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Posts Tagged ‘old recipes’

Succotash with Cheddar Cracker Crust

One of the truly iconic images of late summer is fields of corn, to quote a song lyric, “…as high as an elephant’s eye.” True, it is not late summer yet, but, while shopping this past weekend I had a choice of fresh peaches or early fresh corn, and almost compulsively chose the corn.

(Peaches or corn? Why not both? Hmmmm. I’m not sure.)

Anyway, why my “almost compulsive” choice of corn? I think it has something to do with happy memories of summers gone by. It should come as no surprise to anyone that someone who writes a blog measures nostalgia in meals partaken.

Granted us urban folk don’t glimpse fields of corn from the windows of the subway, but I grew up in suburbia, and in an era before every available square inch had been developed, so there were frequent views of open fields as we drove by in the station wagon.

I also have a Mom who is a daughter of the depression. Like many folks who grew up in the depression she celebrates her removal from that era by practicing a certain kind of food snobbery. When I was a kid she flat out refused to serve anything from a can. Chef Boyardee? Horror. This extended to other food as well: Supermarket bread? Are you kidding? (Except of course for Pepperidge Farm, back in the day when it was a little regional bakery.) (Not that she baked her own, but that’s what the neighborhood bakery was for.) Then there were also certain table manners: the ketchup bottle was never allowed on the table. You poured a bit of ketchup into a dish and that’s what was placed on the table.

The only canned vegetables that were allowed in our house were Le Seur Baby Peas – which were so fancy that Sex And The City fans may remember the Samantha character trying to seduce a Monk by donating a can of the peas to his food drive.

My Mother was a regular at what used to be known as a “greengrocer” which was the storefront version of a farm stand. Later on when my parents moved to a slightly deeper slice of suburbia she found and frequently haunted a real farm stand.

I’d hate to think that this all sounds as though I grew up in a stuffy home with a frilly Mother who tinkled a little bell when dinner was served. That was not the case.

On occasions when she would return from the farm stand with a big bag filled with ears of corn, we would all dig in and help shuck the ears. As I was shucking corn this past weekend in my own kitchen I was struck by how easy the task is, the surprise stemming from memories of childhood when – for little seven or eight year old me – shucking corn was hard work. I also remembered all the different ways there are to cook corn on the cob. My favorite was actually learned in adulthood: shucked, smeared lightly with butter, wrapped in foil, and roasted directly on the barbecue coals.

This brings up an important point: corn is hard to ruin, its dirty little secret being that it is actually perfectly edible uncooked. True, you can over-boil it. But in the sauté pan or roasting in the barbecue coals even if you overcook it slightly it is still good, if perhaps a bit toasty.

Now, you don’t need me to tell you how to make corn on the cob. Besides that, I eat my corn “de-cobbed.” (Long story: let’s just say this is due to adventures in orthodontia that would fill a whole other blog.) Anyway, fresh corn off the cob is my ticket to a bit of culinary play time.

Succotash isn’t necessarily as summer dish, but its key player is our summery buddy, corn. Besides, if you cook Succotash, you get to tell people that you cooked Succotash. Say it. Out loud. See what I mean? And if you bring a big casserole of Succotash to a barbecue announcing, “Hey everyone! I brought Succotash!” you may garner a laugh or two. (Past performance is no guarantee of future results.)

The definition of Succotash is really wide open, the only constants being corn and lima beans. I scoured the web and found as many variations as there are kitchens. My favorite finds indicated that a cracker crumb topping was a particularly popular finishing touch. Fresh corn topped with buttered cracker crumbs? I’m at a loss for a worthy adjective. Use a really sturdy unsalted cracker like oyster crackers or Neva Betta crackers for best results. (In a pinch unsalted Saltines will do, although the results may be slightly soggy.)

You’ll see from my “recipe” that there really isn’t a recipe, more like a “how-to” guide, so feel free to adjust this to your own tastes.

Actually I added a little “zetz” to this by changing the buttered cracker crumbs to a Cheddar Cracker Streusel crust by adding a healthy handful of the sharpest English cheddar I could find. This transformed a side dish that is almost an afterthought into a really great summer meal.  Be warned: this cracker crumb crust may find its way—cheddar cheese included – this coming fall on top of apples for a really amazing Apple Brown Betty.

Stay tuned!

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Click here for the recipe for Succotash.

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Write to me at the email address below with any questions or thoughts you may have. Thanks!

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Derby Pie (or reasonable facsimile therof...)

A couple of years ago who did I find at the other end of the doorbell but the UPS man bearing an unexpected surprise. Consulting the calendar I realized that Angry April (as in, the month of rain and Tax Day) was careening on its usual collision course with Mild Mannered May (as in, flowers, seventy-degree temperatures, and Memorial Day weekend.) The box bore the return address of a concern named “A Taste of Kentucky.” Thus, like Rubik figuring out his cube, I figured out the puzzle of what was in the unexpected box without opening it: Derby Pie.

My old friend Dori, a native Kentuckian transplanted out west, had sent it. I also deduced that without opening the box. She had been telling me about Derby Pie for as long as I had known her, and now, on the eve of The Kentucky Derby, there was one in my hungry paws.

I’m not an avid horse race fan, but I doubt that I have ever missed watching The Kentucky Derby on TV. I think it has something to do with the formality of the occasion. Very little in American life – save for the odd over the top wedding here or the glitzy Senior Prom there – has retained the cheerful formality of Derby Day.

As I was researching the race I noticed that the corporate sponsor is a company named “Yum!” Foods.

Who knew food could be so funny? (Well, I laughed for you.)

Anyway, many racing seasons ago, a man named George Kern invented Derby Pie at a Prospect, Kentucky restaurant named the Melrose Inn. It was his sugary tribute to the big race.  The local success of this pie should not be underestimated. The Kern Family continues to keep the recipe a closely guarded secret, and has registered the name “DERBY-PIE®” as a trademark. They have even sued to protect the sovereignty of the pie.

Therefore, please be advised that any pies I made in connection with writing this piece are not Derby Pie. (Phew! The Butter Flour Eggs Legal Department can now rest easy.) (Kern’s pie can be purchased at many Kentucky supermarkets, and on line here. There. I’m covered.)

Any cloak and dagger is unnecessary: I come to praise Derby Pie, not to bury it.

So, with all this yadda-yadda about the history of the pie, you’re probably shifting impatiently in your seat waiting for me to describe what the heck this pie is when you bring fork to mouth. When Dori first described it to me all those years ago I thought it sounded like Pecan Pie, but with walnuts instead of pecans. But according to her there was so much more than that to Derby Pie.

Finally, that fated day – and the pie-bearing UPS man – arrived. As Dori directed, I warmed the pie gently, and served it with a dab of vanilla ice cream to, as they say, “…cut the sweet.” Cut the sweet? Too late. When it comes to sweet, this pie is unrelenting. Even a hardened old sweet tooth like me found the pie Sweet-with-a-capital-S. That doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.

Okay let’s step back for a moment. I decided to make my own facsimile of Derby Pie. I used a recipe I found on the internet. (After all, what the heck do I know about Derby Pie?) The recipe, yes, bears a bit of resemblance to Pecan Pie. Did I mention that it contains three types of sugar? A stick of butter? Enough Kentucky Bourbon for me to need a designated driver? Oh, and chocolate chips? (I felt as though I’d been locked in Paula Deen’s kitchen and was cooking my way out.) As I was making the pie I literally thought, “There’s nothing redeeming in this thing.”

And yet…there’s an undeniable Southern Charm to the pie. It is crunchy where it should be crunchy. It is gooey when it should be gooey. The chocolate seems almost unnecessary but then hits you just in time to mellow the sweet boozy sting of the bourbon. The walnuts lend a slightly oilier crunch than the sweet dryness of pecans would. It is rich and too sweet, and how many Southern Belles can y’all describe with those very words? And y’all love ‘em. This pie is like that.

I know that I am usually writing in this space to advocate getting into the kitchen to cook and bake for your own enjoyment. But this is definitely one time when I wouldn’t blame you for ordering the real Kern’s “DERBY-PIE®” instead of making your own. If you decide to use the recipe I linked to above, I suggest that you use more walnuts than called for in the recipe: closer to 1 ¾ cups will give you more caramelized walnuts – I think they are the best part of this pie – and be sure to not fill the prepared pie crust any more than ¾ full, erring on the side of less. Greedily, I over filled mine, it overflowed and burned on the bottom of my oven. (There’s something particularly stinky about burning sugar.) At the very least place your filled pie on a sheet pan or cookie sheet before putting in the oven.

And don’t forget the ice cream to cut the sweet. (!)

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Click here for the recipe for something very similar to Derby Pie, or here to order the real thing.

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Write to me at the email address below with any questions or thoughts you may have. Thanks!

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Virtuous

When I was a kid, we always joked that you could tell the best Chinese restaurant in town by how many of “us” ate there.

Indeed, there were nights at Dave Wong’s China Sails that there were enough of “us” munching on Moo Goo Gai Pan to exceed the number needed for a temple quorum ten times over.

Am I teetering on the brink of the politically incorrect?

Yes, “we” love our own food too – although for the most part we save it for special occasions like Jewish holidays.  But truth be told, much of it originated as peasant food, was usually made with fairly unhealthy ingredients, and lacked…shall we say, complexity of flavors. I think that is why “we” became such rabid fans of other folks’ food.

This discussion will likely bring some stern words of disagreement my way, but to paraphrase an old borscht-belt joke, look around: Do you see one Jewish restaurant?

Yes, there are millions of delis, but nowadays those are only nominally Jewish, and as much as I love Hot Pastrami you’ll have a hard time convincing me of its merits as healthy food.

My Grandmother had a very old, very grand looking brass samovar which used to fascinate me because it was engraved with Russian words and images of the Czar. She never served anything from the samovar, but she did show me how they used to keep the borscht hot by loading a tube inside with hot coals. In her house the samovar was the only thing – besides her – that came from the “old country.” She didn’t speak with an accent, but the samovar did.

Like most immigrants of her era, she embraced all things American – she and my grandfather even spent their honeymoon in Washington, D.C.

As time brings “us” further and further away from our Eastern European roots, the definition of Jewish food becomes more watered-down than my Grandmother’s chicken soup. Pure Jewish food, when you can find it, doesn’t resemble the stuff served to me as a kid. I can’t remember the last time I had a Knish of the type they used to serve when I was a kid: tiny, crusty, and filled with mystery. (Unfortunately the mystery was about the filling, as in, “What the heck is this stuff?” That didn’t stop me from inhaling them.)

I’ve had a few requests for a Noodle Pudding recipe, but I have found that cooking Noodle Pudding (a/k/a Kugel) generally entails choices that are no more troublesome than asking, “Raisins? No raisins? Raisins in half the pan?”

Again, not very complex, and probably shouldn’t be. It is home cooking – comfort food – and needs to hew closely to an ideal well formed in peoples’ minds. When Passover rolls around I’ll probably fiddle around with Noodle Kugel, but if I stray too far afield from people’s expectations I’ll have to name it something else. Our assimilated tastes cause us to change these recipes to fit our surroundings, not unlike the way a little girl born in a rural Russian village was changed and became my city-dwelling-American-as-apple-pie Grandmother.

It’s January. It’s cold. As I wrote recently, this is my time of year to detox and deblobify. I am determined to do this as painlessly as possible, and that’s why healthy food, well cooked, is essential. I have been snooping around for healthy things to eat that will give me the fuel to stay warm during this cold winter. Hopefully it will also take my mind off the cookies and the bars of chocolate that are screaming for me to rescue them from the evil clutches of the grocery store.

So it was that I cracked open a box of kasha – cracked buckwheat– that has been sitting on my shelf so long that I forgot how it got there. This is what made me think about my Grandmother and Jewish food in general, but it was actually my Mom who used to serve Kasha Varnishkes, or cracked buckwheat mixed with bow tie noodles. The Kasha Varnishkes of my youth was that magically delicious blend of salty and greasy, hallmarks of really good soul food.

But the basic ingredient, buckwheat, is so healthy that I figured it was worth a try to see if I could recreate the flavor I remember while keeping it on my list of virtuous foods for my January cleanse. Happily, kasha is relatively obscure, so I am free to do whatever I want to it without going against anyone’s preconceived notions.

I used the Kasha Pilaf recipe on the box and added a dose of sautéed garlic then merely substituted olive oil for butter and low sodium chicken stock for water. Making Kasha Varnishkes was as simple as throwing cooked bow ties into the kasha. Because I am trying to be “good” just a few bowties were all I needed.

But what struck me was the texture and flavor of the kasha itself. Due to the mix of the kasha’s toasty graininess and my use of chicken stock, it had a gratifyingly meaty flavor. I immediately imagined it mixed with a liberal quantity of lightly toasted pine nuts and a sprinkling of currants as a really delicious filling for Stuffed Peppers. How about a cold salad of farro and kasha? I may even try to make those little Knishes of my youth with a kasha stuffing. Too bad I’ll have to save the knishes for later in the year when I’m not being as virtuous.

The bonus is that buckwheat is being touted in nutrition circles for bringing more than just a pretty face to the party. It is high in protein and fiber, it is gluten-free, and there are theories out there that it may even lower cholesterol and reinforce capillary walls.

Now I really feel virtuous!

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Click here for the recipe for Kasha.

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The kind folks at Saveur Magazine found my August 31^st, 2009 posting about Ines Rosales Sweet Olive Oil Tortas and asked me to distill it for inclusion in their readers’ 2010 Top 100 list. You’ll find it in the Jan / Feb 2010 issue of the magazine, now on newsstands everywhere. Take a look and let me know what you think!

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Write to me at the email address below with any thoughts you may have. Thanks!

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Hermits

I am a big fan of the fall. Yes, a lot of it is because I am more comfortable in the cool weather. I’d also be lying if I didn’t admit that I love the fall because it is time to eat all the foods I love. Lingering in the back of my mind is that come January the slate is wiped clean—and so is my diet. So turn on the oven! It’s time to eat those Maple-roasted sweet potatoes, throw some extra noodles in the chicken soup, and pull out the butter, flour, and eggs and start baking.

(Do you like the way I worked in the name of the blog?)

A week or two ago on her Facebook page a friend of mine posted a picture of some heart-shaped brownies she had baked. They looked really good.

I’ve had a tough time getting those out of my mind.

I am a big fan of brownies. Throw in some ice cream and hot fudge sauce and I’ll jump up and down in unfettered joy (I promise that’s not something you’ll ever have to witness.)  But when all is said and done I’ll take my brownies “neat,” and very happily. My only rule is that I don’t like them hot or even warm. I like my brownies cool and day-old so I can taste the chocolate better. That’s just me.

All this talk of brownies got me to thinking that the next time I serve brownies I’d like to try serving them with something that compliments them.

No, not a friend telling them how great they are.

More like another cookie or bar that would serve as a contrast to the rich intensity of their sweet dark chewiness.

Often people pair brownies with blondies, but I always find those lacking somehow, as if their only purpose in life is to be just like a brownie but without the chocolate. I like the fact that blondies have similar chewiness, but I want to find something with its own chewy identity that will stand tall and proud next to the brownies.

Looking out my window at a tree whose leaves were just beginning to change color inspired me: fall is the time for hermits! Some of you know what I’m talking about; others of you are wondering why I have taken a sudden left turn into talking about a guy who hides away for months at a time. Well for those who didn’t know, hermits are cookies, and they are great in the fall because they have a chewy molasses-tinged earthiness that seems to fit a time of year when we’re just beginning to adjust to the chill outside. Hermits (thought I) are just the thing to sing the alto line to the brownies’ screechy soprano.

My only questions were 1.) What should I do with the raisins that are always part of a hermit? and 2.) What should I do with the molasses that is always part of a hermit?

The reason I ask about the raisins is that I really don’t know anyone who likes them in cookies. Everyone I know picks them out. But I like them. A good compromise would be to chop up the raisins, but that would add a fussy step to an otherwise simple recipe. What about Zante Currants?

No, Zante Currants was not a foreign exchange student I met in high school. Zante Currants are dried currants, very small (about the size of a clump of poppy seeds), with the requisite raisin flavor, but without the gooeyness to which raisins succumb after a visit to the oven. And no chopping required.

The molasses is a slightly easier question. Some people don’t like it, so I’ll use less. (Phew, that was easy.)

While they were baking I had a revelation: remember the old trick real estate agents used to use? The one where they’d bake apples and cinnamon in the oven while they were holding an open house? I recommend baking hermits at the next open house. Folks will move right in.

The result is a very basic bar cookie. Not too sweet. They reminded me of the classic “after-school” cookie. A little plain, but very pleasant, and likely nice when dunked into a cold glass of milk. Wholesome is the word they used to use to describe cookies like these.

(Does anyone still dunk cookies in milk? For that matter, does anyone still let their kids eat cookies after school? Who cares! You be the kid. Hey you’re done with school, right? In my book that still counts as “after school.”)

Like brownies (and revenge) hermits are best served cold, preferably after being allowed to sit around the house for a day. And yes, you’ll be fighting over the “edge” pieces.

So brownie-lovers, you are hereby notified that the next time I serve brownies, they’ll have company.

Try my recipe for hermits by clicking here.

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Old Auntie

I learned to cook from a book. When I was fourteen or fifteen I picked up my mother’s copy of The New York Times Cookbook by Craig Claiborne and just started cooking. I think the first thing I made was Choux pastry so that I could make éclairs.

Yes, I know: fifteen years old and making éclairs. Hey, it kept me off the streets, alright?

Chefs may sneer at my learning from a book, but I never had any pretense about being a chef; that’s not my thing. I’m more from the school of cook well so you can eat well. 

After my years as a child prodigy, my interest in cooking would then lay dormant. One day, like Rumplestiltskin waking up from his extended snooze, I found myself, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something in a pan. Poof: I was cooking again. 

This has had some strange repercussions, the most notable being that unlike many New Yorkers, I rarely eat out. I think that has as much to do with my enjoyment of cooking as the fact that I was a waiter for many years and couldn’t bear to set foot in a restaurant for a long time. No busman’s holidays for me.

My naissance as a cook aside, I noticed recently on Mad Men that Don Draper was eating a dinner of cold chicken salad, Ritz crackers and a can of Bud which the director made a point of showing Don’s wife open with a church key.

 (A church key is the little metal tool we used to open cans and bottles before the advent of the pop top and screw top.)

 (OK, I will now pause while you insert the joke of your choice about how old I am.)

 (No, I do NOT remember the strip mall they tore down to build Stonehenge.)

 (The latter was for those of you who could not think of an “old”  joke.)

ANYWAY, watching Mad Men has made me think about the food of the sixties. I mentioned some weeks ago in this blog that I am always fascinated and distracted by food used as a prop in plays, movies, and TV shows. Don Draper’s chicken salad dinner is no exception, but it also made me wonder about the various fashions that come and go in food.

One of the current fashions is cupcakes. Cupcakes are everywhere, and frankly, without mentioning any names, some of them just aren’t that great. The point is though, that at some point cupcakes will get tired, and people will be waiting a half hour in line for something else. Lest you think I’m wrong, think back on the Chipwich and the Dovebar. Yes, you can still get them, but like Madonna’s punk wardrobe in Desperately Seeking Susan, you just kind of laugh and think, “Wow, I forgot all about those.”

My New York Times Cookbook was published in 1961, coincidentally the same year in which the first season of Mad Men is set. I always use this book like a dictionary, usually on a very specific mission, consulting the index first. But I have never read it like a novel, starting from the beginning. Reading the book that way gives you an almost Edith Wharton-esque view of mid-twentieth century food fashions.

You need only go a few pages in to find a world awash in aspic. The best way to describe aspic is that it is basically an amber-colored savory Jello used as a garnish. This lost world is landscaped in chopped aspic, aspic cut into neat geometric patterns, and aspic used as a coating on food, kind of like the shellac on a culinary decoupage. An appetizer of Galantine of Turkey wears its aspic coating like the tuxedo on the Maitre D’s who used to man the doors of fancy hotel restaurants. 

The Galantine is the first recipe in the book, and like the opening number of a floor show at the old Copacabana, it is big and ornate. Bring on the dancing girls! Picture a fifteen pound turkey completely boned, flattened, and stuffed with fat back, veal, tongue, duck, raisins, and nuts. It is then rolled in cheese cloth, simmered in broth, chilled, and coated with aspic like a big fat bug trapped in amber. Wheee!

I don’t know how folks in 1961 reacted, but my 2009 mouth is agape.  I honestly can’t decide whether I should be revolted, or struck dumb with admiration. Everyone has an old aunt with a living room like this.  On the rare occasion that Auntie sweeps the plastic dust covers off the furniture and lamps, you’re blinded by the flash and brocade and realize you’re standing ankle deep in a plush-carpeted time capsule.

Admittedly, in 2009 we are perhaps a bit too aware of making sure we can see our feet in the carpet at all times, so I got to thinking, “Don’t be so damn judgmental.” After all, Thanksgiving is just eight weeks away. How many people across America are already thinking, “Yum! Time to order the Turducken!” And isn’t Turducken (and Turporken) just the hillbilly cousin of the Galantine? 

Plus ca la change, plus ca la…plush carpeting.

But if you walk back into Auntie’s kitchen, pull up a chair around old Auntie’s dinette, and have your first adult conversation with her, you’ll find her well read, well travelled, with some good stories to tell, and still a great cook. Old Auntie didn’t have a food processor or Kitchen Aid stand mixer. A recipe direction to use a mortar and pestle to grind some spices is not unlike being admonished that we young folks have it so easy.

Yes, there is plenty of “goo-gaw” in the book, but if you wade carefully past the eight different kinds of pate, the monosodium glutamate called for in more than one recipe, and a tempting lesson on how to make your own Danish pastry, “…fit for a Royal Dane,” you end up with an aesthetic that is at once wise, worldly, and reliable.  That, along with Claiborne’s sprinkling of pithy advice, such as reminding the reader to, “…add garlic according to conscience and social engagements” remind me why this book remains a relevant touchstone in my kitchen—especially when I am trying to expand my repertoire.

Now before I go any further, I need to mention another appetizer recipe just a few pages further in. For this recipe, Claiborne wrote a short annotation:

“This appetizer has become almost as popular as pizza pie in metropolitan America but it is still worth repeating.”

Hint: You need to be a certain age to remember this appetizer. I only vaguely remember eating it as a kid—maybe it was at someone’s wedding, I’m not sure.

I speak of Rumaki.

How’s that for a name out of the past? Pizza, thankfully, is still with us. As much as I’d like to say, “Hey, let’s revive this old treasure and make it the new cupcake!” I’ll now print the list of ingredients to illustrate why Rumaki, like the hoop skirt, is not likely to have a comeback, er, return:

• 6 chicken livers
• 18 canned water chestnuts
• 9 bacon slices cut in half
• 9 scallions, sliced thin lengthwise
• ½ cup soy sauce
• ¼ tsp ground ginger
• ½ tsp curry powder

Intrepid souls or folks into giving Mad Men-theme parties can click here for the full recipe. For the rest, suffice it to say that you make toothpick kabobs of the liver and chestnuts, and wrap them with the bacon and scallions, marinade in the soy sauce and spices, broil and serve.

We could, however, update this recipe by replacing the chicken livers with, say, thinly sliced chicken or beef tenderloin, couldn’t we?

Ah, now I’ve got your attention! All of the sudden my mouth is watering. See what I mean about this book? I’ll start experimenting…

Just by coincidence, my other “go-to” book is How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman. Bittman is Claiborne’s direct descendant at the New York Times.

Finally, there is an irony here that is not lost on me. I am writing a blog, singing the praises of a cookbook anthology of fifty-year old recipes from one of the great metropolitan newspapers. In 1961, nobody could have known the price technology—like blogging—would extract on our newspapers. But I’m hoping that by changing their recipe a bit, as they seem to be planning to do, the great metropolitan newspapers will stick around. Like pizza pie.