When I travel — which happens far too infrequently for my taste — I focus on the food. That’s probably not surprising. The problem with falling in love with the food of a place that, due to a lack of funds or time I won’t be visiting again in the near future, is the cravings. Sometimes after barely a week has passed I’m already desperate to be back where I was eating those foods I just can’t get in Minnesota. My coping mechanism is cooking: when the appetites first awakened by travel arise again instead of buying a plane ticket I head to my kitchen and do my best to recreate those foreign flavors at home.

It’s been a year since Martha and I traveled to Colombia and discovered the magic of Empanadas de Pipián. I’ve eaten plenty of empanadas in my life, many in restaurants in in Minnesota, but none like these. Empanadas de pipián have two distinguishing characteristics: first, the texture of their shell. Nobody would ever compare empanadas de pipián to Cornish (or Upper Peninsular) pasties; empanadas de pipián have a crisp, crunchy shell, reminiscent of a hard taco but slightly more yielding. The other unique characteristic of empanadas de pipián is their flavor: peanuts. While some empanadas may feature meat, or olives, or a medley of any number of ingredients, empanadas de pipián taste like peanuts. In a good way. A uniquely Colombian treat.

When a Colombian food jones strikes, the first reference I consult is the brown notebook I transcribed during afternoons and evenings spent in Martha’s Aunt Stella’s kitchen in Cali, Colombia as she prepared the family’s meal and put up with my persistent questions about her technique and ingredients. Stella is my sage for many Colombian foods.

As a resident of Cali, however, Aunt Stella has easy access to the nationally-renowned empanadas fried up at El Zaguán de San Antonio. Being able to drive 15 minutes to eat some of the best empanadas in town (in the whole world, in fact), she didn’t have much reason to make them at home while we were there. So the brown notebook had no recipe for me.

Where the brown notebook fails, the the two volume Nuevo Gran Libro de la Cocina Colombiana (originally published by Círculo de Lectores in 1983 and reissued by Intermedio in 2008) that I bought in Cali usually has some guidance. This cookbook covers a great variety of Colombian dishes, from soups to desserts, and does a good job of treating the regions of Colombia, even in its brief form. The photos are beautiful. But while it contains several recipes for empanadas, El Gran Libro was silent on the subject of those of pipián.

With first-hand experience coming up blank and my published reference of no help either, I had to turn to my absolute last resort when it comes to cooking: the Internet. That might sound odd coming from a food blogger, but my experience of Internet recipes largely mirrors that of grumbling old-media editors: there’s a lot of crap to sift through (all the recipes I post on marthaandtom.com are perfect, of course). There are a few websites whose recipes I will trust outright, but for the most part searching the web for recipes requires sifting through several versions on various websites and then applying a little common sense and experience to try to get something workable. A search turned up several recipes which I used as to develop a recipe for my empanadas (there was a spreadsheet involved, but I’ll spare you).

Empanadas de Pipián

You’ll need:

• 624 g (eh, call it a pound) potatoes, cut into a small dice

Note on potatoes: In Colombia, potatoes are a science unto themselves; there were more varieties of potatoes in the supermarket than I could even begin to wrap my head around. Small potatoes, large potatoes, red potatoes, blue potatoes, purple potatoes; there were even unwashed potatoes with the dirt still on (to be washed at home — some people like them that way). Taking a survey of the entire country would yield even more variety. And all of these potatoes have their specified uses; without a doubt there is some canonical potato for pipián. In the United States though, potatoes is more or less potatoes and we’ve got to take what we can get. I used white potatoes from the Midtown Farmers Market.

• 212 g (~3/4 c) hogao

Hogao is an ingredient in many, many Colombian dishes. In its simplest form — this is how Stella taught me to make it — it is a mixture of chopped onions and tomatoes, cooked to a puree-like consistency. More complicated versions exist; I personally couldn’t resist throwing in some garlic. I took 356 g roughly chopped tomatoes, mixed them with 156 g roughly chopped onion and 12 g (2 cloves) minced garlic and cooked it to the right consistency: maybe ten minutes over medium heat.

• 78 g peanut butter, melted

This probably leaves authenticity purists even more disturbed than the potatoes, but all the recipes call for roasted and ground peanuts (peanuts being the defining characteristic of Pipián); peanut butter saves several steps. I’m not talking about Jif here — our jar of Salt-Free Eastwind Peanut Butter’s ingredient list reads as follows: “Roasted Peanuts.” But Jif would probably be fine too.

• 1 T achiote

To make the Pipián, place the diced potatoes in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Add plenty of salt. Bring to a boil and simmer until the potatoes are just tender; it won’t take long if you’ve diced them small enough. When the potatoes are cooked, drain them well, then mix with the other three ingredients until everything is evenly distributed.

With the filling under control, the next step is to make the wrapper. Empanadas de pipián feature a yellow-corn based masa, for which I used the bag of P.A.N. Harina de Maiz Amarilla Precocida that we brought with us from Colombia. At the time we thought it would be impossible to get in the States and that we’d be out of luck if we needed our empanada fix. Happily, I’ve noticed this product available in many Latin American markets and even Latin American sections of supermarkets, so there is no obstacle between you and perfectly crunchy empanadas.

I followed the instructions on the package, adding a bit of salt to a cup of water, then stirring in a cup of corn flour. It is important to let the dough rest 15-30 minutes to hydrate fully; the dough will be too wet when it’s first mixed; the water hasn’t been fully absorbed by the corn.

When the dough is sufficiently hydrated, it should be divided into balls. I pinched off a ball I thought looked to be the right size and measured it at 34 g; in retrospect these were probably a little too big. But the bigger you make them the fewer empanadas you’ll have to fold together, so it’s worth considering. Anyway, there’s no agreed upon size for empanadas de pipián; in Colombia we sampled some that were little more than folded over tortilla chips, and others that were much more substantial.

Once you’ve completed your ball size deliberations, you’re ready to form the empanadas. The easiest way to do this is with two sheets of plastic — a zipper-lock bag torn asunder, say. Place one ball between the sheets of plastic, flatten it slightly, then roll it out into an even circle using a rolling pin. Remove the top plastic sheet, place a tablespoon or so of filling in the middle of the dough circle, then fold the bottom plastic sheet over itself to close the empanada, pressing the edges to seal them. Carefully peel back the plastic and flip the empanada onto a cornmealed, floured, cornstarched, or otherwise nonstickified sheet. Continue until you run out of dough, filling, or patience.

Heat deep frying oil to 350ºF (you’ll have to use your own judgment on how much oil to use; in my pan 2 quarts made sense). Fry the empanadas in batches of 4 or 5. They are done when they start to develop dark brown spots, which should occur just as your oil recovers to 350ºF, ready for the next batch.

Let the empanadas cool a little (OR THEY WILL BURN YOUR MOUTH) but not too long — they are best fresh. Serve with ají de maní, preferably applied to each bite from a red squeeze bottle.

Ají de Maní

To be honest I wasn’t totally happy with the way this sauce came out; the addition of cilantro (an idea I got from that darn Internet) didn’t do much for the sauce. The basic idea here is a spicy sauce tasting of peanuts with a thin consistency.

• 96 g peanut butter
• 156 g hogao (should probably use much less, but I wanted to use up what I made for the pipián)
• 10 g (1 small) hot pepper
• 10 g (2 cloves) garlic
• 6 g (largish handful) cilantro
• 162 g water
• a pinch of freshly-ground cumin

Process all ingredients in a blender until smooth.

Tom and I spent last Sunday welcoming the Solstice with our friends Brett and Mary, a few of their Wisconsin neighbors, and a handful of others who made the trek from Minneapolis/St. Paul. It was a beautiful day…

We contributed this salad of cauliflower, mint, carrots, &c. with market produce inspired by a Black Sheep Pizza market salad. Many thanks to Brett and Mary for hosting. I’m only sorry I don’t have more pictures of the rest of the food!

“OH MY GOD, A MOREL!” I cried, after having given up the search and nearly abandoning the woods. Tom, a more seasoned mushroomer, hissed for me to, ”Keep it down.” While it’s likely obvious, I have only been out looking for mushrooms, or mushrooming, once before (twice if you count our hike in Muir Woods outside San Francisco), and I’m not yet very well versed in the caginess of mushroom hunters. I will, however, not mention exactly where we went yesterday or reveal where our tip came from—even foragers-in-training have to protect the secrets of the woods.

After seeing morels for sale at the Midtown Farmers Market ($10/basket) and the Wedge Coop ($40/pound), I got an itch to go hunting for our own. It’s not that I didn’t want to spend the money: morels are expensive, but so is gas and fruitless hours spent wandering the woods. Yesterday’s adventure added up to two hours of driving time (there and back) and an additional two or more hours to find two ounces of mushrooms, which could have been had for a mere $5.

But all experiences should not be reduced to such crude economic calculations. An afternoon started with a good lunch of rye Real Bread, a package of Gardens of Eagan strawberries, hummus, and cheese followed by a ramble through the astonishingly green Minnesota woodlands cannot be so easily valued. For the most part we stuck to trails. Only two of our morels were found off the trail, while we spotted five (yes, that’s a total of seven) without leaving the trail at all.

All of our finds occurred after we’d completely given up (which we did four times) and insisted that the season was over, it was hopeless, and we might as well quit looking. Mushrooming is sort of like trying to remember something and focusing too hard, causing all memory to be blocked and much suffering from “It’s on the tip of my tongue” until several hours later, when you’ve completely forgotten about remembering and everyone else has gone home and the very thing comes to mind with ease.

Satisfied with our seven mushrooms in tow, and feeling a bit tired after a couple of hours staring intently to the left and right, we climbed into the car to head back to Minneapolis. Just as Tom, who offered to drive home, was pulling out of the parking area, a man walked by with what I insist was a football-sized morel in the crook of his arm. “OH MY GOD,” I yelled, out my open window. Tom, now thoroughly embarrassed, hushed me once more saying, “You can’t just yell ‘OH MY GOD’ at someone out the window!” and continued driving out of the lot. And so I have no picture, but perhaps that is best. We wouldn’t want to reveal too much.

Loving garlic as much as I do — and I love garlic — I was briefly in heaven when I discovered at a Lebanese restaurant in Cairo a dip called thoumiya. The name presumably derives from the Arabic thoum (ثوم), which means garlic, and this dip was all about garlic — almost pure garlic, touched with lemon juice and beaten into a fluffy cloud of ecstasy.

As you can tell, I departed the Middle East with no small amount of enthusiasm for this dish. Imagine my dismay when I found no mention of it in any Middle Eastern cookbooks, and could find no information on the Internet (perhaps owing to transliteration difficulties). It was as if I had imagined the whole thing, or perhaps been tricked by a djinn.

Or so I thought, until today, when on routine provisioning trip to Kowalski’s I saw glowing out from the shelf like a red and white beacon the words “Garlic Supreme”. One look at the texture and color and I knew I had finally found that magical sauce from of my memories, courtesy of the St. Paul Flatbread Co. The first thing I did upon returning home — before even putting the groceries away — was crack this open and I was immediately transported; it was perfect, lemony, light, and above all garlicky.

It would be more in the spirit of this blog for me to post a recipe for a homemade version — and I suppose I will probably do that one day — but for the moment I am happy that I can have a small piece of heaven for just $3.99.

Tom and I returned from a long weekend in San Francisco on Monday evening. Guided by Tom’s brother Mike and a rented PT Cruiser (never even consider buying or renting this car by the way… it will only confuse you!), we walked the Mission, Upper and Lower Haight, and a drove through several other neighborhoods. Coming from Minneapolis’ very new spring, it was wonderful to see so much green and so much color in the architecture of the city. On the downside, much rain welcomed us to San Francisco but as you can see in the above photo there were moments of sunshine in between. I was happy to get to know the deYoung Museum, particularly its viewing tower of the city, and the SFMoMA. Thanks to Mike for sharing a great dinner at Contigo, where we enjoyed fantastic tapas accompanied by a bottle of cidra and plenty of tips on local beers, bars, and eateries.

We’re still sorting through about 400 pictures to determine just what to do with them. Finding photos of what we ate and drank, however, was quick and easy.

When it comes to Spanish bar food, I don’t need much more than a plate full of jamón serrano to accompany a few cañas of beer. But for Martha, there is no better tapa than the croqueta: a deep fried little log of gooey delight (beer doesn’t hurt here either). Always looking for ways to please, and not exactly hating croquetas either, I recently fried up a couple of batches using two different recipes for Martha’s and my own enjoyment.

I made my first batch of croquetas using the classic technique (my base recipe came from Penelope Casa’s Delicioso: The Regional Cooking of Spain). The first step is to make a very thick bechamel: my roux consisted of 6 tablespoons of olive oil and ¾ cup of flour to which I added 2 cups of milk over medium heat. In preparing the bechamel I learned that a lumpy roux that just won’t break up can be remedied with the magic of a food processor, a most satisfying action after 5 minutes of uselessly hunting lumps with a whisk.

Lots of fillings can go in croquetas, but salt cod and cheese are two very popular options. Since we were fresh out of salt cod, I decided to go the cheese route. Obviously, a Spanish cheese  would have been appropriate, but I was not interested in going to the store, so instead I folded a handful of cheap provolone into my cooked sauce with salt and pepper for good measure.

As I mentioned earlier, croquetas are shaped like small logs. But how to give shape to liquid bechamel sauce? The answer is to chill it. Most recipes seem to recommend chilling the bechamel overnight before proceeding. Crunched for time, I got away with just an hour and a half of chilling.

After the bechamel was cold enough to work, I formed pinches of it into cylinders and placed them on a plate. Then, it was time to bread: separate dishes of flour, eggs, and bread crumbs and a fanatical observance of “wet hand, dry hand” rule make this a clean and efficient process. As the croquetas were breaded I placed them on a sheet pan to wait for their date with destiny—a pot full of 350°F oil.

Croquetas don’t take long to fry, just a few minutes until the breading is golden. If they sit in the oil too long, there’s a risk of the filling exploding out of the breading. They are best eaten very hot, washed down with the aforementioned beer.

We also enjoyed a few other Spanish standards: tortilla española, jamón (ok, prosciutto, but what can you do?) and aged goat cheese.

Making these must have given me the croqueta bug, because just over a week later I was hauling out the oil again for another round. This time, though, I used a recipe from the New York Times that was less traditional: rather than a bechamel, these croquetas were based on leftover mashed potatoes (the recipe was originally published in anticipation of Thanksgiving leftovers). It happened that I had a large amount of mashed potatoes left over from Martha’s birthday and this recipe sitting on my desktop for the past year and a half; it was a croqueta perfect storm, really. I made the recipe as described in the Times, again substituting prosciutto for jamón (but really, there is no substitute).

If using leftover mashed potatoes seems too convenient and not a little questionable to you, your suspicions are well-warranted. These croquetas had good flavors and were a good way to use up leftovers, but the heavy mashed potatoes just can’t compete with gooey, creamy fried béchamel. All considerations of time and convenience aside, I’d take traditional croquetas every time. But in any case, there’s plenty of room in our lives for all kinds of croquetas.

And therein lies the real joy of making croquetas at home: if you order them in a restaurant, you can expect three to five to a plate accompanied by a crazy urge to order more. Too much of this can break the bank. At home, relatively cheap ingredients are transformed into enough fried goodness to satiate anybody’s croqueta cravings.

Click the image to see this photo set on Flickr.

Every Christmas my father prepares buñuelos for the family on the mornings of the 24, 25, and 26 so that all can have their share—no matter their arrival time. A round Colombian cheese bread, buñuelos are made from corn starch, shredded queso campesino, milk, and a little salt and sugar (we first mentioned them here). They are made from a very wet dough, as you’ll see below, and fried to perfection. The dough-balls turn naturally in the hot (but not too hot) oil, and can be helped along with the tap of a chopstick or the end of a wooden spoon. They’ll be firm to the touch when ready to be removed from the oil, and are best eaten warm. As kids we’d sometimes have them with peanut butter and milk. As a lover of sausage biscuits, this year another idea occurred to me…

Enjoyed for the first time today, “Buñuelo Sliders” proved to be a very repetible experiment.

Update: For the recipe, see comments below.

Tom and I enjoyed an afternoon of grape picking at St. Croix Vineyards on Saturday. The staff at the Vineyards started us off with lunch and wine, then we headed out into the vines for a lesson in picking.

We used clippers to remove the bunches of grapes and any dried or bird/bee eaten ones in the bunch. All grapes—good or bad—had to be removed so the vines would know it was time to get ready for winter. Bad ones were dropped unceremoniously to the ground while the worthy grapes were tossed into yellow lugs, for easy collection later.

I wore my own gloves, but most of the volunteers worked bare-handed. Pickers who are paid by the pound, according to the vineyard staff, tape metal talons to their fingers to enable them to pick quickly, Wolverine-style. We were glad we weren’t being paid by the pound.

At the end of the day, we were repaid for our hard labor with two bottles of wine each — that’s a half a bottle of wine an hour. Not bad for an afternoon’s work.

marthaandtom’s Grape Harvesting at St. Croix Vineyards photoset

Hailey, Dave, Nicky, and Peter went to the State Fair. Then Nicky made a video. More words are not required…

See Hailey’s full post, The Minnesota State Fair 2009, at Hailey’s Comments. Video, formicadinette.com.