Recipe for Leek Mousaka (Μουσακάς με Πράσα)

Happy New Year to one and all!

I’m back from recent travels and recovered from holidays full of family, parties, and baking. You heard it here first: I’m never eating cookies or candy again. Ever. Or at least until memories of the last month fade into nothingness.

It’s hard to decide what to write about because I have a giant backlog of recipes and photographs. So instead of actually making a decision, I jumbled my stack of notes, and randomly drew out the recipe for Leek Mousaka.

When we arrive in Greece from Alaska, the first thing we do is go to an airport newsstand for newspapers and at least one cooking magazine. Properly armed, we head for our hotel to read and relax from the long trip.

Lately, my favorite Greek magazine is Olive (a spin-off of BBC Olive). Sprightly Greek food personality Ilias Mamalakis first drew me to Olive, but I continue reading it for updates on the Greek food world and interesting recipes. Sadly, Olive isn’t available in Alaska, even by subscription.

As a leek lover and someone with a healthy supply of homemade Greek egg noodles (hilopites), Olive’s recipe for Leek Mousaka was intriguing. Out of curiosity, I googled “Μουσακάς + Πράσα” (Mousaka + Leeks) to see if Olive’s recipe was unique. A number of websites had identical Leek Mousaka recipes, but only one credited the magazine. None credited Georgia Kofinas (Γεωργία Κοφινάς), who Olive identifies as the recipe’s creator.

There’s no way for me to know whether the recipe actually originated with Kofinas or someone else. However, the issue of copying recipes without attribution is one that, sooner or later, all food writers must confront. It’s infuriating when others appropriate recipes without permission or attribution. On the other hand, it’s easy to give credit to those whose work contributed to your creation.

Here's my practice and, if I could wave a magic wand, it’s one all food bloggers and writers would follow:

1. If I use a recipe exactly as written (which I rarely do), under the name of the recipe I write “recipe by” and identify the author and source of the recipe. My article about the recipe also includes a review of the source book, magazine, or blog and applicable permalinks.

2. If I make only minor changes to a recipe, under the name of the recipe I write “recipe adapted from” and identify the author and source of the original recipe.

3. If I make major changes to someone else’s recipe, under the name of the recipe I write “recipe inspired by” and identify the author and source of the inspirational recipe.

4. If I don’t designate “recipe by,” “recipe adapted from,” or “recipe inspired by,” the recipe is my creation.

Of course, there are simple dishes that many cooks discover or invent on their own, without ever having seen a similar recipe. Oven-roasted vegetables, vinaigrettes, risottos, soups, and eggs are only a few examples of such recipes. Any similarities in recipes like this are, more likely than not, coincidental.

In the case of Leek Mousaka, I significantly changed the original recipe. I cooked the leeks without water to boost their flavor, used a personal recipe for tomato-meat sauce, enhanced the topping with cream and cheese, and adapted the recipe so it can be made with ingredients available in the United States. Even though I made major changes to the original recipe, I wouldn’t’ve made it without Olive’s inspiration, so included a credit for both the magazine and the recipe’s creator.

Leek Mousaka is quite different from the typical Mousaka found in Greek restaurants around the world, and is wonderfully delicious. The sweetness of sautéed leeks enhances the minty tomato-meat sauce and contrasts with the tart yogurt. Noodles play harmony to Leek Mousaka’s aromatic flavors, and form a pleasurably crispy top crust. The resulting dish is attractive, delectable, and suitable for any occasion.

Leek Mousaka (Μουσακάς με Πράσα)
Serves 6 – 9
Inspired by Μουσακάς με Πράσα, <<Φθινοπωρινή συμφωνία>> by Γεωργία Κοφινάς in BBC Olive (Greek version), Issue 19, October 2008
Leek Mousaka can be made for vegetarians by using my recipe for Tomato Sauce with Celery and Mint (and simmering it until it’s thick) instead of the meat sauce described below. Although Leek Mousaka has many steps, it goes together quickly once the component parts are done. The meat sauce may be made days ahead (or months ahead if you freeze it). The yogurt may also be made well ahead (or purchased, if strained Greek yogurt is available where you live). Because I prefer strained yogurt for all purposes, I usually strain yogurt right after I bring it home from the market so it’s ready when I want it. Leeks can hold dirt between their layers, so must be carefully cleaned. After removing the dark green portions and the root ends (both of which can be saved for vegetable stock), cut the leeks in half. Under running water, rinse out any dirt trapped between the leeks’ layers, using your fingers to help remove any stubborn clumps of dirt. Every layer of Leek Mousaka is separately salted (doing so brings out the full flavor of each ingredient), so be careful not to over-salt any one layer or the finished dish will be too salty.

Yogurt Filling:
2 cups plain yogurt, preferably whole-milk (or 1 1/4 cup strained yogurt, see Note above)
2 medium-sized garlic cloves
1/4 tsp. salt

Meat and Tomato Sauce with Celery and Mint:
1 pound ground beef
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 cups diced onions, 1/4” dice
1 cup diced celery, 1/4” dice (2 – 3 stalks)
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
1 tsp. Aleppo pepper or 1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper
1 14.5-ounce can, or 2 cups fresh, crushed tomatoes
3/4 cup dry white wine
1/4 cup minced fresh mint

Noodles:
1/2 pound thin egg noodles, vermicelli, fides, broken-up angel hair pasta, or any other similarly-shaped pasta

Leeks:
8 cups diced leeks, white and light green parts only, 1/2” dice (4-5 leeks)
3 Tbsp. olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Topping:
2 eggs
1/2 cup heavy cream
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Olive oil for coating the baking pan
1 cup freshly grated kefalotyri, parmesan, or Romano cheese, divided

Make the Yogurt Filling: Line a strainer with a paper towel and dump in the yogurt. Let the yogurt drain for at least 1 hour (straining for 2 hours is better if you have time). Purée garlic by mashing it into the salt with the flat of a knife or in a mortar and pestle. Mix the puréed garlic into the strained yogurt.

Make the Meat and Tomato Sauce with Celery and Mint: Sauté the ground meat, lightly seasoned with salt and freshly ground pepper, until it is nicely browned. Add the diced onions and celery and sauté until the onions begin to brown. Stir in the garlic and Aleppo pepper and cook for 1 minute. Stir in the crushed tomatoes and white wine and bring to a boil. Cook rapidly for five minutes, stirring constantly. Turn the heat down to medium, and simmer for 15 – 20 minutes or until most of the liquid in the sauce has evaporated. Taste and add salt and freshly ground black pepper, as needed. Stir in the mint and take the sauce off the burner.

Cook the Noodles: Add the noodles to boiling salted water and cook until they’re half done. (Because the noodles are small, they cook quickly.) Drain and set aside.

Make the Leeks: Sauté the diced leeks in olive oil, lightly seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper, until the leeks are soft.

Make the Topping: Whisk together the eggs, cream, a little salt, freshly ground black pepper, and 1/3 cup of grated cheese.

Assemble the Mousaka: Preheat the oven to 400°F.

Thoroughly oil a 10” x 10” baking pan. Spread half the noodles over the bottom of the pan. Evenly sprinkle 1/3 cup grated cheese over the noodles. Evenly spread the leeks over the grated cheese, the yogurt filling over the leeks, the meat sauce over the yogurt, 1/3 cup grated cheese over the meat sauce, the remaining noodles over the grated cheese, and the egg/cream topping over the noodles.

Bake for 50 to 55 minutes. Let cool for at least 10 minutes before cutting into pieces with a very sharp or serrated knife.

Serve with a crisp green salad, Kalamata olives, and crusty bread.
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This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, hosted this week by Pam from The Backyard Pizzeria.

The Humble Limpet (Petalida): A Treasure of the Sea (Η Tαπεινή Πεταλίδα)

Limpets tightly adhere to rocks in shallow water where the sea meets the shore. They’re found throughout the Mediterranean, and on rocky coastlines around the world.

As a kid growing up on Puget Sound, I gathered limpets’ domed, pointed shells for my shell collection and marveled at their pearlescent undersides. The thought of eating them never crossed my mind.

Then I spent a year on a Greek island in the Northern Aegean Sea.

On a winter afternoon over twenty years ago, my husband returned from a seaside gathering expedition with his cousin Zafiris. Between them, they’d accumulated two giant sacks of sea urchins and a little bag of limpets.

I recognized the limpets immediately but couldn’t fathom why two grown men would gather them. “They’re called petalides” my husband said. “Try one, they’re edible.” He pulled out two limpets the size of half-dollars and wiped algae off the undulating brown feet with a corner of his shirt.

He used the edge of one shell to scrape out the body of the other. “Here,” he said, holding up the shell with the freed limpet. I hesitated. “They’re great!” My husband applied a squeeze of lemon to the limpet, which caused it to recoil and contract. When I still hesitated, he popped the limpet in his mouth and smiled, “Mmm, so good. Better than clams. They taste of the sea.”

Both men smelled of ouzo, which did little to enhance their credibility. It was only after Froso, whose food judgment I trust without question, confirmed their edibility that I slurped its contents into my mouth. Chewing the limpet released a sweet sea flavor, more luscious and delicate than clams and more meaty than oysters, but embracing the deliciousness of both.

“Good meze,” Froso pronounced. “Perfect with ouzo,” Zafiris said, raising his glass. “Yamas!”** “Let’s go get some more,” said I.

It takes good balance to gather limpets. The rocks on which they live are slippery with algae; breaking waves make the rocks even more treacherous.

The top of limpets’ shells can also be covered with algae, making them tricky to find. At night, limpets graze over the rocks, returning to the same spot every morning. One trick to finding them is to look for a meandering path of cleared algae leading to a small bump that is otherwise indistinguishable from the surrounding rock.

Hunting for Limpets, Knife at the Ready

When you spot a limpet, if you look closely, there’s a small gap between its shell and the rock. If you deftly slide a thin knife blade under the shell and along the rock’s surface, the limpet will pop right off. If you fumble and miss the gap or touch the shell, the limpet sucks its shell tightly to the rock. Limpets fit the rocks so perfectly, and with such amazing force, they're impossible to dislodge. If this happens, it’s better to forget that limpet and look for another.

My husband loves the sea and gathering. No trip to the beach is complete without bringing something back: sea urchins, fish, octopus, little crabs, or wild thyme from the shores. After one of his more successful winter forays twenty-one years ago, we ate a pile of fresh-from-the-sea raw limpets dressed only with a squeeze of lemon.

The next day we still had a bowel of live limpets residing in the refrigerator. We decided to try a variation of the Constantino family recipe for Clams Casino. The family tops raw clams on the half-shell with a small square of partially cooked smoked bacon, a dash of Tabasco, and a squeeze of lemon. The clams are then broiled until the bacon curls and slightly browns on the edges.

That winter, we were living in a stone house facing a wind-blown harbor with just an oil drip stove (soba – σόμπα in Greek) for heat. The stove heated only one room, but its hot cast-iron top made a convenient-cooking surface. Since we didn’t have a broiler, we used the stove-top to cook the limpets from below. Though the bacon wasn’t crispy, the married flavor of sea, smoke, pork fat, lemon, and Tabasco was indescribably delicious.

All these years later, as soon as we arrive on the island and the jetlag wears off, we head straight to the beach with a loaf of bread, some olives, and a bottle of ouzo. We gather a bag of limpets and eat our fill. The next day, we feast on Limpets Casino. Even though we now have a broiler, we use the outdoor grill to cook them from below.

As Zafiris said, limpets are perfect with ouzo, raw or cooked. Yamas!

**”Yamas” is a common Greek toast, and is a contraction of the phrase “Stin ygeia mas” (Στην υγεία μας) which means “to our health.”

Quince with Recipe for Pork and Quince Stew – Kydonato (Χοιρινό Kυδωνάτο)

Halfway through daily errands, I bought two quinces, a new-to-me fruit. When I got back in the car after the next stop, the air inside was perfumed with a powerful aroma, reminiscent of pineapple and very ripe apples combined.

I planned on cooking the quince that night. When I got home, I left them on the kitchen counter. Soon, their lovely fragrance permeated the kitchen. I couldn’t wait to cook with quince.

For several years, I’ve been meaning to make Pork and Quince Stew, an old-time recipe on the Northern Aegean island we call home. It wasn’t until I read, in quick succession, Mariana’s recipe for Stuffed Quince and Ioanna’s recipe for Beef and Quince Stew that I was inspired to set out on a quest for quince (found in Carr’s specialty produce section).

When I cut the quince open and tasted a thin slice, I was disappointed. The flesh was firm and disagreeably woody, and its flavor was astringent and unpleasant. I was confused. How could fruit with such an amazing aroma taste so bad?

For advice, I turned to the ever-reliable Elizabeth Schneider, author of Uncommon Fruits & Vegetables: A Commonsense Guide and Vegetables from Amaranth to Zucchini: The Essential Reference (both are indispensable reference books). Schneider explains: “Quince requires cooking to be edible … the hard, ivory interior, when slowly cooked, develops a rich flavor … that makes it a delight in sweet and savory dishes.”

When buying quince, Schneider advises to choose large fruits with a smooth and regular shape, which makes them easier to peel. Because the firm flesh is difficult to cut, it’s important to use a sharp knife. Schneider says that “quinces bruise easily, [but] last for months” if they are tightly wrapped in plastic and kept in the refrigerator.

On the island, quinces were traditionally packed in sawdust and stored in north-facing rooms. This kept the quinces fresh until the family pig was slaughtered in late December or early January.

Having determined that cooked quince can be tasty, the next step was developing a stew recipe. As I perused my Greek cookbook collection, I found a multitude of recipes for Pork and Quince Stew (called Kydonato in Greek), all of them different. Some were seasoned only with bay leaves, others contained cinnamon or cloves or nutmeg or allspice or a combination of several spices. Some used dry red wine, others sweet red wine, and still others white wine. Some recipes were rich with onions, others warned not to add onions, lest they overshadow the quince flavor.

I ended up creating my own recipe for Pork and Quince Stew, taking guidance from a variety of recipes and seasoning it to please our palates. My husband has never been fond of fruit and meat, nor is he keen on cinnamon in savory food. Since I was intent on using the quinces, I left out the cinnamon and instead flavored the dish with allspice, nutmeg, bay leaves, and lemon peel.

Pork and Quince Stew was a great success. The flavors were savory and not overly sweet, and the quince was a lovely complement to the tender pork. We both enjoyed it thoroughly.

My husband added dashes of Jamaican hot sauce to his serving. I was persuaded to try the stew with a little hot sauce and was surprised by how good it tasted. I wouldn’t cook the stew with hot sauce, but I’d definitely serve it on the side for spicy food fans.

Pork and Quince Stew – Kydonato (Χοιρινό Kυδωνάτο)
Serves 4

When cutting the lemon peel strips , avoid as much of the white pith as possible. Serve with roasted potatoes and a crisp green salad.

2 1/4 pounds bone-in pork butt or shoulder, or country-style ribs (1 1/2 pounds boneless)
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 Tbsp. olive oil
3 cups diced onion, 1/2” dice
1 cup white wine
2 Tbsp. tomato paste
2 cups water
1/2 tsp. whole allspice berries
3 bay leaves
2 4” strips of lemon peel
2 Tbsp. butter
2 quinces
1 Tbsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg

Wash and dry the pork, cut the meat off the bones, remove any large pieces of fat, and cut the meat into 1” cubes. Season the cubes, and any bones, with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Heat the olive oil in a large pot and sauté the pork and bones until they are well-browned. Stir in the onions and sauté until they soften and begin to turn golden. Stir in the wine, scraping up any browned bits on the bottom of the pan, and cook until the wine is reduced by half. Stir in the tomato paste until it is thoroughly combined. Stir in the water, allspice, bay leaves, and lemon peel. Bring the liquid to a boil, cover, turn down the heat, and simmer for 1 1/2 – 2 hours until the pork is very tender. Taste and add salt or freshly ground black pepper as needed.

While the pork is cooking, peel the quince, cut them into quarters, remove the core, and drop in acidulated water (water with lemon juice) to keep the quince from turning brown. Cut each quince quarter in half lengthwise and then in half crosswise; dry the quince pieces thoroughly.

Melt the butter in a frying pan, add the quince pieces, and cook until they are lightly browned on all sides. Turn off the heat, sprinkle the sugar and nutmeg over the quince, and toss to combine.

When the pork is tender, stir in the quince, and cook covered for 30 minutes. Remove the bay leaves and lemon peel. Serve immediately, warning your guests not to eat the allspice berries.

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This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, hosted this week by Siri from Siri's Corner.

Sea Urchins with Tips on How to Open Them (Αχινός)

(From Greece)

Spiky sea urchins may be a bather’s bane, but their freshly gathered roe tops my list of favorite foods.

Urchin roe tastes unmistakably of the sea and has a unique sweetness that can’t be duplicated or satisfactorily described in words. If you love seafood and have access to fresh sea urchins, put aside any trepidation about their prickly spines and jump at the opportunity to enjoy their wonderful flavor.

On the island, urchins are best gathered in February, March, and April. In these months, the sea is cold by Aegean standards and the coral urchin roe, the edible part adhering to the inside of their domed shell, is plump and ripe. Urchin roe is especially prized as a superb and permissible treat during the long Lenten fast.

We’ve enjoyed several springs on the island, but we’re usually here at summer’s end. The days are still hot, gardens are abundant, and the sea is warm. We wait with the parched land for the change of seasons and the fall rains. It’s not prime sea urchin time, so it takes three times as many to make a satisfactory serving. No matter, we still gather enough urchins to remind our taste buds of their exquisite flavor.

Last night the winds were calm, the moon was full, and cousins Giorgos and Tzani invited us on a nighttime urchin expedition.

Our destination was a small church overlooking the sea. On arrival, the men changed into wading gear. Armed with a “louks” (λουξ - a bright kerosene lantern), and “kalamis” (καλάμι – a long bamboo pole split on the end and spread to form two springy fingers that can be pressed over the sea urchins’ spines to pluck them from the water), they entered the sea.

Tzani and I spread out a picnic dinner on the church veranda: perfectly ripe cherry tomatoes, slices of homemade cheese, olives, anchovies, fried peppers, fresh bread, homemade wine, and ouzo. Tzani confided she’d brought extra food in case the men had no luck. We chatted in the moonlight, catching up on the year’s happenings.

We watched the bright lantern light slowly move in the shallows along the rocky fingers that reach out to sea from the church. Men’s voices and snippets of conversation rolled over the water, “be careful, a ledge here…”, ”it's slippery there...”, “that’s a big one…”, “bah, that one’s no good…”, “Wait… Wait… don’t move! An octopus… its legal! Got it.” “Bravo Kapetanio!”

After an hour or so, the men were back, puffed with pride and their catch: two tubs full of urchins, two octopus (about which I will write later), and an incidental cuttlefish. The extra food that Tzani tucked into the picnic bags wasn’t needed last night; the men had been lucky and there were plenty of sea urchins to open.

On the still warm night, under a full moon, with a sky full of twinkling stars and lights from distant jets ferrying strangers across the world, we set upon a meal superior to any served at the finest four-star restaurants.

Opening Sea Urchins - Step 1

Opening Sea Urchins - Step 2

Opening Sea Urchins - Step 3 (Sping-gathered Urchin)

There are several ways to open urchins. The simplest is to plunge one tine of a dinner fork through the shell near the urchin’s mouth and work the fork around in a circle, like an army-issue can-opener. When the circle is complete, the entire bottom falls away.

The urchin’s insides, mostly partially digested seaweed, are usually shaken-out and discarded, though some like to sip the liquid inside the shell. Any remaining membranes are carefully teased away with the back of the fork.

Some people prefer to use an old knife or specially designed urchin-opening scissors to get to the roe, but a simple fork works just fine. If, like me, you have soft hands and don’t want to risk being impaled by urchin spines, wear a sturdy glove on the hand holding the urchin.

Most islanders drizzle opened urchins with few drops of olive oil and a squeeze of lemon or dash of vinegar. Then, with the spiny delight upturned in one hand, they take a square of freshly cut bread in the other and in one swift swirling motion mop up all the savory goodness and pop it into their mouth. I prefer sea urchin roe plain, so lift out each little tongue of colorful roe with a teaspoon, the better to enjoy sea urchins’ unadulterated flavor.

In Greek seafood tavernas, one can sometimes order fresh sea urchin salad (Αχινοσαλάτα), a plate of sea urchin roe dressed with a dash of oil and unobtrusive squeeze of lemon. If you close your eyes when you place a bite of sea urchin salad on your tongue, you can spirit yourself to the veranda of a tiny countryside church, with moonlight sparkling off dark waters, and savor one of the world’s most delicate and complex flavors.

Sea Urchin Salad (Αχινοσαλάτα) at Logia tis Ploris seafood taverna in Athens

(Photograph from Logia tis Ploris Website)

Greek Cookbooks: Summer Tomatoes in Greece with Historical Information and Recipe for Strapatsada (Greek Scrambled Eggs and Tomatoes) (Στραπατσάδα)

(From Greece)

Summer tomatoes are a glory of Greece. Red and juicy, warmed by the sun and simply seasoned with salt, Greek tomatoes explode with flavor, bathing taste buds in their sweet-yet-tart goodness.

We arrived in Greece this (and every) year during tomato season. Our relatives, friends, and neighbors greet us with food, which always includes lots of luscious fresh tomatoes. Right now, there are at least ten pounds of gorgeous tomatoes sitting on the counter, and the refrigerator is packed with grapes, okra, peppers, and other seasonal vegetables. It’s the best possible welcome home gift. We happily use the bounty.


One of the best ways to eat summer tomatoes is in Horiatiki Salata (Village Salad), a mix of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, green pepper, and feta cheese, dressed only with olive oil and salt. This most beloved of Greek salads appears on taverna menus throughout the country. During tomato season in Greece, we eat a variation of Horiatiki Salata every day.

Many Greeks like salad tomatoes when they’re still slightly green. I prefer them at their peak of ripeness. When I’m eating salad with Greek relatives, this balances out perfectly. I snag the reddest tomato bits. They go for the greener parts.

It’s hot on the island during tomato days. I’m not a hot weather aficionado, but appreciate that heat helps give Greek tomatoes their superior flavor.

At this time of year, light, flavorful, quick-cooked foods are welcome. They help avoid spending too much time in hot kitchens. One favorite such Greek dish is Scrambled Eggs and Tomatoes. In some places it’s called Strapatsada, in others Kayianas, Menemeni or Sfoungato Politiko, and in many it’s simply Eggs and Tomatoes (Avga me Domates/Αυγά με Ντομάτες).

The Greek name “Strapatsada” derives from the Italian for “scrambled eggs” (“uova strapazzate”). Some say the dish was originally brought to Greece by Sephardic Jews. If true, given the Italian name, a plausible route is via the Venetian Jews to the Jews in Corfu and the significant Jewish population that used to exist in Thessaloniki. (Most Greek Jews died in German concentration camps during World War II; today the entire Jewish population of Greece is about 5000.) Certainly, Strapatsada is consistent with Jewish dietary restrictions.

Although some debate the Jewish connection, it’s commonly accepted that Strapatsada as a Greek name for Scrambled Eggs and Tomatoes originated in the Ionian Islands (including Corfu) during their years of Venetian rule (1401 – 1797). See also Voice of Corfu: “… tomatoes … were brought to Corfu by the Venetians.” It’s documented that after the Venetian conquest, Corfiot Jews developed close relations with the Venetian Jewish community and its many international merchants and traders. Cookbook of the Jews of Greece, Nicholas Stavroulakis (Lycabettus Press 1986).

According to food historian Claudia Roden, the 16th and 17th century Jewish merchants of Venice “traded with their relatives and co-religionists around the Mediterranean … [and others] in South America.” Roden says the Jewish merchants “introduced New World food products such as tomatoes…” throughout the entire Mediterranean Jewish community.

Roden points out “a tomato sauce in Venice is called ‘alia giudia’” (Jewish Style). In her history of Italian Jewish cooking, The Classic Cuisine of the Italian Jews: Traditional Recipes and Menus and a Memoir of a Vanished Way of Life (Giro Press 1993), Edda Servi Machlin says: “In the 18th century, the first people who used tomatoes in their cooking were Jews.”

See also, “[S]ome of the [Sephardim] … traveled as merchants to the New World, bringing back a whole new range of vegetables which were quickly adopted into the Sephardic kitchen. These were adopted, in turn, by the others among whom they lived, especially as the Sephardim were dispersed through the Mediterranean basin, into the Balkans, and parts of Western Europe.”

The Jews were also among the first to bring tomatoes to England and America. In his 1753 supplement to A History of Plantes (Thomas Osborne 1751), John Hill documented the use of tomatoes “eaten stewed or raw” by Jewish families in England. The tomato-eating 18th century English Jews “were of Portuguese or Spanish descent and … maintained contact with Jewish communities in the New World who consumed tomatoes.” The Tomato in America, Andrew F. Smith (University of South Carolina Press 1994). Smith says “at least one English-born Jewish physician introduced tomatoes into Virginia during the mid-18th century.”

If the conventional wisdom is correct that Strapatsada came to Corfu during the Venetian years, and we accept the historical record that Jews adopted tomatoes into their diets by at least the mid-18th century (and probably earlier), it isn’t too far-fetched to believe that Strapatsada was originally a Jewish creation. Indeed, Cookbook of the Jews of Greece and Γεύση από Σεφαραδιτική Θεσσαλονίκη: Συνταγές των Εβραίων της Θεσσαλονίκης (Tastes of Sephardic Thessaloniki: Recipes of the Jews of Thessaloniki), Νίνα Μπενρουμπή (Φυτράκη 2002), which document the traditional foods of Greek Jews, both have recipes for Strapatsada.

It could be that tomatoes weren’t used anywhere in Greece until the 19th century. And, as with all simple food combinations, it’s entirely possible that each version of Scrambled Eggs and Tomatoes was created independently and spontaneously by creative cooks making use of seasonally fresh foods.

No matter its origin or name, Scrambled Eggs and Tomatoes is easy to make and very flavorful. It’s especially good when made with sun-ripened summer tomatoes.

Scrambled Eggs and Tomatoes (Strapatsada – Στραπατσάδα)
Serves 2
When I make Strapatsada with fresh sweet summer tomatoes, I use mint to season it. Mint’s flavor enhances the tomatoes’ sweetness and goes well with eggs. Made with canned tomatoes, dried oregano makes a better seasoning for Strapatsada. In our house, three eggs are plenty for two people, but eaters with hearty appetites may prefer four eggs. I like the finished egg curds to be smooth-textured so skin the tomatoes. Skinning is not necessary; the Strapatsada will taste great if you leave on the skins. To make the simplest version of Strapatsada, cook tomatoes in olive oil until their water evaporates, then scramble in the eggs, seasoning only with salt and pepper.

2 cups diced tomatoes (1 pound tomatoes) or 14.5-ounce can diced tomatoes
1/2 cup diced yellow onion, 1/8” dice (optional)
1/4 cup olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 cloves garlic, grated or minced (optional)
1 tsp. sugar (use only if needed)
3 - 4 eggs
1/2 cup crumbled feta (optional)
1 Tbsp. minced fresh mint (or oregano, dill, basil, or parsley) (optional)

If starting with fresh tomatoes and you want to skin them, cut a shallow “X” on the bottom of the tomato. Drop the tomatoes in boiling water for 20 seconds. Remove the tomatoes and drop them in cold water. Drain and slip off the peels. Cut the tomatoes in 1/2” dice.

Sauté the onions, lightly seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper, in olive oil until they soften and start to turn golden. Stir in the diced tomatoes, bring to a boil, turn down the heat to medium, and cook for 15 minutes or until most of the water in the tomatoes has evaporated, stirring regularly to prevent scorching and to break up the tomatoes. Stir in the garlic and cook for 5 minutes. Taste; if the tomatoes are too acidic, add 1 teaspoon sugar.

Whisk together the eggs. Stir eggs, cheese, and mint into the cooked tomatoes, and continue to cook over medium-low heat, stirring regularly, until the eggs are cooked and form small curds; the eggs should be served when they’re still a little juicy. Eggs cook faster at a higher temperature, but taste better if cooked over lower heat for a longer time.

Variations:
- Use grated kefalotyri, kasseri, or parmesan instead of feta.
- Add chopped sausage, smoked pork, or ham.
- Add diced green peppers.
- Substitute puréed roasted red peppers for half the tomatoes.
- Substitute green onions for the yellow onion.
- Add Aleppo or crushed red pepper flakes.
- Add cinnamon stick to the sauce and omit the herbs.
- Add cumin or allspice to the sauce and omit the herbs.
- After mixing in the eggs and tomatoes, quit stirring and let the eggs set, then flip and cook on the second side (as for a frittata).
- When the tomatoes are cooked and saucy, turn the heat to low, make indentations in the sauce, crack an egg into each indentation, cover, and cook just until the egg whites set and the yolks are still juicy.
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This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, hosted this week by Gretchen from Canela & Comino.

Greek Wild Thyme Honey with Recipe for Cinnamon-Honey Tart (Melopita – Μελόπιτα)

Sandy beaches and rocky promontories alternate along the island’s irregular coastline. Mounds of wild thyme cover the hills sloping down to the sea, and scent the sea air with their heady aroma.

Harvesting Wild Thyme

By the start of summer, the wild thyme is in bloom. Yiannis, our beekeeper friend, has already moved his hives to fields near the shore and the abundantly blooming thyme. The bees spend their summer making thyme-flavored honey that Yiannis harvests and sells to locals and tourists alike.

I fell in love with thyme honey years ago at a galakatopoleio, a type of Greek store that sells milk, yogurt, and desserts like rice pudding (rizogalo) and custard pies (galaktoboureko). We’d stopped for a late breakfast and I ordered yogurt.

Used to American yogurt, which has a much thinner consistency than its Greek counterpart, I was surprised to see the galaktopoleio’s proprietor slice off a thick slab from a long yogurt loaf. He served the yogurt slice with liberal drizzlings of thyme honey. Despite its simplicity, the combination was utter perfection. Thyme honey, unlike the bland clover honey I grew up with, has a robust flavor.

When we return from Greece each year, we always have a supply of wild thyme honey in our baggage. However, in Alaska, Greek yogurt is difficult, and usually impossible, to find. When available, it’s too expensive for my budget.

If I crave Greek yogurt and honey in Alaska, I buy plain, whole-milk yogurt (Pavel’s Original Russian Yogurt, available at Natural Pantry in Anchorage, is my favorite brand), and strain it for at least an hour through a paper towel set in a colander. Strained American yogurt mimics the texture of the yogurt we buy in Greece. I like straining yogurt right when I bring it home from the market; that way, it’s ready to eat at my convenience. All I need do is drizzle a scoop of strained yogurt with Yiannis’ honey, and my favorite breakfast is ready to serve.

Honey isn’t a newcomer to the Greek table. It’s been an important ingredient in Greek cooking throughout recorded history and continuing to the present day. In The Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus, which includes excerpts from the earliest Greek writings about food and cooking, honey appears regularly. Among other uses, the ancient Greeks combined honey with wine, added it to savory sauces, and drizzled it over all kinds of sweets.

Athenaeus (circa 200 AD) catalogs “cheesecakes of every sort and every name,” including many that contain honey. In a recent post, Mariana of History of Greek Food wrote about her version of one cheesecake described by Athenaeus.

Cinnamon-Honey Tart (Melopita), a dessert using many of the same ingredients as the cheesecakes documented by Athenaeus, is still popular in Greece today. There’s also a Greek honey cake called Melopita; for clarity, I’ve translated the cheesecake-style Melopita as Cinnamon-Honey Tart.

On some Greek islands, and notably on Sifnos, Cinnamon-Honey Tart is traditionally made for Easter feasts. It’s worthy of a place at any special occasion table.

Cinnamon-Honey Tart (Melopita – Μελόπιτα)
Serves 10 - 12
The texture of Cinnamon-Honey Tart filling is similar to pumpkin pie filling, and is better when made with whole-milk ricotta. In Greece, fresh, unsalted myzithra is used instead of ricotta, but this product isn’t available in Alaska. The myzithra sold in most US supermarkets is dried, salted, and not suitable for a sweet tart filling.

I like making Cinnamon-Honey Tart in an 11” tart pan with a removable bottom to increase the crust to filling ratio. Use a 9” springform cake pan if you prefer cheesecake to tarts (more filling, less crust), a 9”x13” pan if you want to serve the dessert as bar cookies (great for potlucks), or pastry-lined cupcake tins or tartlet pans to make individual-size servings. In developing the recipe, I baked various versions of the filling as custards (without the crust) in a water bath at 325°F for 30 minutes. The custards are tasty, dead simple to make, and may be made ahead (the flavor develops over time).

Crust:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 Tbsp. finely grated lemon peel (peel from 1 lemon)
1/8 tsp. salt
1/2 cup cold butter (1 stick) cut in chunks
2 Tbsp. lemon juice

Filling:
15 – 16 ounces ricotta, preferably whole milk, or fresh, unsalted myzithra
2/3 cup thyme honey or other full-flavored honey
3 large eggs
1 Tbsp. cinnamon, preferably true Ceylon cinnamon (see About Cinnamon below)
1/8 tsp. salt

Make and Bake the Crust: Put the flour, sugar, lemon peel, and salt in the bowl of a food processor and pulse to mix the ingredients. Add butter chunks to the processor bowl, and process until the butter and flour are evenly mixed. Sprinkle in the lemon juice and process until the dough just holds together. If the dough is too dry, add 1 – 2 Tbsp. ice-cold water.

Dump the dough onto a sheet of plastic wrap, and knead lightly to form a flat disk. Wrap and let rest for at least 30 minutes before using.

Preheat the oven to 450°F.

Roll out the dough into a round with a diameter 3” wider than the tart pan (or enough to cover the bottom and 1” of a 9” springform pan’s sides). Use the rolling pin to lift the dough and place it in the pan; press the dough firmly into pan’s sides and bottom. Trim the dough’s edges so there is just enough to fold under and cover the sides of the tart pan with a double layer of dough (if using a springform pan, trim the dough so it goes 1” up the sides. Prick tiny holes all over the crust with a fork.

Press a double layer of aluminum foil directly onto the dough-covered bottom and sides. Bake the crust for 15 minutes. Remove the foil and bake for 5 minutes or until the crust is set and lightly golden. Remove from oven and place on a cooling rack. Reduce the oven heat to 375°F.

Make and Bake the Filling: Mix all the ingredients together to form a smooth batter. Pour the batter into the pre-baked pie crust. Bake for 20 – 25 minutes, or until the sides of the tart are set and the middle is still a little jiggly; residual heat will finish cooking the filling (because the springform pan is deeper, the filling in it will take a little longer to cook). Overcooking Cinnamon-Honey tart causes the filling to crack.

About Cinnamon:
I tested the filling recipe multiple times, using a different kind of cinnamon each time (Ceylon “True” Cinnamon, Korintje (Indonesian) Cassia Cinnamon, China Tung Hing Cassia Cinnamon, and Vietnamese “Saigon” Cassia Cinnamon), as well as a mixture of “True” Cinnamon and allspice. My favorite was the version made with “True” Cinnamon; the citrus notes in this variety blended perfectly with the lemon-flavored crust. Although Vietnamese “Saigon” Cassia Cinnamon is the cinnamon I prefer in most dishes, its flavor was too overpowering for this dish. I order my cinnamon online from The Spice House, Penzeys, or World Spice Merchants. Supermarket cinnamon is just fine for this recipe.

Scenes from the 2008 Anchorage Greek Festival

Dancers waiting to perform.

Dance Group

Antonia packaging pastries for sale (wearing our new Tastes Like Home: Mediterranean Cooking in Alaska apron).

Baklava

Melomakarona (Honey Spice Cookies)

Holy Transfiguration Greek Orthodox Church just before the 2008 Greek Festival opened. Before it was sanctified as a church, this was a personal residence. The building is much too small for our parish, and must be replaced. All the proceeds from the cookbook, the apron, and the car raffle go directly into our Building Fund. Part of the funds raised by the festival go towards church operating expenses, and the rest go into the Building Fund.

Raffle prize (drawing to be held just before Greek Festival closes on Sunday August 17).

You are Invited to the 2008 Anchorage Greek Festival!

John Basting Lamb on the Spit at the 2004 Greek Festival

The famous Anchorage Greek Festival starts tomorrow morning (Friday August 15) at 11 am and continues through 8 pm Sunday evening (August 17).

This is a “must attend” event, rain or shine (we have tents), for anyone who loves Greek food and music. The women of the parish have been cooking for months: folding spinach pies and cheese pies, making baklava and galaktoboureko, baking cookies, and rolling grape leaves.

Souvlaki is being skewered today and the salad ingredients washed and prepped. Trays of moussaka are in the cooler, along with mountains of lamb, gallons of tzatziki, and plenty of gyro fixings.

We’ve brought a wonderful Greek band up from California to entertain attendees with traditional Greek music. Parish dance groups will perform during the afternoon and festival attendees can join in rounds of Greek dancing.

Our parish cookbook (written by yours truly), Tastes Like Home: Mediterranean Cooking in Alaska will be for sale at the festival. The festival and cookbook proceeds help support our parish and grow our building fund.

Admission to the festival is free, as is the parking.

Stop by the raffle booth, where you’re likely to find me signing cookbooks or selling raffle tickets for a 2009 C300 Mercedes Sedan.

Hope to see you there!

Sonia, Laurie, and Salwa in the Dinner Booth at the 2004 Greek Festival

Garden Treasure with 4 Recipes for Arugula: with Eggs, in Salads, and in Pasta Sauce (4 Συνταγές για Ρόκα)

Arugula (also known as Roka, Roquette, and Rocket) wins my garden’s miracle plant of the year award.

We’ve grown arugula often over the years. We usually get a salad or two before it bolts; a common problem in Alaska. With our long days, nearly 20 hours of daylight at the solstice, many herbs and green vegetables go to seed prematurely.

Despite its tendency to bolt, we grow arugula because we enjoy its bite in salads. Last year, the arugula followed its typical pattern: two salads at the beginning of summer and it bolted. I assumed that was it. I was wrong.

This spring, after the snow melted, we noticed radicchio we’d harvested last year, but hadn’t pulled up, coming back. In the same bed, mystery plants were emerging; they had tiny green leaves growing around slender dead stalks.

We had no idea what they were (I guessed domesticated Italian dandelions we grew last year in the same bed), but let them grow so we could find out. As the plants grew larger, I realized last year’s arugula had wintered over.

I was initially confused, as I’d thought arugula was an annual (Eruca vesicaria subspecies sativa). Although I'd only grown annual arugula, it turns out “arugula,” actually refers to three separate plants: E. vesicaria ssp. sativa, Diplotaxis tenuifolia, and Diplotaxis muralis.

Last year we planted arugula seeds brought back from Greece. When I dug out the seed packet, I discovered it was Diplotaxis tenuifola, also known as wild arugula or Selvetica, an extremely cold hardy perennial (as plants must be to survive Alaskan winters). I’m thrilled to have stumbled upon it, and will give it a permanent place in my garden.

Most commonly I use arugula in mixed green salads, or on its own with blue cheese and best quality balsamic vinegar. This year the arugula was so prolific I branched out. Arugula, briefly sautéed with shallots, adds a nice bite to omelets and frittatas. Mixed with tomatoes and anchovies, it makes a delicious pasta sauce.

My mother, upon hearing of my arugula glut, recommended the wonderful Arugula and Tomato Salad from Carol Field’s In Nonna’s Kitchen: Recipes and Traditions from Italy’s Grandmothers. Mother was right; arugula goes really well with tomatoes.

Anchovies are the secret ingredient that makes both the salad and pasta sauce special. When minced and incorporated into other ingredients, anchovies add flavor without overwhelming the taste buds.

More Arugula Recipes:
Grilled Radicchio and Arugula Salad with Parmesan Shavings
Watermelon, Feta, and Arugula Salad

Arugula and Eggs
Serves 2 – 4

4 large eggs
1 cup diced shallots, 1/4” dice
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 Tbsp. olive oil
4 packed cups cleaned arugula
3/4 grated kasseri or fontina cheese
1/4 cup minced chives

Crack the eggs in a bowl, season lightly with salt and freshly ground black pepper, and whisk to combine.

Sauté the shallots, lightly seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper, in olive oil until they soften and start to turn golden. Add the arugula, in batches if necessary, and cook just until all the arugula has wilted.

Evenly distribute the arugula in the pan and pour the eggs over. Cover and turn the heat down to low. Keep checking the eggs and when they’re almost-but-not-quite set, sprinkle the cheese and minced chives over, cover, and cook until the cheese melts.

Sprinkle with freshly ground black pepper, cut into wedges, and serve.

Arugula and Tomato Salad
Serves 4
Adapted from In Nonna’s Kitchen: Recipes and Traditions from Italy’s Grandmothers by Carol Field (HarperCollins 1997)
Lightly salting the tomatoes helps bring out their flavor, but be careful not to overdo as anchovies can be quite salty. I made this with the smaller amount of anchovies, but we both thought it would benefit from more; next time I’ll use the larger amount. I originally made this with whole anchovies, as shown in the picture, but we prefer the salad when the anchovies are minced in the dressing. Either way, it's tasty.

8 medium tomatoes, sliced 1/2” thick
Salt
1/4 cup olive oil
2 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
Freshly ground black pepper
8 - 16 anchovy fillets (1 - 2 ounces)
2 cups thinly cut shreds of arugula

Divide the tomato slices between 4 salad plates and salt lightly. Whisk the olive oil into the red wine vinegar and season with freshly ground black pepper. Mince the anchovy fillets and mix them into the dressing. Taste and add freshly ground black pepper or salt as needed. Toss the dressing and arugula (there may be leftover dressing), and mound on the tomatoes. Serve immediately.

Arugula, Blue Cheese, and Balsamic Salad
Serves 4
I never tire of this tasty salad. Because there are so few ingredients, it’s important to use best quality balsamic vinegar.

4 packed cups arugula
1/2 cup thinly sliced red onion
1/4 crumbled Roquefort or other blue cheese
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 Tbsp. best quality balsamic vinegar
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Wash and dry the arugula and tear large leaves into pieces. Add the arugula, red onion, and half the blue cheese to a salad bowl. Whisk together the olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Toss the dressing with the salad ingredients. Taste and add more balsamic vinegar, if needed. Sprinkle with the remaining blue cheese, grate freshly ground black pepper over the salad, and serve.

Arugula, Anchovy, and Tomato Sauce with Orecchiette
Serves 4
This recipe calls for a large quantity of arugula, which I measured after it had been cleaned and roughly chopped. If you don’t have arugula, dandelions or other wild greens are the best substitute; the dish may also be made with radicchio, Swiss chard or spinach. Toast the pine nuts in a 350°F oven or dry frying pan. In either case, pine nuts burn easily and must be watched carefully as they cook. Onions cook more evenly when lightly salted before sautéing, however, anchovies are salty so be sure not to over-salt the onions.

1/2 pound dried orecchiette or any other pasta
2 cups diced onion, 1/2” dice
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
16 anchovy fillets (2 ounces)
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
1 tsp. Aleppo pepper or 1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes
1/2 pound cleaned and roughly chopped arugula or other strong-flavored greens
2 cups diced fresh tomato, 3/4” dice
1/3 cup water
1 cup chopped green onions
3/4 - 1 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese
1/4 cup toasted pine nuts

Cook the pasta in boiling, salted water and cook until it is al dente. Drain the pasta and toss with a little olive oil.

Sauté the onions, lightly seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper, in olive oil until they soften and start to turn golden. Add the anchovies, garlic, and Aleppo pepper and cook for one minute. Stir in the arugula, tomatoes, and water, and cook for 3 minutes. Add the cooked pasta and green onions, and cook just until the pasta is warmed through. Toss with 1/2 cup cheese and half the pine nuts. Sprinkle with the remaining cheese and pine nuts and serve immediately.
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This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, hosted this week by Kelly from Sounding My Barbaric Gulp.

Recipe for Salmon "Kleftiko" (Σολομός Κλέφτικος) and Kleftiko: Its Modern Meaning

During the Greek War of Independence against the Ottoman Turks, Klefts were irregular guerilla fighters. Among their many feats, Klefts famously stole sheep and roasted them slowly over buried fires. This trick prevented the Ottomans from smelling meat and finding the guerillas.

Kleftiko is a lamb dish named after the Klefts’ cooking style. Traditionally, the meat was cooked in buried lamb skins or clay pots. In modern versions of kleftiko, lamb, vegetables, and seasonings are wrapped tightly in foil or parchment paper, and slowly cooked in the oven. The meat ends up succulent, with all its flavor sealed inside the packet.

Instead of using lamb, I employed the same closed-container technique to make Salmon Kleftiko. Salmon cooks quickly, so it doesn't need to be cooked at low temperature for a long time, as does lamb.

Salmon Kleftiko is a great dish to make if you’re in a hurry. The packets go together quickly and need bake for only 15 minutes. Even better, there aren’t any pots to clean.

Salmon "Kleftiko" (Σολομός Κλέφτικος)
Serves 6
Foil is easier to work with, but individual parchment paper packets make a more attractive presentation. If using foil packets, plate the salmon and pour the juices over the fish in the kitchen. Parchment paper packets may be delivered directly to the table for individual diners to open (be sure to put an empty plate on the table for discarding the paper packets).

Mediterranean Cooking in Alaska has moved as of March 2011. To read this post please go to


http://www.laurieconstantino.com/cooking-salmon-in-sealed-packets/


Please click on over and visit my new site. Thank you!

The Golden Hills of Greece with Recipe for Bouyiourdi (Spicy Baked Feta and Tomatoes) (Μπουγιουρντί)

By summer’s end, the hills of the Greek island we call home are painted in golds and browns. Patches of green appear only in the island’s narrow valleys, its vineyards, and the ubiquitous fig trees.

Until we remodeled my husband’s grandmother’s house in Greece, I’d spent my life in the maritime regions of the Pacific Northwest and Alaska. For me, natural beauty meant lush foliage, evergreen-lined shores, and snow-topped mountains.

It took me years to appreciate the subtle beauty of dry Mediterranean hillsides. And appreciate I do. Joy fills my heart when we begin our approach to the island’s tiny airport and I get my first glimpse of its golden hills.

Without trees to obscure the view, the deep blue Aegean sky and sea are constant companions. Their brilliant blues combine with the burnished gold landscape and lazy cries of circling birds to induce an overwhelming sense of peace and calm.

We walk in the morning, before the sun’s heat makes outside forays intolerable for my fair Alaskan skin. In September, a month we are always in Greece, prickly, inhospitable plants dominate the hillsides, so we walk on the farm roads surrounding the village.

Spiky plants abound in late summer because they're the only ones that survive the constantly grazing sheep and goats which scour the fields of more forgiving flora. It’s difficult to begrudge the grazing, knowing it’s responsible for the full-flavored sheep and goats milk that villagers turn into excellent cheeses.

Cheese is ever-present on village tables. Each meal is accompanied by chunks of white cheeses like kalathaki or feta, or harder cheeses like melixloro, ladotyri, or graviera. Saganaki, fried cheese served with a squeeze of lemon, has long been a favorite island appetizer.

In recent years, a new-to-the-island appetizer called Bouyiourdi (boo-your-DEE / Μπουγιουρντί) has conquered the hearts of island taverna patrons. Although Bouyiourdi is now popular on the island, I first learned to make it in Alaska from my friend Maria Baskous, who learned it from her friend Lily Koukourikou of Thessaloniki.

Bouyiourdi is feta baked until hot and creamy with slices of tomatoes and spicy hot pepper flakes. Last year, at our final island dinner before returning to Alaska, our table of 12 downed three orders of Bouyiourdi in quick succession before even looking at the many other appetizers gracing the table.

Back in Alaska, I often bring Bouyiourdi to potlucks. It’s one of my most requested recipes. As I tell my friends, Bouyiourdi may be dead simple to make, but it’s dangerously addictive. Consider yourself warned.

Bouyiourdi (Μπουγιουρντί)
Measurements are provided as a rough guide but, in truth, I never measure anything when I make Bouyiourdi. I layer 1/2” slices of feta in whatever baking dish I grab, sprinkle it with oregano and red pepper flakes, layer it with tomatoes and peppers (or green garlic as shown in the picture), sprinkle it with more oregano, drizzle it with olive oil, cover and bake. You can also bake Bouyiourdi in aluminum foil packets.

1/2 pound feta cheese cut in 1/2” slices (see NOTE below)
1 Tbsp. dried oregano, crushed
1 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
2 medium tomatoes cut in 1/2” slices
1 cubanelle or Anaheim pepper (or 1-2 stalks green garlic), sliced
2 Tbsp. olive oil
Thin slices of crusty bread, fresh or toasted

Preheat the oven to 400°F.

Cover the bottom of a baking dish with slices of feta. Sprinkle with half the oregano and all the crushed red pepper flakes. Cover with slices of tomato and peppers (or green garlic). Sprinkle with the remaining oregano and drizzle with olive oil. Cover with foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and bake for 5 – 10 minutes, or until the cheese and oil are bubbling. Serve immediately with slices of bread.

NOTE on Feta: In the US, my favorite fetas all come from Greece and are made from a mixture of sheep and goats milk. Dodonis is the brand I prefer. No matter where it’s from, the best feta is kept in brine until it sold and is available in specialty cheese stores, ethnic markets, and groceries like Whole Foods.

If you can’t find feta in brine, buy firm feta in vacuum packed bags. Never buy pre-crumbled feta; too often it is made from the bits and pieces that fall off larger pieces of cheese. Feta takes two seconds to crumble in your hand, so you don’t even save any time when you buy the pre-crumbled stuff. As for “lite” feta, don’t even think about it.

From a Volcanic Isle with Recipe for Shrimp Santorini in Tomato and Caper Sauce (Γαρίδες Σαντορίνης)

White-washed houses, bright blue skies, sun sparkling on the sea, and brilliant sunsets. Some of Greece’s most iconic images are of Santorini.

Santorini is an island in the southern Aegean Sea and a regular stop for cruise ships wending their way through the Greek isles. Although it's jam-packed with tourists during the summer months, visitors to Santorini, dazzled by its dramatic beauty, write glowingly about their time on the island.

Modern Santorini was shaped by a violent volcanic eruption that occurred around 1500 BC. The volcano blew away the center of the island, forming a huge caldera. Some have theorized that Santorini is the site of mythical Atlantis, and the eruption is what caused Atlantis to be swallowed by the sea. Santorini’s volcano is still active.

Two years ago, we visited Santorini in early April. Because the season had not yet begun, we often had Santorini’s narrow village streets to ourselves. Many of the shops were closed. We had a great time.

The shopkeepers and restaurant owners were happy to see us, not yet jaded by a full season of tending tourists. Over glasses of Santorini’s crisp Assyrtiko white wine, our hotel’s owner told us about the island’s bone-dry volcanic soil and the crops that thrive in it.

“Waterless” tomatoes, capers, yellow split peas (called fava in Greece), and wine grapes are Santorini’s most important agricultural products. When we left, my bags were packed with jars of sun-dried Santorini tomatoes, dried capers, pickled caper leaves, and a kilo of fava.

One of the best things I ate on Santorini was locally-caught Shrimp in Tomato and Caper Sauce. The intense taste of Santorini’s sun-dried tomatoes boosted the sauce’s tomato flavor, and tangy capers made the dish truly special.

Shrimp Santorini in Tomato and Caper Sauce (Γαρίδες Σαντορίνης)
Serves 4
Capers are salty, so don’t add too much salt until after you’ve tasted the sauce with capers in it. Shrimp stay more tender when cooked at low temperature. No matter the temperature, shrimp cook quickly and must be watched carefully to prevent them from overcooking and getting tough. My husband likes this with a little fresh lemon juice squeezed over; I prefer it without.

Tomato Sauce:
1 1/2 cups diced onions, 1/4” dice
2 Tbsp. olive oil
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tsp. Aleppo pepper (optional)
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 14.5-ounce can diced tomatoes or 1 1/2 cups fresh, with juices
1 1/2 cups water
1 bay leaf
2 tsp. oregano
3 Tbsp. minced sun-dried tomatoes in oil or 1 1/2 Tbsp. tomato paste
3 Tbsp. capers, preferably salted, rinsed and soaked to remove excess salt

Shrimp:
1 1/2 pounds shrimp, shelled
Lemon wedges (optional)

Sauté the onions, lightly seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper, in olive oil until the onions soften and start to turn golden. Stir in the Aleppo pepper and cook for 1 minute. Add the white wine and boil until it is reduced by half. Stir in the tomatoes, water, bay leaf, and oregano. Bring to a boil, cover, turn down the heat, and simmer for 45 – 60 minutes or until the sauce thickens and its flavors meld together. If the sauce is too thick, add a little water. Turn off the heat and stir in the sun-dried tomatoes and capers. Taste and add salt or freshly ground black pepper, as needed. (This can be made well ahead.)

Wash and dry the shrimp. Season them on both sides with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Bring the sauce to a simmer and add the shrimp. Cook just until the shrimp turn pink, about 5 minutes total for medium-sized shrimp. Serve immediately with chunks of feta cheese, oil-cured black olives, a crisp green salad, and plenty of crusty bread for mopping up the sauce.
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This is my entry for Antioxidant Rich Foods/Five-a-Day Tuesdays hosted by Sweetnicks.