A TALE OF TWO SOUPS: Part One (Tortilla Soup)

When I'm feeling puny, soup is one of my go-to comfort foods, and as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't get much more comforting than tortilla soup. It is the perfect lip-smacking blend of salt and spice, broth and crunch as you're likely to find this side of consciousness. Okay, maybe I overstate its restorative properties, but this is my blog, so I'm entitled.

A few weeks ago, I was feeling a bit off, with not much of an appetite in the bargain. As soon as the ick started to wear off, my stomach impatiently reminded me it needed filling, and I began to cast about for something to satisfy its reawakened cravings. It just so happened that the commissary at work offered up their version of tortilla soup at lunch that week. It's good stuff, if a little salty, and I immediately decided I needed to try and make some myself.

Fortunately that week, I also discovered the wonderful mattbites, and while trolling his archives, found his recipe for tortilla soup. That sealed the deal. There was going to be tortilla soup in my weekend plans!

(Roasting Veggies is fun!)

I informed Herself that I would be cooking dinner Saturday night, and was going to finally treat her for once! (Okay, in case you're thinking that sounds a little sexist, Herself makes dinner often because she's an accomplished cook and a trained chef. While I've gladly served as her sous-chef on many occasions, I've been, well, a little intimidated to cook for her! I didn't want to let her down. Silly Gorilla.)

(Frying the tortillas. They were the white corn kind.)

Well, I can honestly say it turned out... well, okay. No fault of the recipe, it was all me. I forgot to strain the puree, which gave it the wrong mouth feel, I think. I decided to add chicken breast as well, but I didn't really have enough, so it tasted like eating an afterthought. You know...kind of bland and empty and never as satisfying as the real thing. I think I could have used a little less salt, too. It's so difficult to get a good taste while it's still simmering, and very easy to over-salt.

Now that being said -- I had a blast making it! Herself cleared out and left me to my own devices, and despite a few mishaps, I timed everything right. I juggled all the steps perfectly and plated it all at once. It's just soup. Big whoop, I know.

But a big step for me!

(Soups on! I also made some guacamole & opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio. You can see we'd already started on the guac!)

We ate on it for a few days, and added some more leftovers each day. A little rice, a little more chicken. Some extra cayenne. All that post-cooking alchemy gave me a few ideas, and a week or so later, I decided to try again.

Coming Soon -- Part Two: More Soup! (or: Enter the Mhutney)

Cheese FAIL!

I've become quite a cheese addict -- and have devoted a large part of the last year or so learning everything I can about my favorite food. Admittedly, I have a lot yet to learn.

Last night, we had dinner with some friends. They were kind enough to prepare a meal for us (Herself has been way too busy prepping for an Oscar party to cook this time). We offered to bring some wine, and I of course, sprang at the opportunity to bring along some cheese as well. We packed some walnuts and dried apricots, and I was looking forward to our cheese course post-dinner.

The cheese in question was a Camembert, of a pedigree I can't precisely recall, but purchased in a fit of cheese-buying the last time our favorite French food importers opened their doors to the public. We ate our way through a couple of buttons of unctuous Epoisses, eventually devoured a mellow wheel of Brillat-Savarin, and scarfed down at least two small discs of Langres. The 'routine'-seeming Camembert remained in our wine fridge, untouched and ripening.

But last night, as I reached for the knife to serve our hosts the first wedge, I noticed something was wrong. That wonderful white bloom common to soft-ripened cheeses was dulled with striations of red and gold. The surface of the cheese cracked as the knife pierced it. and the paste was dark and runny. Not immediate disaster but...

...the faint ammonia whiff of cheese-past-its-prime wafted up from the serving board. Oh no.

I am not afraid of stinky cheese. I am not afraid of cheese that has aged to the color of old parchment and is more goo than solid. I am not unused to the mild ammonia odors that a really fragrant cheese like Banon or an aged Blue can contain. But alas, we'd let this Camembert ripen far too long.

I was mortified, as we'd been telling our hosts how much we loved cheese, and had they had, in turn, regaled us with their wonderful cheese experiences on a recent trip to Argentina. But here I was about to serve them something I wasn't sure was fit to eat. I gamely cut everyone a wedge, and sprinkled some of the walnuts and apricots alongside. The paste was truly lovely to look at, and on my first bite, my fears that it had become inedible were eased. But the second bite, not so much.

Our hosts were very gracious and we moved on with our evening, the cheese barely a speed bump. While I was embarrassed that I hadn't checked the Camembert before serving it to friends, I was also fascinated by the natural processes that had claimed our cheese. First hand, I'd witnessed how a soft-ripened cheese ages, and now have a better idea of what to expect next time.

If the label says "best by mid-January", it does not mean "still okay by mid-February." The education continues...

bleh