Vegan Queso for Non-Vegan Friends

I had one of the worst meals of my life on a recent Tuesday.  It started with the promise of dairy-free queso, which I acknowledge is already problematic as far as names go.  But I have been testing out more vegan recipes lately for work, both for people who choose the arduous path of animal-free living as well the poor souls medically forced into avoidance. Anyway, thinking about the prospect of cheese-less lasagna gave me instant empathy.

In my search, I came across a vegan queso recipe that suggested eggplant as its base.  It sounded reasonable enough, given the vegetable’s attendance in naturally plant-based dips like baba ghanoush.  This “queso” was a particularly desirable kitchen experiment because it was also free of nuts, as so few dairy-free comfort food substitutes are.  So I got to work.

As a result, I will now share some red flags for fellow eaters when it comes to vegan cookery. One should abort if a recipe calls for a suspicious amount of nutritional yeast—or cornstarch. Or if the writer mentions that a jettison of nuts was done intentionally to reduce calories. Or asserts that a husband or boyfriend or some otherwise gendered male example can vouch for its deliciousness, which is problematic for a whole host of reasons that I don’t have the time or patience to get into today.

In my case what resulted was a swamp-textured dip that tasted like a combination of rancid corn and homemade playdough, which I remember eating as a child in the eighties and would absolutely prefer should I ever have to make that choice. Even with the threat of E.coli.

Brett was kind and said the starchy swamp puree wasn’t that bad, which I suspect was mostly because when two people cook in a household, it can be a thrilling experience to be freed of the responsibly of putting dinner together after a long workday.  

Plus we had tortilla chips.

The whole experience could have been enough to throw me off dairy-constrained recipes completely, except we had previously eaten a very good vegan queso that called for cashews and a shit ton of vegetable shortening, plus half of a russet potato. I am pretty sure the same people who may be evangelically opposed to shortening might feel similarly about potatoes, so this is a recipe for the rest of us.

I was all out of vegetable shortening and thus coconut oil was substituted as a source of saturated fat, which I suspect is probably important for structure.  I assure the swap was not meant to be righteous.  (As a general rule I would advise against self-righteousness when making queso.) It was what we had.  I feel very strongly that coconut does not deserve the moral value it has been awarded on the internet. 

The result was a gooey, stretchy sauce the color and texture of ballpark nacho dip. Its slightly smoky subtle heat has proven to be particularly excellent on split baked potatoes and with broccoli.  Eaters can also be assured it makes no promises about your next trip to the cardiologist and this is what one should expect from queso—cheese or no cheese.

The whole experiment has only reinforced my theory that the best way to ensure a good-tasting substitute for a not-so-good-for-you food is to make it when health is not the point. This is not the time to employ slimy vegetables or fiber just for kicks.  Nor is it the time to consider your gallbladder or your next cleanse. That would be a crime against cheese.  I like to think anyone could agree with that. Even a vegan.

Vegan Queso

Adapted from J. Kenji López-Alt of Serious Eats

Ingredients:

• 5 tablespoons coconut oil or vegetable shortening
• 1 small onion, diced
• ½ jalapeño, seeded and diced
• 2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
• ½ teaspoon cumin
• 1 teaspoon paprika
• ½ teaspoon garlic powder
• 2 tablespoons chopped chipotle with adobo sauce (the kind from a can)
• ½ medium russet potato (4 ounces), peeled and thinly sliced
• 1 cup unsalted cashews
• 1 cup water
• 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon hot sauce (such as Frank’s RedHot)
• 2 teaspoons liquid from a can of pickled jalapeños
• Kosher salt (to taste)

Instructions:

In a medium saucepan, melt the coconut oil over medium heat.  Add the onions, jalapeño, and sliced garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened but not browned (less than 5 minutes).

Stir in the cumin, paprika, garlic powder, and chipotle and cook a minute or two until the mixture becomes fragrant.

Add the potato and cashews and cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 to 3 minutes.  Add the water and bring to a boil then reduce the heat to a simmer, stirring occasionally.  Cook until the potatoes are cooked through and completely tender (about 10 minutes).

Place the mixture in a blender and add the hot sauce, jalapeño liquid, and a generous pinch of salt.  Start the blender on low speed and slowly increase to high speed.  Blend until completely smooth (this will take a few minutes).  During this time, you can add water a tablespoon at a time to thin to desired consistency.  Season to taste with additional salt.

Makes about 2 cups

Notes:

1. According to my kitchen scribble, I used about a teaspoon of salt.  Be advised, you will likely need a few extra pinches when adjusting the seasoning at the end.
2. It is recommended to use a high-powered blender, such as a Vitamix, and then press the mixture through a chinois, but I did not need to do this—it was completely smooth using just my Kitchen Aid blender.
3. The sauce can be reheated on the stove top in a saucepan with a little water added.

An Italian Greyhound in California

In late September Brett and I took a trip to California.  I had visited the state twice before.  The first time was a brief excursion to Los Angeles with a couple friends after college graduation.  We stayed in a hotel that had an empty black and yellow library and a cabana where we could order sixteen-dollar martinis from our actress waitress and where I felt my breasts were under constant attack.

Then I went for my thirtieth birthday with some close work friends.  We spent most of our time in Healdsburg visiting wineries seemingly curated for thirtysomethings who are unimpressed by big Napa cabs and feel a deep gravitational pull to stop and eat sandwiches at a dusty general store. My breasts felt much more at home, although they were tipsy most of the time.

This trip Brett and I split our time evenly between San Francisco and Wine Country.  In Sonoma we overheard a Californian complaining about the muggy weather on a sunny 79-degree day with 60-percent humidity.  It was then that I decided I loved California and could probably live in one of those mid-century modern houses with floor to ceiling windows if I was less neurotic and not so preoccupied with The Big One.

One afternoon, we arrived to a wine tasting at Outland in downtown Napa to find that it was not yet open, despite their advertised hours suggesting otherwise. When someone finally arrived, I was won with generous—one might say too generous—pours and became convinced, at least for a little while, that California was the land of the carefree. 

A notion that has since been extinguished with the recent fires there. 

The whole world seems to be on fire these days and writing about food has felt like both a welcome distraction and also utterly inconsequential.  I thought about scrapping this post all together, but the recent events do not change that we were treated beyond hospitably on our trip and saying so seemed okay, necessary even. 

Our first night, we stayed at an inn in the Mission District in San Francisco.  It had a rooftop view of the city and free apertifs in the parlor, stored in glass bottles with silver port and sherry nametags.  Still on East Coast time, I was up at 6 a.m. and witness to the most ornate complimentary breakfast the world has ever seen.  Lit silver candlesticks sat on a corner piano surrounded by hardcover books and sepia photos.  Cured meats were rolled and arranged like a wagon wheel.  And there was soft salty butter the size of baseballs to be knifed and spread on banana bread.

Another morning we ate chilaquiles at El Molino Central, which is the only thing they serve before 11 a.m. This was a happy accident.  The avocado, sour cream, and beans that accompanied the crispy bits were so creamy and fresh and we ate at picnic tables with umbrellas that shielded us from that awful California 70-something degree sun.

On our last night in San Francisco, we had a pizza that I will now judge all other pizzas by. It came studded with small salami slices with just the right amount of oil pooled in their circular centers.  We also split an order of roasted cauliflower with a vibrant vadouvan spinach sauce and ended with a buttery chocolate panettone that our waitress assured was better than their raisin counterpart.

But the most tangible memory I took home was a blueprint for an Italian Greyhound from a bar called Trick Dog.  What you need to know about the place—aside from its recent win of World’s Best Cocktail Menu—is that it has friendly bartenders and a wide-open bar at 3 p.m., which is now my favorite time to drink because I am getting older and can actually hear my companion at this hour. They refresh their menu every six months and currently have a purchasable version written in the style of a children’s book.  The proceeds go to McSweeney’s, one of my favorite publishers and the host of this perennial classic.

As we sat, I watched the bartender pour three fingers worth of Punt e Mes into a highball. The cocktail has all of four ingredients, including accoutrements for the rim—which is a necessity—plus ice cubes.  This brevity meant it was a drink I could easily make.  And if you can procure the Italian aperitif and grapefruit soda you can too.

It is slightly bitter—both the amaro-leaning spirit and the grapefruit ensure that.  But it is also sweet and bubbly, plus a little salty, and this is the kind of drink I am after these days.  The cocktail is low in alcohol too, which is a refreshing option to ensure one is not easily anesthetized into drunkenness. This is not the time for that.

This is the time to feel alive.

Italian Greyhound

Ingredients:

• Sea salt (for the rim)
• Lime or lemon juice (for the rim)
• 2 ounces Punt e Mes
• 4 ounces grapefruit soda (see note)
• 2 to 3 ice cubes

Instructions:

Select a highball glass (be sure the one you select holds about 10 ounces).

Pour about a tablespoon or two of salt on a small plate (you won’t use it all, but you’ll need a generous portion so it easily sticks to the glass). 

On another small plate, pour a little lime or lemon juice (again about a tablespoon or so).  Hold your glass at a 45-degree angle and dip it so that the outer edge gets wet, turning it as you go until you are back where you started.  Repeat the process with the salt.  (This is a good guide.)

Add the ice cubes and your liquids.  Mix with a cocktail spoon (flatware will also work in a pinch).

Makes 1 drink

Note:

1.  I used Alta Palla soda (it contains actual grapefruit juice and hails from San Francisco). Trick Dog used Jarritos.

Death and the Perfect Meatball

I am closing in on thirty-five.  What I have found—aside from all the wonderful experiences—is that my body has a way of gently reminding me that I will die one day.

Once you hit your thirties, the signs are there if you listen.  Exercise gets harder and hangovers last for days, as do the biological effects of cheeseburgers.  These maladies are your body’s way of telling you to pay attention.  And, perhaps, to stop behaving like a twenty-two-year-old and to slow down and appreciate, not only the roses, but also modern miracles like penicillin and B12 supplements. 

Instead of death, I have reflux that burns like battery acid and have developed a somewhat maladaptive mindfulness practice around it. A friend once said that she almost enjoyed heartburn because it made her feel alive.  I understand what she meant.  Though it can also feel like I am slip sliding towards facility living when planning certain activities within the confines of a rigid gastric emptying schedule.  Which, when explained, is both gross and frustrating for everyone involved.

On Saturday morning, I made the mistake of googling the beloved North End pizza shop, Galleria Umberto, and found a recent article that addressed a rumor about it closing.  (It isn’t, but the assurance was too little, too late.)  While I maintain intimate awareness about the ephemeral nature of my own existence, I had not even considered the shop, which has been open since the seventies, might not be around forever. 

Things were further complicated by their very Italian business hours from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., or until the slices run out.  This was a specific threat to my midday gym plans. 

So I did what any rational, red-blooded American might.  I called in an order for ten Sicilian slices and put the elliptical on hold. I will report there was something particularly triumphant about eating pizza that day, though it did incite immediate heartburn. 

Thus far, I have shown the restraint of an addict in my refusal to give up things with tomato sauce, and I mean no disrespect to the addicted.  This is where the meatballs come in.  I have been working on perfecting them since 2012 and their sunk cost is real.  And this is what I am really here to talk about.

These meatballs are seasoned with the usual suspects: parsley, garlic, and parmesan, plus a pinch of allspice or baharat, a Middle Eastern blend.  (Before the purists revolt, let me remind Italy is not far from places like Lebanon and Turkey. I like the warm compliments the spice shares with the tomato, leave it off if you do not.)  I use various meat mixtures—beef, sometimes a mixture of pork and veal, and occasionally lamb.  Though the quality of meat is important, the type is less so.

I used to insist on pan-frying, but trying to evenly cook a circular object on a flat, hot surface while oil violently splatters everywhere is akin to entering Dante’s seventh circle. Baking is the only sane way to go.

The final touch came a few years ago when a now ex-boyfriend said he knew what my meatballs needed—and added that I wasn’t going to like it.  He was right.  What they needed was more white bread.  This is the secret to tender meatballs.  (It is not, however, the secret to a good relationship.)

But I am now blessed with a badass spaghetti and meatball framework.  I add my heartburn magnets to this sauce just long enough so the two become one and deeply recommend this course of action.

Nothing is certain but death and taxes, as they say.  I’ll get my meatballs while I can.

Meatballs for a Spaghetti Dinner

Ingredients:

• 4 to 5 ounces of white bread (or a little less than half a baguette, see notes)
• a few splashes of half and half, plus a little water (or whole milk)
• 1 shallot, minced
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• pinch of allspice or baharat spice
• ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
• ¼ cup finely minced parsley
• 5 tablespoons parmesan cheese
• 2 to 3 generous pinches of salt
• 1 large egg
• 1 pound ground beef (or combination of pork, veal, lamb, etc.)

Instructions:

prior to the meatballs

Have a batch of sauce cooking—I prep this recipe ahead of time and have it ready to go on the stove top.

for the meatballs

Set the oven to 400 degrees.

Cut the bread into small chunks and then pulse in a food processor until you get crumbs no larger than the size of peas. 

In a large bowl, add the fresh breadcrumbs.  Pour in a splash of half and half and another of water.  Mix with your hands, squeezing the bread like you would a sponge to incorporate the liquid. Ultimately, you want the mixture to be the texture of ground meat, so add enough liquid to reach this consistency. 

Add in the shallot, garlic, spices, parsley, parmesan, and salt and mix well.  Taste and adjust the seasoning—at this point it should taste a little salty, on the edge of being too salty. Crack in the egg and add the ground meat; mix gently with your hands until everything is combined.

Oil a large baking sheet and roll the mixture into small balls (aim for golf ball-sized).  Place on the oiled sheet and bake for 20 to 25 minutes.

Add the meatballs into a gently bubbling tomato sauce and cook for another 5 minutes or so—longer is not required.

Makes 15 to 20 meatballs

Notes:

1. The bread type doesn't matter much.  I typically use a fresh loaf (it's okay if it has a nice crust to it).  The liquid will soften the crust and that's ultimately what you want, it just might require a little more liquid than, say, Wonder bread.
2. I have half and half in the recipe because it is what we have around—no need to buy it specifically for this recipe, if you keep milk around.