Beli Kruh (aka white bread), a 10th Anniversary Update success

 

Back in March, I started to revisit my year of weekly Slovenian dinners. I have now reached the halfway point. Many of those dishes from 2012 were familiar, since they had become favorites over the past decade. Others had fallen by the wayside, so it was a chance to rediscover them.

Sometimes the most rewarding recipes were the ones that didn't quite work the first time. This bread recipe was one of them, probably because it had to meet an impossibly high standard: my memories of my grandmother's bread. I was determined to recreate it. She served it every time we visited, when it was still warm from the oven. 

I remembered a high-rising homestyle loaf with a texture that was light and tender, but also hearty. My brother (also a baker) describes a somewhat coarse crumb. My husband wonders if it was cake-like. My grandmother never used recipes. I have no idea how she worked her magic. But I figured there might be a hint in my collection of vintage Slovenian American cookbooks.

The Progressive Slovene Women of America caught my eye with a recipe they called by two names: white bread or beli kruh (which I initially misunderstood as a reference to the bread's beauty rather than its color!).The ingredients were ordinary enough, but the method was more elaborate than similar recipes, because it called for an initial sponge and then three more risings.

The first time I made this recipe, the bread looked beautiful (see below) and the flavor and texture were pretty good. But it was nothing out of the ordinary. Not worth the extra time and effort. So I went on to try other recipes. Potato bread, after my mother recalled that her mother might have used potato water. A special braided bread similar to challah that was lovely, but not like my grandma's delectable everyday bread. 

And then my 2022 Anniversary Update brought me back to the original bread recipe I had tried. And I saw the problem. I had used bread flour, which absorbs more liquid, rather than the standard all purpose flour that mid-century bakers would have used. And I had compounded the problem by either ignoring or misunderstanding the implications of "6 cups sifted flour." By measuring before (or without) sifting, I would have ended up with 20-30 percent more flour than the recipe called for. No wonder I had trouble kneading it all in! 

So made the necessary adjustments and tried to make the bread again, following the recipe closely. And then I made it one more time, just to be sure I had it right.

Prepared correctly, this recipe turned into a winner! It is very close to the bread I remember savoring in my grandparents' small bungalow in Cleveland, all those decades ago. In the recipe that follows, you do not have to sift the flour. But I have tried it both ways, and I think sifting may improve the texture. So why not try it the old-fashioned way, at least once? 

White Bread or Beli Kruh (adapted from The Progressive Slovene Women of America)

1 tablespoon yeast
1 cup lukewarm water
113 g all purpose flour (= 1 cup sifted or about 3/4 cup unsifted)
1 egg, beaten
2 tablespoons sugar

678 g all purpose flour (= 6 cups sifted or about 4.5 cups unsifted)
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon melted butter
1 cup lukewarm water

additional flour, as needed

(Note about sifting: It is probably optional if you measure by weight, but I think sifting improves the texture.)

First make the sponge: Combine the first five ingredients. Let rise in a warm place until doubled in size.

Add remaining ingredients to the sponge, using enough additional flour to make a soft dough. Mix well and knead until smooth.

Put dough in an oiled bowl and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size. Punch down and let rise for a second time until doubled. 

Form dough into two loaves and put in oiled bread pans. Let rise for the third time until not quite doubled. (Or make one large loaf and one smaller flatbread, about 1/2 inch thick. Or make two free-form round artisan-style loaves.)

Bake at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes for a standard loaf, less time for flatbread. Brush with melted butter during baking if you wish. Let cool before eating. Enjoy!

No-Knead Slovenian Rye Bread, Artisan style

This feels like a good time to share this overdue rye bread recipe. Thanks to my procrastination, it now coincides with an important cooking anniversary. Two years ago at this time, I discovered a popular artisan bread-making method that quickly became a pandemic mainstay and eventually crept into my Slovenian baking, including this recipe.  

It was December 2019, during our last pre-pandemic holiday season. I wandered into a Christmas market sponsored by a local senior center and left with an intriguing cookbook called "Artisan Pizza and Flatbread in Five Minutes a Day." This was my introduction to the popular "Artisan Bread in 5" approach developed by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoë François in their ever-expanding collection of cookbooks and websites. Their master recipe for bread is a good place to start for anyone unfamiliar with their approach, which is based on bulk cold fermentation of a very soft dough that does not require kneading. 

The recipe below is something of a hybrid. The foundation is a recipe from the 1950s cookbook published by the Progressive Slovene Women of America, who called it Quick Rye Bread--or rženi kruh na hitro, which translates as "rye bread in a hurry."  

That vintage recipe felt surprisingly contemporary. For one thing, it called for a mix of rye, whole wheat and white flour, with the whole grains predominating. And the proportions in the recipe, including the flour/liquid balance, seemed identical to the new artisan breads I had been making. The only real difference (aside from the use of cake yeast in the older recipe) is that the artisan method recommends refrigerating the dough for at least two hours, and sometimes as long as two weeks, before baking. Along with the convenience of always having a supply of yeast dough on hand, the extended cold storage encourages the development of a more complex, fermented dough that comes to resemble sourdough.

So I decided to apply the artisan method to that older Slovenian American recipe. I refrigerated the dough for the minimum time suggested by the artisan people, because I wanted to have the bread ready by dinnertime. In theory, the dough could have been refrigerated for up to five days. Without whole grains, refrigerated dough can be safely stored for as long as two weeks, according to Hertzberg and François, so long as it is free of eggs or dairy products.

The bread was a success. It was flavorful and a little spongy, with none of the dense heaviness that whole grain breads sometimes have. It also made excellent toast. The next time, I might save half the dough for later to see how the flavor changes with longer storage. A sprinkle of caraway seeds would also add a nice touch.   

No-Knead Slovenian Rye Bread

2 cups milk, warmed 

1 tablespoon butter

1 tablespoon yeast

2 tablespoons sugar (I used brown)

1 and 1/2 teaspoons  salt 

1 cup white flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

2 cups rye flour 

Combine yeast, salt and sugar in a large bowl or container. Heat milk and butter and cool to lukewarm. Add to the large container and stir well. Combine the flours, add to the liquid ingredients, and stir until blended into a loose dough. Cover loosely and let rise for 2 hours at room temperature. Although the dough can be used at this point, it is easier to handle (and more flavorful) if it is refrigerated for at least 2 hours. When ready to bake, divide the dough into two small oiled loaf pans. (Or, if you prefer, save half the dough for up to five days and bake later.) Let the dough rise until doubled and bake at 375 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour. Remove from pan(s) and let cool before slicing.

Slovenian Dinner Week 49: Chicken Ajmoht II with Latkes

Menu
Chicken Ajmoht II (with red wine)
Greens
Latkes (Potato Pancakes)

It was the third week of December.  Right between Hanukkah and Christmas.  My thoughts drifted back to a dish I had made in January, at the very beginning of my year of ethnic cooking.

Slovenian Dinner Week 3 had been quite an adventure.  I had attempted two traditional dishes that were completely new to me. Žganci, a giant boiled buckwheat dumpling, didn't quite work out. But the main dish, a tangy stew called chicken ajmoht, had been a success.

Chicken ajmoht, sometimes called obara, is a simple stew or ragout. Its special tang comes from a dark roux, something that my mother recalled from her childhood.  For my first attempt, I had used a simple recipe from the Progressive Slovene Women of America.  This time, I wanted to add some additional vegetables and seasonings.

For inspiration, I consulted a couple of traditional sources.  The Food and Cooking of Eastern Europe had an obara recipe with a few more vegetable choices.  Slovenian Cookery included a recipe for chicken stew with cviček, a unique Slovenian red wine.

So I added a few new touches to my earlier recipe:  Carrots and leeks. Lemon peel and red wine.  For quicker cooking, I used boneless, skinless, chicken breasts.

For the result, read on.

Chicken Ajmoht II  (chicken ragout, kurji ajmoht, obara)

1 lb. boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut up
2 T. olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2  ribs celery, chopped
1 leek, bulb and a bit of green, soaked well and sliced
1 c. baby carrots, whole
water to  cover
peel of 1 lemon, grated
4 T. fresh parsley, minced
1 T. fresh marjoram, minced
peel of 1 lemon, grated
roux, made with  1T. flour, and 1 T. olive oil, mixed
salt and pepper to taste
red wine to taste

Heat oil in a Dutch oven. Add onion, celery and leeks.  Brown vegetables.  Add carrots, chicken, and seasonings and continue to brown.  Add water to cover and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes or until tender.  In a separate pan, make a roux, cooked to medium brown.  Add to the pot and stir well.  Add remaining water and red wine and adjust seasonings.  Simmer about 15 minutes more.  Sprinkle with additional parsley.  To be traditional, serve with noodles, polenta, or (of you are feeling bold!) buckwheat žganci.

The verdict? Even better, the second time around!  And chicken ajmoht goes perfectly with my husband's special latkes, a traditional Jewish favorite, especially during Hanukkah.

Just one thing would have improved the dish: some genuine Slovenian cviček!

Actually, one member of our family did get the chance to try cviček.  Right at the source. And we think the winemaker might have been a distant cousin!

Go here to read an article by our journalist son, who paid a visit last year to the Kozlevčar Winery in Slovenia.

Slovenian Dinner Week 37: Chicken Rižota, Before the Yom Kippur Fast

Menu
Chicken Rižota
Green Salad
Challah


Tuesday of Week 37 fell on the evening of Yom Kippur.  For Jews, sundown would mark the beginning of a day of fasting and repentance.

Although the Yom Kippur Eve meal doesn't have ritual significance, some foods are traditionally chosen.  Simple, mildly seasoned foods are said to make the fast easier.  In many communities, chicken and rice are favored entrees.

I wanted to make a meal that would fit within these two traditions, Slovenian and Jewish, that are a part of my family life.

I immediately thought about rižota.  Slovenian risotto. Months earlier, I had made a delicious meat version. In doing research for the dish, I recalled some mention of substituting chicken for the more usual beef, veal or pork.   But I wasn't sure.

So I went back to the handful of recipes I had found in my vintage Slovenian American cookbooks.  Yes, one of those recipes made a passing reference to using chicken instead of meat.  But I had completely overlooked the one recipe that was designed with chicken in mind.

The Progressive Slovene Women of America had a recipe they called Chicken and Rice. In parentheses, they mentioned the proper Slovenian name.  Rižota.

So I was on solid ground.  It seemed like an ideal dish for Yom Kippur Eve.

I followed the same recipe I used for that Week 21 Dinner, with a few changes:

Instead of the beef-pork mix, I used boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut up.

I added a few more vegetables:
-1 carrot, cubed
-1 stalk of celery, sliced
-1 tomato, diced, instead of canned tomatoes

This time, I remembered to use the short-grained Arborio rice.

And at the end, I splashed in a little white wine

There was one other change:  No parmesan cheese on top.  That would be very untraditional, even for Jewish families who don't strictly observe the Jewish dietary laws.

A reminder: Boneless chicken cooks more quickly than beef or pork, so don't overcook.

The verdict:  Delicious!  A simple dish, made even more flavorful with the inclusion of additional vegetables and a little wine.

Slovenian Dinner Week 30: Spareribs and Sauerkraut: This Ain't No Barbeque!

Menu
Baby Back Ribs with Sauerkraut and Potatoes ( Rebrca v zelju)
Green Salad

In planning my Week 30 dinner, I had to work around a challenging schedule.  I had a late afternoon eye appointment.  And then from 6-8, my husband and I were hosting an annual neighborhood meeting.  Fortunately, it was out on the street in front of our house, and not inside.  But I still felt a little harried.

I needed to figure out a menu that could be made in advance and re-heated quickly for what would be a late dinner.  And since I might be cooking with dilated eyes, it would help if the dish wasn't too complicated.

I had been thinking about ribs for awhile.  Slovenians like them.  I had eaten them at Slovenian Hall events and seen recipes in my vintage cookbooks.

But we are not big fans of ribs.  My husband doesn't care for them. I think of ribs as an occasional guilty pleasure.  Too fatty and mostly just a vehicle for barbeque sauce.

I had made ribs myself perhaps once, years ago.  All I recalled was that they need to be parboiled before they are grilled or baked in the oven.

I found a straightforward recipe for Spareribs and Sauerkraut (Rebrca v zelju) in Treasured Slovenian & International Recipes, the 1950s cookbook issued by the Progressive Slovene Women of America. It was definitely no-frills: Cut up ribs, boil for 2 hours, add some sauerkraut and caraway seeds.  Serve with boiled potatoes.

I planned to doctor up  the sauerkraut, along the lines of my roast sauerkraut recipe. For convenience, I could do the initial cooking earlier in the day and refrigerate.  Another plus: by pre-cooking, I could skim off some of the extra fat.  And why not just add the potatoes along with the sauerkraut, toward the end?  It would be a perfect one-dish meal, along with a salad.

So that's what I did.  After simmering the ribs for an hour, I refrigerated the meat and broth separately and went off for my eye exam.  When I got back home, I made the mistake of doing a little research on the Internet.

I hoped to figure out how much longer the parboiled ribs needed to cook.  But I discovered that I might have committed a major faux pas.

I had pre-cooked the ribs.  Worse yet, I had boiled them.

NEVER boil ribs, many voices proclaimed.  “It's like making pork soup,” suggested one devotee of ribs.  It's an old-fashioned approach that's passé, many agreed.

One fellow put rib-boiling in the same category as “accordion, reality TV, and karaoke.”

Ouch.  Pretty offensive, especially to an accordion-playing Slovenian cook!

So I continued with a certain loss of confidence.

Read on:


Baby Back Ribs with Sauerkraut and Potatoes

1 slab baby back ribs (1.3 lbs)
water to cover
3 c. sauerkraut, drained
1 large onion, diced and browned in oil
1 t. caraway seed
8 juniper berries
salt and pepper to taste
8 small red potatoes
parsley
a little white wine, if desired

Cut meat into 2-rib sections. (This will probably create 4 portions). Place ribs in Dutch oven with water to cover.  Simmer for 1 hour, then remove meat from broth and refrigerate both separately for several hours.  Skim fat from surface of broth.  (I also used a paper towel to strain further.)  Bring broth to a boil.

While the broth is heating,  dice the onion and brown in oil in a skillet.  Add the sauerkraut and seasonings and continue to brown. Taste and adjust seasonings.

When broth has come to a boil, add the onion and seasoned sauerkraut mix.  Add the ribs.  Let simmer for 1 hour, then add small whole potatoes and simmer for another hour. Toward the end of the cooking period, add wine if desired and adjust the seasonings. Garnish with parsley to serve.

The verdict: Surprise! It was pretty good. My husband-the-rib-hater enjoyed it even more than I did. The ribs were very tender and had little fat. The flavor was good.

Yes, this was a stew-like dish. A far cry from good old American barbequed ribs. But that's not really the point, is it?

Slovenian Dinner Week 22: Mineštra, Not Just for Italians!

Menu
Mineštra (Slovenian Minestrone)
Coleslaw
French bread

I hadn't paid much attention to  the recipe for mineštra in Treasured Slovenian and International Recipes, my never-fail vintage cookbook from the  Progressive Slovene Women of America.

The recipe seemed too familiar.  Too Italian, maybe.

When  I woke up Tuesday morning, I didn't feel like getting out of bed, much less cooking. I could feel a cold coming on.   And Sauce Piquante, my Cajun band, was supposed to practice at our house that night.

Suddenly that Slovenian minestrone seemed like a perfect choice.   Easy comfort food.  And I had almost everything on hand.  So why not?

I made a few changes in the recipe from that 1950s cookbook.   As usual,  I used olive oil instead of lard or drippings. I was a little more generous with the vegetables.  As a short cut, I used canned beans instead of cooking them from scratch.  At least they were those genuine, hard-to-find Roman beans.  Instead of canned peas, I used frozen.

The recipe called for smoked sausages or chopped ham.  I used smoked chicken apple sausages from the butcher shop around the corner.


1 medium onion, chopped
1 large clove garlic, minced
2 T. olive oil
½ head cabbage (part green, part red) sliced
2 smoked chicken apple sausages, sliced
1 can Roman beans (borlotti beans)
1 c. baby carrots
1 medium potato
¼ c. fresh parsley
cherry tomatoes, equal to 2 regular
2 stalks celery
2 quarts water
1 c. frozen peas
¼ c. rice
salt and pepper to taste


Brown onion and garlic in oil.  Add cabbage and sausage and let brown.  Add remaining ingredients except for peas and rice.  Cover and simmer.  Adjust seasonings.  When vegetables are almost tender, add rice, cover,  and simmer for 15 minutes more.  Add peas and simmer for 5 more minutes.

It was comforting to see that nice pot of soup bubbling away on the stove!

When it was time to eat, we sprinkled the soup with freshly grated parmesan cheese and had some coleslaw and bread alongside.

The verdict?  Delicious and comforting.  I even felt revived enough to play the Cajun accordion!

The one change I would make next time:  A spicier sausage.   The chicken-apple was a healthy choice, but a little mild for our taste.  Next time, I'll use Italian or Polish sausage. Unless, of course, I have some authentic Slovenian klobase handy!

Slovenian Dinner Week 16: Djuveč, or Finger Casserole

Djuveč

Menu

Djuveč (Lamb, Pork and Vegetable Casserole)

Green Salad

Bread

Djuveč ("ju-vech") is found in one form or another throughout the Balkans.  But I had never heard of it until I started poring over my vintage copy of Treasured Slovenian and International Recipes, the cookbook put together by the Progressive Slovene Women of America.

The origins of the dish are probably Turkish. The Romanian version, ghivetch, is often considered a Jewish dish, one I recall seeing on menus in Israel.   It sounded like a mildly spiced version of ratatouille, although djuveč usually adds meat and a little rice to the familiar vegetable mix. 

The Progressive Slovene Women included two versions in their cookbook.  I was surprised to find one of them in the Slovenian section, since the dish probably reached Slovenia by way of Serbia. The second one, called Serbian Djuveč, was included in the International section.  At first glance, neither one struck me as unusual.  Both recipes were plain dishes with minimal seasonings, and easy to make.  

The Slovenian version specified a lamb/pork mix and spiced things up with parsley.  It also involved an initial cooking period on the stove before the casserole went into the oven.  The Serbian version, done completely in the oven, added some eggplant and a cheese topping.   

I combined the two recipes to come up with the following adaptation.

1/2 lb. pork, cubed

1/2 lb. lamb, cubed

2 small eggplants, cubed and salted

1 1/2 onions, sliced

1 green pepper, cut in strips

1 orange pepper, cut in strips

olive oil

2 potatoes, sliced

1/4 c. raw rice

small bunch parsley

salt and pepper to taste

tomatoes sliced, for top (4 small)

bread crumbs or matzo meal, for top (optional!)

parmesan or feta cheese, for top

Cube and salt the eggplants and set aside in colander to drain.

Brown meats in oil.  Add onions and peppers and brown.  Add eggplant, salt and pepper.   Add a little water.  Cook until meat is tender, adding water, a tablespoon at a time, as needed.

Oil a large rectangular glass casserole.  Layer half the meat-vegetable mixture,  half the sliced raw potatoes, salt and pepper, half the rice, and half the parsley.  Repeat layers.  

Top with sliced tomatoes and if desired, crumbs. (Omit, if you desire a gluten-free dish!)  Drizzle with olive oil.  Add some liquid.  Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour or until rice is tender.  Cover for part of the time.  Add liquid if mixture gets too dry.  In last 10 minutes, sprinkle with cheese.  

After I had assembled the djuveč, I paused to admire my handiwork.  This simple dish did look pretty.  I popped it in the oven and figured I had time to take a break from cooking.

Big mistake.

The djuveč was fine.  In fact, it tasted wonderful,  once we got around to eating it.

The problem was the middle finger of my left hand.    I managed to tear the tendon when I was making the bed.

So my long suffering husband arrived home to find a wife with a fingertip that drooped downward at a sickening 90 degree angle.  Or it would have, if I hadn't splinted it with a nail file.

We turned down the oven and made a quick trip to the doctor.  I returned with my finger in a splint.

"Do not remove the splint for 8 weeks, or you'll risk permanent deformity," the physician's assistant had intoned.

But what about my accordion playing, I wailed.  My Slovenian cooking project.  Not to mention the fact that I write with my left hand.

A nice glass of wine and a serving of delicious djuveč helped me set aside my worries, at least for the rest of the evening.

I couldn't resist taking the photo below and posting it on Facebook.

"Oh, oh.  Finger casserole?" one of my Facebook friends asked.

No, not a cooking injury, I explained.

But it would have made for a good story.

Slovenian DInner Week 14: Meat Polenta, a Very Odd Ball

Menu
Meat Polenta in Seasoned (Non-Italian) Tomato Sauce
Organic Whole Wheat Spaghetti
Green Salad


This Meat Polenta recipe had been on my mind for some time.  It struck me as both odd and easy to make.  I wasn't quite sure how it would taste.

Months ago, I had spotted it in the "International" section of the Progressive Slovene Women of America's cookbook.  So I had no idea what its origins might be.

The name, Meat Polenta, seemed misleading.  A quick reading made it clear that these were meatballs with cornmeal, served in a tomato sauce.  Quite a lot of cornmeal, compared to the proportion of breadcrumbs or rice in a typical meatball recipe.  The original recipe called for 1/2 cup of cornmeal to 3/4 cup (yes, cup!) of ground beef or veal, the equivalent of 6 ounces of meat.  And the directions suggested that the mixture should be "kneaded until spongy."  What was this, a bread dumpling or a meatball?

I doubled the recipe and increased the proportion of meat slightly, just to be on the safe side.  I also gave myself free rein with the sauce suggestion ("3 cups tomato pulp, seasoned to taste.")  And instead of the "rice, noodles, or dumplings" suggested by the Progressive Slovene Women, I used organic whole wheat spaghetti.


1 lb ground beef
1 c. cornmeal
2 eggs
2 t. salt
1/2 t. pepper
1 t. paprika
 3 T. onion, minced

Mix all the ingredients.  You can knead if you like, but don't expect it to be spongy!
Form into small balls, which I took to mean about the size of a walnut.

Simmer for 45 minutes in about 3 cups of "seasoned tomato pulp" or whatever sauce you might care to use.  Here is my version:

(Non-Italian Tomato Sauce)

28 oz. crushed organic tomatoes
salt and pepper to taste
1 t. marjoram
1 t. paprika
pinch of sugar
1 small onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
4 T. fresh parsley
splash of mosto (Italian grape must flavoring)
water, if needed.

Brown the onion and garlic in a little olive oil.  Add the rest of the ingredients.  Simmer for 10-15 minutes, adjust seasonings, and add the meatballs.  The sauce became pretty thick, so I added some water.

The verdict?  Mixed.

The sauce was a success.  It was quick and easy.  And it felt good to know that  I have now mastered the art of making an impromptu tomato sauce that does NOT taste Italian, which had tended to be my default approach to seasoning.  It would go well, I think, with any number of Central European and Balkan dishes.

The meat polenta itself was another matter.  Those meatballs looked quite nice, as you can see from the top photo.

But they were hard and dry. And odd.  Those little grains of cornmeal were very much in evidence, as you can see from the close up below.

It is hard to know what to make of this recipe.  What was the intention?

Perhap I should have used ground meat with more fat.  Or maybe the meatballs were too small or cooked for too long.  On the other hand, I did use a slightly higher proportion of meat, so the end result should have been even less "corny" than the original.

Only now, more than a month later, does another possibility occur to me.

Perhaps "corn meal" meant cooked cornmeal mush.  Polenta.

Ahh.  Polenta meant one of the ingredients, not the finished product.

Maybe I'll try this again.

But not for awhile.

Update in November: Go here for the new, improved version!

Slovenian Dinner Week 11: Chicken Paprikash with Egg Noodles

Menu
Chicken Paprikash (Kokošli Paprikaš)
Homemade Egg Noodles (Rezanci)
Green Salad

After Week 10's struklji, I was ready for something a little less adventurous.

Chicken paprikash is familiar to most Americans.  It is another one of those Slovenian dishes with Hungarian origins.

The Progressive Slovene Women offered a straightforward recipe along with the proper Slovenian name: kokošli paprikaš.

I made just a few adaptations.  Instead of a whole cut up chicken, I used chicken breasts. I browned the onions and paprika before adding the chicken, not after.  I used light sour cream, just because it was on hand.

The other change was unplanned.  I ended up using more flour to coat the chicken than the single tablespoon the recipe suggested.  That is probably why the sauce was a little heavier than we would have liked.


3 lb. chicken breasts (bone in)
salt to season chicken
flour to coat (1-3 T.)
2 T. oil
1 onion, chopped
1 1/2 T. paprika
1/8 t. cayenne
1 1/2 c. hot water
1/2 c. sour cream

Cut up chicken pieces, salt them, and coat with flour.  Brown onions and paprika and cook until onions are golden.  Add the chicken and brown on all sides.  Add water and cayenne, cover and simmer 1 hour or until done.  Mix in sour cream five minutes before serving.

Serve with dumplings, mashed potatoes, or broad noodles.


I decided to make homemade egg noodles, a dish I associated with my grandmother.  All three of my vintage cookbooks offered recipes.   In Slovenian, they are called rezanci, I learned.

Those noodles were  the real adventure of this week's dinner.  The ingredients are simple: eggs, flour, a bit of salt, water.   It's all in the technique.  So  I'll devote a separate post (with photos) to the noodles.

Grandma's Homemade White Bread: Beli Kruh

My grandmother was famous for her homemade bread.  And not just in her own family, as it turns out.

One of my mother's recent recollections is this one:  My grandmother used to bake bread and distribute the loaves to people in their Slovenian neighborhood in Cleveland.  As a little girl, my mother used to accompany her mother, when she made the rounds.

"She just gave it away?" This puzzled me, because  I knew the family didn't have much money, especially during the Depression.

Yes, my mother assured me.  My grandmother was an open-hearted woman who believed in sharing what she had.  Oh, one more thing.  Somewhere along the line, she got some training as a hairdresser.  So she also used to give free haircuts.

These stories do fit with my own memories of my grandmother's generous spirit.  Still,  I can't help but wonder if there might have been some bartering going on, or if she had a little business on the side.

Grandma's Homemade Bread, as we always called it, was a high point of our regular Sunday afternoon gatherings at the little bungalow she shared with Grandpa.  They co-existed unhappily, my mother eventually revealed.  He was a gruff, unhappy man, who was sometimes violent.  She remained sweet and loving.  Maybe baking was her escape.

My grandmother's bread was made with white flour and baked in standard rectangular bread pans.  She served it still warm from the oven, thickly sliced.  It was brown and crusty on the outside, tender and melting inside.  We slathered it with butter or used it to make ham sandwiches.  Grandma always had multiple loaves ready, enough to feed her four children, their spouses, and the dozen grandchildren who might show up.

It is hard to pinpoint what made Grandma's bread so memorable.  It was moister and sturdier, maybe even coarser, than standard white bread, if my memory is accurate.   She never used recipes.  My mother recently mentioned that she often used potato water.  Perhaps that was the secret.

I wondered if one of my vintage cookbooks might hold the key.  They all had multiple recipes for bread.  "Kruh," in Slovenian.

One recipe in Treasured Slovenian & International Recipes caught my eye.

WHITE BREAD--Beli Kruh.

Beautiful Bread?  That seemed like a good place to start.

Then I remembered.  Beli just means white.  Plain old white bread.

I looked over the recipe.  The ingredients were standard.  White flour and yeast, with a little egg, sugar and shortening.  But the process was complex.  An initial sponge, and then three more risings.  So maybe those Progressive Slovene Women were onto something.  Definitely a recipe to try on a  cooking day when I had plenty of time.

The day came on Week 9, when I decided to make cevapcici.  It was one of those rare Tuesdays when I had nothing scheduled and could devote the whole day to my cooking experiments.

I  did wonder whether a conventional loaf of white bread would be the best choice for this particular dinner.  Cevapcici are traditionally served with flatbread: pita, or a slightly thicker and larger Serbian variant called lepinje.  But I figured the same dough might work for both.

So it was settled.  I would follow the Progressive Slovene Women's recipe for Beli Kruh, which yields 2 loaves.  Or, in this case, one extra-large loaf of the standard variety and one smaller flatbread.

1 package yeast
1 c. lukewarm water
1 c. sifted white flour (I used bread flour)
1 egg, beaten
2 T. sugar

5-6 c. additional white flour, sifted  (I needed just 4 3/4 c.)
1 T. melted butter (original called for lard)
1 c. lukewarm water
2 t. salt

Mix the first five ingredients to make a sponge.  Let rise in a warm place until doubled in size.  Add remaining ingredients, adding up to 6 c. additional flour to make a firm dough. Mix well and knead until smooth.  Put dough in an oiled bowl and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size.  Punch down and let rise for a second time until doubled.  Form into 2 loaves and put in greased bread pans.  Or make one smaller flatbread, about 1/2 inch thick, and place on a baking sheet.  Let loaves rise for the third time.  Bake at 325 degrees for one hour for a standard loaf,  less time for flatbread. Brush with melted butter during baking.  Let cool before eating, if you can resist.

The verdict: Mixed.  Of course, I was measuring my results against a fantasy, so I may not be the best judge.

The yeast was definitely active.  The bread rose, maybe even a little too much.  The texture seemed uneven, with holes here and there.  The flavor was fine.

A confession:   My bread making skills have become a little rusty.  I used to bake bread more often, until I discovered a problem:  If you bake your own,  you eat more than you should.

So I made some mistakes.

The biggest one: we store our flour in the freezer.  It needed more time to reach room temperature.  I compounded the problem by adding too much flour all at once.  I suspected right away that I had overdone it, since I had some difficulty kneading it in.   Even though I ended up using considerably less than the six cups of flour the recipe calls for, it still may have been too much.  Lesson learned.

We had the flatbread with the cevapcici.  It was probably a little too thick, or perhaps the dough rose too much.  No pocket, either.

If you are serious about making flatbread, find a recipe for Bosnian or Serbian lepinje, like this one. The foundation seems to be a plainer yeast dough, without egg or sugar.  A flat round loaf, about 1/2 inch thick, is allowed to rise briefly and then baked at a higher initial temperature, so the bread will form a pocket.

That big, standard loaf of white bread lasted a long time.  I used a few slices the following week, when I made struklji, a boiled rolled dumpling with a bread-and-egg filling.  My husband made bread pudding and croutons. Even though we kept it in the refrigerator, the last bit of the loaf got moldy and had to be discarded.

Maybe my grandmother really had figured out the secret of successful bread making.

Bread is meant to be shared.  You need a big extended family or a whole neighborhood to enjoy the fruits of your labors.

I'll remember that next time.  And maybe I'll add a little potato water.

Slovenian Dinner Week 9: Memories of Cevapcici

Menu
Cevapcici 
Ajvar and Thick Yogurt or Kajmak
Homemade White Bread (Beli Kruh) or Pita (Lepinje)
Braised Kale with Peas


Cevapcici (chuh-VAP-chee-chee) are a wildly popular street food in the Balkans.

It’s a simple dish, in theory. A mixture of ground meats, seasoned and rolled into little sausage shapes, and then grilled.  The dish probably originated in Turkey. The name, according to some sources, means "little kebabs."

These days, you can find cevapcici in many cities in America, if you look in the right neighborhoods.

I first tasted cevapcici in Bosnia, in the spring of  2006.

I was sitting with my husband and my in-laws at an outdoor cafe on the cobbled streets of the Old City of Mostar.  We had just crossed the famous old bridge, Stari Most, built by the Ottomans in the 16th century.  It had been destroyed during the Balkan wars of the 1990s and then rebuilt, to much international fanfare, in 2004.

We had walked over the graceful arch and stopped to watched the young men dive into the river for tips.  We browsed in the open air market.  I hadn't yet been to the Middle East, but that's what it felt like.

That day, for the first time in my life, I heard a muezzin's call.  In the space of ten minutes, I saw a mosque, a Serbian Orthodox church, a Roman Catholic church, and an old Jewish synagogue.  So close together.  And now so far apart.

Our tour guide was a beautiful, articulate young woman.  Mostar used to be a cosmopolitan city, she told us.  Her family, like so many others, included many mixed marriages.  People got along, most of the time.  She was close to tears, as she told us about her lost city.   Restored but now divided.

We were at the midpoint of our first trip to Eastern Europe.  We had started in Vienna, spent two wonderful days in Slovenia, and then moved on to Croatia.  But now,  here in Mostar, I understood the failed Yugoslav experiment in a deeper way.  I had a fuller vision of the Balkans, with all the richness and the sadness.

The details of that first taste of cevapcici are hard to recall.  I was trying to absorb so much, and food was the least of it.  But I think it was like this: Charred, spicy meat. Fresh pita.  Raw onions and the red pepper relish I would later learn to call by its proper name, ajvar. The sweet, cool relief of thickened yogurt.



Now, six years later, I had this crazy thought:  why not make cevapcici myself, as part of my Slovenian cooking project?  I knew the dish was popular in Slovenia, at least these days.  But then I reminded myself: I had to follow my own rules. I would stick to recipes from my 1950s ethnic cookbooks.

I didn't expect to find cevapcici recipes in my vintage cookbook collection.  The American Slovenian community in the 1950s would have been too insular, I figured, to know anything about a Serbian-Bosnian dish.  But I checked my cookbooks to be sure.  To my surprise, I found two recipes for cevapcici.  A little digging turned up a history that goes back to the 1930s, when cevapcici appeared on one of Slovenia's first outdoor food trucks.  The vendor hailed from Serbia.

So now I had a plan for my Week Nine dinner: Cevapcici and Homemade Bread.

There are as many approaches to cevapcici as there are cooks. I began with the simple version offered by the Progressive Slovene Women:  a mix of lamb and pork, seasoned with salt and pepper. Contemporary sources suggested livelier seasonings, along with the addition of baking soda or soda water to lighten the meat mix.  So I modified the original Slovenian recipe, while retaining the suggested meat combination.

The meat mixture, just like the seasonings, can vary. That other Slovenian recipe used veal. In Balkan communities with a predominantly Muslim population, like Bosnia and Kosovo, pork would not usually be included, but beef would be a common addition.  Next time, I thought, ground turkey might be worth a try.  (Instead, for my encore version a month later, I used a beef and lamb combination and increased the spices, along with making smaller, thinner shapes.  The result, I think, was closer to the dish's origins.)

The beauty of this dish is that the cook is free to adjust and experiment.

Here is my first version:

1 pound ground lamb
1/2 pound ground pork
1 t. salt
1 t. black pepper
1/2 t. cayenne
1/2 t. paprika
1 large clove garlic, minced
2 T. sparkling water with lime

Mix all the above ingredients lightly. Refrigerate for a half hour to allow flavors to meld. Form into 12 small sausage shapes, about 3/4" by 3".

Grill until nicely charred.  My husband, who did the honors, used his Le Creuset stove top grill pan, which worked beautifully.

Serve with the traditional sides: Raw chopped onion, a red pepper relish called ajvar (AY-var), thickened yogurt, and flat white bread such as pita.  I tried to make homemade bread.  But that's another story!

Slovenian Dinner Week 8: Mushroom Soup (Gobova Juha)

Menu

Mushroom Soup (Gobova Juha)
French Baguette
Cheese and Salami
Cauliflower and Peas

My husband and I had come back from our trip to the east coast two days earlier, both of us sick with the flu. Could I really cook a Slovenian dinner today?  I barely felt like eating.

In the refrigerator,  I found a covered dish with a small portion of stuffed peppers, the entree from the dinner I'd made two weeks earlier.  My husband must have taken it out of the freezer to defrost before he left for work.  How sweet, I thought.  He knew it was Tuesday, our Slovenian dinner day, but he didn't want me to have to cook.

Maybe I would make something easy and light, as a side dish.  I started browsing soup recipes in my vintage cookbooks and found a few for mushroom soup.  Perfect.  And I knew Slovenians were fond of mushrooms.  My immigrant grandfather used to gather them. I headed to the big produce market around the corner.

At the market, I felt a little overwhelmed by all the exotic mushroom choices.












I do like mushrooms, but I tend to be cautious when I'm doing the cooking.  I usually stick to plain old white button mushrooms.  Some of the recipes even suggested adding dried mushrooms, to boost the flavor.  But I wasn't feeling that adventurous.

I decided to try those nice brown Crimini mushrooms.  A step up, but not too daring.

I was in the middle of making the soup, guided by the Progressive Slovene Women of America, when my husband got home from work.

"Hey, thanks for taking the stuffed peppers out to defrost," I said.  "That was a real help."

He gave me a blank look.  "What stuffed peppers?"

Oops.  Evidently they had been languishing at the back of the refrigerator for the past two weeks.

So I quickly adopted Plan B.  I zipped around the corner to pick up a French baguette from the bakery, while my husband cooked the broccoli I'd bought.  We had cheese and salami on hand to round out the meal.

The soup was nice and light.  But very flavorful, even without the broth my husband had hinted I might want to add.

Those crimini mushrooms had definitely provided a flavor boost.

Maybe next time I'll be even more daring.



Mushroom Soup:

2 medium potatoes, cubed
4 c. water
1/2 large onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, chopped
2 T. parsley, chopped
1 bay leaf
1/2 lb. fresh mushrooms (I used brown crimini)
2 T. olive oil
2 T. flour
1/2 t. marjoram
1 t. salt
pepper to taste
2 T. white wine (or vinegar)
More water, if needed


Cook potatoes in salted water until tender.  Set aside but do not drain. Clean and chop mushrooms, pour boiling water over them, drain, and set aside.  Heat oil, add flour, and brown to make a medium roux. Add garlic, onion, and parsley and brown.  Add mushrooms, cover, and cook for 10 minutes.  Add potatoes and cooking liquid, bay leaf, and seasonings.  Cook for 10 minutes or until done, adding more liquid if needed.  Serve with sour cream or yogurt.

Mardi Gras, Slovenian Style: Blood Sausage, Potica, and Polka

I discovered the Slovenian community in San Francisco almost by accident. It might not have happened at all, if I didn't play the Cajun accordion.

One night in February of 2005, my Cajun band was playing at a little club outside San Francisco. It was Mardi Gras season, so we were dressed up for the occasion, in masks and beads.

Some dancer friends told us about an event called a "Pust" at the Slovenian Hall in San Francisco the following weekend. It was Slovenian Mardi Gras, they'd heard. A festive dinner and a polka band. They suggested my fiddler husband and I might like to join them.

Slovenian Mardi Gras? That was complete news to me. I had noticed the Slovenian Hall, a solid square building with a big "for rent" sign clearly visible from the highway, whenever we drove into San Francisco. But I had no idea it was still in operation. I figured it was one of those abandoned ethnic clubs, now just a banquet hall for hire.

My husband and I agreed to meet our friends there. We were too late to get into the dinner, but they let us in for the polka dance. It was a yearly event, we learned, put on as a fundraiser by the Slovene National Benefit Society (SNPJ), one of those old-style ethnic insurance organizations.

We discovered quite a scene. A couple hundred people had just finished dinner and were waiting for the polka band to start playing in the big room with the stage. Our friends led us into a smaller room off to the side, where some accordionists were jamming. It looked like an old-style European tavern, with paintings of Alpine vistas and rural life on the wall. We ordered a drink and soaked it all in. Once the dance started, I even let my friend talk me into dancing a polka.

(Update: Here's a great video of a more recent Pust accordion jam at the bar.)

So we went back the next year—for the Pust dinner, as well as the dance. By now, I had learned more about the Slovenian-style Mardi Gras. It bore a striking resemblance to Mardi Gras celebrations in Louisiana. Not in New Orleans, with those big parades. But more like the country celebrations of the Cajuns and Creoles in the rural communities of Southwest Louisiana. Traditionally, Cajun Mardi Gras is a male scene. Masked men in costumes, heavily lubricated with alcohol, travel around on horseback or in trucks to the neighboring homes and farms. They sing, dance, play music, raise a ruckus, and beg for contributions to the communal gumbo pot.

In Slovenia, I learned, there are rowdy parades of folks dressed up as wild shaggy creatures called kurenti, who do much the same thing. It's Carnival, the one day in the year when everything is turned on its head and the usual rules don't apply. Just like in Louisiana, there seems to be an unsettling mix of menace and good times. These two rural cultures had much in common.

Kurenti, from Wikipedia 

Here's a video of kurenti on parade in Slovenia, from the Slovenian Ethnographic Museum.
And one more, with whips and accordion music.

Now look at this clip of Cajun Mardi Gras, from a well known Louisiana documentary filmmaker.

They could be cousins!

I showed up for our first Pust dinner with high hopes. Maybe there would be wild revelry. But it didn't happen. Just a big, sit-down banquet dinner. Not even a slice of potica. And then a polka band. I wasn't even sure most of the people there were Slovenian.

But it takes time to explore a new community. We went back a few years later, for a wine festival, and discovered the cultural heart of the Slovenian Hall: The Educational and Dramatic Club Slovenia, who had organized the event. There were songs and priestly blessings, all in Slovenian. We met some delightful people, including many born in Slovenia. I was hooked.

We soon became regulars at the Slovenian Hall. And we attended many more events. We helped out in the kitchen. At one event, I was a server in the buffet line and learned a shocking truth: some Slovenians dislike sauerkraut!

As I started to notice the food at these events, I reached a few other conclusions: Festive meals were very heavy on meat, especially pork. Pork roast,  barbecued ribs,  Slovenian sausages, and sometimes chicken appeared often. Potatoes, cabbage, and sauerkraut were the usual side dishes. There was always a green salad, in a tart vinaigrette dressing. And there was always plenty of alcohol: Wine and mixed drinks for sale at the bar. Carafes of red and white wine at the long banquet tables.

Another shock: Dessert didn't always mean potica. Unless, of course, it was a potluck, when there would always be the chance to sample and compare different versions. Eventually, I found enough  courage to bring my own potica to a potluck, and was greatly relieved when it passed muster.

This year's Pust Dinner included roast pork loin, beans, tasty fried potatoes, and sauerkraut, served family style at long buffet tables. But the centerpiece came a little later in the meal.

Blood sausage is a traditional dish at Pust. A small group of people at the Slovenian Hall get together every year to prepare it. At a recent event, an older man who heads up the operation told us that the tradition might be ending this year,  because they couldn't find younger people to continue it. He tried to recruit my husband, who had to decline because the big sausage-making operation happens during the work week.

Blood sausage, I have to admit, holds little appeal for me. When it is offered, I will dutifully sample a piece. It is dark, starchy, and slightly sweet. f you look at recipes, you will discover why.  

Here's the ingredient list for Krvave Klobase from the Progressive Slovene Women of America:

1 medium pork head

1 veal lung

4 T. salt

1 1/2 T pepper

1 t. cinnamon

2 T. marjoram

1/2 t. cloves

2 lbs. parboiled rice

1 quart pork blood

The best part of this year's Pust dinner came at the end. It was potica, with a particularly intriguing filling I had never tasted before. It included nuts, but the flavor and texture seemed different. It had a strong taste of lemon.

Later on, I met the young woman from Fontana whose family had catered the event. She seemed pleased when I complimented her on the potica. She recited a long list of ingredients, which included lemon and vanilla. So I had guessed right. Not quite like the traditional version of potica my family makes, but tasty just the same.

Žganci: Mysteries of Buckwheat

Žganci is one of a handful of quintessentially Slovenian dishes.  There is an entire page devoted to it on a government website:  Žganci, Always and Forever. 

But it's hard to classify.

The Progessive Slovene Women of America call it buckwheat mush (ajdovi žganci) and include it in the "Bread-Biscuits-Mush" section of Treasured Slovenian and International Recipes.  The American Slovene Club, in Our Favorite Recipes, classifies it as a potato substitute, and refer to it as buckwheat crumbles.  Woman's Glory puts it in the catch-all "Varieties" category.

The recipes left me feeling even more confused.  The ingredients were simple, just buckwheat flour and salt water, in a 1:2 ratio. My three vintage cookbooks, as well as the many recipes on the web, all offered virtually identical (and peculiar) instructions.

To make žganci, you boil the salted water and then add the buckwheat flour. Some say you add it gradually, while you slowly stir.  Others suggest you just dump it in all it once.  But they all agree on one key point:  Once the flour is added, you stop stirring.  The Progressive Slovene women shout it out: DO NOT MIX.

You let the mix boil while the flour magically turns into a giant lump.  Then you make a hole in the center of the cake of flour with the handle of a wooden spoon so the water can cook it from the inside.  The water should bubble up over the lump.  Then you cover the pan and let it cook for 15 minutes (or maybe 45?)   Finally, you pour off half the water and stir in the rest.   Pour melted butter on top.  Cover and let sit.

Most sources suggest that you pick up spoonfuls of the big buckwheat cake  and use a fork to flake off crumbles, which should be "piled fluffily"  into a bowl.

I made a small recipe: 


2 c. water 
pinch of salt
1 c. buckwheat flour


I brought the salted water to a brisk boil and slowly poured in the flour.  Then I watched and waited.  To my great surprise, the flour did start to cohere into a large brown lump: 

Boiling Buckwheat Flour

After about 5 minutes, I nudged the lump with a spoon.  It seemed fairly solid.  So I poked a hole in the center of the mass with the handle of a wooden spoon.  Now it looked like this: 

Buckwheat Volcano

As I continued to watch, I began to worry.  There wasn't enough water to cover the top of the lump.  So I added more water.  Oh-oh.  Now it stopped boiling.  I started to worry that the lump was beginning to dissolve.  What if I was left with a pot of boiling mush?

The lump still felt firm.  I gently stuck in a knife, to see if the inside was cooked.  To my horror, I discovered that the firm exterior encased a ball of raw, uncooked flour!

At that point, I panicked.  Something had gone terribly wrong.  I figured the only way to salvage this mess was to turn it into a polenta. I took a fork and beat it into submission.

To my amazement, the brown soup and the raw flour mass was easily transformed into a nice, smooth polenta!

I poured it into a dish, which my husband had greased with olive oil.  I stuck it into the oven to firm up.  topped it off with two nice thick slices of bacon, cooked to a crisp in the microwave.  It looked like this:

The Final Version: Žganci with Bacon

The verdict:  Delicious!  A dark, tangy polenta that provided a fine accompaniment to the chicken ajmoht in my third week dinner.   An added plus:  Buckwheat is high protein and gluten-free!


And when I checked back, I discovered that I had done exactly what the Progressive Slovene Women had intended.  None of those little crumbles for them.  The goal was just a nice smooth mush.
Evidently,  I had simply made a regional variation, in what's called the softer Styrian style.

As they say on that government website: "Any day is right for žganci!  You know, to keep you strong."