We love to talk with our customers in the store, we enjoy hearing what they plan on making with the spices and seasonings they are buying. Often we go home wanting to cook what we chatted about most during the day. Internet orders also have the ability to intrigue us. When we sent our second large order this year to Camp Denali, in Denali National Park in Alaska, we just had to look it up. What were our spices doing here? Why would a camp need the highest quality spices? They sent us this wonderful write-up. And bonus, they included a recipe, how amazing! This curry soup would be perfect for our now chilly Midwestern weather. We love the relationships we have with our customers; they are one of the most rewarding experiences of being small business owners. We hope to one day deliver a package there in person. Thank you to author Teresa Floberg and Kristen Vawter for the following lovely post. Lots of fun recipes in their site also. Continue reading
Though the days remain muggy and blistering, the nights are cooling off and the sun is setting earlier – we are in the twilight of summer. Soon the city will be a crisp swirl of colored leaves and we’ll be making up for the lack of warmth with fires and hot drinks – but until then, I’ll be making this salad multiple times a week, a salad I call the last salad of summer.
I’ve written before about my obsession with local, in-season tomatoes, and you can bet that I’ll be buying them from the farmer’s markets up until the very end of their all-too-short season. This salad recipe is simple – when you have flavors this good, there’s not much need for anything flashy.
This salad is raw, vegetarian, and vegan if you don’t include the cheese. Give it some variety by throwing in other vegetables you have on hand – half of a shredded carrot, small cubes of summer squash varieties, and bit of cubed onion, for example, would all be great additions.
Tomatoes have finally arrived at the markets, marking a period of time that I’ll spend plotting my week around visiting Chicago’s markets and co-ops on various days of the week, knowing that each tomato purchase is only going to last me a day or two. Tomatoes – especially those mixtures of summer sungolds, purple zebras, and baby romas – may just be my all-time favorite local food.
I went my whole childhood adamantly hating tomatoes, picking them off of sandwiches and ignoring them in salads, only to realize, my sophomore year of college, how much I had been missing out. The problem was that I had been eating pale, flavorless, ghosts of real tomatoes my whole life. I was an active Slow Food UW member during my time in at UW-Madison, and was there that, finally, not willing to be called out my cool local food-obsessed friends, I had my first in-season, locally-grown tomato. It was like a warm little piece of sunshine that exploded its flavor in my mouth – it was the ghost of tomatoes past reincarnated into a living, breathing, incredibly flavorful, naturally sweet little piece of happiness.
Ever since then, I’ve been obsessed with tomatoes, and look forward to them arriving at the markets and dread their inevitable disappearance. While they’re here, I find ways to work them into almost everything I make. In my opinion, tomatoes are among a small number of foods that easily illustrate the difference between local and non-local food. Potatoes or broccoli seem roughly the same regardless of how far away they came from or when they were grown, but tomatoes are different.
Guacamole, of course, begs to have tomatoes included, but this brief period of the summer is the only time I actually include them. Few things are better on a hot Chicago summer day than some fresh chips and guacamole with a refreshing beer – except, of course, that same guacamole with some locally-grown tomatoes thrown in.
Summertime Guacamole with Local Tomatoes
1/2 of a purple onion, diced into small pieces
10 small tomatoes of any variety (such as sungolds, purple zebras or baby romas), halved or quartered depending on size
2 tablespoons ground Cumin Powder
2 teaspoons salt
3 – 5 sprigs of cilantro (to taste), chopped
1/2 of a lime (for juice)
3 tablespoons sour cream or plain yogurt (optional)
Slice open the avocados and remove the pits (an easy way to do this is to use a heavy knife to strike the middle of the pit, hard, so that the knife gets stuck in it, then pull the knife away pit and all. Scoop the flesh out and put it into a large bowl, then mash with a fork. Mix in the salt, cumin and lime juice. If you’re going to add sour cream or yogurt (which give the guacamole a wonderful creaminess), stir it in at this point. Finally, gently stir in the onions, tomatoes and cilantro. Taste by trying on a chip. Enjoy on a patio or deck with a refreshing summer beer.
I’m not going to wax poetic about bacon. That’s been done by better poets than I.
I will even ignore the idea of bacon as the gateway meat for ex-vegetarians, even though there’s a possible evolutionary reason.
The simple fact of the matter is that bacon is delicious and at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters. Just ask these guys.
The toughest part of curing bacon at home is finding pink curing salt #1. Pink curing salt #1, formerly known as Prague Powder #1, is table salt mixed with a bit of sodium nitrite to help inhibit bacterial growth. Coincidentally, the Spice House carries pink curing salt #1. This should not be confused with pink curing salt #2, which also has the addition of sodium nitrate and is used for long cures. (Think dried sausages like Spanish chorizo.) Pink curing salt #1 is for shorter curing times for foods meant to be eaten relatively quickly. Both are colored pink to avoid confusion with table salt, and should not be confused with pink Himalayan salt.
The recipe below is for what’s known as green bacon. After roasting, it is ready to eat. Just cook it normally. It can also be hung to dry or smoked after roasting, both of which will help preserve it longer. Or, cut it into one pound pieces, wrap well in plastic, put it into a freezer storage bag and freeze.
- 5# pork belly
- ½ c. dark brown sugar
- 3 tblsp. medium cracked (10/16) peppercorns
- 2 tblsp. smoked sweet paprika
- 4 bay leaves crumbled
- 2 tsp. curing salt
- ¼ c. Kosher salt
Mix dry ingredients well. Rub thoroughly into pork belly. Put the pork into a resealable two gallon plastic bag along with any leftover rub. Lay flat the refrigerator and turn over daily. Liquid will begin to accumulate in the bag as it gets drawn out of the meat. When the meat feels firm remove from the refrigerator. (7 days for thinner pieces, 10 days for thicker.) Rinse and pat dry.
Roast at 200° until the internal temperature reaches 150°, about 90 minutes.
Let cool and wrap in plastic. It will keep in the refrigerator for about a week, or in the freezer for about two months.
We’ve recently added a powdered version of everybody’s rooster hot sauce, Sriracha. (Well, “everyone,” except for that neighborhood in California.) After many, many requests we also put an Ethiopian blend, Berbere into the lineup. But, the newcomer I’m most excited about is hibiscus. I’ve mentioned before that I had a career in beverage once upon a time. Given the way my mind still works, I know more intuitively how to work with hibiscus than I do with the Sriracha or Berbere. (Let’s be honest, I’m being lazy, the hibiscus was just way easier for me to work with.)
Hibiscus tea, common in West Africa, the Caribbean and Central America, is most commonly seen here in Chicago in Mexican restaurants as agua de Jamaica. (pronounced: hah-MY-kah) Steeping hibiscus in hot water imparts a brilliant red color shockingly fast and has a surprisingly tart flavor.
I recently wrote about grenadine and that got me thinking about using hibiscus in a similar manner. Where the grenadine has some darker flavors, a hibiscus syrup is going to be at the other end of the spectrum with flavors that are wonderfully bright. Substituting hibiscus syrup for grenadine isn’t a huge leap. While the profiles are different, the flavors hit a lot of the same notes. A cocktail made with hibiscus instead of grenadine will be different, but far from unpleasant. (It’s got the added bonus of being more kid-friendly. I’d use this in a Shirley Temple over the grenadine.)
Or try some in your coffee. Trust me. I used to be a professional.
(yield approximately 3 ½ cups)
Tie hibiscus in a double layer of cheesecloth. Add sugar, water, hibiscus and salt to a medium sauce pan over high heat. Stir to dissolve sugar. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer for 15 minutes. Discard hibiscus. Stir in citric acid.
When thinking about Austrian cuisine, spice is not the first thought that comes to mind. While it is not one of the world’s spice capitols, my trip to Vienna did allow me to see first-hand the spices that are regularly used. One Viennese merchant at a specialty spice shop explained that the use of spices, including ethnic blends, are peaking the interests of the local inhabitants at an ever increasing rate, perhaps due to the increase in international travel and migration. I was pleasantly surprised when visiting the Naschmarket (a market in the city center teeming with restaurants, specialty food stores and a plethora of food stalls all lined up waiting for the hungry) had row after row of spice stands stocked with blends and pure spices of all sorts. This certainly supported my Viennese spice merchant’s claim!
In addition to the ubiquitous black peppercorn, caraway is a classic element in sauerkraut and cinnamon, nutmeg and mace are no strangers to traditional Austrian baked goods. Let’s focus on one of my favorite spice, cinnamon. Now, as a dutiful Spice Houser, I would usually be very particular in clarifying whether I am referring to Ceylon cinnamon (true cinnamon) or cassia cinnamon, and if cassia, which variety thereof (due to differences in flavor and strength.) While Ceylon cinnamon is common in European cuisine (in America we typically use the word “cinnamon” liberally and are accustomed to cassia cinnamon), I noted that Indonesian Korintje cassia cinnamon (the variety most commonly used in the U.S.) was the variety sold most frequently at the Naschmarket. So, please pardon my lack of cinnamon specificity in this blog (although as a cinnamon enthusiast, I believe there is usually room for personal preference as long as the cinnamon is fresh!)
In Austrian baking, cinnamon is a favorite spice used to help sweeten treats. Many desserts (or snacks) can be found at kaffeehauses (Viennese coffee houses) all throughout Vienna. Cinnamon is used in abundance in Christmas cookies, as well as in some of Austria’s classics including Linzer Torte, apfelstrudle (apple strudel) and zimtschnecken (cinnamon rolls). As it was not Christmas time when I was in Vienna, Christmas cookies were not available. But for the sake of this blog, I made sure that I sampled the apple strudel and cinnamon rolls.
Apple strudel was available at every coffee house and bakery that I visited. This was of no surprise as it is considered the national dish of Austria. It was advertised at many restaurants and sold at street stands, tempting those who passed. One of my coffee house samplings was topped with a dusting of powdered sugar. It was flaky, fresh and the cinnamon, while present, was a fairly delicate note (I suspect Ceylon cinnamon was employed).
The cinnamon rolls were not as easy to find as the apple strudel, but I did not leave Vienna empty handed. My cinnamon rolls were wonderfully soft and gooey (not like a Pilsbury or Cinnabon roll, but still gooey). While it did have a sugary glaze, it was not frosted with icing. As you would expect, the cinnamon was much more prominent than in the strudel. While I am not sure which variety of cinnamon was used for the rolls I ate, at the Spice House we advise the use of the sweet and spicy Saigon cassia cinnamon (of which I am particularly fond since it has a high volatile oil content, meaning lots of flavor and aroma) for cinnamon rolls.
Needless to say, as a cinnamon lover, I was not disappointed in the baked goods available in Vienna and was pleased to learn about the increasing use of a broader range of spices in Austrian cooking.
In my former life I was a bartender. That’s where I developed an understanding of flavor, the way flavors work together, how to balance them. When I started tending bar, longer ago than I care to admit, drinks generally ran sweet. It’s what people knew. It’s what they expected. That changed over time and people came to expect a balanced cocktail, one that balances sweet, sour and bitter.
The two worst perpetrators of overly sweet cocktails are sour mix and grenadine.
Never—I repeat NEVER—buy sour mix. All you need is lemon juice, water and sugar. Make it yourself. Or better yet, make simple syrup of equal parts sugar and water and use that and lemon juice. It’s easy, will taste better and isn’t full of unnecessary ingredients. (A quick internet search reveals that one of the most common brands contains only 3% juice, preservatives, artificial color, and oddly, milk solids.)
Most store bought grenadine is the same as sour mix in that they contain very little actual juice, just a ton of corn syrup and food coloring. The Spanish word for pomegranate is granada and grenade in French. Any guesses the etymology of grenadine?
Actual, for real grenadine has levels of flavor and a brightness missing in the store bought stuff. It’s for grown-up cocktails.
I spent a few years mixing drinks at a place that made grenadine with pomegranate molasses. Pomegranate molasses is by slightly sweetening pomegranate juice and then reducing it. The cooking process brings out darker, more complex flavors than straight pomegranate juice would yield.
(Makes 1 pint)
In a medium sauce pan combine pomegranate molasses, sugar and water. Heat over medium heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. Remove from heat. Add orange flower water. Refrigerate.
Thanks to my friend, and former co-worker, Cristi DeLucca for helping me to confirm the ratios for the recipe. If you’re in Chicago go see her behind the bar at Bangers and Lace. Ask her to make you a Ward 8.
Mustard is crazy easy to make. It’s so easy we don’t buy mustard in our house anymore. We just make it. It takes few days, so a little planning is needed, but not a whole lot of attention or active time is called for.
(Tangent: According to Wikipedia, mustard is “commonly paired with,” among other things, pizza and sushi. That’s wrong on so many levels…)
The recipe below is a very basic recipe. It works fine on its own, but use it as a starting point for experimentation. Play around with the ratios of mustard seed (the brown is spicier than the regular yellow), add some dried tarragon, throw in some honey or brown sugar, or try red wine or a splash of bourbon. The only thing I would caution against experimenting with is the ratio of liquid. Nobody likes runny mustard.
The finished mustard will be bitter, but let it sit for a day or two and that will dissipate.
Combine all ingredients and let sit for two days. Blend to desired consistency. Refrigerate for a day or two before using to allow bitterness to dissipate.
Like the vast majority of people these days (or least of Americans), I grew up on cranberry sauce that came out of a can. We had certain, unspoken rules about it in our house. It needed to maintain the shape of the can when put on the serving dish; it needed to be sliced with a knife and not scooped with a spoon; and the kind with whole cranberries was certainly NOT allowed. But, sometime in my early-20’s, I saw an actual, for real recipe for cranberry sauce and was absolutely astonished by how easy it was. It’s ridiculously easy. Like, I-can-make-it-in-the-time-it-would-take-me-to-find-a-can-of-it-in-the-supermarket easy.
I came up with this recipe last year at my wife’s behest. It’s slightly more complicated than the above recipes, but is still pretty simple and doesn’t involve a whole lot of active prep time.
- 1 bag (12 oz.) cranberries
- ¾ cup cider vinegar
- 1 cup sugar
- 5 whole Spice Island cloves
- ½ tsp whole white peppercorns
- ½ tsp whole anise seed
- 1 ½ tsp cracked cassia
- 1 tsp dried orange peel
Place spices in a muslin bag, or tie in cheese cloth. Add vinegar, spices and sugar to a sauce pan and bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve sugar. Reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes. Add cranberries and cook until berries just begin to burst. About 15 minutes.
Remove from heat and transfer to a nonreactive bowl. Cover and let sit overnight. Remove spice bag and refrigerate. As with so many other recipes, after a couple of days the flavors will become really good friends.
Post Script: I just showed my kid a picture of sliced, canned cranberry sauce. She thought it looked ridiculous.
Caraway tastes like home. At least, it does if home was Polish like mine, or German, or any sort of northeast European. The warm, toasty balance to sour fermented cabbage; the potent, aromatic, bitter kick in akvavit or kummel; the satiating richness of a good rye loaf: all owe their powerful emotional associations to this humble little fruit. And caraway also tastes like fall; the smoke of burning leaves, damp October earth, and even a little bit of minty chill are all present in its flavor for me. Since the cold weather is coming soon in our part of the world, I’d like to share some of my favorite ways to use this warming spice, along with a bit about it’s biology, history, and even (bear with me) its chemistry.
We think of caraway as a seed, but it’s actually a dried fruit; the tiny seeds are nestled within the familiar, deeply-grooved ovals we see studding a loaf of rye. Part of the incredibly diverse and flavorful parsley family, or Apiaceae, which also gives us anise, cumin, coriander, celery, fennel, dill, and carrots, caraway has often been confused with its cousins – especially fennel and cumin. In fact, around Europe many names for caraway mean something like “German cumin” or “wild cumin.” But though they look somewhat similar (caraway is much darker – a burnished, glossy brown like stained walnut), you’d never confuse them in a side-by-side taste test. In fact, stop by our store and try it!
Although no one member of the Apiaceae is a straight substitute for another, it can be illuminating to dial a recipe along a chain of family relationships; a bread or sausage recipe that calls for one will likely be wonderful – and wonderfully different – with another. Also, since so many members of the family have different useful parts, I find that caraway pairs beautifully with its cousins: roots like carrot, parsnip, and celeriac, braised celery stalks, and sautéed carrot greens. My recipe for Pork Stew with Caraway, Apple & Sweet Potato (below) makes use of a generous helping of celery for this reason.
Caraway really shines when it’s visiting another powerhouse food family. It’s association with members of the cabbage family (or Brassicaceae) is long-standing; it’s essential for sauerkraut and boiled cabbage, but try it with roasted cauliflower or Brussels sprouts; the caramelization of dry heat cooking really brings out the best in these much-maligned veggies, and caraway pushes them to hitherto unsuspected levels of deliciousness. Or top a turnip puree with some browned, crispy nuggets of slab bacon fried with a bit of whole caraway – winter won’t stand a chance.
As a final enticement (at least to an admitted spice geek like me), caraway’s essential flavor is tied up with a fascinating chemical mystery. The principle flavor compound in the spice is known as carvone (taking it’s name from the Latin for caraway, carum carvi), but carvone is what’s known as a chiral molecule, meaning it comes in both a right-handed or a left-handed form. This means that identical combinations of atoms with identical bonds come together in two mirror image arrangements. Through mechanisms still poorly understood, the caraway plant produces mostly the left-handed version of the molecule. Even more wonderfully, our tongues can instantly tell the difference between the two versions; right-handed carvone is the principal flavor in spearmint!
I’ll leave you with my favorite caraway recipe; one that really showcases how well it fits with other fall flavors.
Pork Stew with Caraway, Apple, and Sweet Potato
2 lbs pork shoulder, cut in ¾ inch cubes, trimmed of excess fat (reserve the fat)
2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed
3 stalks celery, cut into ⅓ ince slices
3 Granny Smith apples, peeled and cubed
3 small onions, peeled and diced
¼ cup dark rye flour
3 tsp. caraway seeds, divided
½ tsp. ground caraway
2 tsp. french thyme
salt and pepper to taste
40 fluid ounces chicken stock or low sodium chicken broth
Dice the reserved fat and put it into a dutch oven with a sprinkle of salt and a little water. Render the fat over medium-low heat, stirring and adding a little water as necessary. You should be left with golden-brown, crunchy nuggets of crackling and some clear pork fat in the pan. Add one teaspoon of caraway seeds and toast until aromatic; then remove the cracklings and most of the caraway with a slotted spoon and set aside on a paper towel to drain.*
Mix the rye flour and ground caraway. Season the pork cubes with salt and pepper, then dredge them in the rye flour, shaking off any excess. Brown the pork in batches in the rendered fat, being careful not to crowd the pan (you don’t want to cook the pork, here, just sear the outside). If necessary, add a little oil to the pan as you go. Transfer the pork with your slotted spoon to a paper-towel lined plate.
Sweat the onions in the remaining fat with a little salt, being sure to scrape up any yummy brown bits clinging to the pan (the moisture released by the onions will help you do this). When onions have softened, add celery, the remaining caraway seeds, the browned pork, the thyme, and the stock or broth. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and cook for 25 minutes.
Add apple and sweet potato, then cook for 15-20 minutes more, stirring occasionally, until the pork is tender, the stew is thickened, and the sweet potatoes and apples are soft. Adjust salt and pepper, then ladle into bowls, topping each with a spoonful of the reserved cracklings and toasted caraway. Serve with hearty slices of (what else?) caraway rye.
* you can omit this step if you don’t have any reserved fat, would rather just use vegetable oil, or don’t like yummy, golden brown pork cracklings for some reason.