Beatrix Potter: Gingerbread Cookies

04 Tuesday Dec 2012

Posted by in 19th century, 20th century, Desserts

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

Among all children’s authors I loved growing up, Beatrix Potter always seemed the most wholesome by far. My favorite books were the eyebrow raisers: the delicious nastiness of Roald Dahl, the nightmarish worlds of Maurice Sendak. Even The Velveteen Rabbit gets borderline traumatizing. When the only person you truly love gets scarlet fever, and all your friends are burned, you can finally become “real” if you cry? That’s more drama than a episode of Dawson’s Creek.

I remembered Peter Rabbit and Jeremy Fisher as cuddly and innocent in comparison, but on a recent visit to the Morgan Library, I realized I had it all wrong: Potter had a not-so-secret dark side. Not a book goes by without some cute animal about to be skinned, drowned in a sack, or baked in a pie. Potter began her original draft of The Tale of Mr. Tod, “I am quite tired of making goody goody books about nice people.” Her editor nixed it; turns out, readers wanted those goody goody books.

Still, a few less-than-goody bits made it into print. One of my favorite Potter characters is Cecily Parsley, an adorable rabbit who moonlights as a beer brewer. Potter’s illustrations show Cecily soaking some barley in front of comically large barrels marked “XX.” It’s impossible to imagine other favorite children’s characters doing the same: Anne of Green Gables opening up a distillery, or the Goodnight Moon mouse tippling on some homemade hooch.

Did Potter take a cue from Cecily and start her own homebrews? Probably not. She did cook; at her beloved Hill Top Farm, in England’s Lakes District, she planted an herb and vegetable garden that Peter Rabbit would have loved to pillage. Much of her produce came from those gardens, but not all her recipes were virtuous. When Potter’s family recipe book went up for auction this fall, hiding in her gingerbread was a good dose of ale—a little bit of naughty in the midst of all that sugar, spice, and everything nice.

* * *

At first glance, Potter’s gingerbread recipe is a monumental task. It calls for 3.5 pounds of wheat meal, which would be perfect if I wanted to build a gingerbread house the size of my apartment. It also calls for “washing soda,” which sounds like a horrible accident that might happen if you kept your baking and laundry supplies in the same cupboard.

But, after quartering the recipe and remembering that washing soda is just baking soda, things started to look a bit clearer. I made it as directed, adding a bit of cinnamon and a dab of extra butter. Although I had expected a cakey gingerbread, the dough that came together screamed cookies. And who am I to say no to a very demanding dough – or to cookies in general?

Potter suggests letting ”all the ingredients except the flour and soda be put before the fire to dissolve for an hour or two.” I divided the dough and left it in the fridge for a few hours before rolling it out and cutting out dozens of frogs – some relatives of Jeremy Fisher that, like several of Potter’s characters, met an untimely (but very delicious) end.

(Slightly adapted from Beatrix Potter’s recipe book, via The Kitchn)

3 cups wheat flour (plus extra for work surface)
2 tablespoons ground ginger
1/2 tablespoon cinnamon
1/2 tablespoon allspice
1 cup dark treacle or molasses **
1/2 cup sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter
1/2 cup ale, divided
1/2 tablespoon baking soda

1. Preheat oven to 325°F. In a medium bowl, sift together flour, ginger, cinnamon, and allspice. Set aside.

2. In a large bowl, cream together molasses, sugar, and butter. Stir in 1/4 cup ale. Add dry ingredients slowly, mixing until thoroughly combined. In a small bowl, add baking soda to the remaining 1/4 cup ale, then stir mixture into dough. Collect dough into 2 balls and refrigerate overnight.

3. Remove dough from fridge and let sit until just pliable. Line a large cookie sheet with parchment paper. On a floured surface, roll out each ball of dough until 1/4-inch thick. Cut into your favorite shapes (frogs!), and transfer to prepared cookie sheets.

4. Bake 10 minutes, until slightly firm. Cool on wire racks, and decorate to your heart’s content.

** Note: People say to avoid blackstrap molasses for baking. I like it, but it can taste bitter to some people. If you’re baking for company (and therefore many tastes), best to avoid it if you can.

J.D. Salinger: Roast Beef with Dijon Herb Rub

19 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Entrees, Meats

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

I have never been someone who is good at eating alone. I’m sure there are people who pull it off beautifully: pulling up a stool at a bar, trading witty banter with the wait staff, exuding total contentedness with their own internal world while sipping a martini. But not me. I can only imagine eating alone in the saddest possible way: hunched over in a booth, its plastic coating sticking to the back of my legs, while I shovel a plate of pasta into my mouth and my tears mingle with the condensation on a plastic cup of Mr. Pibb.

It’s not that I don’t like being alone. Some things—museums, books—benefit from a little solitude. But food, to me, is meant to be shared. It’s why I love Thanksgiving, and why J.D. Salinger has always fascinated me. There are days when being a recluse sounds pretty appealing (I’m looking at you, mandatory ”networking” events). But how often can you make yourself a lonely salad for dinner?

It wasn’t like that, really; not like Salinger shut himself up in the attic, getting food delivered via dumbwaiter. His family ate meals together, and you could catch him stopping by Howard Johnson’s or Burger King (his fast food of choice). Every Saturday, he even joined the queue for the legendary suppers served by the First Congregational Church in Hartland, Vermont. But you could always pick him out in a crowd. That guy sitting by the pies, writing in a spiral notebook, alone in a sea of people? That was Salinger.

Where he did like some company was at the movies; his daughter, Margaret, called watching Hitchcock films together “our shared world.” But once things got sappy, he was done. “Christ, all you and your mother want to see are sentimental pictures about Thanksgiving and puppy dogs,” he told Margaret. Maybe that’s why he preferred dining alone – because eating together brings out all these emotions in us. I’m sure I’ll be having some serious feelings this Thanksgiving. I wish the same for you – you know, if you’re into that kind of thing.

* * *

Saturday suppers at First Congregational have become famous in their own right, not only because of their regular celebrity guest. To serve all their fans, the staff makes up to 18 20-pound roast beefs every night, not to mention vats of mashed potatoes and more than 15 kinds of pie. Salinger loved these dinners so much that, even when he was close to death, his wife drove to Vermont to pick up a plate to go.

Confession: This was my first roast, and it made me nervous as all get out, like cooking a turkey for the first time. As a longtime pescatarian (Thanksgiving used to be lots of hot-smoked salmon), I spent a pathetic amount of time just staring at this huge chunk of meat on my counter, poking it occasionally, hoping it would cook itself. Walking the tightrope between overcooked and raw is a delicate dance, but having a meat thermometer handy helps enormously – as will remembering the meat will continue to cook as it’s resting. But if you’re still worried, guess what? Over or under, it tastes pretty darn good.

(Adapted from Donna Hay)

4 pounds boneless beef rib-eye, tenderloin, or eye round
2 teaspoons mustard seeds
1 teaspoon sea salt flakes
1 teaspoon cracked black pepper
1 tablespoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon dried tarragon
1/4 cup olive oil, plus 1 tablespoon
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

1. Preheat oven to 250°F. Remove beef from fridge and set aside. Place mustard seeds, salt, pepper, thyme and tarragon in a mortar and pestle and pound until lightly crushed. Add 1/4 cup oil and mthe ustard and pound until combined. Set aside.

2. Brush beef with remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Heat a large nonstick frying pan over high heat and sear beef 1 to 2 minutes on each side or until brown. Remove from pan.

3. Secure beef with kitchen string and rub with mustard mixture. Place on rack in a roasting pan and cook 1 1/2 hours for medium-rare, or until internal temperature reaches 125°F.

4. After roasting, cover the meat with foil and allow meat to rest in a warm place for at least 10 minutes. Slice thinly and serve.

C.S. Lewis: Cinnamon Bourbon Rice Pudding

30 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Desserts

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

With Sartre and his halva addiction, Agatha Christie and her devotion to cream, and Wallace Stevens’ cookie obsession, writers seem to thrive on a sugar high. Halloween must be a very productive time of year, creatively speaking: too gloomy to go outdoors, and lots of candy at hand to fuel the creative spark. It makes you wonder how many Great American Novels could only have been written with a steady supply of cake, cookies, and caffeine.

But just as I was beginning to think that sweets were the secret to success, C.S. Lewis broke the mold. He is not only ambivalent toward candy – he actually refuses to eat it. To someone whose favorite part of Halloween is stocking up on half-price Reese’s the morning after (don’t judge), this is the most harrowing discovery of the season.

Lewis comes up with various excuses for avoiding sugary treats: “I’m getting terribly fat and have had to diet” or “I can’t afford to buy a new wardrobe every few months!” He once wrote to a friend, who apologized for sending him stationery rather than sweets, “I must confess that I eat notepaper and envelopes, so your very kind gift may be described as being that of the edible variety.” Which is all to say what Lewis would ultimately admit: “I have not a sweet tooth.”

But his distaste for the insubstantial went further than food. Lewis also disdained literature that went down a little too easily. He cautioned a friend against detective novels, saying, “A little sense of labour is necessary to all perfect pleasures I think: just as (to my palate at least) there is no really delicious taste without a touch of astringency … The apple must not be too sweet.” Who would have thought the immortal creator of Narnia could wind up being the trick-or-treater your mother would love: He’ll leave the M&Ms, and ask for a Granny Smith instead.

* * *

Don’t get me wrong – fruit is great and all. But I don’t officially consider something a dessert unless it includes chocolate, or caramel in a pinch. Describing his ideal meal, Lewis wrote, ”no nonsense about soup and pudding, but a sole each, cutlets with green peas, a large portion of strawberries and cream.” Here, I feared we were doomed to disagree; I love that soup and pudding nonsense. But his emphasis on the large gave me a bit of hope. That’s how I like my desserts too.

Besides being out of season season, strawberries and cream isn’t food for the stormy weather we’re having on the East Coast this week. And here, at least, Lewis and I see eye to eye. Returning from a dinner party on a blustery night, he wrote of the dessert, “What a typically female choice for a snowy evening – fruit salad! It wd. be cruel to ask for splendour in a poor society, but why not an honest rice pudding?”

Okay, so it’s borderline misogynous, but reading that letter vindicated Lewis for me. Rice pudding is the ultimate comfort food, the perfect hurricane dessert. It’s warm, consoling, and you probably don’t need to run to the grocery for ingredients. Add some cinnamon and bourbon (his drink of choice), and you have fall in a bowl. It’s also good with some melted chocolate mixed in … I checked.

Cinnamon Bourbon Rice Pudding

6 cups whole milk, divided
3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
3/4 cup basmati rice
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon bourbon

1. In a large saucepan, heat 5 1/2 cups milk, the sugar, and salt over low heat until just warm and sugar is dissolved. Scrape seeds from vanilla bean into milk, and add bean pod. Cover, remove from heat, and let sit 30 minutes.

2. Return saucepan to stove over medium-high heat. Add rice and cook, stirring constantly, until milk comes to a light boil, 10 to 15 minutes.

3. Reduce heat to a low simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, until mixture has thickened and rice is soft, about 35 minutes. Stir egg and remaining 1/2 cup milk into mixture. Cook an additional 3 minutes.

4. Off the heat, add cinnamon, nutmeg, and bourbon. Serve warm on a chilly October night.

Allen Ginsberg: Aloo Gobi

19 Friday Oct 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Entrees

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

When I was a kid, I hated lamb. Well, let me clarify: My mother hated lamb, so I hated lamb. I had never actually tasted it, since it was barred from our home, but that was entirely irrelevant to my 10-year-old self. My mom seemed to be right about everything else, so why would she be wrong about lamb?

It wasn’t until I moved away—with an apartment of my own and a boyfriend who tore into lamb like a rabid chupacabra—that I actually took a bite. It was at an Indian restaurant, another territory where my family had always been cautious. We’d consider the menu at length: lots of thoughtful nodding with a smattering of “hmm”s. Then we’d order the same chicken tikka masala and garlic naan we always did.

Allen Ginsberg had our number. Traveling around India in the 1960s, practicing Buddhism and Krishnaism, Ginsberg was eager to bring his new lifestyle to the States. He had just one concern, he told Hare Krishna founder A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. Could Americans handle the food?

Allen Ginsberg: So my question is this: … Is this something that a large mass of people can enter into?
Srila Prabhupada: In time, yes. Why not? …
Allen Ginsberg: Yes, but what it requires is an adaptation to Indian dress and
Srila Prabhupada: That is not very important.
Allen Ginsberg: And an adaptation to Indian food. …
Srila Prabhupada: Then that is Indian food? Do you mean to say it is Indian food?
Allen Ginsberg: Well, the curried vegetable dishes.

Although Ginsberg seems skeptical that potential converts could handle the Hare Krishna diet, he was a culinary adventurer himself. In his letters, Ginsberg lists dozens of local delicacies he sampled over the course of his wanderings, like a beat-poet Anthony Bourdain. In Hong Kong, he recommends the 100-year eggs; in Korea, try the snail and cuttlefish dish; in Denver, check out the all-organic Mercury Cafe (where you could catch him singing the occasional set with his rock band).

But even Ginsberg had his own culinary prejudices to overcome. In a letter to the poet Gary Snyder, he expressed surprise at how well he ate in India. “Food quite good … Bombay has great food all over. I’ve even drunk water practically all over and not been bugged. And everybody tells me it was instant death.”

* * *

Those “curried vegetable dishes” might not have tempted the chicken tikka devotee I was at 10. But as a newly minted New Yorker, with no job but a problematic rent check due every month, they had one massive advantage. They’re cheap.

This was not lost on Ginsberg. “The cheap food – 15 cents a huge vegetarian meal – I’ve lived on for weeks at a time,” he wrote. Aloo gobi is the ideal dish for the cash-strapped beatnik: Buy a few potatoes and a head of cauliflower, and you have sustenance for several days of poetry readings. “Food makes a difference in physical and mental states after all,” Snyder told Ginsberg. I didn’t need to be a Hare Krishna to tell you that.

2 teaspoons grated ginger
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 teaspoons ground coriander
2 teaspoons cumin
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 serrano pepper, minced
1 cauliflower head, cut into small florets
2 russet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/2 cup diced tomatoes
1 teaspoon salt
Fresh coriander leaves, roughly chopped, for garnish

1. With a mortar and pestle, mash ginger, garlic, ground coriander, cumin and turmeric into a paste. In a small bowl, combine paste with 1/2 cup water.

2. In a large pot, warm oil over medium-high heat until shimmering. Add serrano pepper and ginger paste. Cook, stirring frequently, until paste thickens, about 2 minutes.

3. Add cauliflower, potatoes, and tomatoes, stirring to coat with spice mixture. Add 1/2 cup water. Cover and cook over medium heat 10 to 15 minutes.

4. Remove lid and add salt. Continue to cook, uncovered, until cauliflower and potatoes are tender, about 5 minutes. Garnish with fresh coriander and serve with paratha or naan.

Agatha Christie: Fig and Orange Scones with Devonshire Cream

01 Monday Oct 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Breads and Pastries

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Certain foods defy any attempt at portion control. Think chocolate chips, or those disturbingly addictive pretzel pieces that must be flavored with some kind of stimulant in addition to the honey mustard. I have such a Cheez-It obsession that, studying abroad in Paris and unable to find them in any grocery, I ordered three boxes online in a hunger-fueled panic. My host mother – who, in typical French fashion, served perfectly portioned meals on an adorable tea tray – brought the package to my room with a look of pure horror. I guiltily ate a whole box as soon as her back was turned.

But Agatha Christie clearly felt no such shame when it came to her food addiction: She loved cream, and all of Devon county knew it. “Agatha was very fond of food – she was passionate about cream,” the local vicar’s daughter remembered. ”She would have it by the cupful. She would have a cup of cream by her typewriter.” Even Christie’s fictional characters couldn’t escape the obsession. Miss Marple is similarly famed for her love of cream, and even the picky Hercule Poirot partakes.

Christie made minor attempts to curb her appetite, to no avail. “She used to drink cream from a huge cup with ‘Don’t be greedy’ written on the side, an injunction she never showed any sign of obeying,” her grandson Mathew recalled. Frankly, I think that anyone who has a designated cream-sipping cup is fighting a losing battle with willpower, but I’m the one with a personal bag of chocolate chips in the pantry, so who am I to judge?

There was only one person who had control over Christie’s dessert intake: her butler. George Gowler oversaw the elaborate two-hour dinner parties at Greenway, Christie’s country estate. But instead of letting her choose the menu for the final course, Gowler would randomly assign everyone a different plate of fruit – a game of dessert roulette – allowing guests to choose their favorite dish only once a week. Christie’s favorite was fresh figs, which you can still sample from the trees she grew at Greenway. But beware if you encounter them in one of her mysteries: One unlucky lady who indulges in Syrup of Figs gets poisoned for her trouble. Safer to stick with the cream instead.

* * *

Tea was one of Christie’s favorite meals, especially as it was traditionally served in Devon—with scones, jam, and epic amounts of clotted cream. Recalling these ‘cream teas’ of her childhood, Christie wrote, “Devonshire cream was eaten in quantities; so much nicer than cod liver oil, my mother used to say.” Sometimes she would bypass the scone altogether and just eat it from the jar with a spoon. And if that thought makes you cringe, buy a jar of Nutella and take a spoon to it; I guarantee it tastes better that way.

“Alas! You never see real Devonshire cream in Devon nowadays – not as it used to be – scalded and taken off the milk in layers.” That’s Christie again, sounding like someone’s ornery great-aunt. She’s right, though: There are lots of shortcuts out there for making clotted cream, and there don’t need to be. Anyone with a working oven and a bit of time can make the real thing. You can even use a slow-cooker in a pinch, with apologies to Agatha – I get the sense that modern conveniences weren’t her thing.

Devonshire Cream:

24 ounces (3 cups) heavy cream (not ultra-pasteurized)

1. In an oven: Preheat oven to 180°F. Pour cream into a 8- by 10-inch baking dish, and cover with foil. Heat 8 to 10 hours, until a dark yellow film forms on top. In a slow-cooker: Pour cream into the crock of the slow-cooker. Heat on “warm” 10 to 12 hours, until a dark yellow film forms on top.

2. Transfer pan/crock, still covered, to a countertop until it reaches room temperature. Refrigerate overnight, or at least 8 hours.

3. Skim solid top layer into a small bowl or glass jar. Stir well, until clotted cream reaches a smooth consistency. Reserve remaining cream for cooking or baking.

Fig and Orange Scones:
(Adapted from Pinch My Salt)

1 large egg
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 tablespoon grated orange zest
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into small chunks
1 cup fresh figs, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces

1. Preheat oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment and set aside.

2. In a small bowl, whisk together egg, buttermilk, and orange zest.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, cardamom, and salt. Cut butter into flour with a pastry blender or rub together with your fingertips until it resembles coarse crumbs. Add chopped figs and toss lightly until spread throughout.

4. Add buttermilk mixture to flour mixture and stir until the mixture clumps together, being careful not to overmix. On a floured countertop, gather mixture into a ball and knead once or twice to combine. Pat into a 1/2-inch-thick circle. Cut into 8 slices, like a pie, or into circles using a biscuit cutter. Place on lined baking sheet.

5. Bake 13 to 15 minutes until lightly browned. Remove to cooling rack, and eat warm with an “enormous amount” of cream, as Christie dictated.

John Cheever: Turkey Monte Cristo Sandwich

17 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Entrees, sandwiches

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

Whenever I need to make idle chatter, talking about meals is generally a safe, friendly topic – unless that meal is brunch. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that lunch and dinner are pretty universally well liked. And while the merits of breakfast have certainly been debated (despite being repeatedly chastised for not eating it, I somehow am still alive), brunch just gets people unusually riled up.  For the anti-brunch lobbyist, the idea of forking over $20 for a couple of eggs leaves a bad taste in the mouth that no bottomless-mimosa deal can wash away.

But even the most dedicated day drinkers can’t hold a candle to John Cheever, whose brunches consisted of “a secret slug of whiskey at eleven … two martinis at noon.” In his journals, Cheever’s infamous struggle with alcoholism plays out in the endless litany of gin and tonics, martinis, and nightcaps that make up his daily menu, starting well before noon. Food is an afterthought, usually appearing sandwich form. “I work until one, when I eat my sandwiches and take a rest,” Cheever wrote of his daily routine, a schedule that looks very virtuous when the drinks are edited out.

It wasn’t until Cheever moved to Los Angeles in 1960, to adapt D.H. Lawrence’s The Lost Girl for the screen, that he began taking an interest in food – both as a way to stave off depression, and because it was all conveniently paid for by the studio. “I’d reach for the phone and order the most elaborate breakfast I could think of,” he told The Paris Review, “and then I’d try to make it to the shower before I hanged myself.”

For Cheever, a native New Englander, Hollywood didn’t have much going for it, except where sandwiches were concerned. He recounts in his letters the discovery of a new sandwich, like a rare and exotic bird: ”For lunch Carl had something called a Monte Christo sandwich. This is made of three slices of French toast, turkery [sic] meat between the toast, the top sprinkled with powdered sugar and the whole cut into three sections, each looking like a Napoleon. This is eaten with a knife and fork. And this is my only life in Hollywood note for today.” For a sandwich aficionado at the time, this was a moment of revelation. It is also, I hesitate to add, an ideal morning meal after a long night of drink.

* * *

The precise origin of the Monte Cristo has been lost to history, but here’s what we know: It’s a variation of the classic French croque-monsieur, a grilled-cheese-with-ham combo with a literary history of its own (it first popped up in Proust). The variation known as the Monte Cristo is rumored to have been invented in San Diego’s Coronado Hotel in the 1940s, although how it came from the bistros of Paris to the breakfast buffets of California is anyone’s guess.

The sandwich was popularized by the Brown Derby restaurant in L.A., where Cheever might very well have discovered it. You can find the first published recipe for a Monte Cristo in The Brown Derby Cook Book, which describes it much the same way Cheever does – with three slices of bread, dipped in batter, fried in butter, and served with jam.

This might sound like a heart attack waiting to happen (my mother, usually keen to try these recipes, heard the powdered sugar bit and and responded, “No … maybe? … but actually just no”). But, besides being an ideal hangover cure, combining French toast with grilled cheese finally solves the eternal brunch conundrum: sweet or savory? At last, we can have both at once.

4 slices rustic white bread (3/4 inch thick)
4 ounces smoked turkey breast
4 ounces gruyère cheese
1/2 apple, thinly sliced
1 egg
1/4 cup milk (2% or whole is good here)
2 tablespoons butter, divided
Powdered sugar

1. Assemble the sandwiches: On 2 slices of bread, layer turkey, cheese, and apple to cover bread completely. Top with remaining bread. Secure each sandwich with toothpicks. Trim crusts, if you’d like.

2. In a shallow baking dish, lightly beat egg with a whisk. Add milk, and whisk to combine.

3. In a nonstick skillet over medium heat, add 1 tablespoon butter; swirl butter around pan until foaming. Coat both sides of the first sandwich in the egg mixture, then lay it in the pan, pressing down gently with a spatula to compact. After 3 minutes, flip sandwich and fry opposite side until golden brown. Remove from pan, and dry on a paper towel.

4. Repeat step 3 with remaining 1 tablespoon butter and second sandwich. Serve both sandwiches with sprinkles of powdered sugar on top.

**NOTES

For ease of frying, I suggest you start with 2 layers of bread for your first attempt and work your way up to 3 (or 4!). And – to appease my mother and get something fresh in here – I substituted apple for the more traditional jam.

Ralph Ellison: Molasses Cornbread

04 Tuesday Sep 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Breads and Pastries

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

There’s a scene in Ralph Ellison’s The Invisible Man that has become one of the most famous food passages in history. The unnamed narrator, passing a sweet-potato vendor on the road, is transported back to his childhood in the South, happily recalling meals of fried chicken and chitterlings – foods that soon became too racially charged for him to enjoy. But in this moment, the narrator is changed: He gets three orders of potato, newly determined to eat what he likes without shame. “I yam what I am,” he shouts, transformed (and if your mind went straight to Popeye, just remember what a dramatic effect food had on him).

Food unexpectedly changed the course of Ellison’s life: When he started studying music at the Tuskegee Institute, he also began working long hours in the dining hall, in order to pay off his tuition. You could find him on the early shift – 5 a.m. to 1 p.m. – baking cornbread and pouring bowls of molasses for the breakfast service. And after graduation, it was cooking – not music – that landed Ellison a job. Failing to score a coveted spot as a trumpeter in a military band, he instead found work as a cook on a Liberty ship, turning out versions of the Southern staples he learned at Tuskegee: cornbread, biscuits and fried pies.

It wasn’t until Ellison began traveling abroad, away from the Southern dishes that had defined his early years, that he realized how they had worked their way into his being. Living in Rome in 1956, Ellison wrote to his friend and fellow writer Albert Murray, “I got no way to get any corn bread … no sweet potatoes or yellow yams, a biscuit is unheard of – they think it means a cookie in this town – and their greens don’t taste like greens.”

Today fried chicken and stewed greens have gained gourmet cred – collard green risotto is totally a thing – but there will always be foods that feature guilt as a main ingredient. The phrase “you are what you eat” has become a grim warning, baking shame into things that ought to be enjoyed in moderation. We focus so much on the physical effects of our diet, it’s easy to forget that food can change us in other ways – ones that don’t involve calories or celery sticks but instead affect our minds and hearts: sweet potatoes for comfort, ice cream for renewal, chocolate for joy.

* * *

Although we often situate cornbread within the pantheon of Southern foods (it was the runner-up in Garden and Gun’s Ultimate Southern Food Bracket this year, losing out to beignets in the end), the North has its own version too. Johnnycakes were passed down by the Algonquians, and became a recipe in most housewives’ regular rotation. “Every woman should be thoroughly learned in the art of cookery … Not only the fine bread, the cakes and pies, but the johnny cake should receive due attention,” a 1854 cookbook demands. I heartily agree; I rarely need to make fancy cakes, but I always find myself needing to make cornbread. Best to have a recipe on hand.

Cornbread was one of the first things Ellison learned to make at Tuskegee, and it became a fixture in his holy trinity of “righteous cuisine“: cornbread, buttermilk, and mustard greens. This cornbread is heavy on the buttermilk, along with some molasses that Ellison would serve in the dining hall, for a touch of sweetness. Eat it alone for breakfast, or make it into a meal with a side of braised greens.

1 cup yellow cornmeal
1/2 cup flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
1 egg, lightly beaten
4 tablespoons melted butter
1/8 cup molasses

1. Preheat oven to 425°F. Grease a 9-inch circular pan. In a large bowl, sift together corn meal, flour, baking powder, sugar and salt.

2. In a separate bowl, combine buttermilk, egg and butter. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients, stirring until just combined. With a large measuring cup, reserve a quarter of the batter; pour remaining batter into prepared pan.

3. Add molasses to the reserved batter and stir until well combined. Pour on top of pan in three straight lines, making stripes. Drag a knife across the batter perpendicular to the stripes, every two inches, to create a marbleized pattern.

4. Bake 15 to 20 minutes, or until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes if you can wait – otherwise you will have crumbly cornbread on your hands. But there are worse fates than that.

Henry James: Vanilla Ice Cream with Brandied Peaches

17 Friday Aug 2012

Posted by in 19th century, Desserts

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

vanilla ice cream brandied peaches recipe

Around the middle of August, when vacations are past and sunset creeps up noticeably earlier every evening, end-of-summer anxiety sets in. How could I have let this happen? I didn’t have nearly enough picnics! Or take enough strolls through the park! Or eat all the corn, cherries, and peaches that summer demands! Suddenly, every weekend is wasted unless it includes at least one rooftop meal and one — okay, two — stone-fruit desserts.

If that seems overly dramatic, you should hear Henry James tell it. Born and raised in Manhattan, he would run errands with his mother to Washington Market, where farmers unloaded their produce onto the Hudson piers. He was struck by the bounty of summer there, “bushels of peaches in particular, peaches big and peaches small, peaches white and peaches yellow,” he wrote in A Small Boy and Others. ”Heaps of them, the high-piled receptacles at every turn, touched the street as with a sort of southern plenty.”

When James wrote about losing the fruit of summer, though, he wasn’t just bummed there’d be no more pie for a while. In typical Jamesian fashion, the end of the market was a reminder of the passing of youth and (if we want to get really profound) of a bygone era. “What did the stacked boxes and baskets of our youth represent but the boundless fruitage of that more bucolic age of the American world …? Where is that fruitage now? Where are the peaches d’antan?”

Elegies like that make me feel like I should get to pondering Questions of Significance, not of granita recipes. But then I remember that James’ love of summer produce wasn’t entirely symbolic. In 1874, preparing to return home from a trip to Germany, he implored his mother, ”Be sure about Sept. 4 to have on hand a goodly store of tomatoes, ice-cream, corn, melons, cranberries and other indigenous victuals.” Whenever I visit my family in California, I make practically the same request. And every Sunday, my mother and I make a run to the farmers’ market. There, even in winter, when my New York market stalls are all brown root vegetables, the stands still overflow with the colors of an everlasting summer.

* * *

peaches farmer's market

For the James family, canning peaches was one way to keep that taste of summer all year round. Add a little brandy to the syrup before canning them, and you have an extra-special treat; spooned over ice cream, they were James’ favorite dessert. “If they were rather a ‘party dish’ it was because they made the party whenever they appeared, and when ice-cream was added … they formed the highest revel we knew,” he wrote.

If you’d like to can your own peaches, you can get tips from The American Housewife (1878) and Amanda Hesser. But for those of us too impatient to wait until winter, this shortcut version has all the booziness and none of the botulism.

When the teenage James was in school in Geneva, he complained to a friend about the inadequate size of the scoops, only “twice as large as a peach pit! Be thankful you are born in our free and enlightened country.” So be generous with the ice cream. It’s the American way.

Vanilla Ice Cream:
(Adapted from David Lebovitz)

1 cup whole milk
2/3 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean
2 cups heavy cream
5 egg yolks, room temperature

1. In a small saucepan over medium heat, add milk and sugar and stir until sugar is dissolved. Scrape seeds from vanilla bean into milk with a paring knife, then add bean pod to milk. Cover, remove from heat, and let sit 1 hour.

2. Set up an ice bath by placing a 2-quart bowl in a larger bowl partially filled with ice and water. Pour cream into 2-quart bowl.

3. In a separate small bowl, whisk egg yolks. Rewarm milk mixture over low heat. Add egg yolks, stirring constantly, until the mixture forms a custard thick enough to coat the spatula.

4. Strain custard into cream, removing vanilla bean pod, and stir mixture over the ice bath until cool. Refrigerate to chill thoroughly, preferably overnight. Freeze custard in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

Brandied Peaches:

4 medium peaches
1/4 cup light brown sugar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3 tablespoons brandy

1. Peel peaches: Prepare a large bowl of ice water and set aside. Bring another large pot of water to a boil. Cut a shallow “X” in the bottom of each peach and submerge in boiling water 1 minute. Remove peaches and plunge into ice water bath. Peel off peach skins and cut flesh into 1/4-inch slices.

2. In a medium saucepan, combine peaches, brown sugar, and lemon juice. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until peaches are soft enough to cut through with a spoon, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and add brandy, stirring to combine. Serve warm over ice cream.

The Cocktail Hour: Robert Penn Warren

06 Monday Aug 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Drinks

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

grapefruit gin punch cocktail recipe

“I had a birthday – only a few days ago – and am now thirty-eight,” wrote Robert Penn Warren in 1943. I’ve had birthdays on the brain, having also celebrated one recently. It wasn’t a big, round number, but it was a perfect square, the mathematics of which somehow seem especially daunting. It’s that age when we’re expected to put away childish things and start careers, find ourselves, tie the knot, settle down, paint the nursery, take out a mortgage. Instead of doing those things, I started this blog.

Clearly, a cocktail was in order. Luckily, Warren had just the thing.

Although it doesn’t have the universal significance of a 30th or a 40th, Warren’s 38th birthday was actually a very noteworthy one: It meant he could no longer be drafted into World War II. To celebrate, Warren threw “a gentlemen’s party with a particularly insidious punch” and invited his colleagues from the University of Minnesota, where he directed the creative writing program. If you think tenured professors don’t know how to party, think again: The revelry lasted almost seven hours, and they went through four gallons of punch.

If Warren’s parties were anything like his letters, they would have been a wickedly good time. Biding his time before At Heaven’s Gate to be published, he was full of writerly gossip, from who was a hack to who just got thrown in prison. He hates on the Chicago Tribune (“the world’s stinkingest paper but pays well”) and gives begrudging praise to The Nation (“doesn’t pay well but … is respectable”). August Strindberg and William Somerset Maugham? “Pure horse droppings.”

I can only imagine what bons motsWarren, on a little too much punch, might have dropped at his birthday shindig. He claimed that “high aesthetical conversation raged until a late hour,” but later dropped the act and just admitted the discussion was “more noise than wit, but the noise sounded like wit at the time.” It’s easy to take yourself too seriously as major birthdays loom, which might be why so many grown-ups have such dull parties. But Warren shows it doesn’t have to be that way. Just mix a group of good friends, a lot of noisy laughter, plus a glass of something delicious to wash it all down.

* * *

Robert Penn Warren grapefruit gin punch

Fortunately, we don’t have to guess at the ingredients in Warren’s birthday drink of choice, since he was very proud of his concoction and wrote about it to several friends. “Here is the recipe: 1 quart sauterne, 1 quart gin, 1 pint rum, 1 half-pint sherry; 1 pint grapefruit juice; enough pineapple juice to sweeten to taste; 1 large cake of ice.”

There’s a reason they call drinks like that a punch: One glass is enough to knock you over. “It has the mildest flavor in the world, but, since you know the recipe, it is superfluous for me to point out that it is not for the women and children,” Warren wrote. It also makes enough to put the whole U of M faculty away for an evening.

For a smaller dinner party, or for less thirsty guests, here’s a slightly adapted version, with a bit more juice to mask the wallop of the gin. Proceed with caution, especially if you have class the next morning.

2 cups dry white wine
1 cup gin
1/2 cup light rum
1/2 cup sherry (either dry fino or Amontillado)
3 cups grapefruit juice
Pineapple juice to taste

Mix ingredients until well combined. Serve chilled.

Raymond Chandler: Swordfish Siciliana

23 Monday Jul 2012

Posted by in 20th century, Fish

≈ Leave a Comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

What to cook for Raymond Chandler on his birthday? If he’s known for anything vaguely digestible today, it’s Terry Lennox’s gin gimlet recipe from The Big Sleep: “half gin and half Rose’s lime juice and nothing else.” Sometimes that can be the basis of a whole birthday dinner menu, but it’s usually unintentional (and ill-advised, if my “popcorn and whiskey” birthday was any indication).

But it turns out Chandler had more than a few recipes up his sleeve – maybe even a cookbook’s worth. While working on The Long Goodbye in La Jolla, California, he wrote to editor Dale Warren with another surprising proposal. ”Somebody really ought to write a cookbook and put in all the things that the regular cookbooks leave out, the things which, if you’re a beginner, the cookbooks don’t tell you,” he said. “Also, any decent cookbook should have a few special recipes, a touch of the unique. And this I could easily supply.”

Seen through his letters, Chandler becomes the Mark Bittman of La Jolla. He’s minimalist in his approach to food (his recipe for pork chops: “Cook them in their own fat, they bring everything with them that is necessary except salt and pepper.”). But he’s also deeply critical of Americans’ slide into non-cooking, 50 years ahead of the curve. He scorns his neighbor’s dependence on “a deep freeze unit in his garage where he keeps enough food for six months … Most of the other food he eats comes ready-prepared and half-chewed.” If you think that’s harsh, Chandler goes on: “I sometimes wonder what we are here for. Certainly not to use our minds.” It’s a relief he wasn’t around to see the rise of the Hot Pocket.

Chandler would have turned 124 today; I’ll celebrate my own birthday later this week. No popcorn and whiskey for me this time around. We’re older now, and wiser. We use our minds. We plan our menus. And there won’t be anything frozen or ready-made, although there may well be a gimlet or two.

* * *

It’s probably best for everyone that the imagined Raymond Chandler Cookbook never came to fruition. Although he liked the idea, Chandler knew he didn’t have the chops to pull it off, and described his proposed dishes with tongue firmly in cheek. Consider his recipe for baked apples, “vociferously admired by practically everyone who owes me money” – a description that could have been ripped from one of his stories.

But Chandler does mention his one signature dish: “Swordfish Mascagni.” Although he doesn’t elaborate further, the name brought to mind Pietro Mascagni’s most famous opera, Cavalleria rusticana, set in a Sicilian fishing village. Sicilian-style swordfish is a classic preparation, one that Chandler might easily have imitated in his own version – while still adding his own “touch of the unique.”

4 (6-8 ounce) swordfish steaks
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon red chile flakes
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
2 shallots, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 cup white wine
1 cup cherry or grape tomatoes, halved
1/3 cup pitted black olives
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/3 cup toasted pine nuts
5 or 6 large basil leaves, coarsely chopped
Lemon wedges

1. Season swordfish on both sides with salt, pepper, and red chile flakes. In a large nonstick skillet, heat 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat. Add swordfish in a single layer (you may need to do this in multiple batches) and cook until golden, about 2 minutes per side. Remove from pan and set aside. Lower heat to medium.

2. To the same pan, add remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Add shallots and cook, stirring frequently, until translucent and fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more. Add wine, tomatoes, olives, and oregano. Stir to combine.

3. Return swordfish to the pan. Simmer 3 minutes, or until fish is cooked through and wine has reduced by half. Remove from heat. Add toasted pine nuts and basil. Serve immediately, with lemon wedges.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 403 other followers