Juicing Loads of Oranges this Winter? (If Not, Maybe You Should!) And Don’t Toss the Peels, Candy Them!

Here in the Basque Country, and all over Spain, December marks the start of the winter citrus season, and sweet, juicy oranges are the superstars. Freshly squeezed orange juice is a basic part of everyday life. Virtually all bakeries and cafés, along with many restaurants and bars, offer freshly squeezed juice, and many people prepare it at home each morning.


To put a figure on it, according to data from the Spanish Ministry of the Environment and Rural and Marine Affairs, in 2009, people in Spain drank 138 million liters of freshly squeezed orange juice, 40% of which was prepared and consumed in bars and cafés.


Juice machine poised for action a café in the Basque Country

Throughout the winter season, many people order boxes of sweet oranges from growers in Valencia, Spain’s primary growing region.

Orange grower in Carcaixent, Valencia, Spain; photo from http://50km.blogspot.com.es/

This past week, several of my English conversation students (teachers themselves) were eagerly awaiting the delivery of a massive order of oranges they had organized through their school. Naturally, we discussed the ways in which we generally enjoy oranges, and fresh juice topped the list.


Oranges ready for distribution at the school; photo by Larraitz Artetxe

I grew up drinking orange juice, like many Americans, out of a carton, or reconstituted from a small tube of frozen concentrate. Mixing up that 3:1 water-to-concentrate ratio was a domestic ritual I took great pride in. Check out this (admittedly nostalgic) video clip from the 1968 short film, Bottled Sunshine…A Juicy Story.

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Reconstituting orange juice from frozen concentrate; image from the 1968 film, Bottled Sunshine…A Juicy Story.

My brother and I debated which was better, more “real” tasting: Tropicana (owned by PepsiCo Inc.) or Minute Maid (owned by The Coca-Cola Company). If you are interested in pondering that debate in mind-boggling, unnerving detail, visit Tropicana vs. Minute Maid: The Ultimate Fight!


Infographic comparing which brand is more associated with which usage; image from http://tropimaid2012.blogspot.com.

What my brother and I didn’t know was that for more than 20 years before our first sips of any kid of orange juice, the American orange industry had been on a mission to make it almost impossible for anything but juice made from concentrate to form the basis of our opinions about orange juice. In fact, our experience with “real” – freshly squeezed – orange juice was almost nil.

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In 1966, Pulitzer-Prize winning writer John McPhee wrote a short piece about oranges and orange juice in The New Yorker, which blossomed into Oranges, his 1967 masterpiece of narrative nonfiction and one of my favorite reads of all time.


McPhee explains that just after the Second World War, scientists in Florida developed the first commercial orange-juice concentrate (“…orange juice that has been boiled to high viscosity in a vacuum, separated into several component parts, reassembled, flavored, and then frozen solid”), and changed the course of American juice history.

Concentrated orange juice began to set the standard for what people expected and preferred, like so many food products of its time — a laboratory-generated formula, consistent, predictable, universally available, aggressively marketed…branded.


Before the development of juice concentrate, says McPhee,

People in the United States [consumed] more fresh oranges than all other fresh fruits combined, but in less than twenty years [since the development of orange-juice concentrate] the per-capita consumption has gone down seventy-five per cent, as appearances of actual oranges in most of the United States have become steadily less frequent.

McPhee describes his quest for a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice during his visit to Florida’s Citrus Ridge, one of the most productive orange-growing regions in the world, historically outproducing Spain and Italy combined.

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Vintage Florida postcard

In a restaurant on the Ridge whose parking lot was shaded by fruit-laden orange trees, a waitress informed McPhee that freshly squeezed juice was not available.

There were never any requests for fresh orange juice, the waitress explained, apparently unmindful of the one that had just been made. ‘Fresh is either too sour or too watery or too something,’ she said. ‘Frozen is the same every day. People want to know what they’re getting.’ She seemed to know her business, and I began to sense what turned out to be the truth–that I might as well stop asking for fresh orange juice, because few restaurants in Florida serve it.

At some point in my adolescence, around the time I started my seven-year stint as a vegetarian and began to shun industrially processed foods, I got sucked into the “not-from-concentrate” myth. I believed, for example, that when I guzzled my sweet Tropicana Pure Premium, I was basically drinking boxed (?), freshly (?) squeezed (?) juice.

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Deep down I knew that it was somehow different from the freshly squeezed juices I had tried over the years, but my critical thinking seemed to shut down when all I had to do to quench my teenage thirst was open the fridge and pour myself a tall glass of “100% Pure Squeezed Florida Sunshine.”


In her eye-opening 2010 book, Squeezed: What You Don’t Know about Orange Juice, Alissa Hamilton explains why my 59-ounce container of “not-from-concentrate” Tropicana Pure Premium, while boasting that is “has 16 fresh-picked Florida oranges squeezed into it” is not quite what it seems.


Bottles of Tropicana Pure Premium juice, Tropicana juice processing plant, Bradenton, Florida; photo from Bradenton Herald, May 15, 2013.

In reality, it may have the rough equivalent, in liquid measure, of juice from 16 oranges, but that juice was poured into my container from a massive, homogeneous juice ocean that is essentially “heated, stripped of flavour, stored for up to a year, and then reflavored before it is packaged and sold.

In an interview in The New Yorker, Hamilton explains:

Freshly squeezed orange juice tastes fresh naturally, and some supermarkets do sell it. However, “from concentrate” and most “not from concentrate” orange juice undergo processes that strip the flavor from the juice. The largest producers of “not from concentrate” or pasteurized orange juice keep their juice in million-gallon aseptic storage tanks to ensure a year round supply. Aseptic storage involves stripping the juice of oxygen, a process known as “deaeration,” so the juice doesn’t oxidize in the “tank farms” in which the juice sits, sometimes for as long as a year.

Flavor packs are fabricated from the chemicals that make up orange essence and oil. Flavor and fragrance houses, the same ones that make high end perfumes, break down orange essence and oils into their constituent chemicals and then reassemble the individual chemicals in configurations that resemble nothing found in nature. Ethyl butyrate is one of the chemicals found in high concentrations in the flavor packs added to orange juice sold in North American markets, because flavor engineers have discovered that it imparts a fragrance that Americans like, and associate with a freshly squeezed orange.

Incredibly, the Food and Drug Administration does not require companies to list these mysterious flavor packs, or their components, as ingredients of concentrated or not-from-concentrate juices.

Curious to know what industrial juice processing actually looks like? Check out this amazing window into the industry: the Juice Stabilization and Preservation chapter of an article entitled, Principles and practices of small- and medium- scale fruit juice processing, published in the Food and Agriculture Organization‘s Agricultural Services Bulletin in 2001.

So?, you may retort, Who cares?! You love your processed orange juice (like this blogger), and you always have. It just tastes right to you; it reminds you of home, of your childhood, and you come down fiercely on one side or the other of the “which-is-better” big-brand debate. Furthermore, you may say, so what if the flavor is extracted and then added back in, if that’s what they have to do to fix it up after making it ‘safe’ by pasteurizing it? Or maybe you just think making fresh juice is too messy, expensive, or time-consuming, and you don’t even have a juicer…. Well, I understand. I’ve been there. Taste, after all, is personal, right?

But sometimes we may not realize how much our taste preferences have been shaped by industry needs and objectives, rather than by what we might truly need or enjoy. Far too often, we are, in fact, tastewashed by the food industry, and the messes, costs and lost time we worry about…well, we simply trade one set of those for another less immediately bothersome set. My feeling is that what comes around goes around, but I’ll bite my tongue on the rest of that diatribe…for now!


Maybe you agree that making your own freshly squeezed juice on a cold winter’s morning is the closet thing to sunshine in a glass you could ever taste (and I’m not talking about a cocktail here!). And maybe you accept, and even enjoy, the fact that to every thing there is a season, and that a little unpredictability and variety in your juice glass can be a good, interesting, stimulating, healthy thing!

Or maybe you think that all sounds great but you haven’t got the gear, the material, the routine. Don’t hold back! The season is upon us! Get a juicer! (A good manual model, like this one, does a great job for under $10, and a basic electric juicer, like this one, shouldn’t set you back more than $20.) Get some quality, reasonably-priced oranges by ordering them online (in the U.S., try here or here; in Spain, try here) or buying them from a wholesaler)! Now get juicing! It’s good for you!


So whether you just received your giant box of oranges from Valencia, or you’re otherwise stockpiling fresh oranges and supercharging your days with juicy sunshine, you may be looking for ways to incorporate fresh juice into recipes. Some of these on Yummly look tasty.

But what about all of those leftover rinds? Don’t throw them away! Make candied peels!


During my time as an intern at Chez Panisse, I fell in love with candied citrus peels. We made them from the rinds of grapefruits, lemons and oranges that had been juiced for various savory and sweet dishes.

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Candied orange peels, apricot and cherry galette, apricots and cherries, Chez Panisse, Berkeley, CA, 2004

With the holidays just around the bend, you can give candied peels as gifts just as they are (perhaps dipped in chocolate!), or you can add them to your holiday fruitcake or cookie recipes, decorate your roscón de reyes, garnish your arroz con leche, accent your cheese plate, perfume your tea…use them anywhere you are looking to add a bit of sparkle.

I adapted this recipe from the one I learned from Claire Ptak, former Chez Panisse pastry chef and owner of Violet, a beloved East London bakery. I added some spices that remind me of my mom’s Greek holiday cookies.

I used some gorgeous, enormous, organically grown navel oranges I found at my local market, but you can use the same recipe to candy the peels of any of the thicker-skinned citrus fruits.





12 large orange halves, after they’ve been juiced (from 6 whole oranges)
1 kilo (5 cups) granulated white sugar
1.5 liters (6 1/3 cups) water
20 whole cloves
20 whole allspice berries
3 bay leaves
200 grams (1 cup) granulated white sugar


1. In cold running water, scrub the outsides of the rinds to remove any dirt. (Better yet, scrub the oranges before juicing them.)

2. In a large pot, cover the rinds with cold water, bring the pot to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes. Drain and repeat the process two more times. Drain and rinse in cold water. You may want to place a heatproof-dish directly on top of the rinds as they cook to keep them under the surface of the water.)

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3. On a clean cutting board, use a paring knife to gently remove the remaining pulp and most of the pith from the rinds. I find it helpful to first halve each half, then halve those pieces again lengthwise, so you are left working with 1/8-orange segments. Then run the blade of the knife lengthwise through the pith layer, between the skin and the leftover pulp.


Left to right: 1/4-orange rind section with flesh; 1/8-orange rind section with flesh and some pith removed; sliced peels ready for candying

4. Slice the cleaned peels into strips and reserve.

5. Combine the sugar, water, spices and bay leaves in a large, clean pot and heat until the sugar is completely dissolved.

6. Add the sliced peels to the syrup, bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and maintain at a low, steady simmer for about 2 hours. Stir occasionally and watch carefully toward the end of the process. If the syrup starts getting too thick, add a small amount of water and stir to incorporate. The peels are finished cooking when they are extremely tender and the pith is translucent.


8. Let the peels cool slightly in the syrup, then remove them with a slotted spoon and spread them out on a rack (over a tray lined with foil or parchment paper). Allow them to dry for about 12 hours. (You can cool and save the syrup for pancakes or other recipes!)


9. At this point the peels should be somewhat moist and sticky but not difficult to handle. Roll them one by one in granulated sugar. Work in small batches with a small bit of sugar at a time, as the sugar will start to get clumpy and humid if too many peels roll through it. Allow the peels to dry again on a rack for at least 12 hours.

10. At this point, they can be dipped into melted chocolate (and allowed to dry again), incorporated into recipes, or simply sent on their merry way, just as they are, sweet little things.


Enjoy! Happy Holidays! On Egin!

It smells like Thanksgiving, but it looks a little…puffier.

It’s our Pumpkin Pie Pantxineta

photo 1

Fresh from the oven in this week’s class, our exuberant Pumpkin Pie Pantxineta; photo by Alexandra Denne

…the fusion of two mythic desserts, one from either side of the Northern Atlantic.


Pumpkin pie from Brooklyn’s beloved Four & Twenty Blackbirds; photo from newyork.cbslocal.com

Pumpkin pie is a traditional North American favorite during the fall and winter holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas. It is essentially a custard made from sweet pumpkins, baked in an open pie shell, and infused with a characteristic blend of spices, including cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves and allspice. (Proportions of these spices vary, of course, depending on the baker, but this mix from My Baking Addiction nails it as far as I’m concerned.)


Grinding cloves and allspice to make pumpkin pie spice

Pantxineta, here in Donostia-San Sebastián, is “el dulce de la ciudad” — the sweet of the city — a simple and elegant parcel of puff pastry filled with vanilla custard and topped with almonds. Many believe the original pantxineta recipe was developed by the Otaegui bakery (founded in 1886) during the Spanish Civil War, when other ingredients were scarce…


Otaegui in the Parte Vieja, Donostia-San Sebastián; photo from www.alpanpanyalvinovino.es

…while in a dishy piece about the history of the pantxineta, a writer from Bilbao explains that José Maria Gorrotxategi, historian, baker and author of  La Historia de la Confitería Vasca, believes the recipe may have originated even before that.

In any case, this investigation has gotten me very excited to visit the Gorrotxategi Confectionary Museum in Tolosa, home to an ethnographic collection of tools — divided into sections including Chocolate, Sponge Cake, Liqueurs and Spirits, Cream and Butter, Honey and Wax, among others — representing centuries of the Basque confectionary tradition. More on that in a future post!

As some students observed in class, several of the traditional Basque desserts we have made — fried cream, pears in wine, rice pudding — have filled our kitchen with a now-familiar aroma profile, combinations of vanilla, lemon peel, orange peel and cinnamon. The classic pantxineta recipe falls right in line.


The custard for our Pumpkin Pie Pantxineta – finger lickin’ good!

In making this recipe, however, our Pumpkin Pie Pantxineta sent us down a distinct sensory path, filling our kitchen with the pungent, heady fragrances of other times and other places — of crisp autumn days, of the cornucopia of things we are thankful for — as our two iconic desserts reached out and joined hands across the ocean….



For the pumpkin puree:
1 medium winter squash (best choices: sugar pumpkin, kabocha squash, butternut squash)

For the pastry cream:
800 ml (3 1/3 cups) whole milk
200 ml (1 cup) heavy cream
150 g (2/3 cup) white sugar
4 egg yolks
1 whole egg
65 g (1/2 cup) corn starch, sifted
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped
1 lemon, zested in strips
250 g (1 cup) pumpkin puree
3 tsp pumpkin pie spice 

For the pantxineta:
500 g puff pastry (2 sheets)
200 g raw almonds, peeled and chopped
1 whole egg, beaten
Cooled pastry cream
Flour for dusting


1. First, make the pumpkin puree. Preheat the oven to 200 degrees C (400 degrees F). Cut the squash in half lengthwise, remove the seeds, and roast it, cut-side down, in a baking dish lined with parchment paper and covered tightly with foil, for about 30 minutes or until very tender. (Don’t add anything – no oil, water, butter, salt, sugar, spices, etc.) Scoop out the flesh and puree it with a hand blender. You can use it right away, or you can refrigerate or freeze it for later use.


2. Get organized before making your pastry cream! If you’ve never made one before, or have had trouble trying, don’t worry! With a bit of care and the right tools, you can make a smooth and creamy custard with no fear of scrambled eggs or gooey lumps. Be sure you have a sturdy whisk and a heat-resistant rubber spatula.


Your partners in pastry-cream making: a sturdy whisk and a rubber spatula

3. In a medium saucepan, bring the milk just to a boil with the vanilla bean (seeds and pod), lemon zest and pumpkin pie spice. Lower the heat so the milk is not boiling but remains hot and steaming; allow the milk to infuse for 10 minutes. Stir occasionally to prevent a skin from forming. (If a skin does form, just remove it.) Remove the pod and the zest.


Infusing the milk with vanilla bean, lemon peel and spices

4. In a small mixing bowl, whisk together the cream and the cornstarch until smooth and set aside.


Cornstarch and cream whisked together

5. In a large mixing bowl, blanchir the egg yolks, whole egg and sugar by beating with a whisk until pale and creamy. Whisk in the cornstarch mixture.


Eggs and sugar whisked together until pale and creamy

6. Temper the egg mixture with the hot milk: Slowly pour about 200 ml (about 1 cup) of hot milk into the egg mixture, whisking constantly. Add the remaining hot milk in 3 or 4 additions, whisking constantly. Whisk in the pumpkin puree.

7. Pour the mixture into a clean saucepan and begin heating over medium heat, stirring constantly with the rubber spatula to incorporate any froth and to keep the mixture moving as it comes up to temperature. You may raise the temperature to medium-high, but keep a close eye on it. When the mixture starts to thicken, that is, when you just begin to see some sticky business forming on the spatula, switch from the spatula to the whisk and whisk vigorously as it thickens to achieve a smooth, luscious custard. Once the thickening process begins, it should all take no more than about 3-5 minutes.


Whisking to form a smooth, creamy custard

8. Pour the custard into a cool, deep tray or platter and cover with plastic wrap, allowing the plastic to touch the surface of the custard to prevent a skin from forming as it cools. Allow to cool.


Custard cooling in the window; laundry hanging in the rain

9. Make the pantxineta. Preheat the oven to 170ºC. Lightly roll out one sheet of puff pastry and press it into a tart mold like this one. Fill the shell with the cooled pastry cream. Unroll the second sheet of puff pastry and place it directly on top of the mold, trim it and carefully seal the edges where the two layers meet.

Alternately, you can create mini-pantxinetas by cutting circles from the puff pastry. Lay out half of the circles, top each with a spoonful of custard, use beaten egg to paint their borders, top with remaining circles and gently press together.


Preparing mini-pantxinetas

Brush the surface of the pantxineta(s) with beaten egg, sprinkle with the chopped almonds and bake for approximately 40 minutes until beautifully puffed and golden. Serve warm.

Enjoy! Happy Thanksgiving! On egin!


Longwood Gardens, Pennsylvania

Recipe: New England-Meets-Basque-Style Clam and Salt Cod Chowder, v. 1.0


New England-Meets-Basque-Style Clam and Salt Cod Chowder, v. 1.0, 15 November 2013

This recipe — borne out of an aromatic journey down memory lane, through the clam shacks of my childhood, and up to the present day, through the kitchens of the Basque country — combines the essential elements of a New England clam chowder (clams, potatoes, onions and corn in a broth enriched with milk) with several fundamental elements of Basque cuisine: choricero peppers, Pimentón de la Vera, and bacalao.


Cape Codder Seafood Market, West Yarmouth, Massachusetts, November 2008


Extracting rehydrated choricero pepper pulp

This chowder is at once hearty and substantial, yet it remains delicate and fragrant, with the flavors of the clams and fish shining through the broth. Just in time for our Basque Thanksgiving feast next week, it strikes a perfect balance for me between what I have known “forever” in my New Englander bones about great chowders, and what I have been absorbing since I came to live on the other side of the Atlantic. I hope you love it too!


2 kilos (4.5 pounds) hard-shell clams, scrubbed and purged
1 kilo (2.2 pounds) rehydrated salt cod, cut into pieces (2.5-5 cm/1-2 inches)
275 g (0.5 pounds) smoked bacon, cut into lardons
4 medium leeks, trimmed and sliced into 1-cm pieces
1 large onion, peeled and diced
6 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
5 medium potatoes, peeled and diced into 1-cm cubes and held in cold water
500 ml (2 cups) whole milk
3 bay leaves
6 black peppercorns
3 sprigs fresh thyme
500 ml (2 cups) dry vermouth
6 grams (1 Tbsp) Pimentón de La Vera
20 grams (1 Tbsp) pulp of rehydrated choricero peppers
350 grams (1 cup) corn kernels, sliced from 2 large cobs, or canned
6 grams (2 Tbsp) fresh chives, finely chopped
3 grams (1 Tbsp) fresh parsley, finely chopped
2 liters (8 cups) white fish stock, heated to a boil and left barely simmering
1 baguette-style loaf of bread, cut into 1-cm slices
1 garlic clove, sliced into paper-thin slices
1 gram (4-5 individual) small, dried cayenne peppers
Freshly ground black pepper
Olive oil

1. Prepare the clams and clam broth. In a large pot combine 175 ml (3/4 cup) of the dry vermouth, 350 ml (1 1/2 cups) of water, 1 bay leaf and 6 peppercorns and bring to a boil. Add the clams, cover, and cook until the clams just open. Move them gently once or twice, taking care not to break their shells. Remove from heat. Remove the clams from the liquid with kitchen tongs and strain the liquid through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean bowl. Shell the clams and reserve them in another small bowl. Discard the shells.

2. Prepare the sofrito. In a large, clean pot, sweat the bacon lardons over medium heat until they begin to render their fat. Then raise the heat slightly and toast them on all sides.


Bacon lardons

3. Add the onion, leeks and garlic to the pot with the bacon, season with salt and cook over medium heat until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the corn kernels.

4. Add the remaining vermouth and allow it to reduce almost completely. Add the choricero pepper pulp and the pimentón and stir well.


The sofrito 

5. In another medium pot, combine the milk, thyme, 2 bay leaves and potatoes, season with salt and freshly ground black pepper, and simmer until the potatoes are tender, about 6 minutes.


Potatoes simmering in aromatic milk before being added to the chowder pot

6. Add about 1.25 liters (about 5 cups) of the fish stock to the sofrito and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat slightly and add in the mixture of potatoes and milk. Stir well. It is important that the chowder not return to a rapid boil from this point on (to keep the milk from separating), but it should be kept hot, over medium-high heat.

7. Gently incorporate the salt cod and simmer gently until the fish is firm, about 5 minutes. Stir occasionally. Taste. Season with salt and black pepper. Incorporate chopped chives and parsley. Remove the pot from the heat.

8. In a wide, shallow pan, heat a thin layer of olive oil over medium heat, along with the paper-thin slices of garlic and the cayenne peppers. When the garlic begins to just sizzle, add as many slices of bread as will fit in the pan in an even layer and toast them, first on one side then on the other. Remove toasts to a plate and sprinkle with a hint of pimentón. Discard the cayenne peppers.


Small, dried cayenne peppers (Capiscum spp)


Chopping chives for finishing the chowder

9. Serve the chowder in wide bowls with two or three toasts nestled right into the broth. Grab a spoon.


Enjoy! On egin!

An Aromatic Journey to our Recipe for New England-Meets-Basque-Style Clam and Salt Cod Chowder


Allandale Farm, Brookline, Massachusetts, November 2012

It’s hard not to feel homesick for New England these days, with a chill in the air and Thanksgiving right around the corner, so it’s been with extra spirit that I’ve been working on this recipe — New England-Meets-Basque-Style Clam and Salt Cod Chowder — for an upcoming class, where we’ll prepare a special Basque Thanksgiving feast.


New England-Meets-Basque-Style Clam and Salt Cod Chowder, v. 1.0, 15 November 2013

It’s been a sweeping, aromatic journey down memory lane, through the clam shacks of my childhood in Massachusetts, with their heaps of steamers and hearty chowders (not to mention their fisherman’s platters and steamed lobsters, but I’ll save those for other dishes!)…


Steamers at Woodman’s of Essex, Essex, Massachusetts; photo by Michael A. Gardiner in San Diego Food and Travel

…and up to the present day, through the kitchens of the Basque country, with their sweet choricero peppers, smokey Pimentón de la Veraand beloved bacalao, or salt cod. (In Castillian Spanish, bacalao, and in Basque, bakailaoa, also refer more generally to the fish species, Atlantic cod, but in most Basque recipes, it refers to salt cod, unless otherwise indicated as fresh.)

But before we dig into the recipe, let’s get a better handle on chowder. According to Merriam-Webster, a chowder is “a thick soup or stew made of seafood or corn with potatoes and onions and milk or tomatoes.”

Where I come from, the region of New England, the king of all chowders is the clam chowder. Across individual states in the region, people have very strong opinions about (many things, including) what makes a good, authentic clam chowder, and these opinions vary quite definitively. (Varieties of clams also vary across the region, and specific, highly local clam-based recipes abound, as described in a wonderful 1986 piece by Florence Fabricant in the New York Times.)


Shuckers Raw Bar, Woods Hole, Massachusetts, November 2011

Perhaps the widest known of the clam chowders is the New England-style clam chowder, revered in the more northern states of Maine, New Hampshire and Massachusetts. It is essentially clams and potatoes in a clam broth thickened with milk or cream and sometimes with flour and/or oyster crackers. Up north, people generally prefer it thick and creamy. It might have something to do with the long, cold winters.


Winter window, Gloucester, Massachsetts, December 2011

But head a bit south and things change. Rhode Islanders like their clam chowder broth clear, with no milk or cream. Simply delicious. New Yorkers (just below New England) like it translucent but red, with tomatoes, and the same goes for many folks in Connecticut (though not universally, as traditional New England-style chowders and hybrids also abound).

This is unsettling for the folks up north. Most Mainers can’t bear the thought of tomatoes in a clam chowder. In her NY Times piece, Fabricant reminds us, “In Maine in 1939 a bill was introduced in the legislature making it illegal to add tomatoes to the chowder.” Strong opinions indeed.

My strong opinion is that a great clam chowder should have a hint of creaminess in its body, to suspend the flavors in place, as my husband put it, but that creaminess should never go so far as to mask the glories of the broth. And if tomatoes join the party in the pot, we’re heading out of chowder territory and toward the Portuguese and Italian seafood stews also beloved along the New England coast.

I love this recipe; it’s what I look for in a chowder — it’s at once hearty and substantial, yet it remains delicate and fragrant, and the flavors of the clams and fish come shining through. Just in time for our Basque Thanksgiving feast, it strikes a perfect balance for me between what I have known “forever” in my New Englander bones about great chowders, and what I have been absorbing since I came to live on the other side of the Atlantic. I hope you love it too!

Recipe: New England-Meets-Basque-Style Clam and Salt Cod Chowder, v. 1.0

Class Tomorrow! Shock an Octopus, Discover Majado and Rejoice in Rice Pudding


One of the most satisfying dishes I have ever eaten, this Galician-style Octopus with Potatoes (Pulpo a la Gallega con Cachelos) is at once sleek and simple yet altogether spectacular.

In the Galician language, the dish is called Polbo á Feira, fair-style octopus, and it is traditionally prepared by polbeiras (octopus cooks, usually women) in large copper pots at rural fairs, and in the more modern restaurants also known as polbeiras.

The preparation is straightforward — octopus and potatoes are boiled and served with a few aromatic enhancements — yet the result can be surprisingly transcendent.


Polbeira preparing octopus in Galicia. Photo source: Wikipedia Commons.

But unless you have actually been transported to Octopus Heaven (as I am every time I eat Pulpo a la Plancha at La Cuchara de San Telmo), or even to a fair in Galicia, you may be skeptical. Octopus not rubbery? With boiled potatoes…transcendent?


Octopus Heaven: Pulpo a la Plancha at La Cuchara de San Telmo. Photo by José Lopez, published in Pintxos de Vanguardia a la Donostiarra, Elkar Fundazioa, 2009.

The key, of course, in addition to the quality of the few necessary ingredients (octopus, potatoes, coarse salt, pimentón and olive oil), is the careful execution of the dish. This is what we will aim to master tomorrow.


Valeria shocking our lunch into shape.

Above all, we’ll learn about proper handling and treatment of the octopus, from the time we first see it (and even before), to the time it makes it to our plates…and disappears.

We’ll also try our hands at a dish from the far-opposite corner of Spain, from the region of Murcia (known for its bountiful vegetables), called Murcian Gypsy-pot Stew (Olla Gitana Murciana), a kind of potaje (pronounced “po-ta-he”), or vegetable-and-legume stew. In this case, the main elements are garbanzo beans, white beans, winter squash, green beans, potatoes, and — the showstopper — pears.


Pears awaiting their cue to perform their starring role in the Olla Gitana.

If that doesn’t sound lovely enough, it gets better. What makes this dish much more interesting than your ordinary pot o’ veggies and beans (I had lots of those during my 7 years as a vegetarian!) is the incorporation of several important elements that supercharge the potaje‘s flavor and body. 

First off, the Olla Gitana (pronounced “oh-ya hi-ta-na”), like so many soups and stews throughout Spain, gets a major flavor boost from a robust sofrito, but in this case, instead of serving literally as a base upon which the rest of the stew is built (in the same pot), the sofrito is made separately and stirred into the potaje once the vegetables and legumes are cooked.


Grating tomatoes to sofreir with onions and garlic.

Secondly, the potaje gets its body through its majado (not to be confused with the Peruvian dish majado) — a beautiful mash-up of toasted bread, garlic, almonds, cooking liquid and vinegar. We’ll explore the different results we can achieve by creating our majado both by hand, in a mortar and pestle, and by using a blender.


Almonds, garlic and bread toasting to make a majado.

Thirdly, our potaje is tipped into flavor paradise through the additions of saffron, pimentón and fresh mint. The quality of these elements can vary greatly, so to achieve this dish’s full potential, it’s essential to use spices and herbs of the highest possible quality.

Finally, we’ll finish our menu with a dessert beloved throughout Spain: Rice Pudding (Arroz con Leche). The recipes vary slightly from region to region, and even from home to home, but our lovely pudding will get its aroma from lemon peel, vanilla beans, and cinnamon, and a final nudge into creamy dreaminess with a bit of butter.


Creamy, dreamy Arroz con Leche.

Arroz con Leche is often served chilled, but it is also enjoyed warm, freshly made, as we will tomorrow, as the winds and rains rattle the windows of our cozy kitchen. I can’t wait!

See you again soon! On Egin!