A Sigh of Relief

Like many newlyweds entertaining their inlaws for the holidays, I was feeling a bit anxious about hosting Thanksgiving dinner. And though my nerves could have related to the turkey and the trimmings (otherwise known as Things I've Never Made), my jitters had nothing to do with my lack of knowledge.

I was worried because we'd decided to swap pork for turkey, tortillas for rolls and ceviche, chips and salsa and rice for the traditional sides. I think you can see where we headed, south of the border to Mexico.

We came up with the idea to throw a Mexican Thanksgiving years ago, when Jake and I discovered that neither of us was particularly fond of Thanksgiving food. Sure, I like cranberry sauce and my Grandma's famous carrot pudding (which is a recipe for another time), and Jake can be talked into eating a dozen buttery rolls or so. But we both disliked the star of the spread, that dull old bird, and the parade of pies that typically follows the main course. So, we decided that when we were old and settled enough to play holiday host, we would start our own tradition surrounding Jake's favorite food group: Mexican food.

This year seemed like the right time to introduce our alternative Thanksgiving but as we inched closer and closer to the date, I decided we were doomed to dissapoint. I figured the traditionalists were already mourning the death of T-Day and scheming up ways to politely decline our invitation in the name of pumpkin pie. I was also sure that the people who did come would merely pick at the food we served - you know, doing that thing were you push the food around on the plate to make it look like you ate something - then quickly flee home to devour a perfectly roasted turkey and platters of stuffing like volutres.

I can now breath a sigh of relief; none of these things happened because my inlaws were adventerous and gracious guests, and because we served a main course that's hard not to like: pork mole.

Though I'm sure you've heard otherwise about making mole from scratch, our low maintance version is just a touch more difficult than making pot roast. In fact, it's a lot like making pot roast. You simply throw a hunk of meat on the stove to stew and bubble away in a spice and chile-spiked broth until the meat pulls apart with the twin tines of two forks. Then, you bake the meat a bit to crisp up its edges and boil the brick red sauce down until it is smooth and earthy tasting. This all gets tossed together and folded in tortillas, preferrably the homemade, barely blistered, still-warm-from-the-stove sort.

Before you read the recipe and point out the obvious, yes, our so-called mole lacks a key component, chocolate. That's not us trying to buck another tradition. It's just that the recipe we fell in love with didn't call for chocolate. This probably means that this dish is something else masquarading as a mole but we're ok with that. This so-called mole was the star of our new tradition this year and, in our eyes, so much better than turkey.

Pork Mole

I'm fortunate enough to work from home so I can keep an eye on the pork while it cooks in the afternoon. For those of you chained to your cubicles somewhere other than home, I imagine you could make this in a slow cooker. Or, save it for a rainy Sunday when the smell alone will keep you hovering in the kitchen in anticipation all afternoon.

Serves 6

1 medium white or red onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, peeled

1 ripe tomato, chopped

1 28-ounce can crushed tomatos

1 cup chicken broth

2 tablespoons brown sugar

3 tablespoons distilled white vinegar

1 tablespoon chopped canned chipotle chiles in adobo sauce

1 dried ancho or pasilla chile, stemmed, seeded, deveined, torn in pieces

½ teaspoon ground coriander

¼ teaspoon ground cloves

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 boneless pork butt roast (about 3 pounds), trimmed of visible fat

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Cilantro sprigs for garnish

Combine the onion, garlic, tomato, crushed tomatos, broth, brown sugar vinegar, chipotle, dried chile, coriander, cloves and cinnamon in a large, heavy-bottomed soup pot with a tight-fitting lid. Put the pork in the pot, half submerged in the liquid.

Place the pot over medium-high heat and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer gently until the meat is tender when pierced with a fork, 3 to 3 ½ hours. Stir the sauce and turn the meat occasionally while it is cooking.

Adjust the oven rack to the center position and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Carefully transfer the meat in one piece to a roasting pan, leaving the sauce in the pan. Bake the meat until it is well browned, about 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, skim and discard the fat from the reserved sauce. Boil the sauce over high heat until it is reduced to 2½ cups, 10 to 20 minutes. Puree the sauce in a blender or food processor until it is smooth; return it to the pot and keep warm. The sauce should have a thick consistency. If it is thin and watery, continue to reduce it over medium-high heat. Season the sauce with salt and pepper to taste.

Remove the pork from the oven. Using 2 forks, tear the meat into large chunks. Place the pork in a serving bowl and ladle the sauce over it. Garnish with cilantro sprigs. Serve with warmed tortillas, beans, and Mexican rice.

Time for a change

I know, I have not been very good at sticking to my goal, that promise I made to cook well for one. And there's a good reason for that, one that I've just discovered. But first, in my defenense, I must tell you, I'm usually obsessed with sticking to my guns when it comes to my goals. I say this because I don't want you thinking I'm some promise-breaking, flaky, willy-nilly writer, the kind that drags readers along for the ride, tossing them words (or in my case, recipes) of hope here and there, but ultimately never delivering what they've promised to do. 

The evidence: back in high school, I made New Years resolutions in January, then followed those with a trio of daily goals to help me chart the right course (I know, the old me makes the new me naseaus). I've made goals to run two half marathons, and finished them both. And, I once gave up cheese for a month...ok, I only made it halfway on this goal but who can resist good cheese?

So you see, I've stuck with many things. But this pledge I made to cook more creative solo meals doesn't get me excited anymore. And if I'm really being honest, it never did. I started it because I thought a blog needed a gimmick or a niche when really I hate things that fit into tidy little categories. Rather, what I've really wanted to write about all along is good food.

Limiting myself to one niche meant I didn't tell you about the nubbly chocolate cookies I baked to mail to my East Coast cousin or the heavenly lemon buckle my husband would eat daily if I made it. I didn't get to share my discovery of how easy it is to make hard boiled eggs or why those eggs belong in a shockingly good egg-caper-parsley sauce that Jake and I spooned over fish.

But the final straw was this. Withought broadening this site, you wouldn't have heard a whisper about the pizza throwdown we hosted last week. The idea was simple: gather a group of our new friends, have them bring a ball of their best pizza dough and toppings that would wow, then crack open some bottles of wine and get to baking without setting the house on fire.

Four pies, six bottles of wine, many laughs and some dozen false fire alarms later, I put the pizzas to an informal vote in my mind and decided the one that stole the show was John and Louisa's prune pie. Yes prune pie. It sounds a bit old-ladyish but it tastes anything but. It is elegant and incredibly refined, helped along by caramelized onions, bits of bacons and a snowy white drizzle of creme fraiche.

So now you know. Prunes and pizza belong together. This is something you wouldn't have known if I'd skipped the pizza throwdown story and told you about the quinoa salad I had for lunch (yes, again). So, I imagine you'll agree that it's time to switch things up. What you're going to see from here on out is a lot more baking, a smattering of solo meals, and a whole lot of dishes that are meant to be shared.

Winning Prune Pie
We never held a formal vote but I believe this is the pie that trumped the rest - my apologies to the other competitors, whose pizzas were all very good. If you think friends or family will feel skittish about prunes, just take a page from the prune marketing board and renaim this dried plum pizza. It sounds much more inviting, doesn't it?

2 tablespoons butter
1 large Spanish onion
2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves
2 bay leaves
Kosher salt
4 thick slices bacon, cut into 1/4-inch thick batons
1 ball pizza dough
Flour, for dusting surface
12 prunes, sliced in half lengthwise
3/4 cup crumbled blue cheese
Creme friache, to drizzle

1. Preheat the oven and pizza stone to 500 degrees.

2. Melt the butter in a large saute pan over high heat. Add the onions, thyme and bay leaf. Cook for 5 minutes, stiring often, until the onions begin to wilt. Reduce the heat to medium low and cook, stiring occasionally, until the onions have softened and turned a deep, golden brown, about 25 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Remove the bay leaves and transfer onions to a small bowl.

3. Place the bacon in the pan and set over high heat. Cook, stiring occasionally, until brown and crispy. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a small bowl.

4. Place the pizza dough on a heavily floured surface and stretch and pull, using your hands or a rolling pin, into about a 14-inch round. Place on a lightly floured pizza peal or rimless baking sheet. Cover with the toppings, being careful not to press on the dough and weigh it down. Lay the caramalized onions down first, then the prunes and the bacon and finally the cheese, leaving a roughly 1/2-inch border.

5. Shake the pizza peel slightly to make sure the dough is not sticking. Carefully slide the pizza onto the baking stone in one quick, forward-and-back motion.

6. Cook until the crust has browned on the bottom and the top is bubbling and browning in spots, about 7 minutes.

7. Remove the pizza from the oven and drizzle with creme fraiche. Serve.

-Adapted from the New York Times

Sunshine On a Cloudy Day

Among the many things I've learned this week - including the shocking revalations that I love Los Angeles and this gluttinous sandwich - I discovered I would walk a mile for olive oil cake.

In fact, I walked multiple miles to try Mozza's rosemary olive oil loaf cake last week. And after a long bus ride and walk (and a pit stop my sister will tell you about if you're trustworthy), that little loaf of cake tasted pretty good. But if I'm being honest, it wasn't the cake of my dreams.

That title is reserved for the sunshine-y version I'd made weeks before and declared my new winer cure-all. That cake was delicate and wonderfully moist, with a lingering sweetness and all the warmth of the sunny California coast. Flecked with vanilla beans and brigthened by orange zest, the golden round disappeared quickly as both myself than my husband snitched slivers to get us through the rainy days.

Coming from a girl who previously regarded basic cakes as boring, updating one with olive oil was a revelation. Swapping olive oil for the neutral flavored cooking oil deepened the flavor of an otherwise typical cake and delivered a subtle fruitiness and a spongy texture that left me pining for more. I devoured that first small square of cake alongside a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream; then, not able to contain my craving for more, I stole a bite from my husband's plate and sighed in satisfaction.

I know, I'm cheating again because this isn't really a solo dining recipe. It could sort of fit the bill if you baked it in little loafs a la Mozza to squirrel away in the freezer and warm up whenever you need a pick me up. But I'd advise going big and inviting some friends over to celebrate it. It's just that kind of cake.

Vanilla-Olive Oil Cake
Do not omit the vanilla bean from this cake on account you think it's expensive. I bought my bean from the bulk section for 8 cents, and the recipe - from the wonderful Jess Thomson - wouldn't have been the same without it. If you want to portion this out into single servings, try dividing the batter between those adorable miniature loaf pans or even a muffin tin if that's what you have on hand.

Makes 1 8" cake

Vegetable or olive oil spray
1 cup low fat milk
1 (3-inch) piece vanilla bean, split lengthwise and seeded
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil (like Trader Joe's Spanish Olive Oil)
Zest from one orange

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and position a rack in the middle of the oven. Grease an 8” cake pan with the oil spray (or line it with parchment paper), and set aside.

In a small saucepan, bring the milk and the seeds from the vanilla bean to a bare simmer. Remove from heat and set aside to steep.

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt together to blend. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar until well blended. Add the warm milk to the egg mixture in a slow, steady stream, whisking until combined. Fold in the flour mixture with a rubber spatula until just incorporated. Add the olive oil and the orange zest, and mix until just blended.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 25 to 35 minutes, or until the cake is golden and just beginning to brown at the edges. Let cool 10 minutes in the pan, then transfer the cake to a cooling rack or platter (depending on if you plan to serve it warm or at room temperature.)
-

Adapted (just a wee bit) from Jess Thomson of Hogwash

Crazy for Kale

For as good as I am (or like to think I am) at multitasking, handling two or three tasks in the kitchen at once leaves me feeling frantic. I've never been someone who can simmer a sauce, roast a chicken, boil some pasta and toss a salad all at once; such efforts usually lead to a catastrophe that, while minor, certainly doesn't taste great on my plate.

In the very least I need a sous chef. But with one sous chef away at work and the other having flown south to LA for the winter and beyond, I'm left to tinker at the stove on my own. That position often leaves me making one pot meals like risottos and soups. But I've tired of those options of late and so, this week decided it was time for me to tackle the multi-component, multiple pan meal on my own. 

The thing that got me to take the leap was kale.

I've been eating kale's close cousin, chard, nearly daily, serving it sauteed on the side of my failed lamb experiment and, yes, with an egg. But I haven't picked up kale since my mom grew a patch for me in her garden back when I was an anemic high school-age runner desperately in need of some iron-rich meals.

Mention of a flash-cooked kale in Bon Appetit last month got kale back on my grocery list. The prep for the dish couldn't have been easier. I just needed to wash and roughly chop the kale, throw it in a hot pan with a bit of olive oil and a pat of butter, and let each piece wilt slightly before adding a squeeze of lemon juice and a pinch of salt on top. 

This may sound like another one pan recipe but the story is not quite over because the things I wanted to eat with that kale required more steps, more pans and a carefully timed dance about the kitchen as I multitasked my way from the stove to the table.

I wanted fresh linguine, cooked in a big pot of salted water until it was al dente. There needed to be little nubs of spicy Italian sausage, browned in a swirl of olive oil, slippery red onions for color, but also texture, and then the kale, crunchy-soft and lemony strewn through the noodles.

Somehow the vision of this impromptu dish propelled me to time everything just right, or as close to right as I've come yet. In my harried state, I forgot to toss the onions in with the pasta. No matter, they made a fine garnish and I can always give the dish another chance.

Pasta with Kale
You know, better than I, how much pasta and meat you like to eat for dinner. So tinker with the amounts here until you nail just the right portion to satisfy you if you like. Do not however trim back the amount of kale you use. It is the star of the dish and if your pasta looks more green than brown, trust me, you won't mind a bit. 

1/4 red onion, diced 
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1/4 pound spicy Italian sausage (pork or chicken)
1/4 pound fresh linguine
1/3 bunch of lacinato kale, washed, ribs removed and cut crosswise into 1/2-inch slices
1/2 lemon
Parmesan cheese, for garnish if desired

In a saute pan, cook the onion in 1 tablespoon olive oil until its bite fades and the pieces soften, about 5 minutes. Set aside in a small bowl.

Meanwhile, bring a pan of salted water to boil. Then add another tablespoon of olive oil to the saute pan. Once it is warm, begin cooking the sausage over medium heat.

When the sausage is nearly done, slide the pasta in the pot of boiling water and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the noodles are al dente.

Meanwhile, slip a pat of butter and the remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a heavy saute pan. Once the butter has melted, place the kale in the pan. Toss the kale with tongs so every piece touches the hot surface of the pan. Continue cooking and tossing the pieces for a minute or so more, until they are just wilted, then turn off the heat and dress them with a squeeze of lemon juice.

Drain the pasta, leaving a bit of the cooking water in the pan (approximately a few tablespoons or so). Toss the sausage, onions and 1/2 the kale in with the pasta. Plate the dish, and garnish with the remaining kale and parmesan cheese, if desired. 

A Mouthful of Marmalade

As you may have noticed, I'm running a bit late this week. I've been running here for dinner, here and here for meetings, and sneaking moments at the computer between meals and moments in the kitchen between assignments. And as my husband so aptly put it yesterday, we've generally been running around like two chickens with our heads cut off all week.

And yet I still found time to caramelize onions for an orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade; the mere memory of it was enough to make me put down what I was doing and pause for a good, long while over the stove.

I don't think orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade is this dish's exact name (nor should it be - it's a mouthful). But it does describe the exact mix of ingredients that come together to create the garnet-hued spread I first tried in the kitchen at Trellis. The chef uses this recipe as a way to preserve the many pounds of onions he harvests from his farm each year; for me, the girl without an onion patch to call her own, making this marmalade is just another excuse to go to my favorite grocer, unwind at the stove and then eat really, really well. 

This marmalade begins with slow cooking the onions, carefully as you don't want them to burn. Then you add a heap of sugar and, many minutes later, the wine, orange juice, honey and thyme that turn that pile of onions into a handsome spread.

You have to let it stew for awhile, and darn it if you don't take a taste now and then, just to see how the whole thing's progressing. Eventually, you'll pinch a piece from the pot and intuitively know that your work is done. Then you'll sample a larger bite, a spoonful maybe, just to make sure it's ready, and the flavors will jump out at you one after another - first the assertive orange, then the subtle thyme, the sweet, lingering honey and the softened wine, all clinging to a spoonful of silken onions as they slip across your tongue.

I wouldn't blame you if you ate that whole tangle of onions that way, spoonful after spoonful. But then you'd miss out on the meal I made: onion and pear topped flatbread. I didn't care to write down a recipe for it, as it's more a method than an exact science. First, I snatched off a bit of dough from the ball my husband made and formed it into a misshapen rectangle with rustic little rounded edges that I folded back over themselves to form just a hint of a crust. The marmalade, that went in the middle, topped with paper-thin slices of Asian pear. Then, I popped the whole thing in the oven and waited for it to crisp up. Granted, I should have been a bit more patient with my little pizette as it was disappointingly soggy in the middle. But with a mouthful of marmalade accompanying each bite, I barely noticed at all. 

Orange-Honey-Thyme-Onion Marmalade

If you are someone who wants a quick, 30-minute meal tonight, turn on Rachael Ray. This marmalade will take you a bit longer than that to prepare but then you'll have enough for a little pizette and a tiny jar of leftovers to accompany a cheese and cracker plate one night and garnish an arugula salad the next. 

1 pint orange juice

2 1/2 red onions, peeled and sliced into small slivers

1/4 cup olive oil

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 cup red wine

3 springs of thyme

Zest from 1 orange

1/2 cup honey 

In a small saucepan over medium heat, reduce the orange juice until you have 1/4 cup remaining.

Meanwhile, sweat the onions in the olive oil until they are translucent. Stir in the sugar and continue to cook the onions as they slightly caramalize. 

Add the red wine, orange zest and leaves from the thyme sprigs, and simmer slowly until the liquid is reduced by about half. 

Add the reduced orange juice and honey and simmer for 5 additional minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and cool. Store the onions in a lidded container in the fridge.

-Adapted from Chef Brian Scheehser of Trellis Restaurant

My Moroccan Mistake

I had meant to bring you something really special today, something exotic, something Moroccan, maybe, because up until now I've felt a bit like a cheat. Despite my self-imposed mission to start cooking better solo meals, I've played it safe; with all the salads, soups and scratch-baked treats I've been sharing, I haven't really branched outside my comfort zone. 

Yes, I've gone beyond the tried in true, substituting a composed salad for my traditional green salad or a tomato bread soup that, quite frankly, didn't differ much from my favorite fall fallback. But a salad is a salad and soup is a soup, and those muffins I told you about are a version of the same breakfast I've been eating for most of my adult life.

So this week, I really wanted to uphold my end of the deal. I took a midday work break, settled in with some books and started scouring them for a recipe that would teach me how to braise meat. Why braising? Visions of slow-cooked, fork-tender lamb shank, shredded and spooned over polenta had somehow wiggled its way into my head and I just couldn't let that image go.

Unfortunately, my exhaustive search yielded exactly one dull braised lamb recipe. But I did find a recipe for a Moroccan lamb so I combined the method from the first recipe and the spices from the later, and let that braising liquid bubble away for hours. 

When I opened that pot, the meat was indeed falling off the bone and the scent of cinnamon, cumin and coriander that perfumed the air set my mouth watering. The meat itself was a bit dull, so I reduced the braising liquid down, blended it together and poured it back over the now shredded lamb meat. The flavor was greatly improved but now - and forgive me for being graphic - it was the color of something you'd find in a diaper. Since it was just me, I ate that lamb and liked it, but I cannot encourage you to take so much time to make something so unappealing to the eye.

Fortunately, there was a savior in this whole, long braising experiment: the side of polenta. I have been making polenta off and on ever since I found a recipe for polenta corn cakes from a local inn. Before that, I had not known how easy polenta was to make - or how fun. As soon as you pour the corn grits into the pan, they start burbling and burping and letting off gusts of steam such that you'd think they were having a party in a pan as you stir them together. I promise, these silly little noises will stretch a smile across your face.

So too will the finished polenta. I recommend you make it now and then again and again for it is forever versatile. You might refrigerate it in shallow little pans and fry up slices in the morning to serve with a slippery poached egg on top. Or, you could spoon a large heap of just-cooked polenta onto your plate, and fan out some pale pink pork tenderloin around it. You can push the indulgence meter into the red by stirring in hunks of crumbly cheese, or leave the polenta plain to ground a dish like Steamed Eggs in a Nest of Greens (yes, there I go with that recipe, again).

Maybe you'll even find something exotic to pair it with - just not my Moroccan lamb shanks.

Polenta for One

The truly great thing about a recipe this simple is you can update it at will. You can chop up fresh herbs and toss them in the pot at the last minute, or add a crumbly cheese and watch it melt and make the polenta impossibly rich with a few turns of a mixing spoon. To make enough for leftovers, you can double or triple the recipe (don't worry, the math's easy) and chill the remaining polenta in a shallow pan. Then, all that's left to do is fry up the firm pieces for your next meal. 

1 cup low-fat milk (or water if you prefer)
A pinch of salt
1/3 cup stone-ground yellow cornmeal

Bring the milk (or water) and salt to boil in a heavy saucepan over medium-high heat. 

Once the milk is warm, add the cornmeal in a thin stream, whisking constantly as you pour it into the saucepan. Turn the heat to low and continue stirring with the whisk or a wooden spoon (constantly or it will get lumpy) until the mixture has thickened and starts to pull away from the sides of the pan, or about 10 minutes.

Stir in cheese, herbs - whatever you want really - and serve immediately.

-Adapted from The New Basics Cookbook

Soups On

When the first dark, drippy day of fall arrives and other people slip on their rain jackets and mourn the end of summer, I can be found peaking out my window with a smile spreading across my face for that day that announces the season for sweaters and scarfs, curbside puddles, falling leaves and weekends spent turning the dog-eared pages of my well-loved books.

And, best of all, it's also the season for soup.

From October through March (or sometimes April or May - this is Portland after all) soup is my constant mealtime companion and midday belly warmer. Though I love the rain, the chill that accompanies it creeps into my bones such that I can often be found writing at my computer in faux fur-lined slippers and a down jacket with a blanket draped across my lap. It's a ridiculous get up but that cocoon keeps me warm until it's time to eat soup.

I'm not very creative when it comes to winter soups, preferring instead to tweak my go-to tomato soup recipe just so, and just often enough that I don't get bored with it. Ever. And yes, despite the fact that I've already explained that I abhor tomatoes, I find no fault with the taste and texture of tomatoes when I eat them crushed, from a can.

That's where my recipe always starts, with a can of crushed tomatoes and a splash of chicken broth. In the "old" days, back when I was a penny-pinching studio dweller, I added little nuggets of herbed sausage and a handful of spinach to the soup. It was sort of like a meatball soup, but not quite. And though my husband loved this version (minus the spinach) I sought something more refined.

Over time, I've added bits of salty proscuitto to the pot, then topped my bowl with peppery arugula and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar. I've sprinkled it liberally with feta cheese (with poor results) and aged Parmesan (the perfect garnish), and often mixed in frozen shrimp or fresh fish to create a makeshift cioppino.

The version I'm certain will appear many times this year is my riff on Donna Hay's tomato basil-bread soup. All the recipe required was that I simmer the soup base for a time, then turn off the heat and add big chunks of soft, spongy bread and a handful of basil leaves. I know, soggy bread might not sound appetizing but the heft those little bread bits give the soup changes the experience of eating it entirely. Go ahead, give it a try. 

Italian Tomato and Basil Bread Soup
The original recipe called for stewing very ripe tomatoes down into a chunky sauce. Since good, local tomatoes are hard to find in Portland during the late fall and winter, I streamlined the recipe by using a can of crushed tomatoes instead. Crushed tomatoes usually come in 28-ounce cans; this recipe makes a bit too much soup for me to slurp up in one meal so I often reserve the leftover soup for "second rounds", adding more broth and fresh bread if I want to bulk it up the next day. 

1 teaspoon olive oil
1 clove garlic, smashed but left whole
1 can crushed tomatoes (unsalted if you can find them)
1/4 cup low-sodium chicken broth 
1 1-inch thick slice artisan bread, crust removed and torn into chunks
1 handful basil leaves, torn into tiny pieces
Salt and fresh cracked black pepper, to taste

Warm the olive oil in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the garlic clove and saute for a minute. Pour in the crushed tomatoes and the low sodium chicken broth, and stir the soup base together. 

Place a lid on the pot and simmer for approximately 10 minutes or until the soup is warmed through. 

Remove the garlic clove and simmer to taste with salt and pepper. Turn the heat off and add the bread and basil to the pot. Allow the soup to stand for 5 minutes, covered, then ladle into bowls and serve unadorned or garnished as desired.

-Adapted from Modern Classics by Donna Hay