I know that you can buy roasted peppers just about anywhere nowadays, but they just don’t taste as good as the ones I make myself. I’m not sure why that is, except possibly their freshness—I just know that the flavor is totally different and that with a grill pan it is so easy to do there’s no reason not to.
You can keep them for a week in the refrigerator. I don’t add any olive oil because I find it alters the natural, subtlety of the peppers and that’s what I like best.
They are perfect for adding a burst of flavor to sandwiches such as smoked
I use green and red peppers, because I find they peel better then the multi-colored ones.
• Place the grill pan in the oven, about 2/3 of the way up
• Pre-heat the pan under the broiler for about 10 minutes or until it is very hot
• Place the peppers on the pan under the broiler
• When the skins start to burn, turn the peppers making certain the skins are well charred
• Once the outside of the peppers are completely burned place them in a brown paper bag or in a covered plastic container
• Close the bag or container tightly to let the peppers steam and cool off
• Once they are cool you should be able to easily peel the all the skins off
• Use immediately, or store them in a closed container in the refrigerator for up to a week
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I was with my mother in her room at her new abode.
As I sat facing her, I began to read last week’s post, Cooking through a Child’s Eyes, about the time we baked a marble cake together. I wondered if she remembered the event that. . .
The first time I saw magic happen in the kitchen I was six years old and wanted to help my mother cook. I’d follow her every step and move, clinging like her shadow, struggling to see what she was doing. Inevitably, she’d turn around and trip over me. It wasn’t optimum for either of us, so when she told me we were going to bake a special cake and I could help … “there is a surprise at the end,” she promised…
I beamed with joy…
Cooking is full of mystifying moments that are…
The last time I took a train that had a dining car was right after I graduated from high school.
Walking into the dining car, I was flooded with memories of childhood trips. It looked exactly as I remembered: the tables were set with clean white tablecloths, cloth napkins, china, silverware, and gleaming glasses—just like in an old movie.
I was excited and hungry for French food. My first taste was . . .