It's a process

It's been a while. It's been a long while, and I'm sorry, lovely readers. So much has happened, I'm not sure where to begin. But, today, I'm making granola.



In March of 2015, I bought a house. Before I'd even signed the papers, I had started dreaming of a summer housewarming party: lots of people milling through the backyard, the dim glow of moonlight and garland lights against suntanned skin making everyone look extra beautiful as they chatted and laughed over tacos and poured tart margaritas from giant jugs. A full eleven months later, late February of this year, I moved into my house. I had yet to buy a bed, the shelves on the kitchen wall had yet to be built, and the backyard was a jungle of weeds. The mix of over-the-top elation, exasperation, and gentle management of expectations has been constant.

Today, we're about six months past the move. I have a bed. The backyard is, for now, still a jungle. But last week, the shelves were finally, finally done. I'm the last person to rush the closing of summer, but this morning felt a little cooler than it's been lately (I mean, maybe 73 instead of 77). Staying in with a playlist of the Head and the Heart and old REM felt right. So did some quality time with my kitchen, making granola. A big batch that will sit in a giant mason jar on the shelf.


The first Friday after I moved into the house, I left my job at Dreamworks after nine years. The following Monday, I started a new job. This new job is a work-from-home one. I'll spare you the process, and just say this: after months on a rollercoaster of nerves, I came out of it with a new sense of buoyancy. I stepped away from a comfortable job that didn't feel good anymore, and into a new one that feels right in ways the old one never did. I aced interviews, I negotiated salaries. I did it.

And then I started and I knew nothing. I felt as helpless as an infant. The first few months, I videoconferenced with my coworkers sitting on the floor at my coffee table because I had no desk (but then I did, and it was glorious!). I was perplexed by the task of managing myself in my own home all day (though for real, it's the best). My office is about 5 steps from my bedroom. My closest coworker lives in Eagle Rock; my farthest lives in Melbourne. I love it, and it's bizarre. I'm learning.


All of this newness has been the biggest exercise in patience. I'm not a rash person; I don't make big changes often. For me, this transition is a pretty huge one. And changes like these bring with them so much expectation. For the last year and a half, my head has been filled with images of this new life: dinner parties and barbecues, winding down at the piano after a long work day, meals made with vegetables from my own garden, recipe testing in breaks from work. But first I need a piano, first I need that veggie patch to exist, first I need to actually be good at my job.

Chocolate buttercream on lunch break? Mais oui.

But, don't get me wrong. It's happening. Things are shifting. In April, I picked elderflowers from the river path behind my street, and made amazing cordial for whoever came by all spring long.  A few weeks ago, I took my first bike ride on the river path to Frogtown with a new neighbor.  He was patient with my abject lack of bike prowess, and we had lunch at wonderful Wax Paper (seriously guys, the Ira Glass, on Bub and Grandma's bread, is the bomb): a small, wobbly triumph. I'm officially a regular at my local cafe, after one of the baristas recognized me out in the neighborhood. As of last week, the second bedroom/office is now available for houseguests and co-working. (Seriously! Come hang out!) A few small dinner parties and pancake breakfasts have happened, and now, when my sister's family makes the trek to the city, I have space to house her tall crew and a counter to spread with safe snacks for her celiac son and his siblings.

Elderflower syrup, nascent stages.

My new life and I are just getting started. Eventually, I'll have the piano, the dreamy yard where I can host friends and harvest tomatoes, a sense of mastery with my job. It's about making a home, and that's a process. Today, I have shelves. And a big jar of granola to put on them.


Granola
Makes about 7 cups
Adapted from Orangette

I've hewn close to the Early Bird recipe since I first saw it on Orangette. If your ingredients, especially your oats, are gluten-free, so is this recipe.

Like moving, like starting a new job, like life, it's a process: I'd like to hone it down to something I love as I make more batches. So, if you have secrets for your perfect granola, I want to hear them! Today, I mixed up the nuts a bit and decreased the brown sugar. I want to try it with vanilla, and with cocoa nibs, and with coconut oil instead of the olive oil (oh wait, I have).

3 cups old fashioned oats
1 cup raw hulled pumpkin seeds
¾ cup raw hulled sunflower seeds
1 1/4 cup unsweetened coconut chips
1 1/4 cup slivered almonds, whole almonds, and pecan pieces
2 teaspoons dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon salt
¾ cup maple syrup, preferably Grade B
 ½ cup olive oil

Preheat the oven to 300°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, combine dry ingredients and stir to mix. Add the olive oil and maple syrup, and stir until well combined. Spread the mixture in an even layer on prepared sheet pan. Bake, stirring every 15 minutes, until the granola is golden brown and toasted, about 50 minutes. Remove the granola from the oven. Cool completely on a wire rack. Store in an airtight container.

Kolompeh

In my head, masters are the people in old Italian paintings, the porcelain skin of their faces framed by frilly collars and antiquated hairstyles.  It's harder to recognize a master in our midst.  But I've come to believe that pastry chef Fariba Nafissi of ZoZo Baking is the real deal: Fariba is a true master of kolompeh.


I love a good food mystery. (I love a good non-food mystery, too.)  Asking people strange questions, slowly sleuthing together pieces of the puzzle – it's a journey possibly more fun than its destination. Baking kolompeh with Fariba started with a mystery.  When my sweet friend Naomi first asked me about ma'amoul, an Arab cookie filled with a date and nut paste, all I could do was look at her blankly.  But, later, I remembered that a woman from the city of Kermanshah whom I had interviewed for my Iranian Jewish cookbook mentioned making a type of date and nut filled cookie called koloocheh for Purim.  An itch began to develop in my brain.  Then, through the wonderful world of Persian food bloggers, I discovered Fariba, a pastry chef from the town of Kerman, whose specialty is kolompeh, yet another cookie filled with a date and nut paste.

I convinced myself that there was a connection between these three, and so, chalking it off to cookbook research, I signed up to take a Persian baking class with Fariba.  So, on a crisp, sunny day last December, I snatched up Naomi, an enthusiastic accomplice, and we made the trek to Fariba's home in Granada Hills.

Naan-e berenji, rice flour cookies.  Part of Fariba's Mehregan spread

We were greeted with Fariba's big smile and a spread of homemade breakfast pastries and hot Persian tea to go along.  A neighbor was taking the class with us, and later on, another showed up, with a gift of fresh eggs from her backyard chickens. Cozy.



Learning about kolompeh from Fariba was a lesson in her family's history.  She spoke with such love about her own mother, from whom she learned this and so many other Kermani recipes.  And she led us through her collection of kolompeh stamps: the oldest was a sturdy disc of solid wood, and had an intricate pattern depicting birds and flowers.  This one has been passed down for generations in her family, and is over a century old.  The next is the first to have a rudimentary handle carved into it, and to me, its paisley pattern was the most beautiful.  The newest one, purchased on a recent trip to Iran, was machine-made, with a simple pattern of dots and lines and a glued-on handle.

Tricks of the trade

We took a few moments to get to know a bit of each other's stories before getting to work. Together we ground nutmeg, steeped saffron, and made a dense paste of walnuts and dates.

Mise en place

Filling and stamping the cookies wasn't so hard, but Fariba's genius came to light at the next step: twisting the edges to seal the cookie's perimeter.  When Fariba lays the the edge of a cookie between two fingers and twists, the resulting pattern is so perfect, you'd think it was made by machine.  It's no wonder these beautiful cookies are her trademark.  She paints a dot of golden saffron water on the center of each cookie, then sprinkles it with the bright green of ground pistachios.

You'd think a person with this level of expertise would be intimidating, but in this case, you'd be wrong.  We tried futilely to emulate her perfect twists, but even when ours came out gnarly and inconsistent, she'd give an excited encouraging squeal with every cookie we made.

We finished off the day learning to make nan-e-nokhodchi, tiny flower-shaped sweets made with chickpea flour and cardamom, and nan-e-berenji, plump rice flour cookies topped with poppy seeds.  With the touch of a pastry chef, these came out as dainty as dollhouse furniture.

Brewing saffron

As beautiful as our cookies were, they were even more delicious.  The kolompeh dough is unsweetened, so they're just sweet enough, and the warmly spiced filling goes perfectly with the buttery, flaky cookie.  We were proud of our baking accomplishments, and had to keep ourselves from gobbling up cooking after cookie.



The vibe of our day was really special.  Everyone came in with a curious spirit and an open heart, including our dear ostad herself. We felt her warm hospitality from the moment we walked into her home to the moment she saw us out, carrying bags and containers overflowing with delicious sweets, and our very own kolompeh stamps.  There's certainly esteem in mastery, but only when it comes with love is there transcendence.

Do check out Fariba's business website, Zozo Baking.  You can learn more about taking classes with her yourself, you can buy beautiful kolompeh stamps she brings in from Iran, or, you can leave the baking to her and order boxes of delicate kolompeh and other Persian sweets to adorn your table.

Cardamom Almond Hot Chocolate

It's a strange concept, longing for something you've never known.  But that's how I feel about korsi.




Sunday night marks the winter solstice, the first night of winter, the longest night of the year.  It's a night that, among Persians, is celebrated, and is known as Yalda. As is pretty much always the case, you celebrate with food: on the night Yalda, you stay up late and eat bright, juicy, sweet things like pomegranate and watermelon, tightly holding on to the last bits of summer into the final moments before winter takes over.




We've had pretty much an entire year of summer here in Los Angeles, though, so I'm beyond ready to welcome winter.  So, as I read about Yalda, all those bright colors fade into the background, and only one word pops out, pulling my eyes to it:  korsi.



Korsi is to me the purest embodiment of coziness.  Imagine a small table, draped with a big, heavy blanket that fall long over the sides.  Underneath the table, a coal heater burns.  Everyone crowds around the table, sitting on the floor and tucking themselves under the blanket.  And then, all together, the korsi sitters, held together by the draw of warm, toasty feet, might share snacks, tell stories, smoke hookah, or play cards.  And on the night of Yalda, as if this vignette weren't charming enough, you stay up until the wee hours of the chilly night, choosing a page at random from a page of Hafez's poetry to take as your fortune for the days to come.



Korsi is something I've never experienced, but based on the stories I've heard from my parents, it's one of the things from Iran I have the most longing for -- I know I'd love it.  How could you not?



So, Yalda, you can keep your raging against the dying of the light, you can have your tight, needy grip on the summer's brightness.  As winter begins (and yes, winter in Los Angeles will probably be mostly sunny anyway), I embrace the coziness of Yalda.  And while I have no korsi to gather around, I can have that other thing that springs to mind when the nights turn cold and I'm seeking peak coziness: hot chocolate.



In addition to fruit, you'd typically find a bowl of ajeel, or mixed nuts, on the Yalda table, and as a nod to that, I'm flavoring my cocoa with almond extract.  I'm also adding a bit of cardamom to give it a distinctive Persian fragrance.


So, as the days grow longer, but the nights grow colder, in the absence of korsi, I'll find my warmth and coziness, and a bit of sweetness, elsewhere.  And I'll offer you this bit of wisdom from Hafez to get you through your own long Yalda night, with confidence that it's absolutely true for each of you, lovely readers: "I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being."






[Note: I didn't go the traditional route with my Yalda posts, but fortunately, a lovely group of Persian food bloggers have also participated in this Yalda feast with delicious dishes, history, and memories of their own (including a photo of a korsi in action in Coco's post).  Be sure to scroll to the bottom of the post for the full roundup.]

Cardamom Almond Hot Chocolate
Makes 2 servings

If you want to go a boozy route, you can replace the almond extract with 2 oz of almond liqueur. You can also replace some or all of the milk with almond milk to really drive the almond point home.

3 cardamom pods
2 1/4 C milk (2% fat or more)
2 heaping Tbs. cocoa powder
2 oz good-quality chocolate (I like 70%), broken into small pieces
1/2 - 1 tsp sugar
pinch of salt
1/8 tsp almond extract
marshmallows for serving

Bash up cardamom pods in a mortar and pestle until the skin opens up and black seeds inside are exposed.  In a small saucepan, bring milk and cardamom to a boil over medium high heat.  Watch the pot, as it will quickly boil over.

Lower heat to low, and cocoa powder, sugar, chocolate, sugar, and salt.  Whisk vigorously to combine thoroughly, making sure to scrape from the bottom to fully incorporate chocolate as it melts.

Increase heat to medium, and bring back to a boil for about a minute.  Remove from heat and add almond extract.  Serve with a marshmallow in each mug.

An InLinkz Link-up

Coconut Ginger Granola

I've been meaning to make granola for months.  Today I reached granola critical mass.


It's a four-day weekend and everyone's out of town.  After a seeming eleven months of summer, it's grey and raining outside.  A few weeks ago, when I made fesenjoon and had friends over to watch Bourdain in Iran (Did you watch it?  Did you also discover that it in fact was possible to love him more than you already did?  Did you watch Vice's even-more-awesome 3-part Munchies Guide to Tehran?), a friend brought me some homemade granola, and it reminded how satisfying homemade granola is.  Then, over at Sabzi, Sara wrote this evocative post, with those photos in that cozy cold-weather light.


You guys, I ate so much in the last week.  It wasn't just Thanksgiving (though, my goodness was it Thanksgiving), it was amazing slices at Jim and Jason's newest Fairfax spot, Prime Pizza (followed by Scoops at Golden State, natch), it was three servings of truffle mac and cheese at work, it was In-n-Out for dinner, Grandma Nanny's apple pie for breakfast...just a bad scene.  An extremely delicious bad scene.


And in my case, this kind of marathon gorging leads to sore throat and Harvey Fierstein voice.  Really sexy.  Everything I read about what to eat to combat a sour stomach led me to two places: ginger and oatmeal.  And that's been guiding my diet the last few days:  ginger-miso soup with leftover turkey, chai-spiced oatmeal with fennel seed, ginger, and cardamom, and lots and lots of ginger tea.


And this.  Finally, today, I made granola.  I started with the Early Bird / Orangette recipe, the same one I was gifted, the same one Sara used, the same one I always make, because it's empirically the best.  But, I went a little "island" with it:  in addition to adding both fresh and powdered ginger, I replaced the olive oil with coconut oil, the brown sugar with coconut sugar. And I sprinkled the finished product with fresh lime zest.  A little "lime in the coconut" action.  And as usual, I left it in the oven as long as possible.  Admittedly, this technique leads to some casualties, but a couple pecan burn victims are well worth the deep flavor you get as the granola really browns.



The result was great.  It had all the familiar toastiness of the original recipe, with brighter pops throughout from the lime and ginger.  And the lime and ginger go really well with the coconut.  The best part of the process was adding the lime zest: it audibly sizzles and hisses (!!!) as it hits the hot granola.  I think the original recipe remains my go-to for every day, but when you need something special to brighten a grey day, throwing some ginger and lime flavors into a coconutty granola is a good way to go.

Coconut Ginger Granola
Makes about 7 cups.
Adapted from Orangette.

The coconut oil will solidify at room temperature, so once you've added it, keep the mixture moving, and get it to the baking sheet quickly.

3 C old-fashioned oats
1 C pumpkin seeds
1 C sunflower seeds
1 1/4 C unsweetened coconut flakes
1 1/4 C pecans, halved or chopped (I used a combination, as that's what I had on hand)
1 tsp salt
2 tsp ground ginger
2 Tbs grated fresh ginger
2 Tbs ground flax meal (optional)
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 C maple syrup
1/3 C coconut sugar
1/2 C coconut oil, melted
zest of one lime

Preheat oven to 300F.  Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, mix first ten ingredients (oats through vanilla) to combine evenly.  Add maple syrup and coconut oil, and stir to thoroughly combine.

Spread mixture evenly on prepared baking sheet.  Bake, stirring every 15 minutes, until the granola is deep brown, about 45 minutes.  Remove from heat, and add lime zest.  Allow granola to cool before stirring lime zest through.  Store in an airtight container.

A note on gluten: I've added the gluten-free label to this post.  If you avoid gluten, you'll know better than I do to read labels to be extra sure. But, if you make this with gluten-free oatmeal, then the recipe is gluten-free.

Harissa Cauliflower Sloppy Joe: Cooking with Corinne Rice

Have I got a treat for you today.

One of my favorite things to do through this blog is cook with others.  It's always a learning experience, it's a lovely way to socialize, and is the perfect antidote to screaming mouse syndrome.

I recently became part of a particularly awesome Facebook group called inspired women of los angeles.  It's a place where a photographer might seek a make-up artist for a shoot, an artist might ask if anyone knows of a space to show her work, where someone going through a rough patch might seek a little help, or someone feeling especially moved might offer some words of inspiration. The spirit of collaboration is strong with this group. So, when a member posted a few photos from her dabblings in food styling, and they were totally amazing and professional and gorgeous, I had to reach out.

I suggested a collaboration, and a few emails later, I was standing outside an apartment in Venice, groceries in hand, no idea who or what to expect.  I shouldn't have worried.  The door opened, and there was Corinne Rice -- line drawings tattooed on her arms, a mop of black curls, and a sparkly smile -- greeting me with a hug.


Corinne Rice does a lot of things. She is a mostly-vegan chef, with a deep emphasis on nutrition. She hosts pop-up dinners around Venice (with one coming up this Sunday.  Details at the end of the post), she does private health coaching, and is working on healthy living workshops and classes for busy moms to learn to make baby food and 10-minute meals (she's mom to a flirty one-year-old named Atlas herself). She's also self-publishing a cookbook, which will feature her plant-based recipes and will be filled with her gorgeous photos.  Look out for it in early 2015.




The recipe she chose for us to cook together was one from the upcoming cookbook.  We made a cauliflower-based sloppy joe, the foundation of its flavor being a fiery harissa.  As she described the recipe, as well as others she was developing, I at first had trouble wrapping my head around the flavors. Her cooking doesn't really sit in one cuisine or other: Middle Eastern flavors might share the plate with say, southeast Asian ones.  She uses a heavy hand with spice, and her unusual flavor combinations straddle sweet and savory.  By the end of the afternoon, though, I trusted that even her strangest-sounding ideas would taste great.



As we cooked, we talked, and it was such a treat to be able to go deep on things I've always wondered about.  Corinne turned to nutrition as a way out of dark times, and since tackling addiction, she's immersed herself in that world.  Her knowledge of how what we consume affects our bodies is encyclopedic and thorough.  I asked about different ethnic diets purported to be the key to long life (real commonalities between high life-expectancy groups:  sweet potatoes, wine, self-love). I expressed how overwhelmed I can get with conflicting information about what to eat (her sage advice: every body is different, be mindful and intuitive and find what works for you).

Corinne moves easily in her narrow kitchen, jotting down every measurement as she develops a recipe, adjusting her notes as she tastes and polishes measurements. She's made great use of her space, adding shelves below the counter where she stores every spice imaginable in blue mason jars.



I'm no stranger to cauliflower as a meat substitute in recipes, as the delicious Buffalo cauliflower at Mohawk Bend has made me a believer.  Of course, beyond some nominal resemblances to traditional sloppy joe, there wasn't much similarity.  But, it didn't matter.  The dish had a complex flavor, with heat and brightness  from the harissa (her recipe included preserved lemon and fresh mint), and a rich, slightly sweet base of tomatoes and red bell pepper.  With beautiful millet bread from Culver City's Rising Hearts Bakery, it made a filling and satisfying meal.



Her styling is meticulous.  She places an old wood table in the light of a corner window in her bedroom, and fills it with beautiful things picked up from here and there:  vintage plates, an artfully placed cheesecloth, an air plant pulled from a hanging in the house.  With just the natural light and a tall tripod bought used, Corinne creates moody, lush images.

Aside from our main course, she was excited to share a green curry coconut latte with basil whip.  The  drink was at once familiar and strange, warm and comforting.  Corinne has a professional whipped cream dispenser bottle, and got downright giggly dispensing pale green basil-scented whipped coconut cream directly into our hands.  And rightly so: it was delicious.  Here's her photo of the lattes; recipe will be in the book.

First and last photo by Corinne Rice.

After cooking, we took baby Atlas up to the roof and dined, the sun warming us, and a wholesome hand-made meal nourishing us.

--
Here are some ways to keep up with Corinne:
 - Catch her pop-up supper club this Sunday. The menu is pretty mindblowing (fennel gelato, what?)
 - Follow her on Facebook and Instagram.
 - Or just start at her website.

Harissa Cauliflower Sloppy Joe
Recipe by Corinne Rice
Makes 5-6 servings

Harissa
3 oz dried chilis of your choice (chipotle works great; we used cascabel, and the skins were a little hard to break down)
1 teaspoon caraway seeds
1 teaspoon coriander seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 cup olive oil
2 cloves garlic
2 Tablespoons preserved lemon
3 Tablespoons mint
1/2 teaspoon salt

Soak the chilis for 3-4 hours. Strain and then remove the stems and seeds.

Toast the caraway, coriander and cumin seeds on a dry skillet over medium heat for 4-5 minutes, swirling the pan constantly.

Combine all ingredients in a food processor or high powered blender until it forms a creamy paste.

Sloppy Joe
2 Tablespoons coconut oil
1 yellow onion, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, crushed or finely chopped
3 cups tomato sauce (with no added sugar)
2 medium tomatoes, diced
1 head cauliflower, finely chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
1/4 cup coconut sugar
3 Tablespoons red wine vinegar
2 teaspoons steak seasoning
1/4-3/4 cups harissa paste (see note)
salt to taste
basil to garnish

In a saucepan over medium heat, combine coconut oil, garlic, and onion. Sautee until onion is translucent, about 5-7 minutes.

Add the remaining ingredients and cook for about 30 minutes or until the cauliflower has become very soft, resembling a similar texture to ground beef.

Serve the sloppy joes over your favorite gluten free bread. Garnish with basil.

A note on harissa: Depending on how spicy your harissa paste is and how hot you want the sloppy joes, you may want to add more or less.

Jeweled Carrot Salad: The First International Mehregan Cyber-feast

You guys, I'm pretty excited today.  I feel like I've quietly made something happen, and this post marks it.  You see, I'm very proud of my little blog, but sometimes when I post here, I feel like a tiny mouse yelling out in a huge hall.  I might be saying something good, but who can hear?  

I've wanted to explore writing about Persian food more, and with cookbook dreams having lately re-emerged from deep hibernation (!!), I knew I need to establish expertise, and to find people who cared about it.  After my Thrillist post in July on LA's best Persian food, I started noticing that out in the world, there exists a network of Persian food bloggers. They're out there. I decided I wanted to be part of this world, but how could I do it with the little mouse voice?



Over the last few months, I made a couple one-on-one inroads: I started commenting back and forth with a grad student in Minneapolis named Sara with a blog called Sabzi (she'd found me through Bon Appétempt, bless her heart), and I had a few tentative Twitter interactions with Azita of Fig and Quince, an artist in Brooklyn whose comprehensive and sweetly rendered Norouz posts had caught my eye back in March.  Mouse voice rising.

So you can imagine my delight when recently, I was brought into a Persian Food Bloggers' group.  To learn that there are women and men (well, one man) all over the world who like me, coo over their mothers' old-school cooking practices, get teary-eyed over a whiff of onions sizzling away with saffron, or squeeze in time in an incredibly hectic schedule for preparing elaborate rice dishes just because -- well, these are pretty exciting revelations.  And for these nostalgic diaspora cooks, some of whom even listen to Jason Bentley while they're at it, to bring me into their fold feels pretty awesome.  I decided I wanted something, wasn't sure how to get it, I kept at it, and it found me.

So, I'm beyond proud that today, I'm taking part in a very special event organized by this group: The First International Mehregan Cyber-feast. Mehregan is an ancient Persian festival that marks the fall harvest and honors friendship, affection, and love.  Admittedly, my family never celebrated it, so I don't know what exactly what it involves.  Here at All Kinds of Yum, though, we're big fans of friendship, affection, and love.  And I will always take an opportunity to feast on Persian food (or even just digitally pretend to).  Today, nearly 30 Persian food bloggers all over the world are posting dishes marking this festive day (and I've linked to all of them below!).  They even have a hashtag.  See, here it is:  #mehregan2014. They're very organized, these Persian food bloggers.

For my contribution to this lavish cyber-banquet, I'm riffing off a particularly opulent Persian dish called jeweled rice ("morassa polo"), stealing some of its flavors for a carrot salad.  Pomegranate adds its translucent charm, each seed seeming to be glowing from within.  I was lucky to get my hands on some fresh pistachios, picked right from the tree on a farm in Bakersfield, and added those as well as roasted pistachios and threads of orange zest.  The salad's dressing features orange juice, saffron, and honey, making it lightly sweet and super fragrant.  Overall, the dish feels like fall in Los Angeles: vaguely autumnal, but mostly just bright and sunny.

So, happy Mehregan to you all, and here's to friendship, affection, and love.  This little mouse is roaring with pride, and also very, very hungry.

[Note: Be sure to scroll all the way down and check out some of the tasty treats that Persian food bloggers all over the world have prepared for this day!]

Jeweled Carrot Salad
Makes 4 servings.

Vinaigrette:
Zest of one orange (see note)
Juice of one orange, about 1/4 cup, pulp strained
3 teaspoons champagne vinegar or apple cider vinegar
2 teaspoons honey
1 tablespoon pistachio oil (or olive oil)
2 tablespoons olive oil
Tiny pinch saffron (see note)
Salt and pepper to taste

Salad:
1-2 pounds carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/2-inch discs
1 tsp salt
1/4 cup pistachio nutmeats, shelled and roasted (I used purchased roasted and salted pistachio nutmeats)
seeds from 1 pomegranate, about 3/4 cup
1/2 cup fresh shelled pistachios (optional)

Prepare vinaigrette: In a bowl, whisk together orange juice, orange zest (if grated), honey, oils, saffron, salt, and pepper.  Set aside.  You'll end up with more than you need, but you can keep it refrigerated and use it for other salads.

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil.  Add carrots and cook until they are just barely tender, about 2 minutes.  Drain carrots and allow them to cool.

Combine carrots, orange zest, pomegranate seeds, pistachios, and about half of vinaigrette in a bowl.  Adjust seasoning.


A note on orange zest: You can zest your orange 3 ways:
 - With a potato peeler, strip off thin pieces, avoiding the bitter white pith, then cut them into tiny strips with a sharp knife.  Most labor-intensive, but no fancy gadgets necessary.
 - With a zester with 4-5 circular holes, create long skinny strips of zest.
 - With a microplane grater, create a fine mince of zest.

With the first two ways, add the zest directly to the carrots.  With the last, add it to the vinaigrette.

A note on saffron: You can pulverize the strands in a mortar and pestle with a bit of sugar for added abrasion, or in a clean coffee grinder.  Not worth it if you’re just using a bit, though:  just put the strands directly into the honey, rubbing them first between your fingers a bit.

--

Here are all the participants in the Mehregan Cyber-Feast.

Ahu Eats: Badoom Sookhte Torsh
All Kinds of Yum: Jeweled Carrot Salad
Bottom of the Pot: Broccoli Koo Koo
Cafe Leilee: Northern Iranian Pomegranate Garlic and Chicken Stew
Coco in the Kitchen: Zeytoon Parvardeh
Della Cucina Povera: Ghormeh Sabzi
Family Spice: Khoreshteh Kadoo | Butternut Squash Stew
Fig & Quince: Festive Persian Noodle Rice & Roasted Chicken Stuffed with Yummies for Mehregan
Honest and Tasty: Loobia Polo | Beef and Green Bean Rice
Lab Noon: Adas Polo Risotto Style
Lucid Food: Sambuseh
Marjan Kamali: Persian Ice Cream with Rosewater and Saffron
My Caldron: Anaar-Daneh Mosamma | Pomegranate Stew
My Persian Kitchen: Keshmesh Polow | Persian Raisin Rice
Noghlemey: Parsi Dal
Parisa's Kitchen: Morasa Polow | Jeweled Rice
Sabzi: Yogurt Soup with Meatballs
The Saffron Tales: Khorosht-e Gheimeh
Simi's Kitchen: Lita Turshisi | Torshi-e Liteh | Tangy Aubergine Pickle
Spice Spoon: Khoresht-e-Bademjaan | Saffron-scented Aubergine Stew
Turmeric & Saffron: Ash-a Haft Daneh | Seven Bean Soup
The Unmanly Chef: Baghali Polow ba Mahicheh
ZoZoBaking: Masghati