Upgrade: White Macaroni Hotdish

Hotdish is one of the iconic dishes of the Upper Midwest, particularly associated with Minnesota. Church cookbooks are full of them, and many families have their own house recipes. My family has two, both macaroni-based styles, which we refer to as "red" and "white." This also gives you a convenient wine pairing. The red kind uses tomato soup, and comes from my maternal grandmother. The white kind, which was one of my earliest posts, comes from my paternal grandparents. Although we lost all three of them in the last few years, their legacy lives on through traditions like these. Today, I'm revisiting the white hotdish to how I make it now, a better version than could muster at the tender age of 23. To this day, it is still one of my top comfort foods, and I'll be making it for years to come.

There is a lot of variation in what can go in a hotdish. In Molly on the Range, Molly Yeh gives a four-part breakdown of creamed soup, vegetables, meat, and starch. Yet, with the exception of starch (I think), all of these are negotiable. Her own tater tot hotdish eschews the soup for a homemade mix of milk and stock, while my family's red hotdish uses tomato soup. I've even winged it with just canned tomatoes. My original recipe for this hotdish had no vegetables (just mushrooms), though I now include onions. You could easily replace the meat with more mushrooms to make a vegetarian version. Starches vary greatly, and can include pasta, rice, wild rice, potatoes, or even crushed crackers. The starch component is what holds the dish together and turns a soupy mess into a hotdish. Thinking about this basic formula, shepherd's pie might be the proto-hotdish. The Jewish noodle kugel, Italian lasagna, and Greek pastitsio are certainly cousins, at the very least.

The biggest difference between this version and my original is the scale. This recipe is designed to use a full one-pound box of macaroni, which I wouldn't have done back when I lived alone. With two of us, I like making it bigger so we can have leftovers for a few days of quick lunches. Although I've scaled up the overall size, I've left the amount of meat at one pound of mixed beef and pork, which corrects the overly meaty balance. Adding onions and more mushrooms gives the whole thing a little more variation. For the topping, I use a mixture of grated Swiss and Parmesan and some breadcrumbs for a little crunch. The Swiss is just a basic supermarket block, as the subtlety of gruyère is kind of lost on this dish. That said, I still prefer real Italian Parmigiano-Reggiano for this, which will give you a little nuttiness. Cooking at a high temperature for 45 minutes leads to a soft interior and crisp crust.

Let's talk about the soup. I had actually meant to get this post out several weeks ago, but messed up the recipe by not using enough soup. This hotdish should be creamy and gooey, and the macaroni should be well-coated before baking. I found a giant 26 oz. can, which is about what you need to adequately coat the full pound of pasta here. A regular-sized can then forms the base for the topping, making for a total of 36.5 oz. of soup. I'm not sure the full can was needed at the end, but it doesn't hurt and I wasn't going to save a half can of soup. If you only have three regular cans instead, the total amount will be 31.5 oz. This leaves about a half can for the topping, which should work fine.

Fish Fillets with Corn Sauce (粟米斑塊)

I've been meaning to write this post since I started No Free Lunch. Fish fillets with corn sauce was one of my childhood favorites, which my dad made somewhat frequently. We just called it "corn fish." It was often one of the meals we had when I came home from college. He apparently discovered the dish in his own childhood in a restaurant in Hong Kong, where he shared a plate with my uncle. While it is not an iconic dish in the pantheon of Chinese cuisine, it certainly is to me. I found a few references to the dish, with the most common Chinese name being sumi bankuai, which I think means "corn grouper fillets." This hints at the fish originally used, so I think any firm, white, ocean-going fish would be appropriate. 

Creamed (or cream-style) corn is an interesting ingredient, though not an uncommon one. Despite the name, it does not contain cream, and the creaminess is all from the corn itself. While we Americans love it, corn is not a popular ingredient in Chinese cuisine. I think it's telling that this is a distinctively Hong Kong dish, which has had a long history of western influence. For the fish, you could use any white fish, but I usually use cod. This is probably the most accessible fish of the type we're looking for, and I had some individually packaged frozen fillets. As with most of my Chinese dishes, I used my homemade Chinese shrimp stock. Any kind of chicken or seafood stock would be also be fine here.

The way Dad always made this was a little different from what I did here. The fish were much larger pieces and battered similar to the fish and chips style. I decided to go the more traditionally Chinese route with a simple marinade and corn starch dredging. This is based on what I did for fish slices with tomato sauce, a similar Cantonese fried fish dish from Pei-Mei's Chinese Cook Book. I like the smaller pieces, as its easier to eat with chopsticks, but the battered version is extra crunchy. You won't go wrong either way.

Steamed Pork Cake (蒸肉餅)

This Cantonese steamed pork cake might be the least photogenic food I've ever made. Despite its humble appearance, though, it's packed with flavor and easy to make. As you might have guessed, this is true home style food. I have some vague memories of my grandparents making something similar, but it was so long ago that I'm not quite sure. The basic concept is a giant pork burger that is something of a blank canvas. This recipe mixes in ham, mushrooms, and water chestnuts. The Woks of Life has done versions with preserved vegetables and salted fish. I think Chinese sausage, sauerkraut, or even shrimp would work, too. Being cooked entirely by steaming, there is no browning and this dish relies on its ingredients for flavor. We get some umami bursts from the mushrooms and a little crunch from the water chestnuts.

This recipe is adapted from the Joyce Chen Cook Book, which is a very interesting piece of culinary history. Published in 1962, it predates even Pei-Mei's books. Chen understood very well that American cooks would have difficulty finding certain ingredients, and builds substitutions into the recipes. For example, she doesn't even bother with Shaoxing wine and goes straight to the sherry substitution. If you can get good Shaoxing wine, go with that, but if not, amontillado is my preferred alternative. It's also a bit odd in that everything is measured by volume, even the pork. I've converted some of the measurements to weight where it makes sense to do so. 

The most notable ingredient here is the ham. Chen discusses this issue at length, saying that getting Chinese ham in the United States is nearly impossible. That is as true now as it was in 1962, especially in South Dakota. It might be possible to get good ham in a Chinatown somewhere, but I'm not sure. Chinese hams are dry cured, so some other similarly-produced ham is the best substitute. Chen recommends Smithfield ham, a dry cured ham from Smithfield, Virginia. The most accessible alternative might be prosciutto. I used regular supermarket ham, which didn't really add much to the dish other than some texture. As with many dishes, Chen also uses MSG here, which I didn't have. I compensated by increasing the soy sauce and mushroom a bit. 

Joyce Chen had a huge role in spreading appreciation for Chinese food in the United States. Her influence was especially felt in Boston, where she ran several restaurants and had a short-lived cooking show with WGBH. Her rebranding of potstickers as "Peking ravioli" is particularly funny to me. Her recipe for Peking ravioli is pretty standard and quite similar to mine. However, it seems that Peking ravioli evolved in Boston Chinese restaurants into their own thing. Ariel says the dumplings she grew up eating are not quite what we make at home, but couldn't quite pin down the difference. When she took her first bite of this pork cake, she exclaimed that it tasted just like Peking ravioli. Next time we find ourselves in Boston, I'll be doing some research, by which I mean eating dumplings!

Sweet and Sour Spareribs (糖醋排骨)

Sweet and sour spareribs are the first recipe I've done from the "Eastern China" section of Pei-Mei's first volume. This region includes Shanghai and the surrounding provinces of Zhejiang, Jiangsu, and Anhui. Although this is the region of China I've personally spent the most time in, I didn't delve into the local specialties as much as I should have. When I started researching this post, I quickly discovered sweet and sour spareribs are a famous Shanghai-style dish. The name tangcu paigu literally translates to "sugar-vinegar spareribs," which definitely describes it well. While the recipe looks simple, the deep frying does turn it into a bit of a process. The end result is everything I want from a sweet and sour dish: crisp, tender meat in sticky but complex sauce. Serve with rice and let the sauce soak right in and don't be afraid to get in there and clean off the bones. 

Back in 2015, I made Pei-Mei's Cantonese-style sweet and sour pork. Despite the similarity in names, the two dishes couldn't be more different. Although both dishes use the double frying technique (also commonly done with french fries to get maximum crispiness), the Cantonese pork is dredged in a corn starch coating, whereas these ribs are not. They get a nice brown crust similar to what you would see on fried Buffalo wings. The sauce made for the ribs is dark brown from the combination of soy sauce and black vinegar. The Cantonese version has a reddish sauce based on ketchup and white rice vinegar. Both are great dishes, but this one really shows sweet and sour dishes go far beyond the box we often put them in. 

The ribs are the central ingredient. I don't often see spare ribs cut across the bone like this, so I always snap them up when I can. We got these at Costco a few months ago and froze them. The sauce has the usual suspects of soy sauce, Shaoxing wine, and black vinegar. Since this was a quick marinade and sauce, I went with all light soy sauce, but putting in a bit of dark in the mix wouldn't be unwelcome. While the end result was excellent, it was a little on the sweeter side of what I look for in a sweet and sour sauce. As such, I've noted in the ingredient list that the amount of vinegar can be increased to taste. My recipe is a rough doubling of the original, with some adjustments made.

I've been reading a lot Pei-Mei recipes recently, and she deep fries a lot of food. As I've mentioned before, I find deep frying a hassle and don't do it often. However, the crispy-fried meat is, to me, a cornerstone of sweet and sour dishes. It's also an interesting novelty to deep fry spare ribs, a cut that's usually braised or smoked in western cuisine. My research also confirmed this is the traditional approach for this dish. You could probably get away with stir frying, baking, or broiling, all at very high heat, but you won't get the same evenly browned, crispy ribs.

Spring Rolls (春捲)

While most of my interpretations of Pei-Mei dishes are quite obscure from an American point of view, spring rolls are one of the most iconic Chinese dishes. In addition to being a classic dim sum item, they are also popular in other parts of Asia, such as Thailand and the Philippines. Fillings vary greatly. Pei-Mei's version has a mix of pork, cabbage, and shrimp which would also be great on chow mein (omit about half the corn starch). The Chinese name chunjuan does translate directly as spring (the season) roll. These spring rolls are tasty and crispy, and a good traditional example of the dish.

Let's dig into some specifics of the recipe. Pei-Mei recommends using "lean pork" and cutting into strings. I honestly misread the recipe and used ground pork, which was perfectly fine. For the vegetables, the recipe just says "cabbage" on the English side. On the Chinese side, baicai can be either what we call napa cabbage or bok choy. Napa is what we had, and I think it's probably the better choice, since its a bit thinner. Like a lot of Pei-Mei's recipes, this one involves soup stock. This is made relatively easily by simmering chicken and/or seafood with a little green onion and ginger. I make mine with shrimp shells I save every time we eat shrimp. Western-style stocks usually involve onion, carrot, and celery and will have a different flavor, but should work in a pinch.

For the skins, we found frozen ones at a Chinese store and defrosted in the refrigerator the day before. Pei-Mei says the recipe makes 20 spring rolls, we only got 14 out of it. I think we could have stretched that to 15, but definitely not 20. Pei-Mei is fairly vague about the rolling procedure, but it read to me as rolling straight-on, whereas most recipes I've seen online roll diagonally (Woks of Life, for example). In retrospect, I would do the diagonal fold next time, as the way we did it, you get twice as much wrapping on the ends as in the middle. They still fried up perfectly fine, though, so it's rather forgiving. Overall, they turned out well, but were a little too salty for my taste. As such, I've marked the added salt in the sauce as optional. 

Farmer's Cheese and Blintzes

Last month, as part of The Great Big Jewish Food Fest, Liz Alpern and Jeffrey Yoskowitz hosted a live session on making various Ashkenazi pantry staples. Alpern and Yoskowitz are the founders of The Gefilteria and authors of The Gefilte Manifesto. Their mission is to keep Ashkenazi food traditions alive for the modern world. Many Ashkenazi food traditions were born out of necessity, lacking resources in the shtetlekh of central Europe. The session included pickles, schmaltz, and farmer's cheese. In the Midwest in the modern day, many of these staples are hard to find in stores, so we've turned to making them ourselves. 

I've been making schmaltz for several years now. Every time we buy skin-on chicken thighs or leg quarters, I trim off excess skin around the edges and save it in the freezer. These can easily be defrosted later for rendering. I had not, however, made farmer's cheese. This was a childhood favorite of Ariel's, and the live session inspired us to try it out. Farmer's cheese is a fresh cheese, similar to Indian paneer, but loose instead of pressed into a block. It turns out to be incredibly easy, with only two ingredients: milk and vinegar, plus some cheesecloth. We also saved the whey and have been using it in bread making. 

We then put the farmer's cheese to use as a filling for blintzes, essentially rolled up crepes. I've had the frozen ones many times (usually Trader Joe's), but there is really no comparison to making them fresh. Blintzes are usually served with sour cream and some kind of fruit. This turned out to be a perfect application for rhubarb sauce. We followed the recipes given in The Gefilte Manifesto for both the cheese and the blintzes. I will show the process, with pictures, but instead of giving the full recipe, I'll just encourage you to buy the book instead. It's great for both Jewish culinary veterans and amateurs like me.

Rhubarb Sauce

Last year, we got a lot of rhubarb from our farm share. Until then, I had never cooked with it. I had, however, enjoyed rhubarb sauce since I was very young. I don't know if it's a particularly Midwestern dish, but my family had it often while Ariel was unfamiliar with it. It's a lovely comfort food that really takes me back. I usually use it as a topping for vanilla ice cream. Rhubarb is a very tart ingredient, which pairs well with the sweetness and creaminess of ice cream. Superficially, rhubarb resembles a reddish celery, but behaves very differently when cooked, disintegrating into strings. 

Rhubarb freezes well. Cut into one-inch chunks before freezing. Frozen rhubarb can go right into this recipe, which is what I did here. I looked at many other recipes in researching mine, and the main variation is how much sugar goes in. This could change depending on personal taste and the intended use for the sauce. I went a little on the sweeter side here. This recipe is a good base, on top of which other flavorings can be added. Some suggestions I have seen include vanilla and citrus zest.

Beijing-Style Smoked Chicken (燻雞)

Pei-Mei's Chinese Cookbook is a source of endless fascination for me. The three-volume set has been my main reference for Chinese food for the last six years. With hundreds of recipes from all over China, the breadth is not lacking. Sometimes, however, the depth does. As I've mentioned before, every recipe is exactly one page long, shown on facing pages in Chinese and English. Inevitably, this means quite a few recipes are pretty low on detail. Sometimes the instructions don't make sense, which is probably a combination of translation and a general vagueness you see in 1960s recipes of all origins. 

Most of the time, Pei-Mei hasn't steered me wrong, although I do often make adjustments to modernize the recipes or make them more accessible. This time, I tackled her Beijing-style smoked chicken. I had not, until attempting this, ever smoked food before, so I didn't really have a baseline for what to expect. Although the final product was pretty good, I floundered around a bit with the instructions as the heat  levels and cooking times Pei-Mei suggests were way off. As such, I'll provide more commentary than usual in the instructions section. I plan to do an update post next time I try the dish.

Despite the confusing instructions and some of my own mistakes, the chicken came out well. It was almost startling how much smoky flavor made its way into the meat, which was also still quite juicy. I served with rice and stir-fried broccoli and garlic.