not have quite lived up to the memory, it was very good, and remarkably easy (I also loved the richness added by the heavy cream), and I won’t hesitate to make it again whenever I need a superior quality ricotta. If you don’t feel like making your own, however, Wanda and Giovanna Tornabene (whose wonderful book above I highly recommend as an introduction to Sicilian cuisine) suggest taking normal supermarket ricotta and draining it overnight in a cheesecloth-lined strainer to more approximate the thick, dense ricotta they use. As for the exact proportions of the filling ingredients, let taste be your guide – the Tornabenes only flavor their ricotta with sugar and a bit of vanilla, but I love the combination of chocolate, orange, citron and pistachio that seems to embody the quintessential flavors of Sicily in every bite.

For cannoli shells:
2 cups (280g) all-purpose flour
1/3 cup (70g) sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup (80ml) lard, melted and cooled, or vegetable oil, plus more for frying
red wine vinegar, as needed
1 egg white

For rich homemade ricotta:
1 gallon (4 liters) whole milk
2 cups (500ml) heavy/double cream
4 cups (1 liter) buttermilk
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp sugar

For filling:
3 cups (about 750g) thick, well-drained homemade ricotta (or 4 cups (1kg) commercial ricotta drained in a cheesecloth overnight)
1 cup (220g) sugar, more or less to taste
2 teaspoons vanilla
finely grated zest of 2 oranges
chopped dark chocolate, to taste
chopped candied citron, to taste
1/2 cup (50g) unsalted shelled pistachios, chopped 

Special equipment: cheesecloth, candy thermometer, metal cannoli tubes 

Begin making the ricotta one day in advance. Put all the ingredients in a large pot and put it on medium heat. Let it heat, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until it is hot and little bubbles form on the surface. This will take about 8 to 10 minutes. Then let it bubble for about 5 minutes without stirring. You’ll see curds start to form. Let the temperture rise to 175F or 80C. Turn off the heat, and let the pot sit there, undisturbed, for 10 minutes. Using a skimmer or a large slotted spoon transfer the curds into a large strainer or colander lined with cheesecloth, gently scraping the bottom
of the pan to loosen any stuck-on ricotta. When the draining has slowed to an occasional drip, set the strainer over a bowl and refrigerate (fold the ends of the cheesecloth over the top of the ricotta so it doesn’t dry out too much). Let it drain until all the whey runs off and the cheese is quite thick, about 24 hours.

For the cannoli shells, put the flour, sugar and salt into a large bowl. Make a well in the center and add the eggs and melted lard or oil. Mix together, adding enough vinegar, little by little, until you have a very smooth, soft dough (I used about 1.5 tablespoons, I think). Knead the dough on a board for a few minutes and work into a ball. The dough should be soft and elastic. Let the dough rest, wrapped in plastic, at room temperature for 2 to 3 hours. It can be prepared a day in advance and kept wrapped in plastic at room temperature.

Roll the dough out into a thin, large circle (about 1/8 inch/2mm thick).  You can also halve or quarter the dough, and roll each piece out into smaller circles. Cut the dough into perfect 4-inch (10cm) circles (find something round in your kitchen with this diameter to work as a guide). Using a rolling pin, make one or two passes over each circle to create more of an oval shape, trying to keep an even thickness throughout.  Wrap each piece of dough around an oiled cannoli tube so that the longer sides overlap in the middle. Dab a bit of egg white where the dough overlaps and press to secure it well. Ready as many tubes as you have available.

Heat about 3 inches of lard or vegetable oil in a deep frying pan until hot but not smoking. A scrap of dough should start frying the instant it hits the oil. Fry two or three shells at a time, pressing them down if necessary to keep them submerged, until golden brown all over. This will happen quickly – possibly in less than a minute. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. Knock one end of the tube to loosen it from the shell, then remove it from the shell while it is still hot. Allow the tubes to cool before using them for the next batch. The shells are best used within a couple of hours, but will keep in an airtight container for a few days. Fill them just before serving.

For the filling, mix together the drained ricotta with everything except the pistachios. Taste and adjust the level of sweetness – some people like it sweeter than others. Using a teaspoon or a pastry bag or even your fingers, fill the cooled shells with the mixture. Decorate the ends with chopped pistachios and serve at once.