The Perfect Pantry

Arborio, carnaroli, vialone nano (Recipe: mushroom risotto)

Before two Persian restaurateurs opened an Italian trattoria in my Boston neighborhood sixteen years ago, I'd never tasted risotto.

I'd never heard of arborio rice.

I'd definitely never heard of carnaroli.

And I'd most definitely never heard of vialone nano.

All I knew was that I was in love with the rich, full taste of Azita Bina-Siebel's risotto ai funghi, flavored with dried porcini and fresh wild mushrooms, a touch of tomato paste, beef stock, sweet butter, and cream. Even when she took it off the menu, I ordered it. It was worth every one of the hundred million carbs and calories.

Dill weed (Recipe: leek and red potato soup)

I have laryngitis.

Total, whispering, can't-even-croak-like-a-frog laryngitis.

It's all that's left of a brutal head cold. My nose has stopped running, my appetite has returned, and now I want soup — something rich and hearty, but not dairy (it might curdle from all of the citrus I'm pouring down my sore throat).

I also have potatoes. I have leeks. I have chicken stock. And, though the dill in my herb garden has gone to seed, I have some lovely green dried dill weed on my spice rack.

Coconut milk (Recipe: Thai tofu and winter squash stew)

A few years ago, Ted and I visited Trinidad, where we stayed with a family in the town of Arima, a lively Afro-Caribbean community in the center of the country.

Each day we'd set off on explorations, to the Asa Wright Bird Sanctuary, a steel pan competition, the tar pits in the south, or the capital city, Port-of-Spain. And everywhere we went, we passed open-back trucks parked along the side of the road, with hand-lettered signs:

ICE COLD NUTS

Sometimes,

COLD NUTS

and, occasionally,

$1 NUTS.

The nuts were ripe green giant coconuts, and when you purchased one, the seller would hack off the top with a machete. He'd stick a straw in it and hand it to you, like an oversized tropical drink at a tiki bar, and you could sip the very cold liquid inside — entirely refreshing in the hot Caribbean climate.

I was expecting coconut milk, the stuff that comes in a can. Instead, out came coconut water, also referred to as coconut juice or milk, though it's not milk at all.

Mexican chocolate (Recipe: mole colorado)

You've got to hand it to Moctezuma II.

He may have lost the entire Aztec empire to Spain, but the guy did introduce his conqueror, Hernando Cortés, to the earliest version of hot chocolate (cacahuatl, the Nahuatl word for "cacao water"). And when the victorious Cortés returned to Spain, he brought chocolate to the king, who loved it, and declared it the King's Official Drink. Spanish royals who married into French nobility brought chocolate to France, and so on and so on as the upper class of Europe intermarried. Isn't that sweet?

Actually, it is sweet. The Mexican chocolate we buy today — most often under the brand names Ibarra, made in Guadalajara, and Abuelita, made by Nestlé and more common in Mexico — is chocolate ground with sugar and cinnamon. And from what I've read, the addition of sugar, cinnamon, almonds or vanilla can be attributed either to chefs in Spain, or to Spanish nuns in the state of Puebla.

What goes around, comes around.

Baking soda (Recipe: raisin-banana scones)

Lately I've been watching the very cool trivia show Cash Cab, on the Discovery Channel.

Ben Bailey, cabbie extraordinaire, cruises around Manhattan, picking up people in his taxi, and driving flawlessly while simultaneously looking into the television camera. He asks his passengers a series of questions, and for each correct answer they win cash, until they either arrive at their destination, or miss three answers and get put out on the street.

Most of the questions have to do with pop culture, history, politics, famous people, books. Easy-peasy, I think, as I answer along from the comfort of my couch.

So, for all the money, here's the next question: Is baking soda alkali or acid?

The clock is ticking, and I'm about to get my third-strike-you're-out. I know that whichever it is, baking powder is the opposite, but I never can remember which is which.

For those who share this mental block, here's my little mnemonic device: in alphabetical order, acid comes before alkali, and powder comes before soda. Baking powder = acid, baking soda = alkali.

According to the indispensable Food Lover's Companion, when baking soda (a.k.a. bicarbonate of soda), an alkali, is combined with an acid ingredient such as buttermilk, honey, yogurt or molasses, it produces carbon dioxide gas bubbles, which causes a dough or batter to rise.

Baking soda neutralizes the acidity, and also makes baked goods more tender. Because it reacts instantly when moistened, baking soda always should be mixed with dry ingredients before adding any liquid, and the resulting batter should go into the oven right away. For example, Irish soda bread, made with baking soda rather than yeast, comes together quickly, rises in the oven quickly — and gets stale quickly. Such is the mixed blessing of using baking soda as a leavening agent.

Food historians believe the use of baking soda dates back to ancient civilization, but modern baking soda dates to the mid-19th Century, well before the days of game shows in taxi cabs.


RAISIN-BANANA SCONES
Gloria Belknap, a French-trained chef who ran a wonderful bed and breakfast in Boston's South End, taught me this recipe years ago. Substitute any dried fruit, apples and cinnamon, oranges, lemon zest or nuts; it's the formula that counts. Makes 10 large fluffy scones.

1 cup raisins, soaked in hot water to cover for 5 minutes, drained
2 cups unbleached flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
2 Tbsp sugar
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter, cut into chunks
1/2 banana, cut into chunks
1 egg yolk
3/4 cup lowfat plain yogurt or milk
1/4 tsp red wine vinegar

Preheat the oven to 400°F. In a food processor, blender or large bowl, mix the flour, baking powder, baking soda and sugar; add the butter and pulse the processor on and off a few times until the mixture resembles a coarse meal. In a separate bowl blend the egg yolk, yogurt or milk, and wine vinegar, and add to the processor along with the banana and raisins. Mix until all ingredients are just incorporated; do not overmix. Drop in large spoonfuls onto an ungreased baking sheet, and bake for 15-20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Serve with butter and jam; or cool the scones to room temperature, wrap and freeze.

[Printer-friendly recipe.]

Pimentón (Recipe: paella a la Valenciana)

In fourteen hundred ninety-two
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

He made it to Florida
But didn't find any gold.
So, he journeyed again
With new ships and men,
And this time — Eureka!
He discovered paprika.

(And I've discovered a previously-hidden talent for crafting really bad poetry.)

Lucky for us, he brought that paprika (also known as pepper) back to Spain, where he presented it to his patrons, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, at a monastery in the Extremadura. The monks planted the seeds, and today the descendants of those original peppers are cultivated throughout that region of southwest Spain, in the alluvial soils along the river in La Vera.

Canned black beans (Recipe: South End Deep Root Chili)

Once upon a time, a woman named Mary entered a chili contest, a benefit event for one of her causes, and she enlisted the help of her sister and two friends to come up with a signature chili.

She'd seen a recipe for a black bean chili in a magazine, and we started from there. (Cat's out of the bag now...I was one of the recruits.) We worked on our recipe, tweaking a bit, having fun, and — in a stroke of genius — adding some pasta at the end, until we all were pleased with it.

On the day of the contest, I prepared a large vat of our concoction, which we named South End Deep Root Chili in honor of the mega-toothache Mary had on the day we first tested our recipe. Off she went to the contest. There were nine other entrants, all of whom had made traditional chili.

The cook at the station next to Mary's came over for a taste.

"That's not chili," he proclaimed. "It's going to win, but it's not chili."

Hoisin sauce (Recipe: asparagus wonton wraps)

I have a theory.

The world divides into three kinds of people: sugar, salt, spicy.

Which are you? Do you crave that last bit of icing in the mixing bowl, or the cream-filled pastry at the bake shop? Or, like me, do you open your mouth and let a bag of potato chips march in? Or — also like me — would you toss everything aside for a nose-dribblingly-hot, spicy bowl of jambalaya?

Whatever your type, hoisin sauce just might tickle your taste buds.

Chicken broth (Recipe: turkey-escarole soup)

For a few years — I'll admit it now — I was a stock snob.

Only homemade chicken stock would make the cut in my kitchen. No bouillion cubes, no cans, no boxes, no (gasp!) dehydrated powders. I made stock from raw chickens and roasted chickens. My freezer harbored baggies of necks and wing tips, and the occasional smashed carcass.

I felt virtuous.

And then, of course, the day came when I desperately wanted homemade soup, but had no homemade stock. Off I went to our village grocery store, where I read the labels on all of the cans and boxes of chicken broth. I purchased a few different ones, including organic, and did a little taste test. And I discovered Swanson's 99% Fat Free, which is lower in sodium and higher in taste than any of the packaged chicken broths I tried. (By the way, the packaged organic broth all tasted like dish water.)

Sweet cream butter (Recipe: lemon-currant biscotti)

A dairy cow weighs more than 1,000 pounds.

A butter cow — specifically, the Iowa State Fair's famous Butter Cow — weighs 600 pounds, enough butter to coat 19,200 slices of toast.

I know what you're thinking.

Salted butter, or unsalted?

(Are you really thinking that, or are you wondering, like I am, what happens to all of that butter at the end of the fair? Does the cow melt in the heat? Do cow birds eat butter? Does the Butter Cow sleep in a barn at night? Does it moo?)

Good questions. The Butter Cow is made from pure cream butter. If the cream is pasteurized, the result is called sweet cream butter, also known in my house as regular butter. If the cream is not pasteurized, the product is called raw cream butter. To both kinds, salt is added for taste, and as a bit of a preservative.