The Great American Cooking Project

American Moxie

2008-12-10T11:34:00.005-05:00

I am so pleased to let you know that this blog was featured in the Library of America's newsletter. Check it out:

When I got the call that they wanted to write the blurb, I was like, Wha--? REALLY? Which is to say I'm very flattered and proud.

This blog is a credit to the power of moxie. A sudden inspiration — I’m going to cook every one of the recipes! And I’m going to write about it! — changed my life in many wonderful ways.

Follow your instincts! (Especially when they involve food).

PS: I recently cooked Chicken Marbella again -- and my oh my, it is GOOD. Make plenty extra -- the leftovers are even better.

Eating Well in Hard Times

2008-10-13T16:40:00.002-04:00

CNN’s dubious news-you-can-use on Depression cuisine (via Mills) and Steve Almond’s “recession garden” (via Cathy) got me thinking back on my “year of eating historically.”

There weren’t any recipes for squirrel, but there are some lessons.

Not so long ago, most people prepared nearly every meal as though they were in a recession. Meat was expensive. Affordable produce was seasonal. People “put up” canned fruits and vegetables for the winter. There were a few staples that they bought in bulk. Way back in the ’80s — the 1980s — I remember playing in my grandma’s cellar. I loved picking at the little white sprouts that grew out of the potatoes she kept down there over the winter.

Nowadays, we have cheap meat and cheap bananas and expensive asparagus all year round. In many cases, we’re not paying the true cost of our food: the carbon footprint of growing it on factory farms and then transporting it many, many miles to our kitchens. And although the global economic markets might have our attention, the true crisis — the one we’ll be dealing with for the rest of our lives — is environmental.

So here are a few suggestions that might be cheaper and will definitely be better for the planet….

Nut Loaf: a substitute for meat loaf. It’s improbably delicious. I made a “classic” version, as well as one with squash, carrot, and ginger. Unfortunately, nuts are expensive, unless you buy them in bulk. But their impact on the planet is much smaller than meat — and that’s important whether the stock market is up or down.
Apple butter (or apple sauce): if you pick them yourself, you can get 20-25 pounds for $20 — or less, if you’re not in NYC. That’s more than enough for several jars of apple butter, which you can eat throughout the winter and give as very thoughtful, very inexpensive holiday gifts.
Shit on a Shingle: eggs, flour, butter, milk, bread — all (still) affordable. If it was good enough for American G.I.’s, you better believe it’s good enough for their coddled grandchildren.
Bake a cake: ‘Causecupcakes are a rip-off! How about a nut cake (if you can’t get those wonderful hickory nuts, try walnuts) or that 1966 classic, the Tunnel of Fudge cake?
Rice Pudding: the price of grains has soared, but if you buy a big bag, rice is still very inexpensive. This is one of the most comforting desserts I can imagine. There’s a bonus recipe — my extra-special Rice Krispie treats — which are, unfortunately, too expenisve to make these days. Boxed cereal is also a rip-off.
Beans!: they’re cheap, especially when you buy them dried and in bulk. How about some spicy moong dal, tasty “unbaked” black-eyed peas, or heart-warming lentil soup?
“Working Girl’s Tuna Burger”: I mixed expensive yellowfin tuna and inexpensive whitefish — delish.
Irish Potato Pudding: don’t make this recipe. I repeat: don’t make this recipe. It was awful. You’d have to be in the middle of a famine to appreciate it. BUT there is a lesson: potatoes are cheap. They’re filling. And we’re so over that dumb no-carb thing, so give ‘em a try again!
Lobster Dip: lobster during a recession? Remember, it’s about moderation, not suffering. This recipe makes a delicious spread that serves about six.
Chicken Chartreuse: like the lobster dip, this is a way to make a little bit of (ideally) farm-raised, hormone-free chicken feed a crowd.
Tripe: ‘cause nothing says hard times like offal!

October Surprise

2008-10-05T22:21:00.007-04:00

On Wednesday, September 24th, I turned 27. We celebrated with homemade pizza, wine, and five varieties of cupcakes. Three days later, I had a marvelous 2050 A.D.-themed party, in honor of my newish blog about sustainability issues. But you could say my year really started when I was thrown into the air by a Chevy S.U.V. as I was walking across the street in Midtown on Sunday evening. I hit the asphalt hard on my right side and ended up in an E.R., where they gave me a bag of Morphine and looked inside my body every which way -- X-ray, ultrasound, CT scan. Satisfied that my organs were working as they should from where they should, they sent me on my way. I spent a painful but cozy week recuperating at home.

As becomes an invalid, I've wanted to eat little but soothing soups and tasty teas, and fortunately, I have wonderful friends who supplied me with both. But I'm a cook. The space between fridge, chopping board, and stovetop is where I simply am, where my elements are in harmony -- and it's where I start to put those elements together when they come undone. I am lucky, indelibly. Not only did I survive what a friend called "a blatant assassination attempt by Big Fossil Fuel," but I survived with the ability to cook. Happy birthday, indeed.

Earlier this week, I made tortellini in brodo with homemade broth, something I remember my Dad, a great cook, making in my childhood. It is my ultimate comfort food. And today, I made lentil soup -- perhaps the soup I most enjoy making at home. It's so delicious, so nutritious, so filling, and, unlike other legumes, lentils need no soaking and cook quickly, in about half an hour.

Before I started, I checked Mark Bittman's lentil soup recipe in How to Cook Everything, as I am wont to do, but improvised from there, adding potatoes we had on hand, and loading up on extra carrots. In a fit of inspiration, I sprinkled in nutmeg, then -- why not? -- cinnamon. The spices lent natural sweetness, an unexpected foil to the earthiness of the root vegetables and lentils. The thick soup was revelatory: an October surprise, no mud-slinging involved.

October Surprise Lentil Soup

Sometimes I like a lentil soup so thick even the label "stew" doesn't do it justice, other times I like a brothy soup. I generally prefer the latter when I'm using good, homemade stock. Adjust this recipe by adding more stock at the end if it gets too thick for your taste. Play with the recipe -- add spinach or celery, substitute shallots for onion, skip the potatoes, maybe even the carrots (though I do think some vegetables are crucial). The thing that makes this soup unique is the seasoning: thyme and (surprise!) nutmeg and cinnamon. The taste is pure comfort, whether you're recuperating after a run-in with a two-ton vehicle -- or just warming up on a blustery autumn day.

1 1/2 cup lentils, washed and picked over
1 pound carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/2-inch coins
1/2 pound small white potatoes, scrubbed, sprouts removed, and sliced into 1/2-inch chunks
2 bay leaves
4-6 sprigs of fresh thyme or 2 big pinches dried thyme
1 big pinch ground nutmeg
1 pinch ground cinnamon
8 to 10 cups chicken or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped to a 1/4-inch dice
1 tablespoon minced garlic, or more, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Place the lentils, carrots, potatoes, bay leaves, thyme, cinnamon, and nutmeg, in a medium pot with 8 cups of stock. Bring to a boil, turn the heat to low, and cook, stirring occasionally.
Meanwhile, swirl the olive oil in a skillet and turn the heat to medium-low. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring, until the onion softens, about 5 minutes. Turn off the heat.
When the lentils, carrots, and potatoes are tender -- about 30 minutes -- remove the bay leaves and the thyme sprigs and pour the onion mixture into the soup. Taste and adjust the seasonings. It should be faintly sweet, with just a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Add more warm stock if necessary. I like a very thick lentil soup, though it can be nice with more stock, especially if the stock is homemade. Season with salt (if needed) and black pepper and serve.

Serves 6.

The Brooklyn Chili Takedown

2008-08-12T15:37:00.011-04:00

On Sunday, my roommates Jane, Andrea, and I entered the Brooklyn Chili Takedown hosted by Matt Timms. My friend Cathy Erway of Not Eating Out in New York gave me the heads up on the seriously competitive cook-off that's held two or three times a year. The second I read her email, my jingle-jangle happy-nerves started buzzing. With someone like Jane on my side, I knew we'd be bringing home a medal for the Midwest (dintcha know? I'm from St. Paul, Andrea's from St. Louis, and Jane's from Kansas City.)

Much to Jane's embarrassment, we christened our team, "Jane and the Kansas City Corn Rows" (rejected by the grace of good taste: "Kansas City Devil-ettes" and "Kansas City Krunk").

Jane's idea-packed emails started flying immediately. At 4:40 pm on Thursday, August 7th, she wrote:

what if we made a 'summer chilli' that was maybe really spicy flavorful ground turkey chili with white beans or something, and then what if we topped it off with some sort of fresh corn and tomato salsa that would be cold (like andrea's AWESOME dip) and sour cream and maybe that yummy white mexican cheese. i think that could be a winner!!!

At 4:41 pm, she added:

and fresh cilantro! love that.

And at 4:46 pm:

i also think that we should make home made crispy tortilla strips to put on top. yum! i hope there are left overs!

And this is almost exactly what we did: a lighter "Summertime Chili" with ground turkey and pork, turkey sausage, white northern and pinto beans, fresh tomatoes, a bit of half-and-half, and a whole mess of secret seasonings.

Our three secret weapons (what another contestant called "the woman's touch") were a sweet and spicy fresh corn relish, cilantro-lime sour cream, and corn strips.

We took special pride in the fact that nothing came from a can. And the effort paid off. We won second place in the People's Choice category (with all due respect to Cathy, who was a judge, this was totally the category of the night.) This was out of 25 entries, some quite excellent, others quite unusual (there was even a crazy-good chocolate chili.) It was such a thrill!

Check out more photos from Andrea and myself, and this video I've put together (much to sweet Jane's embarrassment!):

The Chili Takedown from Nora Leah on Vimeo.

Where is she now?

2008-08-07T00:39:00.002-04:00

I'll continue to post updated recipes from my collection of vintage cookbooks, but in the meantime, please stop by 2050 A.D., a blog I've created to explore a wide range of sustainability issues (including food!).

And for your daily Nora Leah fix, check out my personal blog, Thought for Food.

My Year of Cooking Historically

2008-07-27T20:08:00.006-04:00

This is it. The final recipe of the Project. And it ends with the beginning: the earliest recipe in Molly O'Neill's American Food Writing and the first recipe for ice cream in the United States, taken from a 1780s holograph (hand-written) manuscript by Thomas Jefferson, the founding foodie.

But before we get to the ice cream, indulge me a look back on this year of cooking historically. The single most amazing thing this blog has brought is the attention of Ms. O'Neill herself -- and a job. Working with her, I learned to approach food writing as an anthropologist might, digging into people's stories -- not just their cupboards -- to find out why they eat what they eat, and rolling up my sleeves to cook beside them any chance I get.

Just as I look at myself differently -- I'm so much more confident in my ambitions as a writer -- I look at my country differently. Taking on dozens of recipes from the past 230 years has give me insight into the evolution of the American diet and taste. The things I love most about this country are right there in the kitchen and on the plate: we build communities around the cultivated earth, sharing crops, labor, and meals; we struggle, collectively, to strike a balance between the indulgent and the puritanical; we celebrate the humble, the refined, and the kitsch; and, best of all, there's always room in the pot for more: Indian heat, Moroccan spices, hell, even Chinese tacos. This culinary and cultural education has spurred me to take risks, tossing traditions together like a chopped salad and approaching the act of cooking and eating with a pioneer spirit. Why not turn a basic risotto into an innovative and decadent chocolate dessert?

Today, I identify with a line of cooks and eaters and writers that stretches back generations. Women, in particular, have expressed their identities through food and food writing. Remember the Hayes and Tilden cakes of 1877? Miss Flora Ziegler of Columbus and Mrs. T. B. of Chicago couldn't vote, but they could bake and publish recipes in support of their candidates. In effect, they voted with their wooden spoons. How remarkable that, 131 years later, a young woman in Brooklyn would be reinventing their cakes for two Democratic candidates for the presidential nomination -- a woman and a black man!

I made the Obama and Clinton cakes for a tea party thrown by an effervescent young man named Nick whom I met through blogging; Nick brought another remarkable guy, Mark (pictured below), to my Good Friday gumbo party, we bonded over soul music and soul food; in April, I cooked at Mark's Williamsburg loft for the private supper club he runs with his roommates, and last Friday, I joined him and a few other friends, food and Internet enthusiasts all, to make a wholly unconventional version of Jefferson's ice cream.

And that is the final piece that I have gained through this blog: a network of dedicated, active foodies -- bloggers as well as people who open their homes to strangers to serve them some of the best food in Brooklyn. I've cooked by their side and witnessed their singular approach -- steeped in creative, unusual technique and fueled by boundless curiosity. They push me to push the envelope.

Which is my very long-winded explanation of how I came to make tobacco-flavored ice cream. My thinking was as simple as this: Jefferson grew the crop at Monticello, my friends are game, and -- why not?

Cathy, the lovely and curious food writer behind Not Eating Out In New York coached me on the custard-making (I've never made ice cream before), while taking the photos you see on this post. Mark, being Mark, goaded me into tossing in twice as much American Spirit tobacco as I first, rather timidly, added. We let the half-cup of tobacco and fresh vanilla bean infuse the custard for ten minutes or so, strained it, and tasted.

"Mmm. It's goo--," I started to say. And then the tobacco hit the back of my throat -- at once both spicy and, somehow, numbing -- and I had to take a step back.

"Woah. You've gotta taste that." Cathy and Mark dug right in.

The result was simply fascinating: it drew you in just as it pushed you away. Mark served it at our friend Michael's home as a "meal-ending trio of frozen weirdness." Reviews were good, but then again, the diners were comparing it to a Serrano & Raisin Granita that Mark likened to a "pork snow-cone." (See why I love cooking with these guys?)

And so. That's it for this project -- but it's not over. I'm too engrossed in cooking historically to give it up. Thanks to my unholy addiction, I have a vast collection of vintage cookbooks. From time to time, I'll post my adventures with dusted-off recipes, and I'll keep you updated on everything else I'm up to. And please keep in touch. Email me at nora(at)shermanhome(dot)com.

Tobacco-Flavored Ice Cream

Made with just heavy cream, egg yolks, sugar, vanilla, and tobacco, this is so thick it's closer to a frozen custard. But Thomas Jefferson called it ice cream, so I do, too. A half-cup of tobacco will make a very kicky, almost spicy ice cream. For a more subtle flavor, opt for less, about one-quarter cup, or as little as a tablespoon.

2 pints of heavy cream
6 yolks of eggs
1 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean
1/4 to 1/2 cup high-quality tobacco (I used American Spririt)

1. In a mixing bowl, whisk together the yolks and sugar until thick. In a saucepan, warm the cream over medium-low heat. Slice the vanilla bean down the middle and scrape out the seeds into the cream. Add the bean and the tobacco, stir well, and let cook, without boiling, for about 15 minutes. Strain. Remove from heat and slowly add the yolks and sugar to the cream mixture while strring. Place the saucepan over medium-low heat and slowly warm the custard, stirring gently, until it thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon. Leave to cool completely. When it's cold, transfer to the bowl of an ice cream maker and freeze according to the manufacturer's instructions.

Makes 4-6 servings.

Philadelphia Freedom

2008-07-25T02:01:00.004-04:00

Concentrate, for a moment, on six words: the stomach lining of a cow. Got the image in your mind? Good. Now go ahead -- savor it.

There are phrases in the English language that are more unappealing, but not many. Add a couple more words -- soup and honeycomb -- and you begin to understand why it's taken me so long to make Philadelphia Pepperpot Soup, one of two remaining recipes on my American Food Writing-inspired "to do" list.

The soup is a soul food institution little known to outsiders, and it's not hard to figure out why: it's main ingredient is honeycomb tripe, the rubbery, textured lining of a cow's second stomach. The recipe -- a contribution from Sheila Ferguson, '60s girl group singer turned cookbook author -- has potatoes, cream, beef bouillon, spices, and, of course, peppers. But the tripe towered über alles.

Tripe, you shouldn't be surprised to learn, is not stocked at the Park Slope Food Coop, so I'd have to make a special effort to find it. But the promise of Pepperpot Soup didn't succeed in motivating me, even in the cold of winter, when (theoretically) any warm stew would be welcome. Before I knew it, daytime temperatures were topping 100 degrees, and I still had a soup to make and consume -- a tripe soup, at that.

Without really looking for it, I found tripe in a butcher in Chinatown. Two dollars and twenty-nice cents a pound. I gazed at it through the dirty glass window: honeycomb-rippled, gelatinous, and pale, in a basin of ice and water (the tripe above is from the same shop on a different day; it's darker and more expensive than what I bought. That tripe can vary so much is not exactly comforting!). Even though I only wanted no more than a pound, I bought what was there: 1.3 pounds (the meatmonger wouldn't let me shave off that extra 0.3), and brought it home to an apartment that was losing a battle against the AC window unit. As I got up the nerve to touch it bare-fingered, I started to think about cooking it.

Sheila Ferguson's recipe -- which has its roots in the soup that George Washington's troops ate to stave off starvation during a fatal winter in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania -- starts with cooked tripe, finely shredded. She doesn't explain how to cook it, though she mentions her aunt Ella's preferred method ("the soul way"): boiling until "it's nice and tender" and then breading and frying. So i tried that. I cut the tripe into a few pieces -- it was surprisingly resistant to my knife -- and boiled it in salted water for 15 minutes ... 30 minutes ... 45 ....

The cooking tripe gave off a peculiar odor, unmistakable to anyone who has spent time in Chinatown, any Chinatown, and I instantly regretted that the hard-working air conditioner unit prevented me from opening windows. After an hour, my patience was worn thin. Even though the tripe wasn't quite tender, I rolled it in highly seasoned flour and started frying.

Of course, being me, I had taken significant liberties with the other ingredients. Where the recipe called for bacon, I used turkey bacon; where it calls for bell pepper, I used fresh corn. I replaced white potatoes for sweet potatoes, and toyed with the seasonings a bit. My sautéd sort-of-succotash was spicy-sweet and delicious. Barely glancing at the printed recipe, I was so flush with freedom that I decided to hell with it. It's too hot for soup! I added no stock, no cream -- and no shredded tripe.

The result was a heap of veggies, flavored with cayenne and agave nectar, speckled with browned turkey bacon, and topped with a "fillet" of fried tripe. My roommates didn't hide their relief when I assured them the tripe was optional -- though they were good sports and tried a bite, even two. Finally, a year in the making, we sat down to enjoy our very deconstructed Philadelphia Pepperpot Soup, a little taste of tripe-free freedom in every bite.

Philadelphia Pepperpot Succotash

Cooking spray
6 slices turkey bacon, cut to a ¼” dice
Kernels of 2 corncobs
½ cup onion, finely chopped (1 small onion)
½ cup celery, finely chopped
1 teaspoon paprika
½ teaspoon thyme
2 tablespoons parsley, finely chopped
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon agave nectar
1 large sweet potato, cut into a 1/8” dice

For the tripe:
1 pound honeycomb tripe
¼ cup flour
1 teaspoons kosher salt
½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 teaspoons canola oil

1. To prepare the tripe, put it in a Ziploc bag and pound it for a minute with a heavy can. Bring a large pot of salted water to boil and boil the tripe for at least 1 hour, until it can be pierced with a fork. Remove and let the tripe cool enough to handle. Slice into about 4 pieces. Heat the canola oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Combine the flour, salt, cayenne pepper, and black pepper on a plate. Dredge the tripe peices in the flour so that they’re evenly coated. Working in two batches, fry the tripe until golden brown on each side, about 3 minutes each side. Let drain on paper towels.

2. While the tripe is cooking, prepare the succotash. Heat a skillet over low heat. Spray with the cooking spray. Add the turkey bacon and cook until it begins to crisp on the edges, about 5 minutes. Add the onion, celery, corn, paprika, thyme, parsley, salt, black pepper, and cayenne pepper. Continue cooking until the vegetables are tender. Remove the vegetables from the skillet.

3. Melt the butter in the skillet. Add the sweet potatoes and sauté, stirring often, until tender, about 15 minutes. Add the vegetables and toss to combine. Serve warm or at room temperature. If you’re using the tripe, finely shred it or slice thin and serve on top of the succotash.

Makes 4 servings.

Primum Non Nocere

2008-07-13T09:09:00.005-04:00

First, do no harm. That is to say: love the lobster. Treat it as you would your own mother, if you were a large marine crustacean with a cannibalistic streak. Do not mask its flavors with cream and butter and mayonnaise. Let it shine like the star of the sea it is!

This was my mantra last weekend as I took up the cause of a female lobster in the Cape Cod kitchen of dear friends. She was of speckled complexion and robust build, 1.25 pounds and about 10 inches long. There was one of her, and seven of us, but she, like those biblical fishes, would serve us all (no miracles involved).

Eliza Leslie, the author of Directions for Cookery (1837), did not abide by the code of nephropidae ethics to which I subscribe. Her approach to "Potted Lobster," a kind of shellfish terrine suitable for spreading on thin slices of bread, can only be described as buttery and violent: the lobster is parboiled, its meat picked out and beaten with a mortar, pressed "down hard" into a mold, slathered with butter, and baked for a half hour. The butter is then removed and clarified, the lobster meat is pressed into smaller molds, topped with the clarified butter, and, presumably, chilled until ready to serve.

What might potted lobster have tasted like? Well, there are a few spices in it -- nutmeg, mace, and cayenne -- as well as salt, but I suspect the dominant flavor would be butter. The lobster, cooked so long and treated so roughly, would retreat, its usually domineering flavor reduced to a vague pan-shellfish flavor rich in umami but not in lobster essence. Or perhaps not, but in any case, for a summer meal I craved something fresh and sea-breezy.

My approach to Eliza Leslie's lobster spread would celebrate the briny diva: lemon juice, green onions, parsley, salt, and pepper played chorus, and just a dollop of mayonnaise brought the ensemble together.

Like a true diva, she did not go without a fight. Lydia Hopkins, my hostess with the absolute mostest, has been spending summer on the Cape since she was a wee thing; she knows a thing or two about beach buggies and killing crustaceans. I've always boiled lobster but she suggested we steam it for the best flavor and texture. That meant preparing a shallow, simmering bath for the lobster in a saucepan large enough for her to sprawl in the bottom. And once she was in, it meant ignoring the sounds of her frantic scramblings. (I may have squealed with dismay, but all went silent within a few moments.)

Lydia's expertise came in handy again when it came time to remove the meat -- which was, as promised, perfectly cooked, not a bit rubbery, not even in the claw (as it can be when the execution method is a vat of boiling water). She made such quick work of the task, the lobster was reduced to an empty exoskeleton before I could properly note her technique. (So I shall have to return for another lesson, but in the meantime, these directions from a 19th century cookbook look good.)

You may be wondering why I keep reiterating that my lobster was a "she." I requested a female because I wanted her roe, both for its brininess and for its pretty color. Potted lobster layers white lobster meat with what Leslie called the "coral;" the roe in my dip gave my dip made it festively tricolor.

Served alfresco with dry white wine and toasted rye bread, the dip made an ideal appetizer for a meal of plump grilled sea scallops and vegetables. So you see, if you treat your crustaceans in death with the dignity that they lived, you will be richly rewarded. And you need not wait until the afterlife, either -- dinner will do.

Let-the-Lobster-Shine Dip

1.25 pound female lobster
2 tablespoons finely chopped green onions
1 packed tablespoon finely chopped parsley
1 heaping tablespoon mayonnaise
Juice of 1/2 lemon
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

In a saucepan large enough to lie the lobster, bring about 2 inches of water to a gentle boil. Place the lobster in the bath, shut the lid, and close your ears to her scrambling. She'll quickly go quiet. Let steam for 15 minutes, remove from bath, and douse with plenty of cold water to speed up the cooling. When cool enough to handle, pick out the meat, including the roe.
Combine the lobster meat and roe with all other ingredients. Taste carefully and adjust seasonings as needed. Serve with thin slices of bread rubbed with a bit of olive oil and garlic and toasted in the oven.

Serves 6.

Cheater, Cheater, Corn-Muffin-Eater

2008-07-07T14:32:00.006-04:00

Attentive readers may have noticed that I've lately taken bold liberties with the historical recipes on my source list, drawn from American Food Writing. I transformed traditional risotto into a chocalatey dessert; a basic slab of steak into a technicolor salad; and Chinese pancakes into Chinese tacos, to name a few.

You could call it cheating, but I prefer to think of it as winging it in style. As I noted in a response to a reader's comment, with 11 months of tackling challenging recipes under my belt, my cooking confidence is high, my urge to experiment is keen, and my desire to make foods that my friends actually want to eat overrides any concerns of inauthenticity. (It's remarkable what an otherwise innocuous bowl of bran jelly -- liquid cardboard, as it should be known -- and a heaping mound of inexplicable and nearly inedible potato pudding can do for your enthusiasm for following certain recipes to the letter.)

Which is to say that I don't feel a bit guilty for my latest improvisation, though this ranks among the most outrageous departures from the source recipe.

The only things that I took from Amelia Simmons' 1796 recipe for Johny/Hoe Cakes was inspiration and cornmeal (or "indian meal" as it was known at the time). Other than that, the muffins I made bare as much resemblance to the early cornbread recipe as a fresh berry-and-cream trifle does to a Pop Tart.

I had no interest in making ordinary corn bread. My friend the suburban gardener gave me a handful of fresh-picked sweet basil, I had some Pecorino cheese in the fridge, and I loved the way a smattering corn kernels spruced up thick pancakes: all these ingredients would play their part in my take on Johny cakes.

I noodled around Epicurious and found a recipe for Corn Muffins with Green Onions and Sour Cream, which became the foundation for my muffins. I replaced sour cream with cottage cheese because I love the stuff and would rather have it leftover than sour cream, and I skipped sugar because I didn't want anything masking the flavor of the herb. I roasted the corn, which dried the kernels out a bit. It might have been better to boil them, but then I wouldn't have gotten that lovely roasted flavor. My solution was to add 1/4 cup of olive oil.

The result was moist and overflowing with the flavors of a summer garden. I packed them away to take on a road trip to Cape Cod, following in the footsteps of their Johny cake forefathers, which were so named because travelers brought them on journeys.

A final note on cheating: attentive readers may be wondering just when I'm going to end this cooking project. The description at left says the grand finale was to happen on July 4, 2008, yet I have three more recipes to go: Thomas Jefferson's recipe for ice cream, Potted Lobster, and Philadelphia Pepperpot Soup. Well, I made an extremely loose interpretation of the lobster recipe on the Cape, but I still have the ice cream and soup to go. Think of this as extra helpings!

Corn and Basil Muffins

1 cup unbleached all purpose flour
1 cup yellow cornmeal
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 cup cottage cheese (I used the low-fat, whipped variety)
2 large eggs
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted, cooled
1/4 cup olive oil
1 cup of cooked corn kernels (from 2 cobs of corn, boiled or roasted, or 1 cup frozen kernels, thawed and drained), finely chopped
1/3 cup finely chopped basil, packed
1/2 cup Pecorino cheese, grated (or 1 cup, if you'd like to make a full batch of cheesy muffins), plus 2 (or 4) tablespoons for the topping

Preheat oven to 425°F. Line twelve 1/3-cup muffin cups with paper liners or grease a silicone muffin pan. Combine first 7 ingredients in large bowl. Whisk sour cream, eggs, melted butter, and olive oil in another bowl.
Add cottage cheese mixture to dry ingredients and stir just until moistened (do not overmix). Fold in corn kernels and basil. Divide the batter in half (or don't) and fold in 1/2 (or 1) cup cheese to one of the portions.
Divide batter equally among muffin cups. Sprinkle the cheesy muffins with the remaining cheese. Bake until golden and tester inserted into center of muffins comes out clean, about 20 minutes. Cool on rack.

Notes On Camp

2008-07-01T20:54:00.004-04:00

I've got an outdoorsy streak that never fails to surprise people. Sure, I adore mascara, the Internet, goose-down pillows, and electricity but some of the greatest times in my life were spent grubby, exhausted, a 50-pound pack on my back, blisters on my heels, and 500 feet yet to climb. The most important question was not will he call me? but where will we put this food so the bears don't get it? I may not look it, but I've gone three weeks without a shower, pitched a tent in snow at 9,000 feet, and maintained "lightning position" for an hour in a thunderstorm.

My mom says that when I returned from those weeks-long expeditions to the Rockies or the Boundary Waters, I was, for a brief period, a normal, pleasant human being. The teenager who snarled at the mere suggestion that the dishes needed putting away was temporarily replaced by an easy-going young woman with confidence in herself and gratitude for the little things (like a dishwasher to remove said dishes from).

When I saw "A Michigan Receipt for Making Shortcake in Camp" in American Food Writing, I knew there would be no cheating it: this recipe would be made over a fire. If in this year of cooking historically I did not go camping, then I was prepared to make shortcake over the grills in Prospect Park.

As it turns out, Liz, a girl I'm so loyal to I may as well be her mutt, wanted just one thing for her 26th birthday: a camping trip. Nothing overambitious -- some of our friends, though equally loyal, are not as tolerant of creepy-crawlies -- just a night in a state park close to a Metro North station.

So last Saturday, after a fortifying Blood Mary in a patio bar near the Cold Spring station, we ventured forth into the Wilderness. We spent the afternoon doggy-paddling lazily around a lake, grilling hot dogs, drinking beers and white wine with ice from the cooler, and debating the relative merits of this tent spot vs. that one (a quandary when your campsite resembles nothing so much as a rock quarry, as Liz's sister Becca aptly put it.)

That night, we sat around the fire, just as our Liz had pictured, eating hamburgers, corn grilled in the husk, s'mores, and baked apples sprinkled with cinnamon that were so mushy they were like pudding. Anne, Liz's teacher colleague and friend, made them by wrapping the fruits in aluminum foil, tossing them near the embers, and letting Mother Nature do the rest of the work.

One nearly-sleepless night later (see above: rock quarry), and it was time for the Michigan shortcake.

The recipe, published in 1876 in the National Cookery Book, is comically rustic: it involves an Indian guide, a sapling refashioned as a rolling pin, a hot stone standing in for a frying pan, and the inevitable salt pork (historical cooking always gets back to salt pork). I imagine that what I would make of the "receipt" would be a hit-or-miss griddle cake: it could be greasy and flat or lifeless and bland or cakey and dense.

I wasn't willing to take the risk when our breakfast depended on it, so I turned to a book that a frontier woman can depend on: The Joy of Cooking. I took the Basic Pancake recipe as my starting off point. I doubled the recipe, which meant that adding the liquid mixture to the dry without overmixing was very difficult. Bill, Liz's boyfriend and a formidable foodie, reminded me that I was forming irreparable gluten. And so I was. As Bill noted, it's a short distance between pancake and bread, and so much of it is in the agitation of the batter.

There was nothing to do but pretend that gluten was my intention all along. I kept adding milk until it was a batter I could work with -- I got a whole quart in there (the recipe calls for 2 cups) -- but the result, once I got the charcoals and skillet at the right medium-hot temperature, were thick, hearty pancakes that are exactly what you want when you spent the night spooning with a small boulder.

Speaking of spoons, I added spoonfuls of fresh blueberries to some pancakes, and leftover apple mush to others, and leftover cooked corn kernels to others. On the side: great, local Canadian bacon from the Co-op and hot coffee ... from a nearby gas station. Hey, we're urbanites (who didn't bring our French presses).

As the "Michigan receipt" notes, when the food is "all seasoned with good appetite, nothing can be more delicious." And it was.

A New York Receipt for Making Flapjacks In Camp

3 cups all-purpose flour
6 tablespoons sugar
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 quart milk
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
4 large eggs
1 pint blueberries
1-2 cups cooked corn kernels (from about 3 cobs)
1 cup cooked apple mush or applesauce

Preheat charcoal brickets. Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl. Combine wet ingredients in another. Slowly add the liquid to the flour, whisking gently to combine. Stir just enough to combine.
When the charcoal brickets are hot, warm a nonstick frying pan. Brush with a bit of butter (I just rub it straight on the pan). Pour about 1/4 cup of batter onto the pan, letting spread to about 4 inches in diameter. Sprinkle with about 2 tablespoons of blueberries, corn, or apple mush/sauce.
Cook until bubbles begin to form and the sides of pancake pull away from the pan. The flip and continue cooking until the sides pull away. Check to be sure it doesn't burn! Cooking time will vary entirely on the fire, and is a constant struggle to get right (not gonna lie.)

Makes enough to feed about 10 people.

Under the Solstice Sun

2008-06-27T22:55:00.005-04:00

Last weekend, we celebrated Katie's birthday and her new home in Stamford, Connecticut. (Can you believe I have friends who are already buying condos in the 'burbs and moving out there with their boyfriends??)

Katie and Chris (the boyfriend) ordered live crawfish from Louisiana and boiled it up under the sweltering sun -- felt just like NOLA! It was so hot the cheese melted on the plate, but I had my wide-brimmed hat and a pretty summer dress to keep me just cool enough to brave the barbecue. At about 5 p.m., when the oppressive solstice sun was mocking us with its sloooow descent into the West, we fired her up.

Luckily, there wasn't much to grill: just one great big flank steak and two corns on the cob, and I covered the grill and let the trio do their thing while I hightailed it to the single patch of shade.

How might so little feed so many? A salad, naturally Using strips of beef as an interloping ingredient among a riot of vegetables is a smarty-pants way to stretch one fantastic piece of ethically-raised, grass-fed bovine. And it also happens to be the way us omnivores should be eating, period.

I was (very, very loosely) inspired by a 1938 recipe for "Planked Porterhouse Steak," published by Rex Stout in Too Many Cooks -- an excellent title for a cookbook, don't you think? The steak gets its name because it is first grilled over a fire and then finished under the broiler, on a well-seasoned oak plank (instead of a baking pan), brushed with olive oil and surrounded with "a border of fluffy mashed potatoes." Just before serving, Stout brushed butter, sprinkled salt and pepper, and squeezed a bit of lime over the undoubtedly glorious-looking creation.

It's too hot to turn on the broiler, too hot to eat mashed potatoes, just too hot. But lime? Lime I can do. And grilling? That's practically my middle name (okay, not even close, but I can hold my own.)

A second inspiration was Marion Cabelle Tyree's "Meat Flavoring" from Housekeeping in Old Virginia (1878). The vinegar-based, highly-seasoned elixir is for the busy maid on the go: "As the housekeeper is sometimes hurried in preparing a dish, it will save time and trouble for her to keep on hand a bottle of meat-flavoring." Why, I couldn't agree more. And if you have found, as I have, that it's so hard to find good help these days -- the kind that flavors the meat on my plate -- then I suggest you print out the recipe below and pin it to her pinafore. The marinade I came up with (which is nothing like Miss Marion's) is a doozy.

On came together in a Latin-influenced salad of grilled corn, red peppers, avocado and mixed greens topped with strips of medium-rare steak marinated in lime and cilantro. It was, frankly, awesome. I just love it when a

And now, back to packing for a one-night camping trip for my friend Liz's birthday (we got her a tent but shh! It's a surprise.)

I'll be taking on "A Michigan Receipt for Making Shortcake in Camp," an 1876 recipe that calls for the aid of an Indian guide and a smooth sapling for a rolling pin. But this is Putnam County, NY, mere minutes from a Metro-North station -- not Lewis and Clark country. My Indian guide is bringing blueberries.

Solstice Steak Salad

1 1/2 to 2 pounds flank steak, preferably ethically-raised and grass-fed (you can taste the difference)

For the marinade:
3/4 cup lime juice
1/4 olive oil
1/2 cup cilantro, finely chopped
2 large cloves of garlic, finely minced
Big pinch of kosher salt
1 tablespoon Mexican seasoning blend
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon cayenne
A few good cranks of freshly ground black pepper

For the salad:
2 ears of corn, shucked
2 small-t0-medium red bell peppers, or 1 large, sliced into thin strips
1 avocado, sliced into thin strips
4 green onions, chopped
8 cups mixed greens

For the dressing:
1/4 cup freshly-squeezed lime juice
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup cilantro, finely chopped
Big pinch of kosher salt
A few good cranks of freshly ground black pepper

Combine the marinade ingredients. Place in a Ziploc bag with the steak (easy to bring it outside to the grill) and refrigerate for at least 2 hours.
Preheat your grill. Get all your salad ingredients ready. Place the greens in a salad bowl or on a serving platter and arrange the other bits prettily on top (except the corn).
About ten minutes before grilling, toss the corn cobs into the steak marinade. Once the grill is hot, put the steak above the fire and the corn on the upper rack or in the corner, away from direct flame. Cover and grill for about 5-6 minutes, then turns the steaks and corn and grill another 5-6 minutes for medium-rare. Let the steak and corn cool completely, then slice the steak(across the grain) into strips about 1/2-inch thick. Cut the kernels off the corn.
Make the dressing by slowly adding the olive oil to the lime juice while whisking. Stir in the cilantro, salt, and pepper. Taste and correct the seasonings, if desired. Drizzle the dressing over the salad. Arrange the steak strips on top and sprinkle with the corn. Serve to the delight and amazement of your friends.

Makes enough for 12-16 people as a side dish or 8 people as a main course.

Duck, Duck ... Goose.

2008-06-22T22:12:00.010-04:00

When I was twelve years old, some rare and fortuitous circumstance brought me to dinner at the St. Paul Grill, a steakhouse with dark wood, white linen tablecloths, and a carousel of Minnesota politicians rotating through the bar. I was buzzing with self-importance and the certainty that these scenes would feature prominently in my adult life.

In this refined setting, I ordered the chicken pot pie.

For a girl coming from a proto-Pollan, couscous kind of family, this was exotic fair.

So it should come as little as surprise that meatloaf made infrequent appearances in my childhood. It inspires zero nostalgia in me, unlike roast chicken, which made its glorious debut in my life when my dad and I moved in with Shelley, the woman who would become my adopted mother, or German apple pancake, spongy, eggy, and big enough to feed at least six, which my dad sometimes makes on wintry Sunday mornings.

It wasn't just the children of once-long-haired radicals who grew up without meatloaf on their plate. There's no equivalent in Latino, Indian, and Arabic cultures, to name but a few. But to my surprise, there is one in Chinese culture -- or, at least, Chinese-American culture. Ken Hom's Easy Family Recipes from a Chinese-American Childhood (1997) offers a recipe for Steamed Pork Loaf with Salted Duck Eggs.

"This dish is well known to many of my fellow Chinese-Americans," Hom writes, "It should become a favorite of all Americans, hyphenated or not."

I made a special trip to Manhattan expressly for salted duck eggs, which, Hom promised, would be hard, rich with briny flavor, and would "add much to the already zestful blend of robust pork and spices." In Chinatown, I asked a few Chinese people where I might find a suitable grocery store. They were very nice but had no idea what I was talking about. It was a pleasantly disorienting experience, speaking my native tongue in my native land and feeling so foreign. I was saved by an Anglo British man pushing a stroller with a beautiful child of indeterminate, mixed race, who overheard my query and said, "Just up the street. I used to live in Bejing and I miss those eggs."

I'd like to know what brand he misses so much, because the kind I purchased were the sort of thing that could cause nightmares, never nostalgia.

For all Hom's declarations of the meatloaf's "exciting seasonings," I thought the recipe looked a little bland (it is a meatloaf after all), so I mixed turkey with pork and really revved up the spices, adding garlic, ginger, and spicy sesame oil. I replaced canned water chestnuts with fresh, which filled me with immense guilt but saved a great deal of time.

When it came time to add the duck egg yolks to the top (the whites were discarded), I unwrapped one of the eggs from it's red candy-like wrapping and gave it a tentative crack against the counter. The white was that sallow gray shade common to hard-boiled chicken eggs that have been cooked too long. I gave it a sniff. Smelled fine, like nothing much. I gave it a nibble. Salty. Very salty.

I peeled away the white ... and there was the yolk. I felt queasy. It was mealy, moist, dark gray, and frankly, disgusting-looking. The package showed a preternaturally yellow yolks that shone like small suns. I was unnerved.

A quick Internet search assured me that so long as there was no foul smell, the eggs would be fine. I proceeded, slicing the gooey yolks in half and pressing them into the top of meatloaf.

I set up an impromptu steamer by bringing a couple inches of water to a simmer in my roaster pan on the stove, and gently floating the loaf pan in the bath (Hom uses a wok and a rack.) In less than half and hour, I fished out the loaf pan, turned the meatloaf onto a serving platter, and arranged stir-fried boy choy, celery, and asparagus around it.

The egg yolks were now an innocuous, pale Easter egg yellow. But my roommate, Jane, and I could not forget the undead look they had when they were straight out of the shell. We bravely, gingerly tried a bite while my friend Liz, who wasn't there for the preparations, innocently dug right in. Though she didn't share our vivid visuals and the accompanying negative predispositions, she didn't like them either. They were still mealy and had no flavor to add but intense salt. I scraped them off the whole loaf, so my guests wouldn't have to.

The meatloaf itself was wonderful. Well-seasoned, a lovely, dense texture, and even better the next day, cold and warmed-over.

And now I have three salted duck eggs staring at ominuously from the top shelf of the fridge. You've seen the photo. Admit it: you'd be scared, too.

Chinese-Style Meatloaf

1 pound ground pork
1 pound ground turkey
4 8-ounce cans water chestnuts (or 1 1/2 pound fresh water chestnuts, peeled and coarsely chopped)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
4 teaspoons Mirin (sweet rice cooking wine)
3 teaspoons Kosher salt
2 teaspoons sugar
4 teaspoons cornstarch
2 teaspoons Asian sesame oil
2 teaspoons spicy Asian sesame oil
2 large cloves of garlic, minced
1 tablespoons fresh minced ginger
1 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
3 salted duck eggs (optional)

In a food processor, mix the pork, turkey, and water chesnuts until they are nearly smooth. Scrape the mixture into a large stainless-steel bowl and add the scallions, then soy sauce and rice win. Add the salt, sugar, cornstarch, sesame oil, and pepper. With your hands, mix well, then turn the meat into a greased loaf pan. Crack open the duck eggs, discard the whites, and cut the yolks in half. Arrange the yolks on the top of the loaf, pressing the yolks into the meat mixture.

In a large roasting pan, preferably with a flat rack in the bottom, bring about 2 inches of water to the boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer and carefully place the loaf pan on the rack or in the bottom of the pan. Cover the roasting pan and let it simmer and steam for 25 minutes, or until the loaf is done.

Serves 4.

La Dolce Vita

2008-06-15T09:48:00.011-04:00

There is a surplus of savory recipes in this line-up, and far too few that feature chocolate. Sweets are my secret weapon to gain friends and influence people (now not so secret, but the technique will, I'm confident, lose none of its effectiveness) -- so I've been forced to improvise.

And so I did something to Marcella Hazan's 1973 recipe for Risotto alla Pamigiana (Risotto with Parmesan Cheese) that may be sacrilege to those who believe that oozing cheese is the mark of good risotto. But one bite of my Risotto al Cioccolato, slow-cooked Arborio rice blended with dark chocolate and layered with strawberries in their own syrup and liqueur-spiked whipped cream, and I'm sure they will find it in their hearts to forgive me.

It's best paired with a glass of fine prosecco, perhaps something from Carpené Malvolti, the original producer of sparkling Italian wine, which my guest had the good sense to bring.

Watch the video for the excellent, chocolaty adventure...

Risotto al Cioccolato from Nora Leah on Vimeo.

Risotto al Cioccolato
When the weather demands it, you might also serve this hot, perhaps with a crisp Italian cookie on the side instead of fresh strawberries.

6-7 cups of water
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 1/2 cup Arborio rice
6 ounces dark chocolate (60% cocoa and up)
1/4 cup granulated sugar plus 1 teaspoon (approximately)
1 pint cream
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 tablespoons white chocolate liqueur, such as Godiva (optional)
1 pint strawberries, sliced very thin

In a saucepan over medium heat, bring the water to a steady simmer. Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the rice and stir to coat. Saute lightly and add 1/2 cup of simmering water. As the rice dries out, continue adding simmering water, 1/2 cup at a time. Stir frequently to make sure the rice doesn't stick. Continue until all the water is absorbed and the rice is quite soft and creamy. After you've added about half the water, stir in the sugar. (You may not need all 7 cups of water. As you get to the end, add just 1/4 cup of water at a time, to avoid drowning the risotto.)
While the risotto is cooking, prepare the strawberries. Sprinkle sliced strawberries with about 1 teaspoon sugar (or more, if the strawberries are tart) and about 2 tablespoons of water. Reserve in the refrigerator until ready to serve.
When the rice is finished cooking (it will take about 30 minutes), place chocolate in a microwave-safe bowl and microwave on high y until melted, 30 seconds at a time, stirring every 30 or 15 seconds. (It will take 60 to 80 seconds.) Add melted chocolate, vanilla extract, and 1/2 pint cream to rice and stir well. Chill in the refrigerator for at least 1 hour.
When ready to serve, whip the remaining 1/2 pint cream with an electric mixer (add 2 tablespoons chocolate liqueur or 1 teaspoons sugar, if desired). Arrange risotto in martini or other glasses: a layer of risotto, followed by a layer of strawberries, another layer of risotto, and topped with plenty of whipped cream.

Serves 6.

(Another) Alternaburger

2008-06-04T23:06:00.009-04:00

Please don't revoke my citizenship, but I'm not much of a hamburger person. Sure, I get their appeal. While no dietitian would agree, they are a remarkably balanced food, rolling all the things we crave into a packet easily maneuvered with just a hand and a mouth.

But as a kid, I preferred Chicken McNuggets (as I've mentioned), and these days, given the choice, I always go with a grilled something-or-other sandwich, or a salad full of crumbly goat cheese, interesting greens, and crunchy bits 'n bobs, or, when the opportunity presents itself, a hunk of barbecued meat, dripping with sauce.

But there are a exceptions. Take the beef out of it, add some flavah-flave, and I'm down with the burger. Case in point: the "working girl's tuna burger," inspired by the Union Square Cafe Cookbook. And now, a new one to add to my (admittedly very girly) burger repertoire, inspired by one of the first burgers every recorded, back when it was still know as the Hamburg Steak.

The recipe is by Sarah Tyson Rorer in Mrs. Rorer's New Cook Book (1902). Without saying so explicitly, she encourages the intrepid cook to disguise ground meat as steak. She forms the patties into steak shapes and serve it sans bun, as you might a T-bone: "dust with salt, put a little butter on top of each and send at once to the table; or they may have poured over them tomato sauce, or you may serve them with brown or pepper sauce."

I decided that I, too, would forgo the bun – in deference both to Mrs. Rorer and the modern dictum that limited white bread is not a bad thing. But if you're going to drop the carbs, you've got to add toppings that make you forget what you're missing. Instead of Mrs. Rorer's tomato sauce, I created a relish that would be a perfect foil for my favorite condiment, feta cheese, and would incorporate some incredibly fresh and fragrant mint grown in my friend’s suburban greenhouse. Feta and mint? I dare you not to think of Greece. I ran with the theme, adding kalamata olives, garlic, chopped tomatoes, and green onions, all quickly cooked in a bit of olive oil.

The result was a healthy, fast Wednesday meal for two that sang of the Mediterranean. The relish was really quite fantastic and would also be lovely on a bit of grilled fish or chicken, pasta, bruschetta – hell, even an all-beef patty between two buns.

Turkey Burgers with Olive and Mint Relish

With such flavorful toppings, I don't think this burger needs a bun. But add one if you'd like, or maybe serve atop a slice of country bread rubbed with garlic and olive oil and lightly toasted.

For the burgers:
1/2 pound ground turkey meat
2 tablespoons minced white onion
Big pinch of Kosher salt
A couple good cranks of freshly ground black pepper

For the relish:
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Roma tomato, finely diced
2 large green onions, finely diced
1 tablespoon minced fresh mint
1/4 cup pitted Kalamata olives, finely chopped
Big pinch of Kosher salt
A couple good cranks of freshly ground black pepper

1/4 - 1/3 cup crumbled feta

Preheat the broiler and arrange a broiler pan about 2 inches from the heat. Combine all the turkey burger ingredients, mix well, and form into two patties about 3 inches across. Spray the broiler pan with cooking spray. Place the patties on the pan and cook for about 4 minutes on each side.
While the burgers cook, make the relish. In a skillet, over medium-low heat, warm the olive oil. Add the garlic and saute until just beginning to color. Add all other relish ingredients. Saute until the burgers are fully cooked.
Place the burgers on servings plates. Top each with half the relish and half the feta and put back under the broiler. Cook until the feta just begins to brown. Carefully remove and serve.

Serves two.

Unbaked Beans

2008-05-26T21:34:00.010-04:00

It's the end of a three-day weekend, when Americans have laid wreaths, vegged out by lakes and lawns, and finally, finally worn white again -- but I worked all day today and I worked all day Saturday and I didn't even notice what I put on either day. Don't cry for me, though. I spent a lovely Sunday blowin' around Soho and the Lower East Side, capped off with a nighttime walk across the Brooklyn Bridge lit with undulating colored lights in honor of its 125th birthday, a view so magical that it reduced me to childlike skipping, wonder, and glee.

And sure, the weather was postcard-perfect while I was chained to my laptop, but really, it's not so bad: while I worked today, I did a little cooking in honor of the holiday. Leaving aside a World War retrospective, what's more Memorial Day than a big pot of baked beans? We didn't have the barbecued meat to go with it but we did have something even better: my roommate Andrea just came back from a weekend at the Cape (you know, the Cod one) lugging a bag of live mussels. She prepared them to her mother's recipe, with white wine, butter, celery, carrots, and herbs, and you know we mopped the fragrant broth up with buckets of toasted bread.

The baked beans recipe I was working with -- published in 1963 in John Gould's Monstrous Depravity -- called for night-long soaking and day-long baking. Not wanting to turn on my oven for so long on such a warm day (and not having planned ahead for dried beans), I grabbed 4 cans of black-eyed peas and cooked them in the Crock-Pot.

Gould recommends a number of what are now considered heritage beans: yellow eyes, Jacob's Cattle, Soldier (or Johnson), as well as the common kidney bean. I found none of them except the latter, so decided to go with black-eyed peas because they, not surprisingly, resemble yellow eyes, and because they're lucky, and despite what I've said before, I feel like I could use some good fortune right now.

Mussels and baked beans: an odd combination, perhaps, but both honor New England (Gould was from Rockland, Maine), so why not? I more or less followed his recipe, though I upped the fresh ginger -- and if I were doing it again, I think I'd add even more. But then, I'm a known ginger lover.

May you enjoy them all summer long ... but not with white pants.

Slow-Cooker "Baked" Black-Eyed Peas

2-3 slices thick-cut bacon
1/2 cup white onion, diced
4 (15 & 1/2 ounce) cans of black-eyed peas
1/4 cup dark molasses
1/8 cup brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1-2 teaspoons fresh ginger, minced

Fry the bacon slices to just-crisp in a skillet over medium-low heat. Remove bacon and allow to cool slightly. Add onion and saute in bacon fat for 5 minutes. Slice the bacon into thin strips.
Empty the canned peas, including liquid, into the bowl of a slow-cooker. Add bacon, onion, bacon fat, and all other ingredients. Cover but leave a crack for steam to escape. Cook on medium for 5-6 hours, until liquid is reduced to a thick gravy.

Go East, Young Taco

2008-05-12T19:38:00.012-04:00

Faced with a 1945 recipe for Fried Scallion Cake, I thought, Fun! Easy! Let's up the ante. Make the cakes into tortilla-like wrappers for Chinese tacos.

Turns out the tacos were a very good idea. But I was wrong about the Fun! and Easy! part. The recipe, published by Buwei Yang Chao in How to Cook and Eat in Chinese, should have been a dead giveaway, particularly the bit where it instructs you to

roll up each cake (as you would roll a carpet) and then twist into a standing spiral, like a fattened water-heater. With the rolling pin, flatten the spiral from the top down...

Huh? Well, it made for an adventure. Take a look...

The moral? DO surprise your friends and family with a Chinese taco night ... but DON'T use Chao's recipe! Unless you know how to roll a sticky gob of dough into the shape of a fattened water-heater.

These Scallion Cilantro Pancakes look tasty and much thinner than the naan-like cakes I was able to make -- the better to roll up all the yummy fillings. The cilantro would be a welcome addition to the happy hodgepodge of filling flavors.

And speaking of those fillings, I suggest five-spice pork (or turkey? or firm, crumbled tofu?), Chinese pico de gallo, Napa cabbage with a light dressing (or plain), bottled black bean sauce (I heated mine just before serving) or hoisin sauce. You could also toss in some very thinly sliced red peppers, chopped sugar snap peas, or crushed, toasted almonds.

Now, doesn't it feel good to know you've got your menus set for Chinese New Year and Cinco de Mayo?

食飯 and ¡Buen provecho!

Five-Spice Pork

1 pound lean ground pork
2 heaping tablespoons five-spice powder
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon minced fresh ginger (optional)
A little bit of oil for cooking
1/2 cup scallions, chopped

About 2 hours before serving, combine the pork, five-spice powder, soy sauce, and fresh ginger. Chill until ready to cook. Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Swirl just a teensy bit of oil in there. Add pork and scallions and cook, stirring often, until pork is cooked through and not a speck of pink remains, about 10 minutes.

Chinese Pico de Gallo

1/2 cup finely chopped boy choy
1/4 cup finely chopped crunchy bean spouts
2 tablespoons minced scallions
1 teaspoon minced fresh ginger
2 tablespoons hot sesame oil, or to taste

About 2 hours before serving, combine all ingredients. Taste and add more hot sesame oil if desired. Chill until 20 minutes before serving.

Napa Cabbage with a Light Mirin Dressing

3 cups shredded Napa cabbage
1 tablespoons rice wine vinegar
1 tablespoon Mirin (rice cooking wine)
1/4 cup toasted sesame seeds (optional)

Just before serving, combine all ingredients and toss.

Strangechicken

2008-05-08T22:07:00.014-04:00

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Chartreuse

We're getting to the point in this project where the remaining "to do" recipes are those that, for whatever reason, still ... remain.

There's Philadelphia Pepperpot Soup. Starring role: tripe. For those of you not well versed in bovine anatomy, that's stomach. It's not that I'm faint of heart. It's just that one can find any number of reasons not to make cow tum-tum soup. And I have. But now that it's nearly summer, I'm regretting having avoided it all these months. Here's hoping for one more chilly Sunday.

And then there's Potted Lobster: essentially, lobster terrine. Sounds delicious, yes? And it's an economical way of stretching one lobster to feed many. But the thought of picking apart a lobster and not getting to immediately dunk that sweet flesh in a pool of melted butter -- heartbreaking. I'll have to make that sacrifice soon, just not yet.

Fortunately, the results of a dish I once feared -- Chicken Chartreuse -- are encouraging. The recipe, published by Mary Lincoln in her 1884 work, Mrs. Lincoln's Boston Cookbook, put me off, if only for the cooking method. We are to "put [the mold] on a trivet in a kettle and steam for three hours" (or one hour if the sausage and chicken is pre-cooked.) I mean, kettle? Trivet?

But with two months to go 'til I complete my year of cooking historically, I had to do like the Puritans and carpe diem -- with or without kettles and trivets.

I made Chicken Chartreuse for an informal drinks party with my New York posse. Also on the menu: my most-requested feta dip and a big ol' pot full of sangria.

**Hot food blogger tip: if you fear disaster, serve plenty of drink!**

But I needn't have worried. The Chartreuse had a texture that calls to mind a slightly looser paté, with flavors that are as familiar as matzo ball soup. On crackers, it made light and satisfying party fare. The concept -- bits of tasty stuff mushed together and steamed -- accommodates interpretations and improvisations galore. Just be mindful of maintaining the proportion of wet-to-dry ingredients.

I'm providing both the chartreuse and sangria recipes -- but you could definitely get away with serving just the former. No booze required! Now that Pepperpot Soup may be another story....

Chicken Chartreuse

I used truffle-flecked sausage links, but perhaps a rosemary or a red pepper flavor would suit you? Also consider substituting other types of cooked meat, and vinegar instead of lemon juice.

You can set up an impromptu kettle-and-trivet steaming combination with a deep baking dish and a couple inches of water.

9 ounces (1 heaping cup) of cold cooked chicken, minced
2 chicken sausage links, minced
3 tablespoons bread crumbs
1 tablespoon chopped capers
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
Pinch of cayenne
2 eggs, beaten
Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Combine all the ingredients and mix well. Butter a two-cup mold. Press the chicken mixture into the mold and cover. Fill a baking dish with about 2 inches of water. Place the mold in the water and bake for 1 hour. Allow to cool completely in the mold. To remove the chartreuse from the mold, dip the mold briefly in hot water,and slip a thin, sharp knife around the edge of the chicken to loosen. Serve chilled with crackers.

Serves 4-6 as an appetizer.

Saving-Face Sangria

1 bottle of red wine (Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Rioja, Zinfandel, Shiraz)
1 lemon cut into thin slices
1 lime cut into thin slices
1 orange, peeled and cut into wedges
1 & 1/2 cups rum
2 cups grapefruit juice

Combine all ingredients, chill, and serve.

Serves 4.

The Great Compromise

2008-04-30T17:49:00.000-04:00

For nine months, I've met every challenge that the cooks of yore have thrown at me (or so I like to think). But there are times when this historical food blogger is stumped.

Take a gander at this recipe, published in The "Settlement" Cook Book (1903), by Mrs. Simon Kander:

Matzos Pudding

3 matzos (soaked, pressed and stirred until smooth)
10 eggs beaten separately
2 large apples (peeled and grated)
1 cup goose fat
1/2 cup white wine
Grated rind of a lemon
Sugar to sweeten
1/2 teaspoon salt

Stir one-half hour and lastly fold in the beaten whites. Grease form well, bake in a moderate oven one-half hour and serve with wine sauce, six eggs, one cup of weak wine, sugar to taste. Stir constantly until it thickens as it is apt to curdle.

I mean, what is this? It starts with a porridge of unleavened cracker crumbs ... morphs into imitation bread pudding ... and ends with an egg-and-wine sauce for good measure? Is it even a dessert? And what's with the goose fat?

Since starting this project, I've often studied this recipe, intrigued by the unusual use of traditional Passover crackers but baffled by the directions and uninspired by the ingredients. And after my disappointment with that utterly pointless Irish potato concoction, I'm wary of strange puddings.

The official title of The "Settlement" Cook Book was "The Way to a Man's Heart." Molly O'Neill writes that the title "was quite in earnest, since poor cooking was often a source of marital strife."

They say the key to a good marriage is compromise, so I decided to negotiate with Mrs. Kander. I'd take her suggestion for Matzos Pudding, but I'd be making a few changes.

To begin with, goose fat was out: a custard of milk, cream, and eggs suits the modern palate, and brings us back into comfortable bread pudding territory. To give the dish more substance, crushed matzos made room for leftover whole wheat bread. Lemon peel? That could stay. But I added some Eastern spices (vanilla, cardamom, and star anise), inspired by a recipe for Lemon-spice Bread Pudding with Sauteed Peaches by Tasha Garcia and Julie Taras.

And in the produce section of Whole Foods, gazing at perfect, speckled globes of Asian pears, I found more inspiration. Two apples in the pudding became four pears in the sauce. I chose a variety, all at the peak of ripeness: two Comice, one Bosc, one Asian. I riffed on the classic dish of pears poached in wine: pears stewed briefly in lemon juice, butter, and red wine. A perfect compromise between Garcia and Tara's sauteed peaches and Kander's very rich wine sauce.

For the pudding, I followed Garcia and Tara's recipe fairly closely, but substituted half-and-half for their combination of whole milk and cream because it meant one less purchase at the store. And I added matzos, of course, broken into pieces. I mixed most of the matzos into the bread-and-custard mixture 20 minutes before baking, so that the matzos would soak up some of the cream and flavor, but reserved a handful to sprinkle on top just before sticking it in the oven.

The result was heavenly and wholly original. Matzos added a welcome crunch to the mundane (but wonderful!) mushiness of bread pudding. Lemon and spices and pears and wine make for an all-encompassing experience, like a goose down comforter on a cold winter's day (you see? We got some goose in there after all). The recipe below was a group effort -- Garcia, Tara, and Kander all contributed their part -- and I'm immensely proud of it.

Matzo-Bread Pudding with Pears in Wine Sauce

The subtle flavors of whole seasonings -- a vanilla bean, a few cardamom pods, and a pair of star anise -- add a great deal to the dish, but if they are unavailable, you may substitute vanilla extract and ground cardamom and star anise.

For the pudding:
5 cups 1-inch bread cubes from day old bread with crusts
4 matzo crackers, broken up into small pieces
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise (or 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract)
3 cups half-and-half
4 cardamom pods, crushed (or a pinch of ground cardamom)
2 whole star anise (or a pinch of ground anise)
1 1/2 teaspoons grated lemon peel
3 large eggs
1 1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt

For the sauce:
4 large pears, preferably different varieties, cut into 1/2-inch thick slices
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 cup dry red wine
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter

To make the pudding, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Toss the bread and melted butter on a large rimmed baking sheet. Place bread in oven and toast until golden, stirring occasionally, about 15 minutes. Set aside.
Meanwhile, scrape the seeds from the vanilla bean into a medium saucepan; add bean. Add half and half, cardamom, star anise, and lemon peel to pan and bring to a simmer. Remove from heat, cover, and let steep for 30 minutes. Strain.
Whisk eggs, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. Gradually whisk half and half mixture into egg mixture. Add bread and toss gently to combine. Cover and let stand at room temperature, stirring occasionally, at least 1 hour and up to 2 hours. Twenty minutes before baking, add all but about 3 tablespoons of the matzo pieces to the bread mixture and stir gently to combine.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 11 x 7 x 2-inch glass baking dish. Transfer bread mixture to prepared dish and sprinkle with remaining matzo pieces. Bake until just set, about 55 minutes. Cool pudding at least 10 minutes.
To make the sauce, combine the pears, lemon juice, sugar, and wine in a bowl and toss. Melt the butter in a heavy large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the pears; cook until juices thicken slightly, stirring gently, about 4-5 minutes. Serve the pudding warm or at room temperature with the pears.

WWJD?

2008-04-24T09:31:00.003-04:00

My debut as a Washington hostess was not the cool-headed, pearl-strung affair I imagined as a little girl with big political dreams (and by little girl I mean a 26-year-old, last week).

It was a gorgeous day, demanding icy margaritas on a cherry blossom’d patio, not a less-than-happy hour or three spent near a hot stove. The only cherry blossoms in sight were the red splotches emanating from my over-warm cheeks.

There are times in life and in the kitchen when nothing seems to go your way. This was one of those times. The pork tenderloin was disappointingly fatty and oddly shaped and I was so generally frustrated that in attempting to tenderize it, I managed to tear it into pieces with a wooden cutting board. FYI: pork is not a punching bag.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that if Jackie Kennedy ever cooked – which let’s face it, is highly unlikely – she would never be reduced to a furrow-browed, damp-necked, expletive-spewing mess.

But despite its manic inception, the meal actually turned out quite wonderfully, including the ragged tenderloin, prepared according to Mark Bittman's genius and defiantly simple recipe (I adapted for a crowd and did the first browning in the oven).

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that if Jackie ever ate – which, let’s face it, is also highly unlikely – I believe she would have offered gracious endorsement of our delicate first course: cool vichyssoise soup.

My guide was a 1965 recipe from the notable 20^th century gourmand Michael Field, who edited the insanely popular and influential TIME-LIFE cookbook series. He explained that the decidedly Francophilian (not a word, but should be) leek and potato concoction we know as vichyssoise actually originated in the U. S.

Mr. Field instructs that “a cold soup tends to be pallid and should be pampered with a bit with good stock and thick cream if it is to make any impression on the palate at all.” Well, I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing I detest like a pallid soup. I gave that vichyssoise all the TLC my poor tenderloin was missing.

The result was refreshing (no small feat considering how much butter and cream went into it), and, I believe, well seasoned (taking a cue from Michael Ruhlman in The Elements of Cooking, I seasoned with salt all the way through, from cooking the leeks to the final taste test.) My soup needed a bit of extra salt because I used vegetable broth instead of chicken broth to accommodate a vegetarian guest.

Mr. Field cannot underestimate the importance of a good stock – a point on which he and the well-bred, horse-loving Jackie would agree on – but I don't believe much was lost in translation to canned vegetable broth. The spirit of Franco-American diplomacy, of cool buttery sips and saucy cocktail chatter, reigned supreme. Jackie would have not only approved but maybe – just maybe – asked for a second helping.

Vegetarian Vichyssoise

Adapted from Michael Field, Michael Field's Cooking School, 1965.

4 cups vegetable broth
4 tbsp. butter
2-3 medium to large leeks, white and light green parts, finely chopped (about 1 ½ cups)
1 small onion, finely chopped (about 1/3 cup)
2 pints potatoes, sliced about ¼-inch thick
Several big pinches of sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper (or white pepper, if a perfectly white soup is important to you)
1 cup heavy cream
4 tbsp. finely cut chives

Melt the butter over low heat in a large, heavy skillet. Add the onion, leeks, and a big pinch of salt and cook slowly for about 20 minutes, stirring every now and then and adjusting the heat so the vegetables barely color.
When the vegetables are soft and translucent, transfer them to a 3- or 4-quart saucepan. Add the stock, potatoes, another big pinch of salt, and bring it all to a boil. Reduce the heat at once, partially cover the pan, and simmer until the potatoes are soft and crumble easily with a fork. Remove from the heat and allow to cool enough to handle safely in a food processor.
Working in batches, pulse the soup in a food processor a few times – it shouldn’t be perfectly smooth, so resist the temptation to over-blend it. Taste for seasoning, add salt if necessary and a few cranks of black pepper.
Cover the bowl and refrigerate until thoroughly chilled. Serve in chilled cups with a sprinkle of chives on top of each portion.

Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Controlling Your Peanut Butter

2008-04-21T19:29:00.006-04:00

George Washington Carver was an agricultural inventor, distinguished Tuskegee professor, and trailblazing American who rose from slavery to the heights of scientific achievement.

And so I mean no disrespect when I say that what may be his most lasting achievement is that thing we slather between two pieces of bread for what is one of the world’s best sandwiches. That thing that transforms an unassuming stalk of celery into a deliciously insect-laden log. That thing that so comically gets stuck on the roof of a doggie’s mouth.

Oh yes, the quintessential American schmear: peanut butter (with apologies to cream cheese.)

In 1916, Mr. Carver published what is likely the first recipe for peanut butter, just one of more than 100 peanut recipes included in How To Grow the Peanut and 105 Ways of Preparing It for Human Consumption. The recipe, titled "Puree of Peanuts Number Two (Extra Fine)," was part of Carver's efforts to "expand the market for the legume," as Molly O'Neill writes in American Food Writing. And did he ever.

To quote the Skippy website, "nobody consumes as much peanut butter as Americans." Damn straight, and no one puts us in a corner either. Seventy-five percent of our households bought a jar last year. On average, we each eat 3 pounds per annum. Not to give you sticky brown nightmares, but that's 8,000 calories and 685 grams of fat.

I feel like I ate half my quota since I made peanut butter last week. It's been all PB, all the time. It's one of the reasons why I've been AWOL -- apologies for not posting in more than two weeks. You see, I can barely reach past my PBB (peanut butter belly) to type this. Once again, Bill Watterson, creator of "Calvin and Hobbes," has totally nailed it: "If you can't control you peanut butter," he said, "you can't control your life."

Mr. Carver's recipe is way more complicated than it needs to be these days: he roasts then shells then grinds then adds salt/sugar/boiling water then boils over very low heat for 8 to 10 hours. His end-product is much denser than the sort of thing we're used to: it's chilled and sliced, eaten hot or cold, and sometimes "rolled in bread crumbs or cracker dust and fried a chicken brown" -- an "excellent substitute for meat." (Not unlike nutloaf, a contemporary recipe.)

I just don't have the time to contend with that particular recipe, not when making peanut butter is as easy as:

Dump roasted, shelled peanuts in a food processor
Press "Go"

But I did want to make myself suffer a bit in honor of Mr. Carver, so I ordered raw peanuts from Virginia (which I wrote about for a new food site I'm contributing to, Ffffood -- check it out!). I roasted and shelled them myself (with help from Jane), a pointless endeavor that took much longer than I expected. First they must be shelled, then roasted very briefly to loosen their skins, then their papery jackets must be removed. Some of those buggers just won't budge. It's not as bad as removing your own skin, but it's close.

I adapted this modern PB recipe, which is "for kids." Indeed, organizing a peanut-butter-making activity for kids is probably the only reason to make it. You don't save yourself any money and you certainly don't save any time. But it is a lot of fun -- so long as you say a silent thank you to Mr. Carver while you purchase pre-roasted, pre-shelled peanuts and blithely press "go" on your food processor.

Crunchy Peanut Butter

2 pounds raw peanuts, in the shell (or make it easy on yourself: buy them roasted, possibly even shelled – in which case, you’ll need 4 cups!)
2 ½ tablespoons peanut oil

Shell the peanuts. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Arrange peanuts in a single layer on a baking sheet and roast for 3 to 5 minutes. Let cool for a few moments and then rub off the skins with your fingers. For those peanuts that won’t easily give off their skins, roast for another 3 to 5 minutes and try again.
Arrange shelled and skinned peanuts on the baking sheet and roast for about 10 minutes, until golden brown. Toss and redistribute peanuts twice so they’ll cook evenly.
Let the peanuts cool. Reserve about ¾ cup of peanuts. Combine the rest of the peanuts and the peanut oil in the bowl of a food processor and process on high for 2 – 3 minutes, until smooth. Add the reserved peanuts and pulse 6 – 10 times, until the peanut chunks are evenly distributed. Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator.

Yield: About 3 cups.

Eight Decades, One Meal

2008-04-03T20:51:00.019-04:00

Last weekend, 29 people came from Santa Barbara, San Francisco, San Jose, Palo Alto, Vancouver, Boise, Denver, Dallas (Pennsylvania), St. Paul, and Brooklyn to Sarasota, Florida, with one purpose: to celebrate.

And there was a lot to celebrate: the 80th birthday of my grandma Sulochana (Sue or Sulo for short), the 75th birthday of my great-uncle Mert, the 70th birthday of my great-aunt Mira, and Mert and Mira's 40th wedding anniversary.

There was sun to bathe in and ocean to splash in, there were sand castles to make and spectacular sunsets to admire. There were even a couple of sharks to be scrupulously avoided. But most importantly, to me (and, dear reader, to you), there was food.

One evening, my uncle Roger and cousin Anthony prepared a smorgasbord of curried chicken and saag and cauliflower and naan, a delicious expression of Sulochana's dual heritage: Indian and Swedish. Twelve-year-old Elia ended the meal on a sweet note with perfectly fried Gulab Jamun in rosewater syrup, inspired in part by this post.

On another night, when we were all too tired from the grand birthdays/anniversary celebration to do any real cooking, my dad made quesadillas with the party platter cheese leftovers. The requests for one more quesadilla kept coming, and he was reduced to using the dubious remains of a nut-covered cheese ball. (Not recommended.)

And then there was the grand finale: a meal that celebrated every decade of Sue, Mert, and Mira's lives, from 1928 to 2008.

The menu (in chronological order):

1920s: Uncle Mark's Piña Colada
1930s: Key Lime Pie, a more or less joint effort by my dad, Mark, and Aunt Cathy*
1940s: Great-Grandma Olga's Meatloaf (made by Great-Aunt Mira)*
1950s: Green Bean Casserole by Aunt Tami, and Elia and I made a Pineapple Pie from American Food Writing.
1960s: Grandma Sulo's Sour Cream Coffeecake (made by Aunt Diane) -- published on a new food site where I am now a contributor!
1970s: Grandma Izzy's Sweet Potato, Marshmallow, and Pineapple Casserole (by my cousin, Anthony)* and BBQ chicken with Stubbs sauce, grilled by my dad
1980s: Great-aunt Patricia's Spicy Wraps, Three-ways
1990s: Uncle Mark's Marinated and Grilled Veggies
2000s: My mom, Shelley, made a salad loosely based on Heidi's Citrus Parmesan Farro Salad (with couscous instead of farro).

* Recipes to come soon!

It was quite a spread. I was not completely happy with my contribution -- Pineapple Pie from Fruits of Hawaii (1955) -- but I'm pretty confident of how it could be improved.

We did a few things right: we added a bit of minced, fresh ginger. A lovely touch. We also reduced the sugar and replaced half of it with with brown sugar for a greater depth of flavor. Two cups of finely chopped fresh pineapple was too little, and too mushy. My dad mused that pineapples may have been less juicy 50 years ago. Whatever was going on there, I would cut the pineapples into just-smaller-than-bite-size chunks, and go all out with about 3 cups total.

Pineapple-Ginger Pie

1 9-inch unbaked pie crust, with top
1/3 - 1/2 cup flour
1/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 tablespoon fresh-squeezed lemon juice
3 cups chopped fresh pineapple (sliced just smaller than you would for a fruit salad)
1/2 - 1 teaspoon minced fresh ginger
2 tablespoons butter

Preheat oven to 450 degrees F. In a mixing bowl, combine flour, both sugars, and salt. Beat eggs slightly and add to the flour mixture. Stir in the lemon juice, pineapple, and ginger. Pour into the pie shell, dot with butter, and moisten edge with water. Cover with the top crust. Bake for 10 minutes at 450 degrees F; reduce heat to 350 F and bake 35 minutes longer.

It's All Good Friday Gumbo

2008-03-27T23:58:00.007-04:00

I am indirectly responsible for a terrible sin. The kind of sin even this heathen child can understand. A sin against family, against tradition, against the dignity of the departed.

A sin against gumbo.

Years ago, I worked for a publication that misprinted a fine woman's gumbo. She was reduced nearly to tears.

"Tomatoes in gumbo?! My gramma would kill me for such a thing."

My family's not gumbo folk, but I have an idea of what a mistake like this could mean. I wouldn't be surprised if a few of her cousins never spoke to her again, even after we printed a correction. You don't mess with gramma's gumbo.

My first experience with gumbo was on a chilly day in St. Paul, MN. It was made by Walter McFarland and I dare say it changed my life (I'm not exaggerating: it may have influenced by move to New Orleans for college). He's one of my dad's best friends, a charismatic bear of a man who's known in his family as Peewee. Three or four years running, on autumn days, he channeled his Louisiana-born grandma to make gumbo for 70 people or more. The pot was large enough to bathe a golden retriever. He stirred it with a paddle.

Sometimes it seems like everything in my parents' lives is a fund-raiser, and the gumbo parties were no exception. One year they collected checks for the late Senator Paul Wellstone, one of the few heroes of American politics. But it wasn't about the cause. It was about the gumbo, the communion of warm bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other, your mouth completing the circuit; an echo not only of the father, son, and holy ghost, but of that holy trinity of Creole cooking: green pepper, onion, and celery.

On Good Friday, I tried to recreate that mood. My roommates and I threw a gumbo party for a confirmed guest list that seemed to jump from twelve to thirtysomething overnight. The three-gallon pot that I borrowed from a friend was not going to be big enough (part of the sacred mystery of the gumbo pot is that it seems bottomless). A turkey roasting pan stood in as our second pot.

And since I was making two pots, I decided (on Friday morning, mind you) that the only thing to do was make two gumbos, one with a roux cooked to a nut brown color and the other thickened just with okra. (Both, by the way, would have just enough tomatoes to give the gumbo some color. I cut my teeth on Louisiana-style gumbo, and so, with apologies to that woman we wronged and every ancestor in her family tree, tomatoes in gumbo are right by me.)

The roux-based gumbo can best be described as a "kitchen sink" Creole gumbo. It's from Howard Mitcham's Creole Gumbo and All That Jazz (1997) and has shrimp, oysters (which I would omit to save money), crab (ok, imitation crab), chicken, stewing beef, country ham (or, in my case, turkey ham -- for no particular reason), and a hambone for flavor. The other was based on Eugene Walter's Chicken Gumbo, published in Gourmet in 1962. Instead of 1 link of chorizo, I put in about 3 of Andouille and declared it Chicken and Andouille Gumbo.

I cooked my butt off. I put on my custom NOLA mix -- the Meters, Rebirth Brass Band, Kermit Ruffins, Dr. John, Fredy Omar, and all those obscure gems on the "Big Ol' Box of New Orleans" -- and got into the zone. I communed.

And then I started to panic, when the clock struck noon and I'd only just finished shelling 5 pounds of shrimp (and making shrimp broth from the scraps) and realized I hadn't even begun the chopping. Oh, the chopping. The thing about gumbo is, there's a helluva lot of chopping.

The ideal gumbo, Walter taught me, must have a couple pieces of "something" in every spoonful: a shrimp, a meaty disc of Andouille sausage, a moist chunk of chicken. The only way you're gonna get all those pieces is by chopping them.

Mitcham's recipe actually calls for "assistant cooks." I was overwhelmed. I ran out for a six-pack of Abita Strawberry Harvest. If I was making 5 gallons of gumbo alone, I'd do it pleasantly buzzed.

And then, as if the lord Jesus himself sent them home to me, my roommates appeared. We cruised through the chopping in an hour or so, got everything going, and by 3 pm, both gumbos were doing their thing on the stove.

Guests started arriving early. By 7 pm, the appointed start time of the party, we already had a half a dozen people at our door with six-packs of Abita and bags of Zap's chips. This is the kind of thing that happens when gumbo is in the offing.

The party was so good, so full of bonhomie, spicy, steaming bowls, and cold bottles of beer, that I was already nostalgic for when it had only just begun. A perfect mix of people: new friends and old, and everyone, including my roommates and I, was strangers to at least a quarter of the other folks in the room.

The genius of gumbo is that it needs nothing more than rice, cornbread (as buttery as you dare), and my light brownies (not because you're watching your weight -- oh lawd no, this is a gumbo party -- but because they are that damn delicious.) And by the time your friends start knocking, all the hairy cooking is but a distant memory, and you're ready to let loose.

By midnight, it was, in my mind at least, official: the Good Friday Gumbo is a tradition, or it will be, when I hold the next one on April 10th, 2009. Save the date.

It's All Good Friday Creole Gumbo
Based on a recipe from Howard Mitcham, Creole Gumbo and All That Jazz.

4-5 pounds frozen shrimp
3-4 pounds artificial crab flakes (or frozen real crab meat)
2 pounds chicken pieces
1 pound stewing beef, diced small
1-2 meaty hambones
1 pound ham, diced
4 strips bacon
3 large onions, chopped
2 green peppers, chopped
6 scallions with their green leaves, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup chopped celery
1/4 cup chopped parsley
3 pounds fresh okra, sliced
32-ounce diced tomatoes, drained (or 4 large Creole tomatoes, peeled and diced)
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon thyme
2 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2 teaspoon cayenne
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
4 tablespoons salt (or more)
6 quarts stock
4 tablespoons butter
4 tablespoons flour
3-4 cups uncooked rice for steaming

The assistants should begin by cooking the chicken and shrimp. Place the chicken pieces in a pot, cover with water, and add a tsp. of salt. Boil for 30-40 minutes, until chicken is tender. Remove the chicken and reserve the cooking water for the big gumbo pot. Meanwhile, wash the shrimp and cover them with water in a pot, adding a tsp. of salt. Bring to a boil and cook for 5-7 minutes, until the shrimp are pink. When cool, peel the shrimp and set them aside. Take the shells and heads (if available), crush them thoroughly. Pour the shells into the shrimp water pot and boil vigorously for 15 minutes. Strain the liquid and reserve the shrimp broth for the big pot.

The head cook should make the roux: melt the butter in a very large soup pot, add the flour, and, with the heat low, stir until it turns dark brown. (This will take about 10 minutes). Add the onions, green pepper. scallions, garlic, and celery and stir well. Adding more butter as necessary, cook the vegetables until they're limp and transparent, but don't brown them. Add the okra and keep cooking until the okra loses its gummy consistency (another 10 minutes or so.)

Add the chicken cooking water and shrimp broth to the big pot. Add the imitation crab meat, the tomatoes, parsley, hambone, and all the flavoring elements except salt (if you’re using real crab meat, hold off until the end of cooking). The liquid should cover everything in the pot by about 2 inches, so add more liquid if necessary: any type of stock will do (or combination – it’s all good!). Bring the pot just to a boil, then lower the heat to medium-low, and cook for at least 1 ½ - 2 hours, being very careful not to let it scorch on the bottom. You can’t overcook it.

About 30 minutes before you’d like to serve, start cooking your rice. If you’re using real crab meat, add it to the pot about 10 minutes before you’re serving. Taste the gumbo and add salt – it’ll need it. As Mitcham says, “A good gumbo must have plenty of salt in it if it’s to be savory as it should be. Keep adding the salt to the pot and stirring until it achieves this deep, rich savor. Don’t be timid! A bland gumbo is a disaster.) Serve the gumbo in large (possibly preheated) bowls: about ½ cup of rice and 1 cup of gumbo.

It's All Good Friday Chicken and Andouille Gumbo

Based on a recipe from Eugene Walter, published in Gourmet.

3-4 pounds of chicken, cut into serving pieces
2 tbsp. bacon fat or Canola oil
4 links of Andouille sausage, sliced
1/2 cup chopped ham
2 bunches of celery, chopped
2 onions, diced
1 green pepper, diced
1 pound fresh okra, sliced
2 cups cooked tomatoes
1 meaty hambone
2 bay leaves
Zest of 1 lemon
1/2 cup chopped parsley
A few good cranks of freshly ground black pepper
Dashes of Tabasco
Pinch of cayenne
Big pinch of salt
2 1/2 quarts chicken stock

Brown the chicken pieces in the bacon fat or oil. Add Andouille sausage and ham. Add enough additional fat to cover the bottom of the pan. Add celery, onion, green pepper, and okra. Cook, stirring, until all the ingredients are nicely browned. Add cooked tomatoes, hambone, bay leaves, and lemon zest.
Cover the pot and simmer the gumbo slowly for 30 minutes, without letting it boil. Add parsley, black pepper, Tabasco, cayenne, and salt. Taste and add more of any of the spices if desired.
Add chicken stock, cover, and simmer for at least 1 1/2 hours, or as much as 4 (you can't really overcook gumbo, so long as you watch that the bottom of the pot doesn't scorch.) Correct the seasoning and serve with about ½ cup rice in every bowl.

Saturday's Child

2008-03-18T15:46:00.012-04:00

Sure, there’s no book deal in the works, but blogging has gotten me far, and fast: a killer job, a purpose in life, a newfound respect for ketchup, an entrance into an awesome online community complete with new (real world) friends – and even a hot date this Thursday!

There’s been some luck involved, but, to paraphrase Thomas Jefferson, the harder you work the luckier you are. And ~~lord~~ my roommates know I’ve put in the hours.

If I had to put a number on it, I’d say my good fortune is the result of about 90% blood/sweat/tears/long hours at the computer. That remaining 10% percent? Call it the luck of the honorary Irish (below: proof that it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive – on the Devil's Causeway in Northern Ireland in 2005.)

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, this lucky girl enjoyed a table-heaving spread prepared by her lovely roommate, Jane: corned beef with boiled cabbage, carrots, and potatoes; precious slices of nutty soda bread (stowed in the freezer since my trip to Dublin); and, of course, a good-for-you glass of Guinness. Dessert was from American Food Writing: Irish potato pudding.

Confusingly enough, the pudding is a Jewish food, "one that will do for Passover" because it is an unleavened substitute for bready treats. The recipe, published by Esther Levy in 1871, calls for grated, boiled potatoes lightened with separated eggs, sweetened with sugar, and flavored with ground almonds and lemon.

My day was hectic, so sweet Jane offered to make the pudding (I told ya I’m lucky!). Unfortunately, I had already gotten us started on the wrong foot when I forgot to boil the potatoes a day ahead. They are supposed to cool overnight, which would have made them much less mealy. As it was, they were quite mushy and heavy. The whipped egg whites were powerless against them. Jane spread the concoction in a dish, dotted the peaks with butter, and baked it for 1 hour at 350 degrees F, until prettily golden brown on top. (By the way, we halved the recipe, and thanks bejeesus we did!)

The pudding looked tasty (that's it in the glass casserole dish) … but we could take no more than about three bites apiece. The flavors of the lemon and almond were a confusing pairing with the starchy, mealy texture. Overall, it was a food with an identity crisis: it needed to be either savory (with classic potato herb pairings such as rosemary or parsley) or quite sweet (in which case it needed about twice the sugar and a swig of cream).

There are better versions out there: an 1878 recipe adds milk and suggests baking the pudding in a pie crust (creating a dish similar to sweet potato pie). And an 1855 recipe does it one better, adding heavy cream and brown sugar.

As it was, the only circumstances I could imagine eating this pudding are if you were bound to do so by religious convention or nearly starving in a famine and were down to your last 3 potatoes (in which case, unlucky you, for what a waste!).

But of course I didn’t toss the pudding! My ancestors, though not Irish, must have gone hungry somewhere along the line – my thighs can attest to that – and their blood in my veins means I will never willingly waste food.

The Roman philosopher Seneca said, "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity." Well, I'm so lucky that my lack of preparation has presented me with an opportunity. My mission: do something with our mealy mush to make it not only palatable but exciting. I will debut the second reincarnation of the pudding at a shindig I’m having this Friday: a gumbo party (for this project of course)! Stay tuned, y’all!

One Hot Dish

2008-03-06T16:04:00.023-05:00

I hope you've studied your American Century Cookbook and did your Internet research because it's time for a POP QUIZ on presidential food preferences!

1.) Which American president’s favorite food is broiled swordfish with lemon butter?

A. William Howard Taft
B. Richard Nixon
C. Jimmy Carter
D. Ronald Reagan

2.) What is George W. Bush’s favorite food?

A. Cheeseburger Pizza
B. Chicken enchiladas
C. Peanut butter and honey sandwiches
D. Hamburgers

3.) Match the Roosevelt with the favorite food:

1. Franklin D.
2. Theodore

A. Roast suckling pig
B. Boiled salmon with egg sauce

4.) Which president’s favorite food is that mid-century American classic, Beef Stroganoff?

A. Harry Truman
B. Dwight Eisenhower
C. John F. Kennedy
D. Lyndon B. Johnson

5.) Bonus Question: What's the favorite food of the 44th President of the United States?

A. Shrimp and grits
B. Boca Burgers
C. Pizza with pepperoni and onions
D. Fried squirrel

ANSWERS:

1.) He wore a cowboy hat well, but is it really any wonder that the golden boy from Hollywood would love chichi food? That’s right, President Reagan adored grilled swordfish and other California cuisine (his second favorite dish was roasted vegetable pizza). Lobster Newberg (surely you remember it?) turned Taft on, while Richard Nixon favored Beef Wellington, a dish that pretty much defines the discreet charms of the bourgeoisie. Jimmy Carter liked himself some real down-home cookin’: buttermilk biscuits and Brunswick stew, a Southeastern specialty with lima beans, okra, corn, and, traditionally, squirrel and rabbit meat.

2.) This was a trick question (not unlike the Bush presidency itself). Dubya favors both PB and honey sandwiches and Cheeseburger Pizza, an artery-clogging whopper that was invented by reality show contestants as a marketing scheme. (N0t unlike the way that certain activities of the Bush presidency have felt). The other two foods -- chicken enchiladas and hamburgers -- are Big Boy Billy Clinton's favorites.

3.) He might have been born a millionaire, but Franklin Delano enjoyed the simple pleasures: boiled salmon with egg sauce (would it have hurt his cooks to at least poach the fish?!). Theodore, on the other hand, ate like the wealthy man he was. Only a young pig roasted to crispy-skinned perfection could satisfy his palate.

4.) Truman was a true salt-of-the-earth type who favored meat loaf and tuna noodle casserole, while Eisenhower was known to crack his creepy smile for quail hash. As faithful readers know, dirty-mouthed Lyndon B. was like a pig in shit when Lady Bird cooked him up a pot of Pedernales Chili. That leaves JFK as the lover of one hot 20th century dish, Beef Stroganoff -- that is, when he wasn't "loving" the hot blond dish of the moment. More on Beef Stroganoff in a moment, but first, the answer to the bonus question...

5.) Senator Obama makes a mean chili and he likes fried chicken, but his favorite food is shrimp and grits. Senator Clinton's favorite snack is Boca Burgers (though this Wesleyan girl also likes lamb). Senator McCain could polish off a whole pepperoni and onion pizza pie by himself, with a plate of shrimp on the side. And only Governor Huckabee could have fried squirrel meat in a popcorn maker in his college dorm room.

So the answer is ... ?

************************************************

Beef Stroganoff, thin strips of lean beef served in a sour cream sauce with, traditionally, mushroom and onion, was a pervasive force in American cuisine from the 1930s to the 1980s. (I remember eating it -- or scheming ways to NOT eat it -- at my grandma's house for Sunday suppers).

The roots of the dish are in 19th century tsarist Russia but it took post-WWII American economic boom time to elevate it to iconic status. James Beard, that late, great bear of a gastronomical god, laid out his recipe in The James Beard Cookbook, 1959.

Mr. Beard's Beef Stroganoff is certainly a crowd pleaser, but if you ate enough of it you'd end up looking like, well, Mr. Beard. When I took the recipe on this past Monday, I decided to try to reduce the fat, but I had doubts that it would work. (Comfort foods are fattening for a reason).

I replaced steak with lean turkey cutlets, used low-fat sour cream, and reduced the butter by one third. And I am happy to report that it turned out so deLIGHTfully well, I think even JFK would approve. (Of course, for him I'd change out of my Monday sweats, which are good enough for my roomies but not Mr. President, and into my lipstick-red polka dot dress and high, high heels.)

I served the dish with rice pilaf (from a box) and a very American salad of butterleaf lettuce, button mushrooms, baby carrots, toasted pepitas, and a light coating of Ranch dressing. The meal recalled meals gone by without being weighed down with nostalgia.

Low(er)-fat Turkey Stroganoff

1.5 lbs turkey cutlets or breast meat
4 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon olive oil
3-4 tablespoons chopped green onions
1/4 cup white wine
2 dashes Worcestershire Sauce
4 drops of hot sauce
1 1/2 cup low fat sour cream
Salt and pepper, to taste
A few sprigs of parsley

Slice turkey into strips, as thin as possible. (About 2 inches by 1/2-inch and 1/4-inch thick).
Melt 3 tablespoons of the butter and the olive oil in a deep-sided skillet over high heat. (The oil will help prevent the butter from browning.) When good and hot, add the turkey strips and fry until cooked through, about 4 minutes. Fish out the turkey strips and keep them warm.
Add the remaining 1 tablespoon of butter and green onions and cook 1 minute. Then add the white wine, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, sour cream, and a good shake of salt. Stir well and heat through, but don't boil or the sour cream will curdle. Just before serving, give it a few good cranks of freshly ground black pepper and garnish with parsley. Pour the sauce over the turkey strips and serve immediately with rice, rice pilaf, or egg noodles.

Babes in Ireland

2008-02-24T09:48:00.014-05:00

Oh it feels good to be home!

I am one of the very lucky people who has homes scattered across the globe. Not actual homes, of course, but the sense of home – the people who want me back, the streets my feet know how to walk. Call it a place where I feel like myself. St. Paul, New Orleans, New York, and Dublin: they each represent a different part of me, and if I had my dithers I wouldn’t go a year without spending time in each one.

Dublin is where I feel heady, invincible, and sexy. It’s where I first wore black leggings and tucked my jeans into boots, nine months before the American girls caught on. It’s where I can tease the grooviest magazine editor in town about his plastic surgery. It’s where my friends are creative, mad troubadours of the night. To put it tongue in cheek: it’s where I’m on the list.

Clearly, I just about howled at the chance to come back for a whirlwind visit in honor of the wedding of two bright Dublin stars.

The night before the wedding, I whipped up a Moroccan meal: chicken cooked in butter and water with ginger, saffron, and turmeric, chickpeas with raisins, couscous, and a salad of my own invention (more on that below).

Djej Bil Hamus (Chicken Tagine with Chickpeas) is a 1973 dish that the inimitable Molly O’Neill deigned to include in The Anthology (as I’ve come to think of American Food Writing). And, unfortunately, I can say little more about it, not even who published it and in what book. I had a photocopy of the recipe but I think I left it in the produce aisle of a supermarket. I had already typed up the recipe, thank goodness, but I didn’t include any citations. So I will fill in the blanks when I get home.

For now, suffice to say that it came to American shores in the disco, dance-dance years, was probably served at dinner parties filled with madcap young things, and seemed the perfect dish to take The Great American Cooking Project abroad.

It all came off quite well, except I had zero success cooking the sauce down to the consistency of “thick gravy.” After munching through a sultan’s spread of chili-oil olives, tapenade, and excellent lemony hummus from my new favorite shop, Fallon & Byrne (modeled by Grace at right), my girls were getting hungry for the main event. After about 30 minutes of cooking down the sauce, I gave up on getting to gravy and just went with something more like an Indian curry, perfect for ladling over couscous. The combination of turmeric and saffron made a fantastic vibrant yellow color.

The salad was inspired by a zany head of frisée lettuce spotted in Fallon & Byrne. I mean, how could I pass up something so delightfully Muppet-esque? I whipped up a lemon, Dijon mustard, and olive oil dressing (light on the mustard), added toasted almonds and insanely good feta cheese (again from Fallon & Byrne – the only place worth dropping my meager dollars-for-euros), and the segments of two Clementines.
Not Moroccan per se, but it hit the right notes, with a hint of a warm climate (citrus), the Mediterranean (feta, olive oil), and the fertile crescent (almonds).

NOTE: I'm back in Brooklyn and it's time to fill in those blanks. The recipe is from Paula Wolfert's Couscous and Other Foods of Morocco. Writes Molly O'Neill: "A cook's cook, Paula Wolfert has proven herself willing to travel anywhere to find the best recipe." Not unlike myself! But once again this is the case of being born at least a generation too late ... don't you ever get the feeling like you missed out on the best times? Man, do I.

Chicken Tagine with Chickpeas (Djej Bil Hamus)

6 bone-in, skin-on chicken breasts
1 pound dried chickpeas
5 cloves garlic, peeled
Salt
1 teaspoon ground ginger
Plenty of freshly ground pepper (about 1 teaspoon)
Pinch of pulverized saffron
1 teaspoon turmeric
¼ cup finely chopped parsley
1 cinnamon stick
½ cup chopped scallions, white part only
5 tablespoons butter
1 Spanish onion, sliced very thin
½ cup black raisins

1. The day before, soak the chickpeas in plenty of water. Wash the chicken in salted water and drain. Pound 4 cloves of garlic and 2 tablespoons salt into a paste. Rub the paste into the cavity and flesh, at the same time removing any excess fat from the poultry. Rinse the poultry well until it no longer smells of garlic. Drain well.

2. To prepare the flavor rub, blend 1 teaspoon salt, the ginger, pepper, and the remaining clove of garlic, crushed, with 2 tablespoons water and rub into the flesh of the chicken pieces. Place in a large bowl and refrigerate overnight.

3. The next day, drain chickpeas and boil in salted water until tender, about 1 hour. Transfer the chicken and any juices in the bowl to a large casserole. Add a pinch of saffron, turmeric, parsley, cinnamon stick, scallions, and butter. Pour in 5 cups of water and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer for 1 hour, turning the chicken pieces frequently in the sauce. When the chicken pieces are very tender, remove and keep warm.

4. Add the finely sliced onions and raisins to the sauce and cook until the onions are very soft and the sauce has reduced to a thick gravy. This will take at least 45 minutes. After about 20 minutes, add the chickpeas. When done cooking, add the chicken pieces to the sauce and reheat. Taste the sauce for salt and add a good pinch of saffron for a lovely yellow color.

5. To serve, place chicken pieces in a deep serving dish, forming them into a mound. Spoon over the sauce. Serve with Moroccan bread or pita.

Serves 6.

Makin' it look easy

2008-02-13T16:13:00.008-05:00

Would you trust this woman to make your Superbowl chili?

How about this one?

I did!

Life has been busy. I work 10 to 12 hours a day. I count myself lucky if I get 5 hours of sleep. I work out about 7 hours a week. Sometimes I cook, sometimes I eat. Occasionally I manage to put on my hot jeans, do my hair, and have a social life. Managing all this ain't easy.

As I'm learning from my venerable boss, it's all in the delegatin' -- and as we're learning from the primaries, it's all about the delegates.

Last week, I asked my roommate Jane to assume Superbowl chili duty. She's from Kansas City; she knows a thing or two about meat, spice, and a bubbling stockpot of comfort food. In my mind, there was no second choice: she was the woman to take on Lady Bird Johnson's Pedernales Chili, named for a river in Texas and the ranch that she and Lyndon Johnson bush-whacked back in the day. (The recipe was published in 2004 in The Tex-Mex Cookbook by Robb Walsh.) Happily, Jane was thrilled to both cook AND blog about it!

I'm off on two trips, one business, the other pleasure. Next you'll hear from me I'll be in Dublin, making Moroccan tandoori chicken for my devastatingly glamorous Irish girls. Until then!

And now, a few words from my very own "Super Delegate," Jane ....

For those of us not naturally blessed with the cooking gene, chili is a simple and easy way of covering those potentially embarrassing flaws.

Nora entrusted me with preparing one of the recipes from American Food Writing, and wisely chose Lady Bird Johnson’s chili as my debut into the cooking/blogging world.

We decided that the Superbowl would be a perfect time to make a little chili to spice up a potentially boring game (who knew the Giants could pull it off?!). With the best of intentions to follow the First Lady’s recipe to a T – I discovered, while perusing the meat department at the grocery story, that 4 pounds of ground chuck is a lot of beef, even for four Midwestern gals.

I reduced the beef to about 2 ½ pounds but kept the other ingredients true to the original recipe -- although I must admit I spiced it up with a little extra chili powder while Nora wasn’t looking. I think I probably shouldn't have added the full 2 cups of water, which made the chili a little more liquid-y* than I'm used to. Letting it simmer uncovered helped a little with the consistency and in the end I think it turned out pretty tasty -- for a chili with nothing but meat, onions, and tomatoes. T

Personally, I like my chili with a little more fixins. I think the best thing about this dish is making it up as you go – it’s virtually impossible to ruin (except perhaps when the chili powder top is loose, dumping a mound of the fiery stuff into the mix – but that’s a story for another time). Using Lady Bird’s recipe as a base, my “perfect chili” recipe would include doubling the cumin and chili powder, adding diced celery and carrots to the sautéed onions, and, of course, beans. For a standard chili like this I would probably use 2 cans of red beans.

And of course, no chili is complete with a full buffet of toppings, including shredded cheddar cheese, sour cream, and corn bread. Another surprisingly delicious addition is vinegar-marinated diced onions, which are as simple as they sound. Set aside about ¼” cup of diced onions and cover with vinegar. Allow the mixture to marinate while the chili is cooking and enjoy!

*Please excuse my lack of proper cooking lingo.

Lady Jane Ehinger's Kansas City Chili

2 1/2 pounds ground beef chuck or beef chuck cut into ¼” dice
1 large onion, chopped
2 celery ribs, chopped
2 medium carrots, chopped
2 garlic cloves
1 teaspoon dried Mexican oregano (or regular oregano)
2 teaspoons ground cumin
4 tablespoons chili powder
1 ½ cups canned whole tomatoes and their liquid
2 cans of red beans
2 to 6 generous dashes of liquid hot sauce
Salt

Sauté the meat, onion, celery, carrot, and garlic in a large skillet over medium-high heat and cook until lightly colored. Add the oregano, cumin, chili powder, tomatoes, hot sauce, 1 1/2 cups hot water, tomatoes, and red beans. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer for about 1 hour. Skim off the fat while cooking. Salt to taste.

Makes about 14 cups.

A Cake We Can Believe In

2008-02-04T15:56:00.001-05:00

I looked into the oven and I saw the future rising.

And it is sweet.

There will be raw cane sugar, traded with equity and justice for all. (Yes we can.)

There will be organic flour that respects the earth and restores America's leadership in the world. (Yes we can.)

And there will be tart and never bitter Meyer lemons that unite lemon-lovers and lemon-detractors alike. (Yes we can.)

This, my friends, is a cake we can believe in. Fire up your oven and join the baking revolution.

On Super Tuesday, I invite you to vote with your whisks, as Miss Flora Ziegler of Columbus and Mrs. T. B. of Chicago did in the presidential election of 1876.

Their competing recipes for lemon cake, published in Buckery Cookery and Practical Housekeeping (1877), were named for their chosen candidates, Mr. Hayes and Mr. Tilden. Banned as Flora and Mrs. B were from the voting booth, the cake-as-political-statement has a sort of proto-proto-feminist appeal, wouldn't you agree?

Since first paging through American Food Writing, I've been intrigued and charmed by the concept behind the rival cakes. But until now, I haven't had the proper occasion to make them. And then my man Edwards dropped out, and an opportunity arose.

Invited to an afternoon tea party at the home of a new friend, mere days before 22 states vote in the Democratic primary, I donned my frilly apron and baked two cakes. One had granular sugar, the other powdered; one had effervescent soured milk, the other corn starch; one had fresh-squeezed lemon juice, the other bottled extract.

Substantially, they're not that different (a lemon cake is a lemon cake is a lemon cake), but there's an authenticity and inspiration gap. I see corn starch in a recipe and I feel deflated. I see fresh lemon juice, and I'm thrilled to use Meyer lemons, in season in California and at a co-op/fine food store near you (they're Alice Waters' favorite and my only substitution in either recipe.)

The likes of Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver would argue that all grocery shopping, all cooking, all eating is political. To the extent to which we are so privileged that those decisions are ours, I agree. But this isn't what they had in mind.

Senator Clinton's cake fell in the middle, leaving a large, uncooked, subterranean pool. Disappointing. Left a sour taste in my mouth, too. Now, I'm not sayin'. I'm just sayin'.

As I prepared the icings for the cake, I couldn't resist a little fun. I stirred dark chocolate into Obama's.

And if you are like one politically astute fellow tea-party reveler, you will have just one question: "So which of the cakes is which? Which one is the one that actually won?" (That would be Hayes, our 19th President; I looked this up AFTER I baked the cakes, mind you.)

"Obama," I told him, "Draw your conclusions."

Obama Cake

When Meyer lemons are no longer in season, use regular lemons -- but under no circumstances may you use extract! :) Top with a thin spread of chocolate icing; recipe below.

1 cup sugar
1/2 cup butter, softened
2 eggs beaten well together
1 teaspoon soda
1/2 cup sour milk (or 1/2 cup milk plus 1/2 tablespoon white vinegar. Let stand 15 mins.)
2 scant cups flour
Juice of 1 Meyer lemon
Greased 9 by 9-inch baking pan

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a mixing bowl, cream sugar and butter. Add beaten eggs and stir to combine. In a small bowl, combine soda and milk. Add to butter and eggs mixture. Add the flour, a little at a time, stirring between each addition. Add Meyer lemon juice. Pour batter into prepared pan. Bake for about 30 minutes, until toothpick emerges clean.

Clinton Cake

Not unlike a classic lemon pound cake, but a bit dryer and lighter. Top with a thin spread of vanilla icing; recipe below.

1 cup butter, softened
2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup milk
3 cups flour
1/2 cup corn starch
4 eggs, gently whisked together
2 teaspoons baking powder
3 scant teaspoons lemon extract
9 by 9-inch greased baking sheet

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a mixing bowl, cream sugar and butter. Add milk and stir to blend. Add flour, about 1 cup at a time, and corn starch, stirring in between additions until smooth. Add eggs, baking powder and lemon extract and stir to blend. Pour batter into prepared baking pan and bake for 40-45 minutes, until toothpick emerges clean. Allow cake to cool before icing.

Quick Icing: Vanilla and Chocolate

Adapted from The Joy of Cooking. This recipe yields about 1/2 cup, enough for a thin layer on both cakes.

1 cup powdered sugar, sifted if lumpy
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
3 tablespoons milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
Pinch of salt
A chunk of dark chocolate, let's say about 1 ounce

In a medium bow, beat sugar and butter on medium speed. Add milk, vanilla, and salt and correct the seasoning if necessary, adding more powdered sugar or milk. Divide the icing into 2 equal parts. Use one potion to spread a thin layer over the Clinton cake. Allow cake to cool before icing.

To make chocolate icing, melt chocolate in the microwave (stick it in for about 45 seconds, then microwave at about 20 second intervals, stirring in between --- you really don't want to overcook). Stir the chocolate into the reserved portion of icing until well blended. (You may want to use an electric mixer). Spread it over the Obama cake.

Passage to India

2008-01-29T00:43:00.001-05:00

My New York posse rolls 8 deep. There's Julie, the former advice columnist and future HBO exec, Jane, the architect with a heart of gold, Liz, the loyal young teacher with legs to her ears, Lila, the brassy, sassy life of the party, Katie, the one most likely to live happily ever after, Andrea, the incorrigible flirt, and Shane, the brains and brawn of the operation.

Our gift-giving theme for Secret Santa this past Christmas was a flight of the imagination --- the working(wo)man's holiday. We each wrote our names and a country that we've always dreamed of visiting and tossed the scraps of paper into a hat. Santas would select gifts in keeping with the fantasy vacation.

It was in a dead heat with Morocco, but I chose India as "my" country because I am intrigued by its juxtaposition of old and new, sacred and vulgar, razzle-dazzle and dirt-poor. Its ceremonies, movies, costumes, jewelry, and colors are life-affirming and inspiring. (At left: my snake charmer costume for a "Burlesque Circus" fancy dress party in Dublin in 2005.)

I remember going to a celebration for Ganesh on a windswept beach near San Francisco as a kid. The idol is submerged into the sea, mums scatter and float away, the scent of camphor fills the air: it was thrilling, if odd. I loved the story of Ganesh, that tragic, elephant-headed young prince; I fell for Indian mythology almost as hard as I fell the soap opera tales of the Greek gods and gray whales (twin obsessions circa age 9.) At 23, I got a tattoo of an Indian elephant. They're gentle, loyal and so strong and disciplined they can move mountains. They mourn their dead.

My adopted mom is one-fourth Indian. In the early 70s, she went on a sojourn to live with relatives there. In photos, she stands with aunts and cousins of some remove, wearing a nose ring, her hair thick, long, and oiled. She is so beautiful. She still has many of her saris. When my dad and I moved in with her, my double-height bedroom window was hung with a silk sari of saturated purple and pink that cast a glow like the inside of a genie's bottle.

Over the years, there has been talk of a family trip to India, but my sister and I have had to make do with beautiful saris which our parents bought for us in 2003 in a "little India" neighborhood in Chicago. I've never found an occasion to wear mine outside dress-up in the house. You'd think one would make a reason.

And the food! For years, I didn't like Indian flavors, so complex and fiery, and then my taste buds woke up and now, oh, I do. It was really a no-brainer for Katie, the one who picked my name out of the hat. She presented me with a red silk scarf with silver embroidery and a cookbook, The Food of India: A Journey for Food Lovers.

Tonight I took my roommates and our taste buds on a little magic carpet ride to India. But as it was a work night, I kept it very simple (one could argue it's hardly Indian cooking at all, then!). Dear Jane brought home take-out naan, potato samosas, and a few other little nibbles to round out the meal.

From American Food Writing, I made Madhur Jaffrey's moong dal, pea-green, cumin-scented "everyday" lentils from the woman who taught the West to cook with spice (she published An Invitation to Indian Cooking in 1973 as well as a series of other influential cookbooks and appeared, as an actor, in over 15 films). From The Food of India, I made yakhni pulao, rice flavored with cardamom and cinnamon. And finally, a dish of my own invention: roasted curry cauliflower and carrots, thin-sliced, crispy-roasted, and so tasty you want to just toss 'em in your mouth like popcorn. (All recipes below serve about 4.)

Moong Dal

Madhur Jaffrey says this simple recipe, beloved throughout India, regardless of caste, "can be used for the white urad dal, the salmon-colored masoor dal, and the large arhar or toovar dal as well." I used mung beans.

1 1/2 cups moong dal (aka mung beans)
2 cloves garlic, peeled
2 slices peeled fresh giner, 1 inch square and 1/8 inch thick
1 tablespoon chopped flat-leaf parsley (or cilantro)
1 tbsp. ground turmeric
1/2 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 1/2 tbsp. kosher salt
1 1/2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice
3 tbsp. ghee or vegetable oil
A pinch ground asafetida
1 tsp. whole cumin seeds
Lemon or lime wedges for garnish, optional

1. Clean and was dal thoroughly. Put dal in a heavy-bottomed 3-4-quart pot, add 5 cups of water, and bring to a boil. Remove the froth and scum that collects at top. Add the garlic, ginger, parsley, turmeric, and cayenne pepper. Cover, leaving the lid very slightly ajar, lower heat, and simmer for 45-75 minutes [note: the given recipe said 90 minutes. My dal was soft after 45.] Stir occasionally. When dal is cooked, add the salt and lemon juice.
2. In a skillet, heat the ghee or oil over medium-high flame. Add the asafetida and cumin seeds. As soon as the cumin seeds turn dark (this will only take a few seconds), pour the oil and spiced over the dal and serve with yakhni pulao, crispy fried onions, and roasted curry cauliflower and carrots.

Yakhni Pulao

Adapted from The Food of India. I didn't have whole cardamom or cinnamon sticks on hand, so I used ground. The recipe calls for only 15 minutes of simmering time. It was about 40 minutes until my rice was perfectly tender and the stock was absorbed. I used brown basmati rice, so that may explain the long cooking time.

1 cup brown basmati rice
2 cups chicken stock
6 tablespoons ghee or oil
1 teaspoon ground cardamom (or 5 pods)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon (or 1 2-inch stick)
6 cloves
10 black peppercorns
2 bay leaves (or 4 Indian bay leaves, aka cassia leaves)
Salt
1 onion, VERY finely sliced.

1. Wash the rice in a sieve under cold running water and drain.
2. Heat the stock to near boiling in a saucepan.
3. Meanwhile, heat 2 tablespoons of the ghee or oil over medium heat in a large, heavy-based saucepan. Add the cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, peppercorns, and bay leaves and fry for 1 minute. Reduce the heat to low, add the rice, and stir constantly for 1 minute. Add the heated stock and a big pinch of salt and bring rapidly to a boil. Cover and simmer over low heat for 30-40 minutes. Leave the rice to stand for 10 minutes before uncovering. Lightly fluff with a fork.
4. Meanwhile, heat the remaining ghee or oil in a frying pan over low heat and fry the onion until soft. Increase the heat to medium-high and fry until the onion is dark brown. Drain on paper towels, then use as garnish.

Roasted Curry Cauliflower and Carrots

If the only cauliflower you've ever had is steamed, prepare yourself for a revelation. Sliced as thin as dollar coins and roasted 'til golden brown, they need just a dash of seasonings to become exciting. You can use almost any combination of flavors --- garlic and olive oil; lemon and thyme; mustard, honey and cayenne pepper --- to transport this basic dish to another continent.

1 cauliflower head, florets sliced 1/8-inch thick
4 carrots, slices into discs 1/8-inch thick
About 2 tablespoons ghee or vegetable oil
About 1 tablespoon mild curry
About 1 teaspoon cinnamon
About 2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Dash of cayenne pepper

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Arrange cauliflower florets and carrots on a baking sheet, in (more or less) a single layer. Drizzle with melted ghee or oil. Bake for 15 minutes, tossing once or twice.
2. Remove sheet from oven and sprinkle vegetables with curry, cinnamon, salt, and pepper. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed. Return to oven and bake another 15 minutes, until the vegetables are starting to turn golden brown and are a bit dried and shriveled (trust me, in this case, it's a good thing).

One last photo: an Irish friend went to work for Google in India and had a Bollywood themed going away bash. My Dublin friends throw hands-down the best costume parties, because everyone takes it quite seriously and makes an effort to impress and humor their fellow revelers.

Marbella de jour

2008-01-20T18:54:00.000-05:00

I've told you about my first cookbook, from the crafty folks at Klutz Press. But the cookbook that got me cooking proper dinners --- as opposed to baking endless chocolate chips cookies and rolling hot dogs in ready-made puff pastry --- was The New Basics Cookbook by Julee Russo and Sheila Lukins. Of course, I'm not alone here. It's right up there in the pantheon of American cookbooks, with over 1 million in print.

My family actually wore out our paperback copy. For about 5 years, it was strapped together with a rubber band, random chunks of pages still clinging together with a thin strip of binding, the sections in disarray, the index rendered almost useless. We have a new copy now --- hard-back.

This was the cookbook I was working with when I had my cooking breakthrough at the age of 13. I was fulfilling my familial duty to put dinner on the table on Friday nights. I spent a good hour pouring over The New Basics, as was my wont (I have trouble with decisions), and finally settled on something called a soufflé. In particular, a Gruyere and proscuitto soufflé. I can say with near-certainty that I'd never eaten one before, but they sounded pretty, and I was a big fan of proscuitto. Soufflé it would be.

I'd never folded in egg whites before. I'd heard about this technique, because I was a great fan of Disney's Sleeping Beauty as a child and in one scene --- one that ranks among the all-time classics of cooking in cinema --- the three fairy godmothers must bake a cake, sew a dress, and clean their cottage in the glen without the help of magic. Fauna, the particularly dippy fairy, reads from a dusty old cookbook, "two eggs --- fold in gently." She gives a doubtful little shrug and proceeds to tuck the batter over the eggs, shells and all, like putting two babies to sleep. I knew that was wrong --- this was Fauna we were dealing with --- but I couldn't tell you what she should have done to make it right.

Thank goodness I had Julee & Sheila. They actually explained this business of folding and that gave me the confidence to give it a shot. It is as Molly O'Neill notes in American Food Writing: "If Julia Child was a teacher, Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins ... were more like coaches."

The soufflé was a complete success. I didn't doubt that it would be; I didn't know enough to know they are supposed to be intimidating and notoriously temperamental. But the kudos I got when I presented it at the table! I thought, I could get used to this. My soufflés became a Friday night staple and a minor piece of family lore.

I owe much to Julee & Sheila. I don't think they've ever failed me. Their recipes always turn out as they say they will, and they always have another good idea up their sleeves. They make you excited to cook, and they nudge you gently to what is local, seasonal, and help you make it special.

Last week I made their Chicken Marbella, the first main-course dish that they offered at The Silver Palate, their Upper West Side better-than-take-out take-out joint (since closed). It's chicken marinated in a mixture of olive oil, garlic, oregano, red wine vinegar, prunes, Spanish green onions, capers, and bay leaves, and cooked with brown sugar and white wine. The recipe was published in The Silver Palate Cookbook, which turned 25 last year. "A spectacular party dish," according to its inventors, so crowd-ready that the recipe serves 10 to 12. Molly O'Neill wrote that the recipe "cut a huge swath through company dinner in the 1980s."

A dinner party dish from a New York institution? I knew just the occasion to make it. I left my job as a development assistant at Jeanne Sigler and Associates last month. Last week, the office team together for a casual not-really-farewell supper at Jeanne's apartment. Jeanne, her husband Jim Fratto, and her longtime associate Carolyn Huggins have been doing good works all over Manhattan for decades. They also love to eat well.

When I announced my plan to make Chicken Marbella, Jim and the other development assistant, Sarah (an NYU student & total foodie), got Spanish fever. Jim supplied two delicious Spanish cheeses, figs, spicy chorizo, and saffron rice. He regaled us with tales of a year spent in northern Spain, where his precocious little boy would sniff cheeses at the cheese shop and demand, "¡No! ¡Mas viejo!" Sarah made a fantastic salad dotted with balsamic-candied walnuts and Manchego. The night before, she was making flan in precious individual ramekins when her oven gave out. Instead, she brought a spectacular chocolate and marzipan "Busy Bee Cake" from Black Hound, an East Village bakery.

Chicken Marbella, Sheila & Julee wrote, is a great make-ahead dish because it improves with a little time. And, yes, there was some time involved. It was a three-day effort: I prepared the marinade on Tuesday, baked the chicken on Wednesday, and lugged it in a large disposable pan to my other job on Thursday morning, planted it in the communal fridge, and lugged it a few stops uptown that evening. (I'm as ambitious and determined in the subway as I am in the kitchen). And then all the way over to the far-far east side (we're talking Pepsi Cola views) in the sleet & wind.

But once I got inside, once we finally got it reheated, once we sat down to supper with a lovely glass of Spanish red and candles twinkling around us: delicioso.

You can find the recipe for Chicken Marbella here. I made 6 chicken breasts (bone-in, skin-on) and 2 chicken legs, enough to serve 8. I reduced the other ingredients by about 1/4. (I.e., the recipe calls for 1 cup of prunes, I tossed in about 3/4.) And I was out of oregano, so I substituted an Italian seasoning blend of rosemary, oregano, parsley and basil.

Tunnel of Pudge

2008-01-15T12:54:00.000-05:00

The Pillsbury Bake-Off is Serious Business. The prize money is a cool $1 million. It's held every other year, because it takes that long to prepare for it. Entries are due a year in advance. Any entrant worth her salt will test and retest recipes for months. Some people --- great bakers among them --- try for decades to make it to the golden circle of 100 finalists. Many will never succeed.

For America's many competitive cooking addicts, this is the Big Kahuna. The One To Win. Molly O'Neill simply couldn't put together an anthology of American food through the ages without one winning recipe.

These days,the Bake-Off wants "creative," easy-peasy recipes that can be marketed to working women. It helps if you use several General Mills/Pillsbury family products, but you must use at least two. Judges seem to favor recipes that use prepared foods in unexpected ways. The stay-at-home mother (of one school-age child) who won in 2006 made a baked chicken dinner for two with a stuffing made from Pillsbury® Dunkables® frozen homestyle waffle sticks and 1 (9 ounce) box Green Giant® frozen spinach, thawed, drained. It's fairly simple, prep time is just 35 minutes, and, perhaps most appealing of all, it gets parents eating their kids' frozen breakfast "sticks."

When the competition started in 1949, it was about innovative baking. The first winner was No-Knead Water-Rising Twists (made with Pillsbury BEST® All Purpose or Unbleached Flour). Here was a recipe women could use: an unusual preparation that got them out of the kitchen faster, leaving them time to make lots and lots of babies. (The recipe posted now on the Pillsbury website instructs to wrap the dough in greased plastic wrap --- which wasn't invented, apparently, until 1953. Hmmm. I guess Pillsbury's been cookin' the ol' recipes. This looks like an investigation for my --- spoiler alert! --- book.)

Ella Rita Helfrich of Houston won in 1966. Her recipe is all Bake-Off, all Texas, all heart. And a LOT of butter besides.

It's called the Tunnel of Fudge Cake and it's the kind of thing that would take weeks of experimentation --- or one happy accident: a very undercooked Bundt cake that just happened to turn out dee-lish. According to Pillsbury, the cake is "arguably the recipe most closely identified with the Bake-Off® Contest." It's easy to see why: it's different without being, you know, weird. And did I mention it has a helluva lot of butter? (I had to run to the store twice for butter because I couldn't believe I'd really need almost a whole pound. Just look how it holds up the hand-mixer!)

These days, the Tunnel of Fudge cake wouldn't even qualify for the contest. It's made with Pillsbury BEST® All Purpose or Unbleached Flour but all the other ingredients are generic. (I used General Mills Gold Medal flour --- General Mills and Pillsbury were once arch rivals, and their competing mills faced each other from either sides of the Mississippi, very near the site of the I-35 bridge collapse. But then one bought out the other and it's all happy families these days.)

I made the cake for my roommate Jane's 26th birthday party. Sadly, I didn't achieve the proper fudgy tunnel. Instead of a 12-cup Bundt pan, I used a pretty 10-cup "Bavarian" style pan from Martha Stewart's line, a Christmas gift from my wonderful Martha-loving cousin. I reduced the powdered sugar by half mostly because I refused to run to the corner bodega again (and I mean, c'mon: it calls for 2 cups ON TOP OF 1 & 3/4 cups granulated sugar!)

I guess in the smaller pan, it got slightly overcooked. The result was moist, decidedly brownie-like, but not molten lava as in the picture on the Pillsbury site. Still tasted fab, though. All the pretty girls at the party just LOVED it. I did them the favor of not telling them it has 550 calories and 32 grams of fat PER SERVING (and it serves 16). It's true what they say: everything's bigger in Texas.

The Mandeltorte Peace Accord of 2007

2008-01-11T08:55:00.000-05:00

We joked over Christmas that if a person starts showing too much emotion in my family, he's probably hungry. Or, in any case: you shed tears, we'll feed you.

It works another way, too. When my daddy's girls get mad, get stubborn, get blue or get bored we work it out with some dough. I was mean to my little sister Gena on Christmas Day (I know, what a scrooge) and we were temporarily not speaking. Meanwhile, after a morning spent fiddling with a computer, my Dad had fixed a network or something and was starting to look like he needed a new project (anything to keep that man out of trouble). So I told him, "You're going to make this torte thing for my blog. It's MANDELtorte, Dad." (He's such an Austrophile. Tell him the dessert's from the former Austro-Hungarian Empire and he's all over it. As he likes to remind us, the Austrians are the brilliant spin doctors who managed to convince the world that Hitler was German.)

This particular Mandel --- or Almond --- Torte is from the third edition of The Joy of Cooking published in 1952 by Irma Rombauer and Marion Rombauer Becker. (The first was written by just Irma, a newly widowed single mom, and published in 1936 and a second "post-war" was published in the 40s. Then Irma's daughter, Marion, joined the fun in the early 50s.) TJC is THE cookbook, as everyone knows. It's Molly O'Neill's "desert island" cookbook, an essential primer AND reference for beginners, experts, anyone in between. But the recipes are far from foolproof, as you shall see.

We had plenty of lemons picked fresh from the neighbor's tree (don't worry --- they asked my aunt & uncle to do this while they were away), some almonds in the pantry, breadcrumbs in the fridge and dark chocolate galore (it was Christmas, after all), so I put my dad & sister to work on Irma's German Mandeltorte (shh! don't tell Dad!). I had high hopes for both the reparation of my sisterly relationship, and the torte itself. Irma writes that the recipe should "be starred as 'the' nut cake my friends frequently ask for."

At first Gena continued to more or less ignore me (except for the dagger looks: exhibit A at right), but by the time she was folding the egg whites into the batter, she was grudgingly accepting advice from me --- in limited quantities, but then I am very bossy.

The batter came together nicely and tasted divine. But taking it out of the cake pan -- uh-oh. Irma instructs us to line that pan with greased wax paper. And, uh, she wasn't kidding. The cake is incredibly moist & crumbly --- it was a bit of a mess. Dad called Gena and I to the dining room table to asses the situation. We told him we were behind him, 110%. Let's go in there with a thin knife, do our damndest to get that cake out, leave no man, woman or child behind. Nothing like a minor kitchen catastrophe to bring bickering sisters back together.

We spread the bottom layer with a lemon curd filling (my only contribution to the finished torte, except, of course, the totally crucial producer credit) and covered the rather sorry looking thing with a dark chocolate butter icing. Not the comeliest cake but it fulfilled its purpose as both a sugar fix at the end of a legendary meal, and as a Camp David peace summit in miniature. Except, you know, a successful one.

The Joy of Fizz

2008-01-04T00:45:00.000-05:00

New Year's is tricky. Like Prom, it's so hyped it's always in danger of being utterly lame. This year we got it right.

My recipe for a perfect New Year's Eve:
1.) Real friends
2.) Fake Champagne
3.) Hot music
4.) Cold egg whites

What made the night so great this year was that we did something that would make ANY night awesome: a group of my bestests went to a Rebirth Brass Band concert near Times Square (thankfully, the concert was after midnight & most of the tourists were stumbling home).

Rebirth has been there through a number of my own personal rebirths: I've been a foolhardy & ambitious college student and a dreamy, directionless postgrad; I've drifted around post-Katrina New Orleans to their music; I've been rowdy and hungry, new to New York and itchin' to find my place. I've seen them twice at the vast and soulless BB King Blues Club, countless times at the Maple Leaf, and a few places in between. I have NEVER danced like I have at a Rebirth concert. If my mate, whoever he is, is reading this: I don't care what it costs, they're playing at our wedding, honey.

And while we're on the subject, I think I'll serve a special fizzy cocktail; something sparkling and frothy (to compliment my dress and mood) with a kicky bite that gets everyone on the dance floor for "Do Whatcha Wanna."

Something along the lines of Roman Punch, though of course we'd have to rename it in honor of, say, the place where first we shared true love's kiss (can you tell I saw Enchanted over the holidays?).

Roman Punch was a tipple that society gals & guys served after festive dinners of the late 19th century. My recipe came from no less a formidable source than The White House Cookbook (1887) by Mrs. Fanny Lemira Gillette & Hugo Ziemann. Fanny was a savvy self-promoter from Wisconsin who achieved cookbook fame late in life, and Hugo was, according to his publishers, once a caterer for an exiled son of Emperor Napoleon. (Perhaps together an early blueprint for countless duos of fabulous straight girls and their equally fabulous gay boyfriends?).

The White House Cookbook is a popular title that's been revised and updated through the years. The most recent one, published in 1996, prefaces with this warning:

"The original recipes and remedies contain ingredients which may not necessarily be healthful for some of today's lifestyles."

Ain't that just so like our dull times?

Fanny and Hugo offer two versions of Roman Punch.
No. 1 has:
* An elixir of sugar, lemon and orange zest, and lemon and orange juice
* A bottle of champagne
* Egg whites "beaten to a stiff froth"

No. 2 has:
* Tart homemade lemonade, frozen into an icy slush
* Half a pint of brandy
* Half a pint of Jamaican rum

Because I love cocktails with egg whites (remember those gin fizzes?) and because only champagne (or, uh, cava) will do on NYE, I made No. 1. I halved the sugar, doubled the cava and spiked it with a half pint of brandy for good measure. The directions suggest that you serve over snow -- how charming would that be? -- but there was none to be had so I smashed up ice as best I could.

Recently I read an article in Vanity Fair in which a lot of aging muckety-mucks complained that Washington D.C. just isn't fun anymore. The Bushes have held 5 state dinners in 7 years, when the Kennedys would have had that many in about 2 months. Wouldn't it be nice if George was getting sloshed on Roman Punch every day instead of running the country into the ground?

But that's enough of the pessimism! It's 2008, set to be a heckuva year. In 11 months we get to finally pick a new president, reason enough to break out the bubbly and make some Roman Punch. Cheers!

Roman Punch 2008

6 lemons
3 oranges
1 1/2 cup sugar
Whites of 12 eggs
About 2 cups of crushed ice
2 bottles of champagne or champagne substitute
about 1 cup of brandy (or rum), to taste

Zest the lemons and oranges. Combine the zest with the sugar and set aside. Juice the lemons and oranges. Add juice to sugar mixture and reserve.
Just before serving, beat the egg whites to a stiff froth. Put the ice in a large punch bowl and add the juice. Fold in the egg whites. Pour in the champagne and rum. Serve immediately.

To Do: Eat, Drink, Be Merry

2007-12-30T14:28:00.000-05:00

Well, la-ti-da. The Shermans ate well this Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, my dad and aunt Therese made their way to a Burbank market to collect a local, organic turkey only to learn that the day’s supply had already run out. Dad wasted no time in acquiring some other meaty thing: as we know, prime rib is a more than suitable substitution for a large swath of the edible animal kingdom. He roasted the great block of fatty, tender beef and we finished it at the table with a ladle of divine Madeira gravy, inspired by this Epicurious recipe and made possible by a three-quarters full bottle of the sweet red wine that was leftover from my latest Cooking Project: Lobster Newberg.

Not to be confused with the rather unfortunately named prog rock jam band, Lobster Newberg is a classic dish popularized (if not invented) at one of America’s first white-linen dining establishments, Delmonico's Restaurant in New York City. You just don’t see it on menus anymore, although it continues to inspire nostalgia (I've seen it on a few cheerful signs in front of glorified roadside seafood shacks on Cape Cod – but have never tasted it myself).

One of our Christmas Eve dinner guests exclaimed that he loves Lobster Newberg, but when I quizzed him (apprehensively) on how well he knew the preparation, he admitted that he can’t remember when last he tasted it. (I’m always unnerved when I make a “blog dish” and someone professes to love the thing. This invariably occurs when I have not so much as tasted the dish before and have only a foggy idea of what I'm trying to make.)

Charles Ranhofer published a recipe for "Lobster à la Newberg or Delmonico" in The Epicurean (1894). He was the head chef of Delmonico's in 1876, when the dish was introduced to the restaurant by a wealthy sea merchant named Ben Wenberg. Originally listed on the menu as Lobster à la Wenberg, the name was scrambled after a quarrel between Charles Delmonico and Mr. Wenberg.

In Chef Ranhofer's version, 6 two-pound lobsters are boiled (for 25 minutes!) in the shell, the meat is removed, sliced, and sauteed in clarified butter in a sautoir. Raw (unpasteurized) cream, egg yolks, Madeira, and a dash of Cayenne are added to the butter to create a very rich but cleanly flavored sauce.

We used Pacific spiny lobster tails (with their insect-like legs and lack of claws, they look like overgrown, ocean-going crawfish.) I made a few adjustments, picking up hints for measurements and cooking times on the Web, but stuck very true to Chef Ranhofer's recipe (no flour for thickening! no nutmeg! no Sherry or other liquor!), and the dish, which we served as an appetizer, was sweet, heady, and tantalizingly good. The recipe is below.

On Christmas Day, my uncle Mark, a Santa Barbara restaurateur, wine god (in that he always has such great stuff on hand, breathed and ready to pour), and all-around foodie inspiration, prepared a crown roast. He had to dig into a few cookbook classics of yesteryear for guidance on how to proceed with this imposing rack of about 20 pork chops bound by some brute butcher into a great crown of bones, like a meaty coliseum in miniature.

The result – glazed with a sweet, spicy citrus and pepper reduction and piled high in the middle with a buttery apple and cranberry stuffing – was extraordinary.

Because Ketel One martinis, fine California wine, and a well-rounded cheese platter just weren’t enough to wet our appetites for the momentous main attraction, there was a version of Oyster Rockefeller – two dozen gorgeous, still-quivering specimens blanketed by a sweet spinach, garlic, and breadcrumb sautee and dusted with browned Parmesan.

The inspiration? Alice B. Toklas and her mid-1930s cavort across America. She and Gertrude Stein sampled them at a small French Quarter restaurant. Alice's recipe (published in her cook book in 1954),was a favorite of her French gourmet friends. "It makes more friends for the United States than anything I know," she wrote. I can't vouch for its diplomatic powers, but it won over my 5-year-old cousin in 60 seconds flat.

There were more luxurious eats (namely, an almond torte with a lemon curd filling and dark chocolate buttercream icing) – but that'll have to wait for '08 posts. I'll be ringing it in with a glass or two of Roman Punch (a frothy 1887 tipple) and bustin' loose with Rebirth, my favorite New Orleans band. Happy New Year's, y'all!

Lobster Newberg

3 lobster tails
2 tablespoons clarified butter or ghee
1 1/2 cup cream
2 egg yolks
1/4 cup Madeira
Pinch of cayenne
Salt and pepper

In a large pot, bring a couple quarts of salted water to boil. Cook lobster tails in gently boiling water for 5-7 minutes. Remove from heat and blanch tails in cold water. Meanwhile, melt clarified butter in a sautoir (a 12-inch saute pan with 2-inch sides) over medium heat. Chop tails into 3-4 pieces and cook gently in butter for 2 minutes on each side.
Meanwhile, whisk egg yolks and combine with cream. Add cream mixture to sautoir and cook until reduced by half. Add Madeira and bring to a simmer. Add seasonings. Remove lobster meat and continue cooking sauce at a low simmer until thickened, about 5 minutes. Spoon sauce over lobster meat and serve immediately.

Serves 6-8 as an appetizer.

Oysters Sherman

2-3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2-4 cloves minced garlic
3 cups fresh spinach
1 cup breadcrumbs
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 scant teaspoon dried parsley or 1 tablespoon fresh minced parsley
1 scant teaspoon dried tarragon or 1 tablespoon fresh minced tarragon
1 scant teaspoon dried basil or 1 tablespoon fresh minced basil
1 tablespoon fresh minced chives
Salt and pepper
2 dozen oysters
½ cup grated Parmesan (optional)
1-2 tablespoons butter

Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add garlic and cook just until it stars to color. Add spinach, breadcrumbs, lemon zest, and seasonings and sautee for about 5 minutes. Set aside.
Meanwhile, shuck the oysters, leaving the oyster loosened in a shell. Preheat broiler. Arrange shells on a single layer on baking sheets. Spoon about 1-2 tablespoons of spinach mixture onto each oyster. Sprinkle with Parmesan (or not – they’re just as good either way). Dot each oyster with butter.
Cook oysters under broiler for 4-5 minutes, until golden brown and bubbly on top. Serve immediately.

Serves 8-10 as an appetizer.

Christmas with the Family: S.O.S.!

2007-12-26T15:00:00.000-05:00

I come from a line of limited traditions. Those we have are all about food: sushi on Christmas Eve, strudel-making on the dining room table, and from my mother’s family, creamed eggs on Christmas morning.

Creamed eggs, hard-boiled eggs suspended in an unflavored béchamel and slopped over toast, debuted in its most refined state in the late 19^th century as Eggs á la Goldenrod, an acceptable culinary exercise for the genteel young ladies that flocked to Fannie Merritt Farmer’s cooking school (she published a recipe for the dish in1896 in The Boston Cooking School Cookbook.) In American Food Writing, Molly O’Neill cites feminist food historian Laura Shapiro: Eggs á la Goldenrod was for the “ambitious homemakers” who wanted to learn “how to make plain, wholesome breakfast ingredients look so decorative and non-nutritive you could even serve them to ladies.”

By the second World War, it was known by its more frank monikers, “apcray on apcray” (for those of you fluent in Pig Latin) and “S.O.S.” (i.e., “shit on a shingle”), and certain sissy steps like putting the yolks through a potato ricer and sprinkling them on top of each serving were 86ed. Macho things like chipped beef were added (sometimes replacing the eggs altogether).

Eggs-and-chipped-beef is the version that my mom’s family grew up eating and the provenance of the dish my two uncles and aunt make every year for their families on Christmas (but not my never-much-of-a-conformist mom). In the family, the eggs are credited to their late dad, Hal, although I’ve heard that my grandma Sue has said indignantly, “I was the one who made them!” So let’s split the difference and call it a joint effort.

Yesterday, after 90 minutes of gift-opening, I helped my uncle make Hal/Sue’s creamed eggs. We met halfway between the S.O.S. version and Mrs. Farmer’s Eggs á la Goldenrod: the sauce was fortified with ham (my uncle’s way), but we added a garnish of crumbled yolk and we cut the toast slices into “points” (Fannie’s way).

The result is über-comfort food, a homely, filling meal that goes down a treat with kids and fills everyone up for a second round of gift-opening.

On a side note, let’s talk about boiling eggs. Only recently have I realized that such a straightforward gesture is, in fact, a cooking triple lutz. Getting them right ain’t easy: boil them too long and the yolks take on an unsightly grayish-green tint; boil them too little, and, well, they’re not hard-boiled eggs. Improper cooling after cooking makes the shell cling to the egg and come off only in the tiniest, most aggravating little bits. My uncle’s technique produced yolks that were dull on the surface and had shells that just wouldn’t give up their post. He’s been boiling eggs all his life – what did he do wrong?

In The Elements of Cooking, Michael Ruhlman recommends that you put eggs in a single layer on a pot and pour in cold water (this reduces the chance of cracking the shells in transit), bring water to a boil and then remove from heat, cover the pot, and allow to sit 12 minutes (on average – some eggs will take a bit less time, others more). Then place the eggs in an ice bath to cool completely before peeling (and if you’re going to peel them right away, Ruhlman advises that you crack the eggs as they go into the ice bath. So if you accidentally crack the eggs at this point just play it off as technique.)

The method outlined above is counterintuitive to most of us – turn off the heat to cook the eggs? My mom is deeply disgusted by runny yolks so she’d rather boil the bejeesus out of ‘em than risk a bit of yellow goo.

My uncle actively boils his eggs for 10 minutes. In light of Ruhlman’s recommended technique, it’s no wonder they were overcooked and cracked in the pan from too much jostling. But then you turn to another authority – say, Kids Cooking: A Very Slightly Messy Manual, my first cookbook – and learn that 12 minutes of active boiling is desirable. What gives?

I intend on experimenting with a dozen eggs and a timer -- but not in the middle of the holidays. For now, the best answer I have is that most of us overcook our boiled eggs, and to achieve the bright yellow, creamy yolk that grace the salad course of fine dining establishments everywhere, we’d do well to ease up a bit (incidentally, same goes for scrambling).

Eggs á la Hal and Sue

6 hard-boiled eggs, peeled
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons flour
2 cups milk
Salt and pepper, to taste
Paprika or cayenne, to taste (optional)
½ cup chopped ham
6 to 10 slices of bread

In a small saucepan, set milk over medium-low heat and slowly bring to about body temperature. Meanwhile, make a roux: melt butter in a large saucepan over low heat. Mix in flour until combined. Slowly add warm milk, mixing in each ¼-cupful until incorporated. When milk is completely incorporated, season with salt and pepper and paprika or cayenne. Continue to stir occasionally until sauce has thickened, about 20 minutes.
Meanwhile, separate egg yolks from whites. Crumble yolks with a fork. Roughly chop egg whites.
Add egg whites and about half the crumbled yolks to the sauce. Add ham. Adjust seasoning. Meanwhile, toast and lightly butter bread. Slice into halves, diagonally. Serve each person two toast triangles with sauce and a liberal sprinkling of yolks on top.

Humble Pie

2007-12-23T12:50:00.001-05:00

More nostalgia, or missing what I never had...

I was the girl who brought a box lunch to school -- never a bag, that would be wasteful -- filled with dark brown bread smeared with all-natural peanut butter and a smelly hard-boiled egg. We had couscous with raisins instead of Hamburger Helper; I was bribed every so often with "sugar cereals" like Berry Berry Kix.

We ate healthy/organic/local well before the days of a Whole Foods in every gentrified neighborhood. It was mortifying.

So I loved sleep-overs at friends' houses and babysitting for the kids down the block because they spelled rare opportunities for junk food. And Kraft Mac n' Cheese was definitely right up there in the hierarchy of nasty-but-good. By the time my sister, 11 years younger, was around, there were natural versions of classic easy-cook junk foods, like Annie's shells and cheese and Amy's frozen pizzas -- yet another reason why the young ones always have it better.

In fact, that classic American dish -- mac n' cheese -- has had a number of guises. It was surprising to me to learn that it's been around since at least 1847, when it was published in a recipe titled "To Dress Macaroni a la Sauce Blanche" in The Carolina Housewife by a Lady of Charleston. The story goes that the dish arrived in the south long before the Italian immigration to northern cities because our man in Europe, Thomas Jefferson, brought notes on Italian pasta-making and samples of Parmesan back to Virginia.

The recipe, which you can read here, is a heavy on the sauce. The pasta and cheese must have been luxuries and they would have had dairy coming out their ears. My roommate Jane, acting as my lovely sous chef, doubled the pasta and Parmesan and reduced the butter, milk, and cream by half. The result was a really fantastic classic baked macaroni and cheese -- what some people call a "macaroni pie" -- that had the levity of a souffle.

Old-fashioned Macaroni and Cheese

1/2 pound elbow macaroni

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons flour

1 pint milk

1/2 pint light cream

2 cups parmesan cheese, grated

Salt and pepper, to taste

Pinch of cayenne

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. In a large pot of salted water, boil the macaroni according to package directions until al dente. Drain and reserve.

2. Meanwhile, melt the butter over low heat and whisk in the flour. Add the milk and cream and raise the heat to medium-high. Bring to a boil while continuing to whisk. (The Charleston housewife says, "This sauce ought to be stirred the whole time it is boiling, and always in the same direction.") When it's as thick as a creamy soup, remove from heat. (You may add more flour if needed). Add a cup of the Parmesan cheese to the sauce and stir to combine. Add salt, pepper, and cayenne, to taste.

3. In a greased 8" x 8" baking dish, put a layer of macaroni, then a layer of cream sauce, then a layer of grated cheese. Repeat until you have 4 to 5 layers, finishing with a layer of cheese. Bake for 10 minutes. Finish under a broiler for a lovely browned top.

The Real McChicken

2007-12-19T17:39:00.000-05:00

I’m ba-aack!

And I’m back with a Mac attack.

Hands down my favorite thing at McDonald’s as a kid growing up was the Chicken McNugget Happy Meal with a strawberry shake.

Oh the greasy salty hot little morsels, so perfectly sized for a child’s hand, nestled in that little box like eggs waiting to hatch – chickens! (Or a close approximation of chicken flavor …texture … mouthfeel.)

And the sticky honey-dip that got everywhere but just melded so beautifully with the nuggets for that singular American combo of salt n’ sweet.....

The fries? Eh, they were there. Never been so into fries. I mean sure I’d eat ‘em, still will, but honestly --- not so turned on by fries. And besides, who can pay much attention to soggy little sticks of starch and beef tallow when there is (could it be?) a STRAWBERRY SHAKE IN OUR MIDST.

Oh, the pink! The cool! The unimaginable decadence of eating’s one’s dessert as appetizer, side dish and then, of course, dessert! (One of my favorite food memories is when I was a wee one, blissfully unaware of such things as nutritional content and my thighs, and I would order a malt in any old greasy spoon, and it would come with that WONDERFUL silver mixing cup on the side and a long elegant spoon and as you scooped and then sucked down the first cup with all your little might (so thick and cold it almost hurts), you would gaze at that second cup, comfortable in the knowledge that when you’ve gotten down to the slurp and dry suction, THERE IS YET ONE MORE TO BE DRUNK, still cold and sweet and waiting for you. Is there any better comfort on Earth? Is this feeling what we search for when we suction up other things into our orifices? Is this why life can seem so futile at times – the fear there is no second cup?)

Pause: [ ……………… ]

Let’s hedge our bets, shall we, let’s make the most of THIS cup. Let’s LIVE for chrissakes! Let’s drink dirty martinis on Fridays! Let’s go sledding on snow-days! Let’s eat fried chicken-thingies! (But let’s not do it at McDonalds.)

Here’s a surprise for you: fried chicken thingies have been around for a century and a half, and more. I tackled an 1881 recipe last night (from What Mrs. Fisher Knows About Old Southern Cooking by Abby Fisher). Back then they called them Chicken Croquettes, which is SO much lovelier than calling them Fingers, don’t you think?

Chicken Croquettes are blissfully simple: they are chicken meat, boiled and chopped very fine, mixed with egg, rolled in crushed crackers and deep fried in lard. For some perspective: compare to the 38 ingredients that go into the McNuggets (see Dilemma, Omnivore’s).

I’m sure Mrs. Fisher's lard beats that smelly, beefy Mickey D’s stuff any day – but I am now in full awareness of my thighs, so I pan-fried in a combo of canola oil and butter. I should note that deep frying would have worked out much better. Little cracker bits shook loose from the first batch and promptly burned in the pan, smelling and smoking up the joint and alarming my unsuspecting roommate. Windows had to be thrown open, the second batch looked and tasted a bit charred (from picking up the black bits), but no alarms went off and it all tasted pretty good.

Like chicken-good, not Chicken McNugget-good.

Next up in a brief series on the provenance of childhood comfort foods: "Macaroni a la Sauce Blanche." (That's mac n' cheese to you and me.)

Also, I'm off of work for the next week -- and back in the kitchen -- so there's lotsa cookin' to come....

Chicken Croquettes

3 pounds chicken parts (I used thighs)

3 eggs

1 ½ cups unsalted saltines, crushed very fine

Salt and pepper

2-4 tablespoons canola oil

2-4 tablespoons butter

Cayenne or paprika or some other seasoning. (Not recommended: tertiary butylhydroquinone).

1. Boil the chicken in a large pot of water until very tender and cooked through. Allow to cool and then remove all skin, gristle, and bones. Plop the chicken meat in a food processor and pulse it until it’s uniformly and finely chopped. Add a bit of salt and pepper, and whatever seasoning you’d like. Whisk eggs in a bowl and then add to chicken. Stir with a spoon to combine – or give it a few more pulses of the processor, but this will make the chicken rather pasty and weird.

2. Form the chicken into about 8 oblong patties, 3 inches long and a 1 ½ inches across. Whisk remaining egg. Dip patties into egg and then into cracker crumbs.

3. Meanwhile, heat 2 tbsp. each of oil and butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Place half the patties in the skillet and let cook 2 minutes before checking for done-ness. When golden brown on underside (2-3 mins.), flip and cook another 2 mins. Remove pattie from pan and let drain on a paper towel. Add remaining oil and butter to skillet, as needed, and cook remaining patties.

Service Chicken Croquettes with ketchup jazzed up with a bit of hot sauce or ranch dressing or the perennial classic, honey.

Submitting to the Art of French Cooking

2007-12-04T23:00:00.000-05:00

On a wintery evening in St. Paul, MN, I peeked into my parents' fridge to discover a good-looking local, farm-reared, really n' truly free-range chicken thawing in the fridge so I thought I’d give it the Julia Child treatment: douse it in booze and call it Coq au Vin.

Julia instructs that one use a frying chicken, by which I suppose she means one on the less-than-plump side. Mine would do fine, having lived a life of active pleasures. But I don't get why she didn't recommend a rooster. My French ain't so good but, uh, doesn't cock = coq? I suppose it's simply the dearth of roosters in the modern marketplace.

I wasn't super-careful with all the steps and ingredients and so I can't properly judge the recipe by my ho-hum results. I still don't get why I needed to bring two whole quarts of water to a simmer to gently cook the bacon in BEFORE gently frying it in butter. We figured the two-step cooking process was meant to reduce the amount of fat -- but two quarts is way more than is necessary for 3 to 4 ounces of bacon, don't you agree? Weird. Impatience and rumbling tummy drove me to simmer the bacon for half the time in half the water (no biggie, I'm sure). Another problem was that pearl onions were simply not to be had in the five-block radius, so used thick slices of red onion.

The only liquor store that could be reached in the white-out conditions had no cognac, a key ingredient, so I substituted a $12 bottle of Christian Brothers brandy. Eh, close enough. My parents don't go much for the "young, full-bodied" French red wines, so I dug out a South African cabernet sauvignon blend from their cellar.

I was so psyched for the part of preparation when I would pour in the cognac-cum-brandy and, "averting [my] face," as Julia recommends, watch it go up in flames. So excited, in fact, that I forgot that crucial step: "ignite ... with a lighted match." Whoops.

I rushed the cooking, even though I knew I ought not have. Poor little drunken chicken was assaulted by a near-rolling boil. The finished product smelled delicious but fell flat in the mouth. The flavors hadn't blended together well and the drumstick (my favorite) was a bit tougher than I would have liked. Slower cooking would have solved that one. My dad's friend recommended that I add shallots, which I tossed in with the mushrooms and onions, but it didn't do the trick. She cooks her vegs in with the sauce which makes loads of sense but since Julia doesn't do it that way, I didn't. Wish I had. After we'd finished, she sat back and said, "Well, I can say without equivocation that my coq a vin is much better." Touche.

I'm not going to bother posting a recipe. I used the one that Julia wrote with Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck in Mastering the Art of French Cooking (1961). But if you want to make coq au vin some snowbound Sunday afternoon, I recommend Nigel Slater's musings and recipe (wish I'd read it before I dove in). I'd love to hear about your experiences with this classic dish and other "cooking with Julia" stories!

T minus 24 hours: it's cranberry sauce time!

2007-11-21T23:43:00.000-05:00

Jane jetted off to Tokyo; Andrea's got a date with a sailboat off the coast of Guadalupe. Yes sir, my roommates are living the high life this Thanksgiving. But oh! the poor dears. Las pobrecitas! This year they won't get their starch-and-fat happy meal, their late afternoon turkey coma, their fridge full of leftovers. And so we hosted a Thanksgiving dinner at our house last weekend. It was cozy and wonderful: imagine the sweet autumnal scent of mulled wine and spiced nuts; long-lost friends, some with new loves and some without; a table laden with delicious offerings from as far afield as Williamsburg and the Upper West Side; and everyone happily camping on the floor when the chairs ran out.

I was charged with the bird. I brined it overnight in a humongous Glad-lock bag, inspired by the Pioneer Woman (although I ended up following something close to Alton Brown's recipe). It turned out gorgeous, sexily succulent, the Angelina of roasted poultry.

And for the sake of this project, I laid claim to cranberry sauce duty. Not that anyone was fighting me for the chance to make it. It's not a glamorama dish, like an all-star pecan pie or even some insanely buttery, tasty stuffing. No man will fall in love with the girl who makes a mean cranberry sauce. But it was on my list: American Food Writing includes a 1901 recipe for Sauce aux Airelles from The Picayune's Creole Cook Book (that's cranberry sauce to us yanks).

The ingredients couldn't be simpler: fresh cranberries, water, and sugar, but the recipe runs on for two whole pages because there are a lot of things that can go wrong even when things might at first glance appear so easy.

First, a warning. Creole cranberry sauce is emphatically NOT like Jello-O or any of its forefathers. The cookbook warns against those who would discard the precious fruit, leaving only a humorless gel: "Never strain the sauce. Many do, but the Creoles have found out that cranberry jelly is a very poor and insipid sauce, compared to that of the whole fruit. ... Liquid cranberry is a very poor apology for the dainty crimson mold of the native fruit."

And there are more such no-nos, but time does not permit me to go into them (T-day fast approaches, after all, and I need to get this post out NOW). Suffice to print this one, which we all may know from our grans: "Never cook cranberries in a metal saucepan; nor even in one of agate or the brightest tin. The berries absorb the taste, as they are an acid fruit, and your best efforts will fail in making a fine sauce. Use always a porcelain-lined saucepan."

Since you must (or really should) let the sauce stand overnight, and therefore if you plan on making it for the Big Day you've got just 24 hrs to spare, I must cut this off and hop to the recipes. In addition to the cranberry sauce, I've tossed in a fantastic idea for them leftovers, inspired by a simple, hearty one-pot dish that got me through the last couple crazy days before I left NYC for 2 weeks of food research in the Midwest, including interviews with the women of the Butterball Turkey Talk Line near Chicago and the people who are keeping alive the concept of truly wild rice. More on that later (but in the meantime, forgive me if I slow down on the blogging).

Old-fashioned Ultra-Thick n' Tasty Cranberry Sauce

1 quart cranberries (4 cups)
1 pint water (2 cups)
2 cups sugar

1. Put cranberries and water in a non-metal saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a gentle boil, stirring often with a wooden (or other non-metal) spoon to break up the berries and prevent burning. Cook 20 mins, stirring occasionally.
2. After 20 mins, take pot off heat and stir in sugar. Return to heat, now at medium-low, and cook for another 10 mins, until thick.
3. Transfer to a pretty earthenware mold or simple glass dish, whatever's handy. Let stand until set (preferably overnight) and either remove by dipping mold in warm water or simply serve in dish.

Thanksgiving Leftovers & Wild Rice Delight

2 cups wild rice or wild rice mix (NOTE: directions below for cooking the rice are a general guide, but it's better to follow the direction
4 cups stock or water or cooking liquid from steamed vegs
2 tbsp. butter
1 bay leaf
2-3 tbsp. cranberry sauce (or more, to taste)
3-4 cups of extras: any combination of cooked mushrooms, onions, pumpkin, squash, turkey, chicken, sweet (or neutral) sausage
Plus 1/2 cup of toasted pecans, almonds, walnuts or hazelnuts.
Salt and pepper

1. Melt butter in large pot over medium heat, add wild rice, stir to coat, add water and bay leaf and bring to boil.
2. Give it a stir, reduce heat to a simmer, cover the pot with a lid, and let cook undisturbed for 45 mins.
3. Add all the extras, replace lid, and allow to simmer five more minutes, then let stand 5-10 mins, lid on, so the flavors can blend.

Feel Like Bundtnin' It Up!

2007-11-15T00:44:00.000-05:00

Happy Bundt Day, dear friends! In honor of the glorious occasion, I hosted a Big Bundt Appreciation Bake-off. (Suggested listening to get you in the celebratory spirit: "Feel Like Funkin' It Up" by the Rebirth Brass Band.)

And while I had but three entries (a bit sad, isn't it?), I'm simply thrilled with the Bundt love that came my way. (Besides, a little Bundt goes a long way -- it took four days and about twenty people to polish off my Hickory Nut Bundt Cake.) Thank you to Dave, Andrea, and Anne. And to all those who had every good intention of making a Bundt cake but just didn't get around to it: Bundt Day isn't over! In fact, Bundt Day is every day of the year you feel like bringing a big golden crest of love and joy into the lives of your nearest and dearest! And so, on to the entries...

I've learned that Bundt cakes have a peculiar power to reach across generations.

It took the combined efforts of three generations to produce the entry from Ann of Redacted Recipes. Ann's mother dipped into her trusty recipe box and suggested "Barbara Teague's Hummingbird Cake," a pineapple, banana, and nut confection that is delightfully retro and so Southern, y'all. (Btw, I loved Ann's simple but effective Bundt-appropriate update: replacing a citrus glaze with the traditional cream cheese frosting.) Ann's daughter helped her capture the throwback feel in a photo that could be torn right out of a Nixon-era cookbook. Now, you may know that I have a major case of VCA (Vintage Cookbook Addiction), so this was right up my alley!

Faced with a beckoning Bundt pan, Andrea in Brooklyn also dialed "M" for Mother. She adapted a recipe that her grandmother passed down to her mother, and cleverly dubbed the creation "Pirate's Bundt-y" (10 bonus points for the whimsical name). Infused with orange juice and three types of liquers, it had me dreaming of sun-drenched tropical beaches and the brown pools of Johnny Depp's eyes. Great art direction in the photo! (Recipe below.)

And our third contestant passed the love of the Bundt on to a younger generation. David at Luna Pier Cook baked a Sour Cream and Apple Bundt Sort-of-Cake with his son, who's celebrating a birthday today (happy 15th, Adam!). They had a minor mishap of the sort that, honestly, happens to me about once a month. Without baking soda and baking powder, their cake made a graceful pirouette and turned into a torte.

And what a glorious torte it was! It looks moist and dense and simply delicious with that fat dollop of fresh-whipped cream on top. I think the best lesson any young cook can learn is to roll with the punches, in the kitchen and in life, and learn to enjoy your mistakes because they lead to innovation and yumminess never before explored -- and when in doubt: throw some whipped cream on it!

Unfortunately, I had to choose a winner. I decided upon Ann and her Hummingbird Cake because it was a lovely representation of Bundt past and Bundt future. Congratulations! So what'll it be, Ann: apple butter or balsamic ketchup?

Andrea's Pirate Bundt-y

Items to be mixed and put into Bundt pan:
Yellow Cake Mix, Vanilla Pudding Mix, 1/2 cup Vegetable oil, 4 eggs, 4 jiggers orange juice, 1 jigger vodka, 4 jigger of St. Maarten Liqueurs (I carefully selected Spice, Mango, and Almond flavors)

Glaze to be drizzled on top of warm Pirate's Bundt-y:
1/2 cup confectioners' sugar, 1 jigger orange juice, 1 jigger Vodka, 1 jigger liqueur.

Cook's note: If one doesn't know what a jigger is, one might want to ask their grandmother.

Aaaargh!

The Hickory and the Bundt: A Romance

2007-11-12T00:35:00.000-05:00

There's something so wonderful about opening a plain brown box, packaged by hand, addressed to you with the handwriting of a person you'll never know. It's been years since the anthrax scare, but still, forced as we are to remove our sneaks just to get on the puddle-jumper to Tallahassee, most of us can't help but feel an irrational distrust of unclaimed luggage and lost packages. The occasional Ebay delivery, swaddled in an overindulgence of packing tape and blockily printed with a Sharpie, is a comforting reminder that not it's not all stranger-danger out there.

My special delivery was hickory nutmeats, of course. They arrived from Wisconsin in a quart-size Ziploc bag nestled in shipping popcorn. My first thought was that there may have been some mistake -- they look so familiar, like miniature walnuts, perhaps they mixed up the orders. But with the first bite -- very crunchy, sweet, with overtones of maple and not a hint of the bitter walnut aftertaste -- I realized that these nuts are better than any I've ever had and worth every penny. (I paid $12 plus $5 S & H for a 1/2 pound, shelled.)

Such a nut deserves a spectacular debut, and what better than the starring role in an Old Fashioned Hickory Nut Cake -- which also happens to be my creation in honor of National Bundt Day? After all, "off all the nut cakes there is none better than this old-fashioned one," or so says Hester Price, who published the recipe in The Good Housekeeping Hostess, 1904. I've heard it said that modesty is a virtue, but I don't believe that applies in cooking, and Ms. Price has reason to boast. I tried the recipe with hazelnuts -- delightful results, as you may recall -- but I've got to hand it to her, the hickory cake blew it out of the water.

Sure, I gilded the lily just a little -- I dribbled a chocolate glaze made with Lindt 70% with Orange and Almonds along the top of the noble Bundt crest, but the hickory nuts were center stage.

All I can say is: wow. I can't wait to make this cake again for my family for Thanksgiving. My advice: go to Ebay, splurge on some hickory nuts, play around, make the recipe below or give 'em a whirl in one of your favorite autumn yummies. Just try these nuts.

And don't forget, you've got a little less than 24 hours left to enter your Bundt cake to my Big Bundt Appreciation Bake-off. I can't wait to see what y'all have come up with! I'll post the results on Thurs, 11/15, National Bundt Day.

Old-Fashioned Hickory Nut Cake with Dark Chocolate, Orange and Almond Glaze

This recipe is big enough for a standard Bundt pan. Divide by half for a loaf pan. This cake is very dense, so you probably don't need to make this much for most occasions -- that is, unless you like big Bundts!

3 cups sugar
1 cup butter
1 & 1/2 cup full-fat milk
5 cups butter, sifted
4 tsp. baking powder
2 cups hickory nut meats, crushed just a bit (you want them to be just split into halves or quarters, not pulverized) and dredged lightly with flour
1 tsp. vanilla
8 egg whites, beat stiff
For the glaze:
1 bar Lindt 70% cocoa bar with orange and almond bits (we don't need the entire bar -- you get to eat one square!) OR 3 oz. dark chocolate with a 1/2 tsp of orange zest and 1 tsp. of slivered almonds, crushed a bit
3 tbsp. water
3 tbsp. butter

1. Preheat oven to 350F.

2. Cream together sugar and butter. Add milk, flour, baking powder, and nuts. Stir until blended after each addition, and then stir until smooth.

3. Fold in egg whites.

4. Pour into a buttered Bundt pan and bake for about 45 minutes, until a toothpick emerges good and clean. Let cool 5 minutes, then invert and let cool completely before glazing.

5. Put the chocolate and milk a microwave-safe bowl and microwave for about 2 minutes, stopping every 30 secs. to stir. (Or put in the top of a double boiler over medium heat.)

6. When it's just melted, remove from microwave/heat and stir in butter, 2 or 3 pieces at a time. When it's completely smooth, let cool until it'll pour in a slow but steady stream, then pour it over the top of the cake, slowly working around a few times, allowing it to drip prettily down the sides.

Accept no substitutes

2007-11-10T00:57:00.000-05:00

Everyone I know is crazy about the cornbread muffins that start off every meal at Jacque-Imo's. The size of chubby child's hand, they have the thinnest, perfectly golden-brown crust that is ever-so-slightly crystallized and sprinkled with a few snips of chive. Pulling it apart, the moist center is the shade of fresh egg yolk, and a powerful aroma, sweet and buttery, sets your mouth salivating. Just how buttery? Less than a minute on a napkin is enough for them to leave a dark imprint of grease behind. This is Nawlins, baby (as the Department of Tourism says), and you best check your diet at the door.

A few years ago, I interviewed Jack Lombardi, owner and head chef, for the arcade, Tulane's student magazine, and asked him if the secret to his food (and cult-like following) was butter. I think I offended him. I certainly didn't mean to. My dirty little dinner party secret? Butter. As any cunning gal will tell you, the more you put in, the thicker the praise. People walk away thinking you've performed small miracles when in fact it was just a simple pound of butter. (What other edible serves as the perfect stand-in for fine Italian marble? Would you be surprised to learn that it is one of my dreams -- unrealized and, indeed, unattainable -- to have my visage carved into an 80-pound block of butter, a la Dairy Princesses of the Minnesota State Fair?)

Thing is, there's a reason you can't spell butter without "but." Lately I've been on a bit of a butter-backlash. I adore Mario Batali as much as the next, but when I watch him toss a pint of heavy cream and a stick of butter into an Andouille sausage something-or-other on Iron Chef, I want to cry, Cheater! I mean, that's not even trying -- the judges can't help but melt like (yes) butter! It's like hiding sweet potatoes in the mac n' cheese and then saying your kids love vegetables.

(That being said, I'd happily gobble up a plate of Mario's something-or-other any day of the week. What can I say, deep down I'm a butter-lovin' fool, although I do find it a diverting challenge to create actually delicious "creamy" soups without cream or butter, and muffins and quick breads with, say, yogurt. Bonus: I still get the applause that, let's face it, I love: my friends lap 'em up with even greater abandon when I declare my creations "[relatively] low fat.")

Clearly I've got mixed feelings about butter, but there's one quick (i.e., yeast-free) bread that you just can't mess with: for the love of all that's sacred, please don't take the butter out of cornbread.

Indeed, in a very early (1848) recipe for cornbread, butter was one of just 6 ingredients, the others being eggs, milk, corn meal, molasses, and salaeratus (baking powder to you and me.) The source is Hotel Keepers, Head Waiters, and Housekeepers' Guide by Tunis G. Campbell. Mr. Campbell had one of those lives that seemed to span more than a century, although he died at 79. Born in New Jersey, one of ten kids to free black parents, he went to an otherwise all-white grammar school where he trained to be a missionary, became an evangelical, preached abolition, and worked as hotel steward to pay the bills (we've all got our day jobs). Later, he made speeches beside Frederick Douglass, co-owned a bakery, and was elected to the Georgia state senate during Reconstruction.

The New Georgia Encyclopedia says that the Hotel Keepers (etc) Guide:

provides practical information for supervising and running a first-class hotel, but the book is more valuable for its instruction in interracial social skills, its insistence that managers recognize the dignity of labor, and its emphasis on the need for workers to be educated, well paid, prompt, clean, and competitive.

Well amen. I'm glad the Guide has all that going for it, because as a cookbook, I have doubts. The measurements in the recipe for cornbread were about as off as can be and try as I might I just can't sort out that it was my mistake. Granted, I did reduce by one-sixth, but I took out a calculator, went through the numbers at least three times, and should have ended up with something wetter than the recommended consistency ("about the thickness of good molasses") because instead of including two-thirds of an egg (4 eggs divided by 6) I put a whole one in there. But no. My batter was dry as month-old chicken bones left out in the yard.

So I just kept adding more of the same -- butter, milk, and eggs -- until I got the batter where it needed to go. Then, following Campbell's instruction, I added one-sixth of a "tea-cupful of molasses" (this begs the question, what size are your teacups? I eyeballed it; oh, about a tablespoon); poured it into a greased skillet, and stuck it in "a good hot oven" for 30 minutes (less than Campbell's recommended "three quarters of an hour" which indicates that 375 degrees is a little too good and hot.)

On a side note: when this project is complete, I'm going to be a veritable expert on the differences between a hot oven, a good hot oven, a naughty oven, a steady oven, a low oven, a quick oven, and a bun in the oven.

Needless to say, I can't offer a recipe this time. I have no idea how much of what went into that batch, except that there was a pound of cornmeal. But there are two lessons from Campbell's cornbread that you might consider if you're hankering for a more authentic version of the American classic. Campbell's recipe uses all cornmeal, no flour, and that making for a very dense, decidedly old-fashioned consistency; the addition of molasses lends a sophisticated flavor without the sweetness of many modern cornbreads. It could have done with some salt (I ended up sprinkling some on top, along with chives, Jacque-Imo's style), and something to jazz it up, possibly buttermilk (a common ingredient in many Southern-style cornbreads, which also have bacon fat and, like Campbell's, no flour.)

To be honest, I wouldn't recreate it exactly even if I could, but it served its purpose -- as a hearty counterbalance to my roommate Jane's very delicious but very spicy "white" chicken and corn chili -- and the leftovers will be reincarnated this weekend in Jane's oyster stuffing for our pre-Thanksgiving dinner. I'm brining the bird and making cranberry jelly from a 1901 recipe published in The Picayune's Creole Cook Book!

Actually, I don't know why I'm knockin' the cornbread. It was good. And how could it not be? It had almost a pound of butter in it.

Arroz con leche ... y masmelos!

2007-11-06T22:10:00.000-05:00

My Friday evening began just great: a flurry of gossip with BFF Liz over martinis at my Park Slope apartment and the two of us giggling all the way into the city to meet our pals, fueled by a water bottle half-full of more martini (on second thought...). But it ended sadly and prematurely with a desperate and fruitless search for my 40s-glam-meets-noughties-excess fur collar on the floor of "secret" bar and a discouraged subway ride home alone (which resulted in me nodding off and ending up in bumble-youknowwhat, Brooklyn).

Headache and heartache be damned, I awoke early the next morning determined to put some positive memories between me and the loss of that furry little thing (which is just a THING, after all). So: a cardio class at Crunch ... a visit to the library and greenmarket at Grand Army Plaza ... a few hours of hard work on my various projects ... and baking, the ultimate self-medication (believe me -- in my younger years, I tried a few).

What are the sweet things most likely to make both baker and recipient grin wildly with joy? Why, brownies and Rice Krispie treats, of course. But not just any. Oh no. My "signature" brownies are super-fudgy and low-fat, with no egg yolk, a little butter, and applesauce to replace much of the sugar. (Believe me, this works.) The Rice Krispie treats were an on-the-spot innovation -- a REVELATION, if you will. (And I'm not exaggerating to say that these bars have all the makings of a revolution -- if you, dear readers, should join me, bake a batch this weekend, and share them and their recipe with everyone you know, as well as strangers just passing by.)

That's basically how I was recruited to the cause. There's a very talented baker who sells her creations out of a van near the Brooklyn greenmakert on Saturday mornings (forgive me for not knowing her name; I'll get it next time.) Anyway, she has a crispy rice and marshmallow bar that is made about 1,000% better with the addition of dried cranberries, almonds slivers, and flax seed. I recreated it to devastating effect (that's good, by the way). Recipe below.

But hey, wait a minute, isn't this a "historical cooking blog?" Although I could argue that the Rice Krispie treat is an American institution, dating back to 1939, and hence fair game for this project -- the fact remains that Ms. Molly O'Neill did not include it in American Food Writing so it doesn't "count."

She did include a surprisingly funny recipe for "Mother's Rice Pudding," published in 1877 in Elizabeth Stansbury Kirkland's Six Little Cooks. That's her to the left. Don't let the starched collar fool you, this lady had a sense of humor. The book is written as a trite little tale about a fictional Aunt Jane, a cooking dynamo, her simpleminded niece, and her niece's five friends, who really want to be good little wifeys someday but, you know, cooking class is so hard.

I'd like to think Kirkland is actually being rather subversive.

The recipe is: "one cup rice, ten cups milk; bake five hours."

And then it continues in prose: "'Why, Aunt Jane, that is the shortest recipe I ever saw,' said Mabel.
'That's all there is to it,' answered her aunt, 'except that of course any cook would know that there should be a little salt added -- perhaps a teaspoonful. You must wash the rice carefully...'" Aunt Jane continues in this vein for another 30 lines. A nine-word recipe has four paragraphs of footnotes, a parable (I believe) that warns against those who would cook by rote and without passion.

"'Won't you let me write down some more receips [er, recipes], aunty?"' silly little Mabel asks, obviously not getting the point. "'Oh yes, a dozen of them if you want them," aunty replies. Kirkland doesn't describe the smirk on Ms. Jane's lips, but we know it's there.

I followed Aunt Jane's so-called recipe with the same reverence with which it was offered. I had to guess at the temperature of an oven fire that is "steady and slow" (um, 250 degrees?). I went with her offhanded suggestion to toss a few raisins in, and on my own volition, added a few seasonings, too. So without one ounce of facetiousness, I humbly present my pudding "receipt"...

Slow-Cook Rice Pudding

"Pour a half-cup of short or medium grain rice and five cups of full-fat milk into a buttered 9 by 9-inch oven-proof pan. Add a half-cup of raisins, a heaping tablespoon of brown sugar, a teaspoon of cinnamon, a pinch of nutmeg and a pinch of salt. Bake it in a 250F oven for about five hours, until it is firm when jiggled. Serve hot or room temperature or cold, with a dollop of apple butter or a pat of dairy butter or a bit of apple sauce or a swirl of maple syrup -- or plain, as we enjoyed it back in the olden days in Park Slope."

"Why, Nora, that's just about the easiest recipe I've ever heard."

"Why yes, dear, and maybe next time I'll teach you how to make mama's dirty martinis."

Extra Special Rice Krispie Treats

You, too, can be the most popular girl at the party with these no-fail, insanely delicious yummies-for-dummies! Feel free to substitute the Kashi cereal for another whole wheat crispy rice cereal and about a half-cup of almond slivers or crushed pieces -- as well as a tbsp. or so of flax seeds, for that little something extra.

6 tbsp. butter
3 cups Rice Krispies
3 cups Kashi Go Lean Crunch Cereal with Honey, Almonds & Flax, crushed into itty-bits in a Ziploc bag
6 cups mini marshmallows
2 cups dried cranberries
1 tbps. vanilla

Butter a 9 by 13" inch pan. Melt the butter over medium-low heat, add the marshmallows and stir as they melt. When uniformly creamy, turn off the heat add the cereals, cranberries, and vanilla and stir until blended. Pour the mixture into pan, press it down until firm and smooth on top. Allow to cool before slicing.

Chop it to me

2007-11-03T20:01:00.000-04:00

If you can remember the 80s, you can probably remember chop suey, though it was certainly long past its heyday by then. Its arc from exotic favorite of snazzy coastal taste-makers to a safe "ethnic" dish for Middle America's Tuesday night suppers was decades long and has finally reached its end. My sister, born in 1993, has never tasted chop suey and probably never will -- unless, of course, I make her my tasty, almost-vegetarian update of this classic pseudo-Chinese comfort food.

My Grandma Lee, an Italian-American from Chicago who was, frankly, not much of a cook, always brushed off an old recipe for chop suey during my long summer visits. I was ambivalent about the pile of limp, shredded veggies and bits of anonymous meat in a sauce that was satisfying primarily for its saltiness. Chop suey sure wasn't egg drop soup at the local early-bird restaurant or a Chicken McNugget-and-strawberry shake Happy Meal at one of the original McDonald's or Franco mints at the Marshall-Field's in downtown Chicago (my regional favorites), but it was tasty enough to keep my interest for at least six minutes at the dinner table (safely distracted from plotting diabolical pranks that resulted in boxes of puzzle pieces raining down upon the unsuspecting head of my poor grandparents -- and much worse).

The provenance of chop suey (from a Mandarin phrase that translates to "odds and ends") is murky. It may or may not be an American invention; it may or may not have been a cheap eat created for/by Chinese-American miners and/or laborers building the transcontinental railways; it may or may not have been a San Francisco chef's late-night solution to a pack of drunken revelers. One thing we know is true: it was Buster Keaton's "favorite dish," as recorded by the Beverly Hills Women's Club in Fashion in Food in Beverly Hills (1930). This the recipe included in American Food Writing.

My version replaces pork with seitan, a new obsession for me, and chicken with firm tofu (inspired in part by Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, another new obsession). I used chicken broth, though, which kind of ruins the mood, but it's what I had on hand. Instead of three cups of canned mushrooms I sprang for the real thing, a combination of shiitake and cremini (I might have done all shiitake if I could afford it). I should have replaced regular soy sauce with a low-sodium version and/or reduced the amount (a whole cup!).

The result was as salty and soothing as a bowl of chicken noodle soup and lasted my roommates and I a whole week. While yummy and addictive like salty popcorn, it definitely suffered from sodium overload. The recipe below is a reflection of what I wish I had done. And since you sure as hell ain't gonna find this on any Beverly Hills menus these days, if you want your wee children to get a taste of this steaming bowl of melting pot Americana, you'll have to make it at home.

Updated, Almost Vegetarian Chop Suey

2 tbsp. peanut oil
2 balls of seitan, sliced thin (about 1.5 cups)
2 cups of chestnuts, cut into discs
2 1/2 cups bamboo shoots
2 cups baby bok choy, chopped into small pieces (or other Chinese green)
2 cups chopped celery
3 cups mushrooms, sliced thin (I used a combination of shiitake and cremini)
1 cup onion, diced
5 cups bean sprouts
1/2 cup chopped tamari-roasted almonds (or plain almonds)
2 tbsp. corn starch
1/2 cup low-sodium chicken stock or vegetable stock
1/2 - 1 cup low-sodium soy sauce
1 package (about 2 cups) firm tofu, cut into 1" cubes
1/4 cup chopped green onions

1. Heat the oil over medium-high heat in a large pot.
2. Fry the seitan slices until well browned, 3 to 5 minutes. Flip over and cook other side. Remove seitan to a paper towel and reserve.
3. Put the chestnuts, bamboo shoots, celery, mushrooms, onion, and bean sprouts in the pot and pour in 2 & 1/2 cups water. Over medium heat, stir vegetables as water begins to gently boil. After ten minutes, lower the heat slightly, cover the pot, and allow vegetables to steam for 30 minutes.
4. Add the stock mixed with corn starch. If it's too thick, add a bit more stock; if it's too thin, add more corn starch.
5. Add soy sauce, starting with just half a cup, taste and increase as desired. Add tofu and seitan. Cook over medium-low heat for 10 minutes. Toss in the green onions just before serving.

I like big Bundts!

2007-11-01T12:52:00.001-04:00

Martha Stewart and I have a lot in common. For starters, we've both spent time in jail. We both like playing around with a glue gun. And we both dig a nice Bundt cake.

Last year, in honor of Nordicware's National Bundt Day (Nov. 15), Martha welcomed the grand prize winner of the "Bundts Across America" baking contest to her show. Plus, she's got a killer recipe for Apple-Cinnamon Bundt Cake (now why can't my icing come out like that?).

And if Martha was a blogger, I know she'd be hosting the "National Big Bundt Appreciation Bake-off." But since she's not, the duty falls to me.

The rules are simple: bake a Bundt cake -- big OR small, one that expresses your cooking soul -- take a picture and type up the recipe and the story behind it. Post it on your blog and/or email it to me by Mon. Nov. 12. (nora[at]shermanhome.com).

On Nov. 15, I'll post the results. And the entry that expresses the purest form of Bundt love -- a combination of enthusiasm and creativity -- will win a jar of my homemade Balsamic Ketchup or my "Kings County Apple Butter," their choice!

PS: Spread the love -- whether you enter my little contest or not, please contribute your cherished Bundt cake memory or recipe to the Minnesota Historical Society!

It's nutting time!

2007-10-31T12:38:00.000-04:00

National Bundt Day is nearly upon us and as a native Minnesotan (by way of a pristine maternity ward in a pretty hilltop hospital in Darmstadt, Germany) I intend to celebrate in high style. (Didntcha know? The Bundt pan was invented in MN, as was the Pearson’s Nut Roll and the Jucy Lucy.)

For the occasion, I’m thinking I’ll follow-up on that hazelnut cake with the Real McCoy: hickory nut cake, baked in a Bundt pan. And I’ve learned my lesson, so I’m planning ahead and ordering the nuts online.

All well and good, but in my search for hickory nuts that wouldn’t come in five-pound bulk bags that I’d never know what to do with, I discovered an 87-year-old article in the New York Times that mocks my plight.

“It’s nutting time! And the nuts are not far from the city,” begins the article, which promises that with an adventurous spirit, a bit of gumption, and the use of a motor car, New Yorkers can experience the life-affirming escapade of collecting wild hickory nuts not far from their own front stoop.

In the “Highlands” district, between Bear Mountain and West Point, lay “the best nutting grounds,” including hickory trees and hazelnut brushes, fertile in late October and ripe for “clubbing” (that is, knocking the nuts free – after one shimmies up the trunk). It’s no easy feat, warns our anonymous guide: “like all good things, hickory nuts are not easy to get, even when they are plentiful.”

The hickory may present its challenges, but at least its population was still bountiful. The chestnut tree was already victim of the “lumbermen” who “cut over the whole region two or three times.” The image of “dead chestnuts trees” is unspeakably sad: “their branches, now bare, once held a bountiful brown harvest at this time of year.”

Today I can find very few stories of people harvesting the fruit of the Shagbark hickory tree, a species indigenous to almost all of the area that is now known as the United States. Those who do seem to be in Wisconsin or thereabouts, none in NY. It would seem the onward march of the highways and the lumbermen have made their mark, crushing forevermore the nutty dreams of larking foragers from the big city.

And it’s no shock to learn that even if all those old-growth trees laden with sweet, never-bitter nutmeats were still standing, climate change would be making the would-be nutter a little, well, nuts. On Oct. 24, 1920, the author writes, “Jack Frost has done its work well by this time and the nuts are easily shaken and easily shelled.” A frost by mid-October? We were prancing about in 80 degree heat and the green markets still had local tomatoes!

To paraphrase our anonymous guide: “How can a ~~fellow~~ gal go nutting where there are no nuts?” Ebay, my friends. Ebay.

Hey jowter, give us some chowder!

2007-10-25T23:48:00.000-04:00

I'm forever partial to New England Clam and my eyes still get misty at memories of Irish Seafood, but I give props to a subtly-spiced Manhattan and never turn down a bowl of hot Corn. We could debate the pros and cons of various chowdahs 'til salmon grow legs and start walking up-stream, but there's really only one thing required of it to make it authentic: it must be made in a big, hot pot.

See, it's all in the name. The root of the word is probably French, from chaudiere ("pot"), which is itself derived from chaud ("hot"). The theory is that Breton fishermen, working off the coast of Newfoundland, brought a version of their bouillabaisse to North America. (Or it could be a down-on-the-docks bastardization of "jowter," an Old English word for fishmonger, which tickles me, perhaps because it is fun to holler the word "jowter!" Try it.)

Anywho. I know what you're thinking: Thanks for the etymology lesson, Missy, but gumbo's made in a big, hot pot and that don't make it chowder! Point taken. So there's another old tyme element of chowder, as Molly O'Neill points out in American Food Writing: "the word used to imply layering of ingredients."

In The Frugal Housewife (1830), Lydia Maria Child told us, once and for all, "How to Make a Chowder." She said layers, so I did layers ... well, my version. I layered my chowder from bottom to top, one layer of each ingredient -- instead of Lydia's lasagna of fish-cracker-onions-potatoes, repeated until reaching the top.

Lydia's chowder starts with salt pork (I used bacon, watched over with appropriate gravity by my kid sister), Lydia's cooks in a kettle hung high over the fire (I used a gas stove, somewhere between the numbers 4 and 6 on the knob), she swears that 4 pounds of fish are enough for four or five people (um, I'd say! At $9.99 a lb. for some meaty monkfish I bought 2 lbs. for 8 ladies, plus 2 dozen precious little clams).

The inauthenticities don't stop there: her potatoes were "sliced as thin as a four-pence," my fingerlings varied somewhere between a silver dollar and a button on a thick wool coat. She thickened it up with layers of crackers and a "bowl full of flour and water"; I added cream, milk, and a bit of flour, judiciously. As a homage to the cracker, we half-submerged a toasted baguette slice in each bowl just before serving. For further richness, my base was a luscious lobster broth that I whipped up with a couple exoskeletons that I've stored in the freezer for just such an occasion since August -- a broth made with stewed tomatoes and dry white wine, a nod, in a very roundabout way, to Lydia's suggestion that "a cup of Tomato catsup is very excellent" in the chowder and "some people put in a cup of beer."

The result was, to hazard a guess, better than Lydia ever made it, and a rare moment to feel grateful we live in these abundant times. The scene was near-perfect: women gathered 'round from some of my favorite cities -- Dublin, St. Paul, San Francisco -- and eight steaming bowls of briny, delicately creamy broth and plump chunks of perfectly cooked fish and potatoes.

Seafood Chowder, Relatively Light and Richly Flavored

You can substitute other meaty white fish for monkfish and skip the clams, if you’d like. Likewise, the bacon’s not crucial – start with 2 tbsp. of butter instead. If you don’t happen to have a saffron-scented homemade lobster broth on hand, try this with a homemade or store-bought fish or chicken stock, and boost the flavor with a teaspoon or two of minced thyme, a pinch of crushed red pepper, and a few threads of saffron, if you’re feeling luxurious, all tossed in with the potatoes. You may also want to add freshly ground black pepper towards the end of cooking.

6 slices all-natural applewood-smoked bacon
2 lbs. fingerling potatoes, sliced into coins (you may substitute chunks of Yukon gold or similar)
1 medium onion, diced
1 leek, sliced thin up to the base of the green fronds
4 cups rich lobster broth
½ cup flour
½ cup cream
1 cup full-fat milk
2 lbs. monkfish, sliced into bite-size chunks
2 dozen small little-neck clams, scrubbed clean
2 tbsp. butter
Two big pinches of salt
Baguette slices, toasted with olive oil until crisp

1. Fry the bacon slices over medium-high heat in your biggest, deepest pot. When they’re brown and crispy, remove and reserve.

2. Toss in the potatoes, onions, and leeks and fry in the bacon fat for two minutes.

3. Lower heat to medium. Add the stock (it should cover the vegetables with about an inch to spare). Add cream and milk and bring to a simmer. Sprinkle in the flour. Simmer until potatoes are al dente.

4. Add monkfish chunks and cook at a gentle boil for five minutes. Add bacon bits. Raise the heat to medium-high and add the clams. Float the butter in the broth. Check the seasonings. Add salt.

5. Cover the pot and allow to cook for five minutes, then check if the clams have opened. If not, replace top and check after another two minutes. Once 90% of the clams have opened, turn off the heat.

6. Serve the chowder with a slice of baguette toast half-submerged in the bowl and at least two little clams presented prettily on top.

Serves 10.

National Meatloaf Day: When a meatloaf ain't a meatloaf

2007-10-16T23:47:00.001-04:00

Pundits, kindly shut your traps! America is ready for a woman president. America is ready for a black president. Matter of fact, America is ready for a black woman president.

And you know what else? America is ready for a meatloaf without meat. Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, my fellow bloggers and my fellow Americans, I present to you: the nutloaf!

There any number of reasons why the conscious omnivore chooses to skip the animal bits on occasion, but one that matters most of all: deliciousness, and trust me, the nutloaf has it in spades.

I wish I could take credit for this wonderful innovation, but in fact, it's an old-time staple that dates from the 1920s, when meat was a relative luxury and folks found ways of making the stuff that lined their larder shelves tasty, interesting, and filling. I discovered it in my quest to cook my way through American history, anthologized by Molly O'Neill in American Food Writing.

The basic recipe for nut loaf, published by Isabel Ely Lord in Everybody's Cook Book (1924), is a fairly direct interpretation of the meatloaf: there's a carbohydrate to fill it out (in this case, breadcrumbs), eggs and tomato sauce for binding and flavor, and nearly endless combinations of chopped vegs, spices, cheese (well, 15,511,210,043,330,985,984,000,000 to be exact). I had such success when I recently took on Mrs. Lord's recipe, that there was no question in my mind that a version of nutloaf -- a very special version, mind you -- could holds its own against all that flesh on National Meatloaf Day.

What I would like to suggest is that the best part of meatloaf is not the meat. It is the satisfying, simple action of selecting, chopping, and mixing good, straightforward ingredients. It is the delicious smells wafting from the oven, stimulating appetites throughout the house. It is friends and family, gathering around a warm platter to slice into a steaming loaf. It is the perfect balance of protein, carbohydrate, and flavor in every bite.

And so, I respectfully present a harvest-time nutloaf that welcomes the cooling weather. Its flavors are redolent of Thanksgiving feast -- but watch out, with ginger and cayenne, this loaf's got bite. (Feel free to tone it down as you see fit).

Autumn Nutloaf

Top your nutloaf with a vegetarian alterna-gravy: I had apple butter in the fridge, so I made a simple, spicy sauce with it by mixing the butter with apple cider, a bit of olive oil, and cayenne. You could do something similar with apple sauce, or top the nutloaf with a favorite chutney.

Nutloafs are terrific straight out of the oven, but they may be even better the next day, reheated on an oiled skillet so both sides of the slice are slightly browned. It's even great cold!

3/4 cup hazelnuts
3/4 cup pecans
2 cups breadcrumbs
About 1 and 1/2 lb. butternut squash (or 2 cups puree)
1 tbsp. fresh ginger, peeled and chopped roughly
1 cup shredded carrot
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup part-skim ricotta
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tbsp. brown sugar (optional)
1/2 tsp. cayenne (optional)
Big pinch of salt

1. Preheat the oven to 375F.
1. Peel the squash and cut into 1" chunks. Put into microwave-safe bowl with 2 tbsp. water, cover, and microwave for 10 minutes, stir a bit, then microwave another 3-5 minutes, until pieces are very tender. Or place chunks in a steamer over an inch of water and steam for about 20 minutes.
2. While the squash is cooking, process the nuts in a food processor until finely chopped, but not uniformly grainy.
3. In a medium bowl, mix the ricotta and the beaten eggs until blended.
4. When the squash is cooked, put it with the ginger into a food processor and process 'til smooth.
5. In a large bowl, mix the squash puree with the carrots. Add the seasonings. Taste and correct, if needed.
6. Add the ricotta mixture to the large bowl and mix until blended. Add the nuts and breadcrumbs and mix until blended.
7. Spoon the mixture into an oiled loaf pan and smooth the top. Bake for about 40 minutes, until the top is just beginning to brown and a toothpick inserted comes out clean.

Yields: 6-8 servings.

Spicy Apple Gravy

3 tbsp. apple butter
2 tbsp. apple cider
1 tbsp. olive oil
1/2 tsp. cayenne

Whisk together all ingredients and spoon over nut loaf slices.

Pomocentrically Speaking

2007-10-16T10:02:00.000-04:00

If, as Michael Pollan tells us, apples adapted to our need for sweetness in our diet and indeed our cold-wind, big-prairie life (in exchange for our help in their quest for nationwide domination), then apple butter is the perfect expression of humanity's place in agricultural evolution. Preserves allow us to turn the tables on the tyranny of nature. Here is a perfect match of palate-stimulating flavor and energy-galore (all those calories). Here is harvest bounty that is divorced from climate, a reclamation of woman's rightful dominance over the natural world.

And not just any woman. Her name's "Aunt Sarah" and she made Bucks County's best apple butter, or so said Edith Thomas in Mary at the Farm (1915).

Who was this Aunt Sarah? She must have been popular: she brought together able-bodied farmboys and farmgirls from far and wide to help her peel and core a whole mess a' apples ("what country folks call an 'apple bee'"). She's the keeper of traditions, the one who knows how to fashion a long-handled stirred with a couple pieces of wood. She had authority and gumption, a woman whose word was the last on all subjects concerning good, resourceful, economical living. "Spices destroy the true apple flavor," Edith reports, "although Aunt Sarah used sassafras root, dug from the near-by woods, for flavoring her apple butter." I like that image: Aunt Sarah with dirt to the elbows, a gap-toothed grin, her nieces charged with swatting away the flies.

I wanted to stay as true as possible to this old-time recipe within the not inconsiderable limitation of modern-day resources. Sassafras is out, sorry to say. And spending an entire day boiling down cider? My Keyspan bill would be through the roof! (Also out: a wood fire on the fire escape. Talk about blocking your exit!) And sadly, it was a one-woman apple bee. I had plenty of help in the picking but the paring was all me. I was the only among my friends to have that questionable-holiday-in-October off of work, so I spent an intimate hour with a vegetable peeler, four pounds of Jonagolds, and my brand-new, dangerously sharp birthday knife.

Aunt Sarah's recipe was a good starting place, but I had to wander the Web for a recipe not designed for quantities in the tens of pounds and an outdoor range. My girl Heidi and her friend Carolina B. came through for me. I worked with this recipe, sticking pretty close to the instructions but wimping out on the spices, Aunt Sarah's admonition in the back of my mind. One long, hot afternoon (and *only* two arm-burns) later, I had three warm jars, canned the modern way instead of Aunt Sarah's very charming method of storing in small crocks topped with paper and nestled into the cellar. I took a cold shower and went to bed, feeling finished.

But at 5 am, I found myself wide-awake with one thought in my mind: that apple butter is too damn sweet! Aunt Sarah just wouldn't constitute it. I couldn't shake the image of her lips pursed in disapproval. Only one thing to do: I got up and started paring another couple pounds of apples. (Have I mentioned my obsessive tendencies? I spent the better half of my 8th year reciting the incantation, "A great big bunch of bananas." When I was about ten, I entertained myself at dreadfully dull adult dinners by writing down every word they said. My parents thought it was a great party trick, especially when I read it back to them and I got to the later parts, moments that would have been lost to the wine if it wasn't for me, amateur stenographer.)

I had to go to work in a few hours so I decided to go with a slow-cook Croc Pot method. In lieu of straight apple cider, I cooked the apples in a mixture of apple cider vinegar and sweet cider, the idea being that Aunt Sarah's cider might have been closer to tart, boozy applejack (hence the interminable boiling down in advance). Didn't add sugar but did float a clove-studded lemon in the fruity soup. Cooked on high for an hour while I caught a few more winks, then switched it to low for the day.

That evening, I was greeted with the singularly homey fumes of warm and bubbling apples. The butter was not yet at the consistency of marmalade (Aunt Sarah's instructions), so I left it to cook, uncovered, for another hour and a half. Fished out the soggy lemon and a few straggler cloves (my method of infusing acid and spice makes a pretty picture but it was not exactly practical. If I had ground cloves on hand, I would have used that.)

When my butter was just right, I popped open the jars of the too-sweet batch, combined them and re-canned. The result was spot-on, perhaps spicier than Aunt Sarah's but still true to the essential appleness of the harvest. I've already given one jar away, to Ms. O'Neill herself, and I'm eager to hear a verdict!

Niece Nora's Kings County Apple Butter

I used mostly Jonagolds, because that's what we picked at Outhouse Orchards, but I would recommend a mix of tart and sweet cooking apples (Jonagolds are pretty sweet). If your apples are tart, increase the sugar by a half cup or so. (Heidi and Carolina B. at 101 Cookbooks recommend roughly 1/2 cup to every pound of apples, but I found this too sweet). It's always best to start with less and add as needed, as I'm sure Aunt Sarah, whoever she was, would tell you.

6 lbs. apples, pared and cut into 1/2" pieces
2 to 2 and 1/2 cups of sugar
1/2 gallon apple cider
1/2 gallon apple cider vinegar
3 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. ground clove
juice of 1 lemon

Put the apples in a slow-cooker and pour in the cider and vinegar (it should be enough to cover the apples, plus about an inch). Cook on high, covered, for one hour, then add sugar, spices, and lemon juice (letting the apples cook first allows you to get a better idea of how much seasoning is needed). Cover and cook on low for about 9 hours. The give it a stir, check the seasonings, and allow to cook, uncovered for another hour or even two, until it's as thick as marmalade. Stir every 20 minutes or so. Preserve in canning jars (follow instructions that come with jars) or if you should happen to have an old-fashioned cellar, you can try storing them in adorable little paper-topped crocks!

Yield: about 40 oz. of apple butter. Plenty enough to keep and share!

You gotta pick some apples to make apple butter

2007-10-11T01:27:00.000-04:00

Remember that scene in Wizard of Oz when an orchard comes to life and pelts Dorothy with apples? Or how about those shiny lunch pails sprouting from trees in the decidedly Dadaesque Return to Oz? Boy, do I!

But if my apple-picking experience resembled any cinema fantasy it would be ... let's see, maybe those Vaseline-hazy scenes in Woody Allen movies where our heroes escape from New York to a bucolic, antique-filled countryside. We were a cheery group, full of teeth-baring laughs, pointing out sights along the West Side Highway (but don't look too close: the man beside me is my ex. O so Woody!)

We arrive at Outhouse Orchards (yes, really). It's crazy busy. There's a harvest festival clogging traffic, offering free tastes of pumpkin cheesecake and generally reeking of that singular combo, funnel cake n' burned hot dogs.

The damage: $20 for a bag that, Apple Lady assures me, will hold 20-25 lbs. Lickety-split calculations: it's a DEAL!

The trick to apple-picking in an orchard crawling with single-minded, pomaceous-mad families is, in a word, determination. The apples growing at the bottom of the hill, dangling from the lower branch, bobbing at the short end of the kiddie pool -- those are long gone. And all those long-handled poles specially tricked out with a four-pronged claw and rope bag? Not nearly enough to go around (and don't be the jerk to jack one from Grampa).

But there was apple butter to be made! Clad in Minnetonka Moccasin lace-up boots and short-shorts, I scrambled up the trees and tossed sun-warmed fruits to my friends below (see Jane in the purple dress, about to catch a Jonagold in her cupped hands). As a girl who buried my schnoz in books rather than dangle from woody limbs, this was thrilling.

Once we reached the top of the orchard's hill, away from the masses of drippy-nosed toddlers and scowling teenagers, the pickin' was easy. Our biggest concern was getting the greatest variety -- do we have the perfect Macintosh in our sack? And how about these interesting green specimens? (Apples are deceiving, by the way: each tastes different. Can't judge a tree by a single fruit.)

And have I mentioned the ungodly heat? In our apple-picking dreams, we're feeling sexy-cozy in our flannels, not sweating like it's high summer. It was picturesque and there were some happy-autumn playful moments, but we didn't linger and we certainly didn't warm up with some cider afterwards.

Twenty-five pounds of apples later, we headed back down the hill and snacked on hazelnut cake out of the car boot. Back in Brooklyn, I began preparing for the real fruit of our labors: Bucks County Apple Butter, a recipe dating from 1915.

Apple butter is a substance that, I've recently learned, people are rabid about. ("You're making apple butter? Oh my god, I LOVE APPLE BUTTER!" or "Bran jelly? Think I'll wait for the apple butter.")

Without the benefit of experience or even (dare I say it?) a particular love of this butter, do I have the balls to take on such an American institution? I'll say this: I do have the apples.

To be continued...

Sometimes you feel like a (hazel)nut

2007-10-09T08:11:00.000-04:00

I made something else this weekend, something from the anthology. But I'm afraid I can't really mark it off my list and I'll tell you why: I cheated. I mean really cheated.

In this quest to cook my way through American history, I allow myself certain substitutions. I've been known to use a hand-held electric mixer for a recipe that was written long before the light bulb cast its cheerful glow across millions of kitchens. No salt pork? No problem! Bacon will do. The way I see it is if I can improve upon a vat of homemade ketchup with once-exotic vinegars, why shouldn't I? After all, introducing the sophisticated (and traditional) flavor of fine Italian balsamic to the quintessential hot dog-topper is just a bit of the melting pot in action.

But here's where the buck stops: you just can't make "Old-Fashioned Hickory Nut Cake" without hickory nuts. And the hickory nut, a family of related nuts native to the eastern and central U.S. (as well as parts of Asia), is no longer a staple, long replaced by its more easily domesticated and versatile cousins, the walnut and the pecan (actually a hybrid hickory). The Park Slope Food Co-op carries Himalayan goji berries in at least four forms (dried, juiced, in two types of trail mix, and in my favorite bulk granola) but it doesn't carry American hickory nuts. My man Bobby D was right: the times have a-changed.

Ok, no hickory nuts on hand (I'll have to mail order for next time). But I was feeling a little blue on Saturday and I wanted to whip and fold. Not just anything either. Climate bedamned, my inner clock is tuned to October. I'm wearing autumn scarves with my summer tank tops and I'm baking with nuts, dammit.

I adore hazelnuts in sweets and baked goods-- this is certainly the Austrian blood in me, aided by a semester as an exchange student in the German countryside (my host father was a recently retired baking meister with lots of time to my make my favored treats) and memories of making chocolate-glazed hazelnut cake with the bunny mold that my parents bought in Germany (an Easter tradition I revived this year).

It was a simple substitution, really, just a bit of this-for-that. The recipe was published in The Good Housekeeping Hostess by Hester Price in 1904, around the time some of my great-great(?)-grandparents immigrated from a gorgeous agrarian town near the Austro-Hungarian border to establish a farmstead in central Minnesota. I imagined that they might have brought some hazelnuts from home, and made a cake quite like the one I was making.

In that spirit, I resisted using my brand-new food processor (thanks, Shelley! thanks, Dad!) and banged and crushed the nuts with a rolling pin. I also whipped the egg whites by hand, inspired in part by a Top Chef relay race. I timed myself: cracking, separating, and whipping four egg whites to a stiff fluff took me 6 minutes, 55 seconds. Whew!

The cake turned out beautifully: a cake, perhaps, for people like my dad -- who always requests a birthday pie. Not too sweet. Straightforward flavors. Reasonably light. Very satisfying. Simply good.

Molly O'Neill writes that the recipe "is one of the foolproof bits of Americana, reinterpreted generation after generation." I'd like to think I took part in that tradition -- to delicious result -- but without the original, essential ingredient, I can't know what I'm missing. Hester Price declared, "Of all the nut cakes there is none better than this old-fashioned one." And so, Mr. Whisk, we shall meet again.

Old-Fashioned Hazelnut Cake

The key to success seems to be fresh ingredients and a light touch. The butter and sugar should be creamed -- whisked briskly 'til fluffy and pale golden in color. As you add other ingredients, take care not to over-mix. The result should be airy as a cloud! I served this plain, picnic-style, after apple-picking, but it would really smarten up with a chocolate glaze or even a frosting, if not too cloying and overpowering, and/or a fruit compote or sauce on the side.

1 & 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup butter
3/4 cup "sweet" milk (lacking sweet milk I used simple, organic 4%)
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 & 1/2 cup plus 1 tbsp. sifted flour (to sift, place in a bowl and give it a few swirls with a clean wire whisk to remove any clumps)
2 tsp. baking powder
1 cup hazelnuts, crushed into tiny pieces with a rolling pin or pulsed a few times in a food processor
4 egg whites

1. Preheat oven to 350 F.
2. Cream together sugar and butter. Add milk gradually, while blending (gently) with a wooden spoon. Add vanilla.
3. Combine flour and baking powder and gradually add to the wet mixture while mixing.
4. Add 1 tbsp. of flour to hazelnuts to prevent from bits from sticking.
5. Whisk up the egg whites to a "stiff froth" (skipped the gym today? Do it by hand and see if you can beat my admittedly unimpressive time!)
6. Fold in the egg whites: first lighten the batter by mixing in half the whites with a spatula. Then add the other half of the whites with a gentle under-and-over movement, scooping up the bottom of the mixture and lightly setting it down on top, repeating just until specks of the whites are evenly distributed throughout.
7. Pour in a greased large loaf pan or medium Bundt pan or bunny mold.
8. Bake for about 30 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean.
9. Allow to cool a few minutes, then remove from pan.

The Gardenburger's Grandma

2007-10-07T18:00:00.001-04:00

They don't call 'em nutmeats for nothin'. Turns out they make a damn good substitution for ground beef.

In 1924, the price of meat made it a Sunday-only luxury for many Americans. Today, we've got ozone-melting feed lots that pack cattle teeth to jowl making it possible to get ground beef for less than $3 a pound. And at no extra cost you just might contract a nasty case hemolytic-uremic syndrome and a free trip to the emergency room! (As our President has recently reminded us, dial-911-for-care is still the economical and, um, viable alternative to health insurance.)

My point is that putting the meat in meatloaf is something nearly all of us can afford to do, but there are any number of reasons why we may not want to. But you don't have to give up that loafy feeling. What worked then, works today: nut loaf!

It's exactly as it sounds: a meatloaf switcharoo. Everything you loved about Ma's Meatloaf is in there (and I'm punting here because this is something I've only read about in Cold War-era books): breadcrumbs to thicken it up, a few spoonfuls of innocuous spices, eggs and tomato sauce for binding, a browned and slightly crispy crust, and a moist center. Just replace ground beef for chopped nuts -- any kind or combination will do -- and feel free to experiment with other additions and subtractions.

The recipe was published in Everybody's Cook Book (1924), and author Isabel Ely Lord wasn't kidding with that title. Anyone can make this dish, almost any way they want. Mrs. Lord gives you the basic recipe and encourages to take it from there.

You can use brown sauce or cheese sauce or milk instead of tomato sauce, add an egg or omit altogether, switch the crumbs for mashed potatoes or cooked Cream of Wheat or rice, toss in some shredded carrots or chopped celery, fatten it up with your cheese of choice, or spice up the seasonings with pimentos, Worcestershire sauce, or onion. Instead of baking it in a loaf, you can roll it out nearly flat on a pan. Serve it hot or cold, with tomato sauce or not. Leftover slices can be pan fried it or "brushed with fat" and broiled. All in all, she suggests at least 25 variations. If my calculations are right, this one little recipe yields the home cook 15,511,210,043,330,985,984,000,000 possible distinct loaves. Each cheap as chips and capable of feeding a family of ten (so says Mrs. Lord -- I have to say, this wouldn't feed that many with today's appetites.)

Nut loaf ain't pretty, but it gets the job done. It should come as no surprise that Mrs. Lord also published a 1922 tome on sound spending, Getting Your Money's Worth; she knows a thing or two about making a dollar's worth of food taste like at least five. As for her cookery skills, this is the woman responsible for the first published recipe for apple crisp. If that's not a recommendation, I don't know what is.

For my loaf, I chose walnuts and pecans because they're native to North America. I took up Mrs. Lord's suggestion of cottage cheese and extra veggies. (Ever since I learned that one of my favorite Indian foods, saag paneer, is made of something quite like Western-style cottage cheese, I have longed to incorporate this rather unlikely ingredient into savory cooking.) I served the loaf on a Sunday evening after an all-American autumn afternoon of awesome apple-picking (followed by a night of alliteration, apparently). On the side, a dollop of my balsamic ketchup. The result? Delicious, filling, and moist; great for vegetarians as well as omnivorous seekers of alternative comfort foods.

Ah, nut loaf. Just like Ma never made it.

Notmeatloaf

This recipe was made for customization and adaption; use whatever's on hand or in season. Just make sure the mixture is moist.

3/4 cup walnuts
3/4 cup pecans
1.5 cup marinara sauce
1 cup cottage cheese
2 cups breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup shredded carrot
2 celery ribs, diced
1/2 medium yellow onion, diced
1 tbsp. flat-leaf parsley, minced
Dash of paprika
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

1. Preheat the oven to 375 F.
2, Pulse the nuts in a food processor until coarsely chopped or put them in a Ziploc bag and smash with a jar (bonus: fun!)
3. Mix together all ingredients and transfer to a greased large loaf pan.
4. Bake for 40 minutes. Turn the pan over. Slice and serve with extra tomato sauce or homemade balsamic ketchup.

May I suggest? An alternative to that colonic

2007-10-02T22:11:00.000-04:00

It has been 10 days since I last smoked a cigarette. I quit for my 26th birthday, and to fulfill a long overdue promise to my little sister, Gena, and because the month and year I started -- September 2001 -- no longer feels like recent history. I quit because it's a crutch, and it makes me feel good to knock it out from under my armpit.

I'm currently using a patch, 14 mg. every 24 hours. It's going quite well, thank you.

I swear I felt my lungs expand a little wider in a kick-my-ass cardio class on Sunday. And I'm relaxed, knowing I'm one step closer to becoming the liberated, long-living lady of the world that I want to be. There's still the daily Diet Coke habit, but I'm on a healthier path.

The perfect food for this new leaf? Why, bran jelly, of course!

It's the bland, baby food-like substance that the overextended and well-to-do subsisted upon while they recuperated from the Gay (Eighteen-)Nineties lifestyle at a Michigan sanatarium run by the King of Corn Flakes himself, Dr. John Harvey Kellogg. Sanitariums were the luxury rehabs of their day, where one could wilt gracefully after too long a stretch as society's favored belle, indulge one's moist-eyed dreams of literary greatness, or quietly pass into old maidenhood (not to be confused with sanatoriums, legitimate medical facilities for the terminally consumptive).

Mrs. E. E. Kellogg taught her coddled, pooped-out guests to treat their ailments with a diet of whole grains. Healthy, yes, but as I've discovered, an all-around failure in presentation, imagination, and flavor.

She published her secrets to gastronomic wellbeing in Science in the Kitchen in 1893, the year in which Pabst won its blue ribbon, a devil ran amuck in a white city, a crash of the NY Stock Exchange triggered a depression, and the American Council on Alcohol Problems was established. Clearly Mrs. Kellogg's temperance-minded advice was much in demand.

How was bran jelly supposed to cure you of your hard-partying ways? It's not clear, but it seems the mechanism had something to do with the cleansing of the colon and the regulation of the bowels. Good plumbing, as it were.

Bran jelly is the liquid pressed from boiled wheat bran. As I set out to prepare it, I didn't realize just how little substance I would end up with. There are no measurements in the recipe included in American Food Writing -- we are instructed to sprinkle clean wheat bran "slowly into boiling water as for Graham mush, stirring briskly meanwhile with a wooden spoon, until the whole is about the consistency of thick gruel." I went with a ratio of about one-to-one: 4 cups of bran and 4 cups of water, and ended up having to add a bit more water, as you can see in the video.

It's been ages since I was rescued from that dastardly orphanage, so I'm a bit hazy on the precise mouthfeel and thickness of good gruel. I went for a more familiar consistency: stick-to-your-ribs oatmeal. I then plopped the bran mush into my roommate's Crock-Pot, as an alternative to Mrs. Kellogg's double boiler.

As per Mrs. K's instructions, I left to boil gently for two more hours, after which the mush appeared, smelled, and tasted much the same. (I can only presume all the boiling was to ensure any nutritional value in this supposed health food would be well and truly squelched.) I began to strain through a fine wire sieve -- but the first cup or two of mush, dumped unceremoniously in the sieve, produced about a teaspoon of gelatinous goo not unlike wet Pacific sand.

The sieving proved to be the most difficult part of the process. I did everything I could to coax as much goo out of the gruel as heavenly possible. I pressed and pried with the flat side of the spoon, turned the spoon in concentric arcs, smashed the underside of bowl into the mush to squeeze the liquid out, and finally left it overnight, to let gravity do the rest of the work.

I had less than two cups of bran goo when I awoke. I reheated it to boiling and stirred in a spoonful of amaranth flour "rubbed smooth in a little cold water." (I couldn't find Graham flour at the Co-op. My favorite not-graham graham crackers are made with amaranth, so I figured it was a legitimate substitute.) Following Mrs. K's directions, I turned the mixture into molds. (Since taking on this cooking project, molds have become the bane of my existence. What is our foreparents' obsession with containing and taming every food?! Of course, it doesn't help that I don't own proper molds and always end up using fluted glass bowls meant for storage or silicone cupcake pans -- by the way, never buy silicone muffin pans. Ms. Heidi has made a similar comment in other circumstances and it's true: silicone for baking? Sucks.)

For supper that evening -- a Monday in which I attended a Pilates class before work and did 40 mins. of cardio after work, good girl that I am/can sometimes be -- I settled down to bran jelly. Mrs. K recommends that it be served cold with "cream or fruit juice." My roommate had some bowel-cleansing plum juice in the fridge. How appropriate! I prepared myself a pretty tray, one of those breakfast-in-bed affairs with handles, complete with drab flower.

Two bites in and I was longing for cream. It's possible that this meal would fill me up if I'd done nothing but lounge on an old-fashioned reclining straw-covered wheelchair on the veranda all day, but this simply was not going to cut it. It was nearly flavorless and the consistency was a confusing no-man's land between jam and porridge (a far cry from jelly -- but as we've established, it appears that I couldn't even make super glue set!).

I supplemented my meal with the modern ascetic's solution to a weekend of over-exertion: a bowl of wilted spinach, plain, topped with a few pieces of ready-made macrobiotic vegetarian peking duck stuffed with shitake mushrooms. (I followed the meal with two squares of Lindt Intense Orange 70% Chocolate. Shh, don't tell Mrs. K!)

I've asked myself why Ms. O'Neill chose this particular recipe for the anthology. Is Bran Jelly a national treasure, deserved of its position next to such culinary touchstones as "Macaroni a la Sauce Blanche" (a.k.a. mac n' cheese) and "Tunnel of Fudge Cake," winner of the 1966 Pillsbury Bake-Off?

In a word: no. But then it came to me. Bran Jelly was a harbinger of things to come. In this respect, it's not unlike an 1881 recipe for Chicken Croquettes, the prototype for the Chicken McNugget. Looking back, we see the makings of a nation that will become increasingly obsessed with fads, diets, speed, and quick fixes. We've gotten cannier with flavor substitutes, broader-minded in our culinary references, fancier with our colon-cleansing retreats, competitive in our search for the most whole, healthy, and life-fulfilling. But there it is, in a bowl of tasteless brown goo and in the umpteenth new energy drink with a flavor that bears no resemblance to those found in nature -- it's unmistakable: the more things change the more things stay the same.

Heaven in a dark brown skin

2007-09-26T22:53:00.000-04:00

Look, I don't have a problem with, say, saffron-scented cotton candy or a $22 foie gras PB&J sandwich. But so much of what this historical cooking project has been about is a (re)discovery of simple pleasures. Here's one that I recommend everyone should try this fall.

Now, it's a complicated recipe, so you might want to get out a pencil. (And yes, there will be a pop quiz.)

Ready?

Take a few greenish bananas, one for every pal you're planning to feed. Put them in an ovenproof dish (the bananas, duh).

Put the dish in a hot oven. (How hot? Oh I dunno, let's say about 400 degrees. Or 425. Whatever, just "hot.")

Now sit right down and wait. (Somewhere between 15 and 25 minutes seems about right.) When the skins are the color of dark brown M & Ms (or you simply can't wait any longer, whichever comes first), proceed to the next step.

Put on a pair of oven mitts.

Remove dish from oven.

With the tip of a sharp knife, slice a sliver down the length of the bananas' soft skins. The flesh will be creamy-yellow, steamy, fragrant, and still firm enough to plop out in one long banana fruit.

Arrange on a plate, top with ice cream, coconut flakes, chocolate chips/shavings/sauce, butter, cream (whipped, clotted, whatever), nuts, maple syrup, cookie crumbs, etc. (Or nothing at all).

And now ... mangia!

So there you have it. Baked bananas!

Now, class, as promised. Please choose the correct answer:

Baked bananas is one of the world's best desserts because...
a.) Everyone gets their very own special portion, like an individual soufflé (and who isn't a sucker for those?)
b.) A monkey could (and definitely would) make it, if monkeys discovered the secret to man's fire
c.) It's sure to be a novel experience for even the most fiendish epicurious.com devotee
d.) And yet it feels so familiar that it fills even the most blasé among us with child-like delight

(Pencils down, please.)

Ok, you got me. That was a trick question ... because it's ALL OF THE ABOVE.

The recipe for Baked Bananas "Porto Rican Fashion" (included in American Food Writing) is from a 1911 cookbook called Good Things to Eat, written by a fellow named Rufus Estes. Born a slave in Tennessee, he went on to become a cook on Pullman cars and a chef for a subsidiary of U.S. Steel. (As you may recall, Alice B. Toklas had all kinds of complaints about airplane food in the 1930s; she claimed it was a poor relation to railroad dining. If this recipe is any indication, I'm inclined to believe it.)

Mr. Estes recommended baking the bananas 'til the skins burst. I just couldn't hold off that long, though next time I'll try because it sounds like fun. He sent them to the table still in their skins, wrapped in a folded napkin to hold in their heat, and he topped them with just butter, but plenty of it. (I tried some butter on mine and it was fantastic, but this isn't 1911 and I'm not riding behind a steam engine, so why not break out the cold n' creamy stuff?)

And oh! it gets better. Baked bananas can get dressed up all fancy-like for dinner parties, but they've also got an outdoorsy streak in 'em (not unlike myself, incidentally.) Mr. Estes wrote that you can simply bury the bananas in the ash of a hot fire. (Omg, can you imagine what a layer of hot n' oozy banana would do for a s'more? ... S'MORANAS!)