Eating local food when it is in season — elitist though it may be — is a good trend for food in America, one that I hope has more staying power than most foodie fads. To that end, I try my best to try to promote that style of eating, on this blog and in my life. Farmers markets, winter squash recipes, pickling — all are inspired by the desire to enjoy the unique fruits of Minnesota. But sometimes I worry that this parochial focus threatens to cut us off from one of the greatest joys of eating: food’s ability to transport us to a place far away from home — for a fraction of the cost of air-fare.

Yesterday in Minneapolis was one of those days when one might have wanted to be somewhere else. Seventeen inches of snow in the space of a day can make you question your choice of the latitude you inhabit. Actually, the snow was pretty enough to watch if you didn’t have to drive anywhere — a situation Martha and I thought we were in until we realized our car was parked on the wrong side of the street. An hour, many shovel-loads of snow, and several good samaritans later we had the car parked safely out of the way of plows and were back inside for the rest of the day, hanging our clothes up to dry and thinking about the joys and challenges of living in the Great White North.

But as we had breakfast in the morning, leisurely eating arepas individually buttered, salted, and topped with cheese, we might as well have been in Cali, Colombia, enjoying the morning hours before the day’s heat and afternoon rains arrived. Martha’s Aunt Stella would wake us each morning with these freshly-grilled corn cakes as well as orange juice and coffee. After taking our time over breakfast it was just a short walk to Uncle Joaquín’s café — attached to the house — for a tinto and conversation with the regulars. In Minnesota yesterday morning our orange juice didn’t taste quite as fresh, and the coffee could be better (we love our Peace Coffee but you can’t beat coffee right from the source) but the taste of lightly fried arepas made the snow seem remote, something we were reading about in El Tiempo rather than something rapidly burying our car in a small white mountain.

We make arepas with Masarepa blanca that we hand-imported from Colombia but that is also available in all the Hispanic grocery stores in Minneapolis and can be ordered online. I just follow the package instructions: mix a cup of masarepa with one and a quarter cups of water and salt to taste, let the mix rest a few minutes, and then form ping-pong ball-sized balls into flat patties with very wet hands to prevent sticking (I use a side bowl of water to keep my hands hydrated). Tradition calls for these to be cooked on a parilla, a device for cooking them directly over a gas flame, but I have better luck using a non-stick skillet instead — the arepas stay together, brown more evenly, and can be cooked more than one at a time.

After spending our morning in Cali and much of our afternoon in the harsh reality of Minnesota, by evening we were ready to take another trip. Black beans and white rice is a dish enjoyed throughout the world, especially in Latin America, but for me it’s something I associate most with Cuba. Since the snow shut down most of the grocery stores early we had to rely on the supplies already in the house. Delving deep into the freezer produced a ham hock, which when combined with dried black beans, a bay leaf, half an onion, salt and water and left to cook for a few hours before being spooned over white rice makes a satisfying meal whether you’re at 45 or 23 degrees north. It never snows in Havana, so how could it be snowing when you’re enjoying soupy black beans and rice?

Spending last weekend out of town was great fun for Martha and me, but it seriously interrupted our usual weekend meal planning and grocery shopping routine. When we returned home on Sunday night, I was scrambling for ideas for what to put on the table. Rather than spend a precious weeknight writing a menu and grocery shopping, I decided to wing it for the week and try to use up some of the food we already had in the house. Yeah, I know, cooking from the pantry, not really something to write home — or write blog — about, but a couple of these dishes came out well enough that I thought I’d post them here, just in case someone else out there finds themselves stuck with the exact same ingredients.

1990s Pasta

Forgive me if I’m mixing up decades here, but it seems like the 90s was the time when we everyone was eating sun-dried tomatoes, balsamic vinegar, arugula and penne. Well, as it happens Martha and I keep all these things on hand. One thing I wish we kept on hand that we don’t is pine nuts, which would have been great in this and also very in keeping with that 90s theme. The vinegar was a last second edition when I saw how muddy the tomato liquid was going to make the pasta look; it brightened the flavors up nicely.

• ½ cup sun-dried tomatoes (the dry kind, not the kind packed in oil)
• 3 garlic cloves, shaved thin on a mandoline
• ¼ tsp red pepper flakes
• 1 Tbsp olive oil
• About half a bag of baby arugula (4 or 5 cups, maybe)
• 1 14oz can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
• ½ cup chicken stock
• Salt and pepper
• 1# penne
• 1 Tbsp balsamic vinegar
• ¼ cup grated parmesan cheese

Cover the tomatoes in 2 cups of boiling water and allow to soak 15 minutes, until slightly rehydrated and tender. Strain the tomato soaking liquid into a small saucepan and reserve tomatoes. Bring tomato liquid to a boil and allow to reduce by half. Set aside.

Bring enough water to cook the pasta to a boil in a large stockpot. Place garlic slices, pepper flakes and olive oil in a large, cold skillet and heat over medium heat until garlic cloves brown. Stir in arugula and allow to wilt. Add tomatoes, beans, reduced tomato soaking liquid and chicken stock to skillet and bring to simmer. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, cook the penne al dente and drain. Return to stockpot and toss with sauce, vinegar and cheese. Serve, topping with additional cheese as desired.

Moroccan Parsnips

I’m not sure if they grow parsnips in Morocco, but we sure do grow them in Minnesota, and for some reason I’m always 1.) buying tons of them and 2.) putting them into bland, earthy concoctions. So I turned to a warmer, spicier place to help get through this lingering late farmers market staple.

• 1 Tbsp olive oil
• 1 small bunch parsnips, peeled and cut into 3″ long, thin pieces
• 1 small onion, sliced thin
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1/8 tsp cinnamon
• ¼ tsp cayenne
• ¼ tsp paprika
• ½ tsp cumin
• ½ tsp coriander
• 1 ½ tsp salt
• ½ cup chicken stock
• 1 14oz can chickpeas
• ½ tsp zest plus ¼ cup juice from one orange
• 1 tsp white vinegar
• 1 tsp harissa
• ¼ cup minced parsley

Heat olive oil in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add parsnips and allow to brown. Stir, browning on other sides. Transfer parsnips to a bowl and set aside.

Return skillet to medium heat. Add onions and cook until edges start to brown. Add garlic, spices and salt and cook until fragrant, just a few seconds. Add chicken stock, chickpeas, parsnips and orange zest along with enough water to half cover the parsnips. Partially cover the skillet and simmer until the parsnips are completely tender — about 15 minutes for me, but it depends on the age and toughness of the parsnips.

When parsnips are ready, turn off the heat and stir in the harissa, orange juice, vinegar and parsley. Taste for seasoning. Serve with cous cous.

Was it the stuffing? The mashed potatoes? No. I’ve realized my favorite parts of Thanksgiving are not so specific as one dish on the table. As Tom and I begin to establish our own Thanksgiving traditions, I’ve become attached to many of them. This was our firstofficialthanksgivingasamarriedcouple and we were lucky to enjoy it with two great friends, Mary and Brett. Perhaps obvious, my number one favorite part of Thanksgiving is setting the table, just as last year. This year we also repeated the practice of serving a relish plate full of homemade pickles in the living room before dinner. Standouts were Tom’s pickled okra and Brett’s pickled chanterelles. A few of us also ended up with a black olive on the end of each finger for fun. The best part of Thanksgiving hors d’oeuvres, though, is most certainly Tom’s turkey liver pâté. I want to eat this all-winter-long… so if you have any spare turkey livers in the back of your fridge, you know where to abandon them—on our doorstep. Number four, well, the TURKEY. Tom’s method of roasting the breasts and separately preparing turkey legs and thighs confit continues to delight. And lastly, but not leastly, it is every little bite each a combination of the plate before me, that serves to make Thanksgiving a special meal. Each dish broken down into discrete, distinct mouthfuls is what makes this dinner Thanksgiving, to me.

Although ostensibly a day devoted to giving thanks, Thanksgiving for many descends into gluttony — or at the very least eating a bit too much food that is a bit too rich. Whatever effect this might have on one’s soul, it definitely takes a toll on the body, as the pending post-thanksgiving naps will attest. The days after Thanksgiving give no respite, either: these are days devoted to the consumption of leftovers, constructing, eating and immediately regretting ever-more ridiculous “Thanksgiving sandwiches”. I’m not saying I don’t like Thanksgiving — quite the opposite, I assure you — just that it has a way of making one’s body feel pushed to the limit.

Anticipating this food binge in the days before the big day, I’m filled with a puritanical need to purge. For about three days before Thanksgiving I adopt an almost-vegan diet, avoiding meat, heavy fats and anything that feels like it will linger past its welcome in my gut. Simple meals of grains and vegetables — in small portions — is what I crave before a meal that is complicated, rich and excessively-portioned.

If you too are both excited for and slightly dreading Thanksgiving indulgence, or if in the aftermath of the holiday you’re ready to give up on the damned leftovers, make a meal of this dal and flatbread, inspired by Jeffery Alford and Naomi Duguid’s Flatbreads & Flavors.

Dal

• ½ medium onion, sliced thin
• 2 tsp vegetable oil
• 2 cloves of garlic, minced or pressed through a garlic press
• 1 cup red lentils
• 4 cups water
• 1 tsp salt
• ¼ tsp black pepper, ground
• ¼ tsp ground cumin
• Dash ground turmeric
• Cinnamon stick, a couple of inches long
• ½ cup cilantro

Fry onion in vegetable oil in 4 qt saucepan over medium-high heat until edges start to brown. Stir in garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add lentils and water and stir to combine. Add salt, spices and cinnamon stick. Bring to a boil, then simmer over low heat, covered, for 20 to 25 minutes, until porridge-like. Off heat, stir in cilantro and adjust seasoning. Serve warm.

Puri

• 2 cups whole wheat flour
• 1 cup all purpose flour
• ¼ tsp black pepper, ground
• ¼ tsp ground cumin
• 2 tsp salt
• 1 cup yogurt
• ½ cup water

Pulse flours, spices and salt together in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade to evenly distribute. Add yogurt and water and process until dough has formed a cohesive, smooth ball — about two minutes in my processor. Place dough in an oiled bowl, cover, and let rest about 1 hour.

Divide the dough into 3 oz balls — you should have 14. Allow the balls to rest 20-30 minutes. After the dough balls have rested, begin rolling them out: they should be rolled as thin as possible, as if for tortillas.

Heat a dry large skillet over medium high heat. Cook one flatbread at a time, flipping after bubbles appear all over the surface of the bread. The bread should be dark brown, almost charred in spots. Store cooked breads in a towel to keep warm while you prepare the rest of the breads.

Note: Purists will note this is not actually puri, which should be fried in oil. You might recall the whole point of this meal was to avoid fats like that — if it makes you happier think of these as puri-inspired flatbreads. Also, if you can get it, substitute 3 cups Indian atta flour for the flour in the recipe.

Serve the dal and puri together, using torn off bits of bread to scoop up the lentils.

As much as I love a good risotto, what I’m really hoping for when I serve one is that people won’t want to finish the whole dish. I wasn’t after a risotto lunch; I wanted to try an idea I’d had in mind for a while. Probably the best thing to do with day (or two) old risotto is to make arancini — breaded, deep-fried rice fritters.

Similar to croquetas, arancini require none of the work or planning of making a thick béchamel: just take cold leftover risotto, form it into small balls, coat the balls with flour, beaten egg, and bread crumbs, then fry in oil at 350ºF for a few minutes until deep golden brown. As with anything fried, remember to salt the arancini after taking them out of the oil.

These are good on their own, hot and crisp from the fryer, or you could serve them with anything you like to dip fried food in: marinara, ranch dressing — we ate them with a mixture of mayonnaise and sriracha, which may not sound wonderful but worked at the time. We may have even enjoyed these more than the risotto itself.