FOOD ON THE FOOD

Some Things Never Change

Lest you think that all this mushroom-growing and involvement in the school garden has miraculously turned my black thumbs green, I’m here to tell you that it’s business as usual on the plant-killing front.  My sage plant died almost instantly upon transfer of ownership.  My two heirloom tomato plants were dead by August.  The oregano isn’t far behind.  And while the rest of the herbs are hanging on, they’re clearly not thriving.  Even the mint has no intention of trying to outgrow its tiny pot. 

I know you’re going to ask me if I’ve been watering my plants and the answer is no.  Of course I haven’t.  I can barely keep my own self hydrated on a daily basis.  I count on a little rain falling once in a while, but so far this summer I think it’s only rained twice in two months.  Not a good situation when your so-called caretaker will only drag the hose out once a week to soak her mushroom logs.

Luckily, there are eight other families involved in the school garden, so the plants over there have been getting plenty of water and good care.  The proof is in the sungold tomatoes, which did not disappoint again this year.  So sweet and so many!  Everyone was buzzing about the bright orange sun-candy.  I have a feeling there won’t be any trouble getting garden volunteers next year.  I just hope none of them ever bear witness to the secret shame that is my own garden!

Do-Over

Sometime last week (or maybe it was the week before), it was my wedding anniversary.  Remembering dates is not my strong suit.  Luckily, Husband’s not so good with them, either.  It is not uncommon for both of us to forget the date of our anniversary until several weeks later.  Perhaps this is why we’re still together.  Or maybe we both keep forgetting to file the divorce papers.  Either way.

But this year was our 10th anniversary.  Clearly this marriage thing is turning into some kind of a habit.  We didn’t forget the date altogether this time, but we were both unprepared for the day gift-wise.  Evidently, the appropriate etiquette gift for 10 years of marriage is something made out of aluminum.  That sounds, um, romantic.  Did we ever establish whether or not aluminum causes cancer?  I hope the gift suggestions get progressively better over time. 

Nevertheless, I did a quick aluminum gift brainstorm.  Aluminum siding?  Nah, I’m quite partial to our wooden shingles.  Aluminum pots?  But that would really be a gift to myself.  Plus, you can’t cook anything acidic in them, which is an annoying limitation in a pot.  Aluminum baseball bat?  But Husband already has one, and how many bats does one man need who isn’t on the Red Sox?  I mean, he thinks he’s on the Red Sox.  That much is clear.  But as far as I can tell, he is not actually on the Red Sox and do we really need to encourage the delusions? 

Instead, I decided to show up on our anniversary with a six-pack of beer and two giant steak bombs from Carl’s.  The steak bombs came wrapped in aluminum foil.  It was the best I could do on short notice.  Husband then presented me with a box of ricotta cannoli from Antoine’s Pastry Shop.  They contained no aluminum and I was very offended.  Then we proceeded to eat and eat and eat and eat until we made ourselves physically uncomfortable and the only sentiment verbalized the whole rest of the night was a wincing “Don’t touch me!”  Our moans were not of a sexual nature. 

Looking back over the evidence, it’s unclear who was trying to kill the other first on our anniversary.  It was almost a tie.  If I could do it all over again, I would have celebrated the event with the more anniversary-worthy meal I cooked three days later: grilled pork chops and peaches with balsamic vinegar. 

The locally raised chops were rubbed with basil, oregano, fennel seed, salt, pepper, and olive oil, and were grilled alongside the peaches.  The peaches are great this year, aren’t they?  Once the fruits were appropriately grill-marked, I splashed them with balsamic vinegar, orange juice, and a sprinkle of purple basil leaves.  Grilled pattypan squash and coleslaw on the side.  Sour cherry cobbler for dessert.

It was probably still too much food, but slightly less masochistic, don’t you think?

Local Sources:
Pork chops: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Peaches: Carver Hill Orchard, Stow, MA
Squash, cabbage, onion, carrots: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA
Cherries: Orbaker's Fruit Farm, Williamson, NY

Fish Tacos

Why has it taken me so long to embrace the fish taco?  It is nothing short of genius, especially when you’re a member of a local fishermen’s coop.  Basically how it works is this: whatever leftover fish you have, throw it into a taco with whatever vegetables you have.  Seriously.  Not only that, but it tastes fresh and healthy and not even a little bit lazy.  Here’s how we’ve been doing fish tacos lately, though I'd imagine there are about as many variations as there are fish in the sea.

Fish Tacos

1 package corn tortillas
½ lb. leftover fish or pieces for frying
¼ head of cabbage, finely shredded
¼ red onion, thinly sliced
Whole cilantro leaves
½ cup mayo
Juice of ½ lime
½ shallot, chopped
½ jalapeño, minced, seeds removed
1 Tbsp. fresh herbs like dill, oregano, parsley
¼ tsp. dried cumin
Dash cayenne
Salt and pepper to taste

First, I get my vegetables ready—in this case, shredded cabbage, thinly sliced red onion, and cilantro leaves.  I keep the cilantro leaves separate from the herbs in the dressing because people either love cilantro or hate it.  This way, you can either pile it on (yes, yes, yes!) or leave it out at your own discretion.  Then I make the sauce, which is similar to that creamy salad dressing recipe I gave you earlier this summer.  In fact, I’ll often just doctor that if I have some around.  If not, just whisk the mayo with lime juice and add the chopped shallot, jalapeño, herbs, spices, salt, and pepper.  I like it heavy on the dill.  Taste it and once you get the flavor you like, you can thin it with milk or buttermilk, thicken it with more mayo, or just leave it alone.  If you should find yourself with too much sauce, it also makes a great dressing for coleslaw.

Next, the fish.  We really like pollock in our tacos, though we’ve also enjoyed haddock and hake (aka merluza).  Sometimes we use leftover fish and other times I’ll deep fry some for the occasion and let the children have homemade fish sticks while the adults flake theirs into tacos.  (The children have yet to take to the taco, but I’ll break them down eventually.)  For batter, I either coat the fish pieces in buttermilk or plain yogurt thinned with milk and dredge them in cornmeal, or make a beer batter with ¾ cup flour, ¼ cup cornstarch, and enough beer to make a batter of a reasonable consistency.  Then I drink the remaining ¾ bottle of beer to make the frying go faster.  You want the oil hot (375°F) so the fish comes out light and crispy, not sodden.  Drain on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. 

When you’re on your last batch of fish, wrap a stack of corn tortillas in a damp paper towel and heat the whole thing in the microwave on medium-low for a minute.  Flake the fish into bite-sized pieces.  Assembly, to be done individually at the table, is just a matter of taking two tortillas, making a small pile of cabbage, onion, cilantro, and fish down the center, and applying sauce.  Don’t be too stingy with the sauce—you’ll want at least a tablespoon on there.  It’s a pretty healthy meal overall.

By the way, Cape Ann Fresh Catch is accepting new members, so if you’ve been eager to try out local delivery of fresh Gloucester-caught fish, now’s your chance.  They have a fillet option now so you don’t have to lug home a whole fish and fillet it yourself if you don’t want to.  I’ve opted for the pre-filleted share myself since I already have enough fish bones in my freezer to keep us in chowder for five years straight. 

Local Sources:
Cabbage, red onion, cilantro: Waltham Fields Community Farm, Waltham, MA
Dill, parsley, oregano: Neighbor’s garden, Waltham, MA
Fish: Cape Ann Fresh Catch, Gloucester, MA
Buttermilk: Kate’s Homemade Butter, Old Orchard Beach, ME
Corn tortillas: Cinco de Mayo, Lynn, MA (via Russo’s)

Fun Guy

My mushroom garden is coming along.  Slowly.  In addition to the four shiitake logs from last year, I've inoculated three logs with oyster mushroom spawn and three more with maitake spawn (aka hen of the woods).  But then I ran out of logs.  Perhaps I was overly ambitious when I ordered 300 mushroom plugs.  Remind me not to buy my mushroom spawn on an empty stomach.

Since I still had 100 shiitake plugs left and I didn’t want to take down any trees unnecessarily, I’ve been trolling the mean streets of Waltham for additional logs.  I spotted some in the driveway of a house en route to the park.  One of the guys who lives there could often be seen making modifications to what looked to be a souped-up monster-truck-type vehicle.  Frequently, he could be found washing caked-on mud off of it after what I can only imagine was extreme off-roading.  He seemed like a nice enough guy, though, and who am I to judge other people’s hobbies.  I mean, I write stories about my food.  So, I decided to bite the bullet and knock on his door.

Monster Truck Dude answered.  I asked if he, perchance, had any plans for those logs.  He indicated they were slated for firewood.  I scowled as I looked over at the gigantic barricade of firewood he had already amassed between his house and his neighbor’s yard.  I mentioned my penchant for mushrooms and how those logs could probably grow some good ones.  Edible ones, I clarified.  He indicated that he liked mushrooms.  How many did I need?  I low-balled it at three.  Take four, he said, and you can bring mushrooms in exchange.  I explained that it takes a whole year for mushrooms to establish, but he said that was fine.  Then, I happily hauled four logs into my car and promised to return someday. 

Wow, it’s like this bartering thing actually works!  See, this is where having that extra boob comes in handy.  Perhaps this is the beginning of a high-risk, low yield mushroom CSA!  I imagine getting a permit for that is no problem at all!

Eggsistential Lunch

Here’s what the 4YO and I discussed over our egg salad today:

Him: Mommy, are you a grown-up?

Me: That’s a good question!!

Him: … (still waiting for the answer)

Me: Yes, I’m a grown-up.

Him: … (pondering this)

Me: Did you think I was a child?

Him: No.  I thought you were a teenager.

Hmmmmm.  I’m either very insulted or totally psyched!

Deliciduous Trees

Ever since I successfully identified a black walnut tree in the wild all by myself (which isn’t hard, it turns out, but this suburban girl demands kudos anyway), I’ve been studying up on nut trees in a crazed fashion.  Just ask Husband about my reading material during our Cape vacation: all nut-, berry-, and mushroom-related.  He fears for his life.

Anyway, I’ve been wondering about all these trees we have in our backyard and whether or not they’re anything good.  I mean, they’re trees so they’re automatically good regardless of whether or not they provide me with delicious nuts.  Calm down, Trees.  But what I mean to say is: in addition to oxygenating the air, furnishing a pleasant canopy of shade, and blocking out unattractive urban eyesores, wouldn’t they be even better if they provided me with delicious nuts? 

That’s where you come in.  Yes, you.  You get to help me identify my trees!  Won’t that be fun?  No?  Well, tough crap because I have all these tree pictures and nothing else prepared for today, so dig out your thinking caps and help me figure out what the hell these goddamned trees are.  There are only two for today.

Specimen #1:

Notice the unusual pattern of the bark.  So geometric.  The tree is so tall and shoulder-to-shoulder with maples and oaks competing for sunlight that I literally can’t even see the leaves.  I got out some binoculars to get a better (but still crappy) look, and I did find some fallen leaves that I think belong to the tree in question, so I’ve recreated the leaf pattern as best I could see it:

Alternate, pinnately compound, toothed leaflets, I believe.  The leaves still on the tree are green, by the way, not yellow.  Other potential clues: not a lot of vegetation growing around the trunk unlike the other nearby trees.  Also, high up on the trunk is this ominous-looking thing:

Any guesses as to what type of tree this could be?

Specimen #2:

This tree is still young and small, but, I think, promising.  Look at the leaf distribution.  Also alternate, toothed, and pinnately compound.  Leaflets are arranged in groups of five like fingers on a hand, except the larger trio of top leaves are joined together in the same spot and the two smaller leaves are joined lower on the stem in a separate spot, as if the leaf version of a thumb and pinky finger were growing out of its wrist.  (I would have made an awesome scientist, I just know it!)  Here’s the tiny trunk:

So, nature-loving people, what’s the verdict?  Will Husband be up to his nuts in nuts this fall?  If Specimen 1 is what I think it is, the good news will probably be flanked by bad news.  Perhaps the only thing I should count on come October is the usual ton of raking.

Serving 1 to Life

I know I pissed some of you off with the tomato theft story.  With so many garden-oriented readers, I can’t help but think I half-hoped to stir up a little controversy with my presentation.  And you have a valid point.  Stealing is wrong, regardless of the scale, regardless of the circumstance. But let me give you the rest of the story, not to excuse it, but to put it in a larger context. 

The garden in question turned out to be in back of my older son’s elementary school.  That there was a garden back there was news to me.  No one had ever mentioned anything about a school garden before.  My son had never laid eyes on it.  The woman who had told me about the tomatoes was affiliated with the community farm through which we have a CSA share, but I didn’t know much more than that.  All I knew was there were unblighted tomatoes behind the school, possibly the only local tomatoes I would see all year, and I needed to figure out a way to get some.  And, yes, I realize that stealing from children only worsens my case for clemency, but let me finish.  Sheesh!

When I showed up at the building, boldly holding two pint containers in my hands, it was a week or so before school was starting.  Teachers were preparing for the new school year and so there was some activity inside the building.  I headed for the office to ask the school secretary about the garden.  She said, what garden?  I said, the garden in back of the school.  She said, we have a garden in back of the school?  I said, don’t you?  Nobody else in the office seemed to know.  This is when I started to doubt the veracity of the woman at the farm.  Where did she get this information?  I asked if I could go out back and look.  The secretary said, go ahead.  I asked if she wanted me to pick her a pint of tomatoes while I was back there.  She didn’t seem to care.

If you missed the tomato story, what happened next is here.  The plants were big and beautiful and yielded tons of ripe little sungolds.  Tons.  I took two pints and change, and barely made a dent.  It was clear that somebody was taking good care of that garden, but who?  Then, when the janitors started banging trashcans against the windows, I figured it was probably them.  I resolved to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible.  As soon as possible after I got those tomatoes into a salad.

Once school began, I started volunteering at the school library.  The library has a long bank of sunny windows in the back that happen to overlook the garden and its woody surroundings.  I asked the librarian about the garden and, as it happened, she knew the e-mail addresses of the two people who planted it.  I contacted them and one of them wrote back to say that the garden was part of a pilot program at the public schools designed to teach kids about where their food comes from and the growing cycle.  One of the grades had planted pumpkin seeds before summer vacation and would be harvesting them that fall.  She said they were looking to expand the garden and get more kids, and perhaps the parents, involved.  Can you guess who the person in charge of the garden was? 

The woman who told me about the tomatoes in the first place! 

Damnit!  I hadn’t been stealing after all!  She had practically given me her blessing. (sigh)

Well, that garden left such an indelible impression on me that I immediately volunteered to be the parent liaison.  Now I help Healthy Waltham, a city-run organization that aims to improve health and quality of life, in organizing parent volunteers to help maintain the garden over the summer (weeding, watering, and, yes, harvesting) so it’s in good shape for lessons in the fall.  They’re hoping that, with more parent involvement, the garden can grow, become more integrated in the curriculum, and serve as an example for other schools around the country. 

Nine families signed up to take care of the garden for a week this summer.  During our week, the kids and I watered the plants, weeded, and mulched the pumpkin patch with straw.  And by “the kids and I,” I mean me.  They sat under a shady tree and read books.  That’s fine, too.

I’m not sure the end always justifies the means, but, in this case, it didn’t turn out too badly.

Constructing Pavlova

So now that you know (or don’t know) the history of pavlova, let’s make a pavlova!

If your experience with meringue is mostly marked by indifference, this pavlova will change all that.  It’s not chalky and tasteless the way some structured meringues can be.  Long, slow baking forms a thin, crisp shell on the outside while the middle stays soft and marshmallowy—a billowy, free-form cloud in the palest, purest shade of pink, like brand-new pointe shoes.  That outer shell is fragile enough that if you pile your fruit too high, as I did, the middle collapses slightly.  I suspect that’s why the whipped cream was introduced in the first place.  To cover up the fissures and sinkholes that arise when one of your major ingredients is just air.  That’s my theory, anyway. 

But the combination of sweet meringue, not-to-sweet whipped cream, and sweet-tart berries, along with the contrasting textures of crisp and yielding is absolutely delightful.  Which is why I ate all of the leftovers at 11 p.m. that night.  You know, because they wouldn’t taste as fresh and wholesome the next day!  Best of all—and I hope you’re reading this, Mom—pavlovas are gluten-free.  So, if you’re allergic to wheat, then consider this a very worthy substitute for strawberry shortcake.

Pavlova

Save the unused egg yolks for lemon curd or pasta dough or whatever else you make that could benefit from some extra richness.

4 egg whites
Pinch salt
1 cup sugar, whizzed in a food processor (or super-fine sugar)
1½ tsp. cornstarch
1 tsp. vinegar
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. sugar (optional)
Splash of vanilla
1 quart strawberries, raspberries, black raspberries, or other seasonal fruit

Preheat oven to 250°F.  Line a sheet pan with parchment paper and trace an 8-inch circle on it in pencil using a cake pan or bowl as a guide.  Turn the parchment paper over so you don’t get pencil on your meringue (but make sure you can still see the circle you just drew).

Using an electric mixer, whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt in a large, clean bowl.  It’s very important that your bowl is grease-free and that you separated your eggs cleanly, with no broken yolks mixed in with the whites.  Any fat will interfere with the whipping process.  When soft peaks form, begin adding the sugar 1 tablespoonful at a time with the mixer running.  Continue beating on medium-high speed until stiff, glossy peaks form, about 5 minutes.  Rub some meringue on your fingers to make sure all the sugar has dissolved.  Lightly but thoroughly fold in the cornstarch and vinegar.  These ingredients are not optional.  They are necessary for that magical texture I described.

Gently mound the meringue in the center of the parchment and lightly spread it to fill the circle you traced.  With the back of a spoon, shape it so that it’s higher on the sides and dipped like a well in the middle.  Don’t fuss with it too much, though, or you’ll lose air.  It’s meant to look free-form.  Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour and 15 minutes, until it’s just starting to take on some color and crack slightly (cracks are totally fine).  Then turn off the heat and let the meringue sit inside with the oven door ajar for 30 minutes.  Take out and let cool.

Assemble just before serving.  Whip the cream in a clean bowl with a splash of vanilla and perhaps a bit of sugar (though the meringue is sweet enough that you don’t need much) until soft peaks form.  Mound the cream in the well and top with seasonal fruit of your choosing. 

Local Ingredients:

Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries: Various local farms via Verrill Farm, Concord, MA

Secret Garden

Here’s a story for you.  Last summer amid my health woes, my teenaged niece came to visit from Hawaii.  Her stay was pretty much the only ray of sunshine that whole summer.  She babysat the kids, helped out around the house, and generally entertained us with her perky self for two weeks.

While the summer as a whole is a big black hole in my memory, I remember lots of things about her visit: watching food TV and enjoying her wisecracks during that paper-thin window of time between when the kids went to bed and my own eyes involuntarily clamped shut.  Fishing at Spy Pond (mostly fishing lures out of trees at Spy Pond).  Me setting a good example for said niece by getting pulled over by the cops for a traffic violation. And then there was the tomato-picking.

You may recall last year’s widespread tomato blight.  Every farm in the area was hit and even people’s backyard plants were doomed to the same terrible fate.  I didn’t see a ripe local heirloom tomato all summer, which was very depressing indeed.  Until.  Somebody snuck me some classified information.  Apparently there was a stand of sungold cherry tomatoes on public property within the Waltham city limits that was entirely free of blight and ready to be harvested.  The woman who told me this said it so casually, I almost didn’t believe her.  Didn’t she realize this was THE BEST NEWS EVER? 

I didn’t ask any questions.  With no time to lose, I took another hit of my anti-nausea meds and pointed my niece and kids in the appropriate direction.  My niece, who spent most of her formative years on an organic garden bursting forth from fertile, volcanic island soil, patiently indulged me.  When we got to the building in question and walked around back, I didn’t see the garden anywhere.  I’d been tricked!  What kind of a person lies about tomatoes to a cancer patient?  As we turned around to trudge back, my niece noticed what looked to be a patch of kale.  Yes, that was definitely kale.  Well done, adolescent human!  What more dost thou youthful eyes behold? 

And there they were.  High up on a terrace of a south-facing slope were the tomato plants, golden orbs shining like treasure.  No wonder nobody had found them—they were growing ten feet above our heads.  You had to pass underneath several retaining walls, then walk up the far side of the hill to access them or even see them.  The garden was completely encircled by a sprawling edifice on one side and conservation land on the other, and, beyond that, train tracks, a cemetery, and the Charles River.  A more protected tomato fortress I cannot imagine.

I felt exhilarated—thrilled to encounter this pristine patch of perfect tomatoes, completely disease-free against all odds.  We got to work filling up two pint-sized containers with the taut, sun-burnished fruits, popping some into our mouths as we went.  Finally, the janitors in the building overlooking the garden started banging trashcans against the windows to put a stop to our small-scale looting.  It worked!  We scuttled away giggling, mouths full, tomato juice dribbling down our chins.

I bring this up for three reasons: 1) I miss my niece; 2) I’ve developed a relationship with this particular garden (a healthy one—more on this later); and 3) Sometimes beautiful little acts of disobedience are the best medicine. 

Cute Chicks

The 4YO’s preschool class recently raised some chicks!  One of his teachers obtained some fertilized eggs from Codman Farm in Lincoln and kept them in an incubator in the classroom.  On each egg she penciled an X on one side and an O on the other.  The eggs needed to be rotated several times per day (including nights and weekends), and the markings helped ensure that none of them got missed.  The class kept a calendar and the children counted down the days until they hatched. 

Several weeks later, two little chicks emerged.  (There were more than two eggs, but it’s true what they say about not counting your chickens before they hatch.)  Still, they had each other, and the smaller, balder one cuddled up underneath the bigger, fluffier one for warmth.  All the kids were crazy about the chicks, but especially the 4YO (I may have mentioned his bird fixation).  He staked out a special spot next to the cage during his afternoon rest time, often falling asleep from the warmth of the heat lamp and their soft peeping.  I tried not to be too disgusted when I found wood shavings from the cage all over his naptime blankets.  (How soon I forget about animal-induced filth now that we’ve been a cat-free household for a year.)

Needless to say, the 4YO got pretty attached to the chicks, especially the fluffy one, which he declared to be his favorite.  I tried to make an argument against favoring the pretty ones over the runty, less attractive ones, but I gave up.  Let’s face it, you like who you like.  (Whom you like?  Grammar, sometimes you cramp my style.) 

But soon the chicks had to be returned to the farm where they would live out their chicken lives as egg-layers.  We presume.  The chickens at Codman have a pretty sweet life with their mobile coops and grassy pasture.  Still, I knew it would be a bittersweet goodbye.   The 4YO seemed okay at separation time, but then he was quieter than usual on the ride back home.  While we were sitting at a traffic light, I heard a soft voice from the back:

Him: Mommy, I love that chick.

Me: I know, honey. 

He didn’t say anything else the whole way home. 

The next week, I brought him to Codman to check up on his chick.  At least I think it was his chick.  Who can tell?  I just picked the fluffiest, yellowest puffball and declared it a reunion!  The chick was now fully immersed with dozens of other preschool-aged chicks in their own little pen right next to the pen with the emo teenaged chicks and some crossover ducklings.  It was pretty loud in there.  The 4YO joined the ruckus, squawking away happily in the hen house.

Phew.  His first chick-related heartbreak averted!  But it surely won’t be his last.

Pickling Cookbook Winners

Wow, I learned so much about you guys (and pickles in general) from your comments on the last post.  For example, there seem to be a lot of us in love with pickled beets. I dare say we have good taste.  Calamity Jane of Apron Strings writes of the pickled fiddleheads and wild cucumber she made in her Alaskan kitchen.  Gillis raves about the Grillo’s Pickles cart on Boston Common (2 spears for $1 all summer at the Park St. T stop).  Bobbie fondly remembers the giant pickles on a stick at the Wisconsin State Fair.  Pengwenhsd once had a man propose to her upon tasting her homemade bread and butter pickles.  And the favorite jarred brand seems to be Claussen dills (a recipe for a homemade version is here).

But where people got downright poetic was talking about Jewish deli pickles. Fellow blogger Aimee of New To Farm Life writes:

“I'm a pickle fanatic and it is hard to pick just one. But as I was thinking about it, a pure and perfect memory came back to me. I'm about seven years old, and we've gone to New York to visit my grandparents. Mom has dragged us kids around museums all day and we are ravenously hungry. We go into a real old-fashioned New York delicatessen to pick up food to eat on the train home. I've never been in a place like this (West Coast child) and am stone cold fascinated by the deli case with its bright salads, slabs of fish, a hundred kinds of cheese. Up on top of the counter, above my head, is a gigantic glass crock full of equally gigantic pickles. I point it out to brother and sister and we set up a ruckus, clamoring for pickles. The pickles, when we get them, are so big we can't close our fists around them, and they are so briny and crisp and delicious my mouth fills up with water. I can remember everything about those pickles - the snap they made when we bit into them, the warty cool skin of them, the cloudy brine in the jar swirling with garlic and spices. Most of all I remember the feeling of being small and curious, wide-eyed in a new place, with my mother beside me, teaching me, showing me, interpreting the world for me.”

What a fabulous pickle story! 

Reader Ashley writes of her grandmother’s pickles:

“My grandma made the best dill pickles. They were left in their brine on the porch of her bungalow in the Catskills, the center of summer life for Jewish New Yorkers escaping the city heat. The pickles had much of the old country in them, with a garlicky bite and ultra-satisfying crunch. The perfect refreshing summer snack, though I often ignored my mom's warnings, gorged on the salty treats, and woke up in the middle of the night parched.”

Mmmmmm.  Can anybody else use a drink right now?

There were even some requests for other readers’ pickle recipes (some of these requests are my own):

1. Millie’s carrot and daikon radish recipe;
2. The refrigerator half-sour recipe from Pickledbeets; and
3. The pickled shiitake recipe from the Momofuku cookbook that Louisa mentioned (though I just helped myself to that recipe from this fine blog).

So good work, people.  I wish I had 30 cookbooks to give out.  Do we have 30 cookbooks to give out, Storey?  Just kidding.  (Unless we do.) 

In order to be fair, and instead of writing names on pieces of paper and making Husband pull them out of a box like I’ve done in the past, I used a random number generator to pick the number of the winning commenters.  And the winners of a copy of Put 'Em Up by Sherri Brooks Vinton are:

16. Pickledbeets

26. Kate

Winners, I will be in touch.  For the rest of you, don’t worry, there will be other raffles in the future.  I won’t rest until everybody’s won something good.

Get Your Pickles On!

Okay, people, I’m feeling generous again.  Now that school is out and it’s officially summertime, I have pickling on my mind.  Even more so since I started flipping through the new book Put ‘Em Up by Sherri Brooks Vinton, a charming ode to canning, pickling, and other methods of putting food by.  An excerpt:

“…Home food preservation is a natural progression of the Real Food Revival—our increasing demand for food that is grown the way it should and used to be.  We want food that’s good for the farmer, the environment, and ourselves.  Putting up food is part of this passion.  It’s part of coveting the harvest so much that you can’t let it slip through your fingers so fleetingly.  It’s part of cherishing the work of local growers or your own toil in the backyard and wanting to hold on to some aspect of that even when fields lie fallow.”

Well, not so much my own toil.  I prefer to cherish other people’s toil, but I get her point.  Plus pickling is like tasty time travel.  Not only does it yield a healthful, homemade snack, but it also allows you to return to a moment, a place, a memory—whether it’s the sunny spot where you picked your own summer beans or the rainy morning when you finally decided to bite the bullet and boil some jars.  You get to remember those simple pleasures many months down the road while eating something delicious that you thoughtfully put aside for yourself.

This book is a great introduction to the art of freezing, drying, brining, canning, and otherwise storing your bountiful summer produce for later enjoyment.  Included are recipes for quick and fermented pickles, like dilly beans, pickled beets, and sauerkraut.  Other recipes that had me daydreaming: cherry and black pepper preserves, spicy peach salsa, sweet pepper marmalade, charred chili barbecue sauce, fennel and onion jam, rhubarb jelly, roasted pepper ketchup, and watermelon granita.  Plus it has such cute pictures of hand-labeled jars.  Adorable!

So here’s the deal.  Storey Publishing, a nice little publisher out in western Mass., will give away two cookbooks, one to each of two lucky readers.  And all you have to do is regale me with a story about the best pickle you ever had in the comment section.  That’s right, one more homework assignment before you’re off for the summer.  But if you win, you have to promise you’ll actually make something out of the book.  No entering yourself in the lottery and then letting the book sit on a shelf.  I’ll walk over there and take it back.

Okay, enough with the empty threats.  You have until sometime on Sunday.  Ready, set, go!

Are Those Mulberries on My Salad?

Why, yes.  Yes, they are.  I found some new mulberry trees in a secret location where the branches are low and the competing wildlife less voracious.  (Also, I noticed that the black raspberries are starting to come into their own, so keep your eye out for those, too.)

I love turning salad into dessert.  Because do you know how much salad I eat when it tastes like dessert?  Four times as much.  So much that having “a little salad” before my evening jog turns into “a lot of salad” before my evening jog such that I practically throw up halfway through my evening jog.  Add this to the list of totally preventable circumstances if only I could have helped myself.

The responsible salad was farmshare greens (lettuce, spinach, arugula, endive) with foraged mulberries, sliced red onion, goat cheese, and walnuts with a balsamic vinaigrette.  It was delicious next to rosemary and fennel-crusted pork chops.  (I might have eaten a little of those, too.)  (And a hunk of defrosted baguette.)

Anyway, I don’t need any lectures, Husband.  I’ve already learned my lesson about stuffing myself a half-hour before physical exertion.  And the lesson is that jogging is dumb!

Local Ingredient Sources:
Lettuce, spinach, arugula, endive: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA
Mulberries: Waltham, MA
Goat cheese: Westfield Farm, Hubbardston, MA
Pork chops: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA

The Easter Bunny Returns

I proclaimed today to be Mulberry-Picking Day.  Ready or not, here we come! 

I grabbed the 4YO, the now-traditional Easter basket, and some raincoats, and we headed back to the Charles River.  Some of the mulberries were nice and ripe, and those we picked.  Unfortunately, most of the best ones were out of arm's reach.  It seems I’m not the only one who knows about these berries (and, from what I can tell, they all have a good six inches on me).  I pulled the branches down as low as they would go, but the birds only mocked me more.  The berry-laden upper two-thirds of the trees are their domain, you see, and as much as I’d love to, I can’t be climbing trees.  I’ve spent enough time in hospitals.

Luckily, on our walk, we found the perfect grabber stick.  It was about 6 feet long, light but sturdy, with three short branch stumps sticking out like stick-figure fingers.   With that, I was able to make contact with high branches and shake them until the berries fell to the ground.  The 4YO thought that was the funniest thing—having berries rain down over our heads and shoulders.  The trick was then to try to tell which berries just fell and which ones had been down there for a while.  Most of what we collected got eaten.  The rest will be scattered over tonight’s salad.

On the walk back, we saw all kinds of different birds and a pair of turtles. 

A far-sighted great blue heron nearly knocked me over as we crossed a footbridge.  I didn’t even see him coming until we were face to face.  I could have touched him.  The 4YO, being 10 paces ahead, didn’t get to see him, which is too bad because he’s crazy about birds.  He practically has the Peterson guide memorized.  As for me, I know the obvious birds.  The ones with the most blatant colors and markings, like cardinals and goldfinches and Baltimore orioles.  I can identify the shit out of a red-winged blackbird.  It’s all the other brownish-grayish birds that are a little murky. 

We noticed a cute gray bird swooping down and catching insects in midair over the lily pads.  It was really fun to watch and the 4YO was giggling.  Then he yelled out, Eastern kingbird!  I thought he meant kingfisher, which it clearly wasn’t since I know those are blue and most likely eat fish, but I was encouraging anyway.  When we got home, we looked up the bird in the guidebook and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t an eastern kingbird! 

Back to the Farm

Our first CSA pickup of the season was this weekend, and so the summer cooking frenzy begins.  How exciting!  On Sunday, I defrosted some shrimp from my winter fish share from Cape Ann Fresh Catch and made a quick stir-fry with garlic scapes, bok choy, tatsoi, scallions, and snow peas, the latter of which we picked ourselves at Waltham Fields.  The simple sauce contained no soy.  Just two parts fish sauce to one part sugar.  Fabulous over rice. 

Then last night, I grilled chicken from Chestnut Farms and served it over salad with a lemony spinach pesto dressing (yes, the same one you made for me, Red—thanks for the inspiration).  My BFF provided the orzo pasta salad with feta and herbs.  Then came strawberry shortcake assembly.  When was the last time you had real strawberry shortcake?  Not the kind over those circular store-bought sponge cakes.  The kind over real buttermilk biscuits sliced in half so the berry juices soak in.  The kind with sweet, local strawberries not soaked in methyl iodide.  The kind with real whipped cream on top, lightly sweetened with a touch of vanilla.  If you’re not going to make my rhubarb pie, at least make my strawberry shortcake, for god’s sake.  Have you no soul? 

Sorry.  Didn’t mean to get so worked up.  It’s just that if you’re going to be eating all those delicious vegetables, I think it’s okay if you have a little dessert.

Spinach and Pine Nut Dressing

For those extra heads of lettuce you find yourself with at this time of year.  It's also a good use for your lemon verbena.

2 cups lightly packed baby spinach leaves (about 2 oz.)
¼ cup pine nuts
Juice from 1 lemon (about 2 Tbsp.)
Zest from 1 lemon (about 1 tsp.)
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

In a small frying pan with no oil, toast the pine nuts over medium-low heat for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until fragrant and starting to get golden-brown in spots.  Let cool.  Combine the spinach, pine nuts, lemon juice, and lemon zest in a food processor.  Pulse until well-chopped.  With the machine running, gradually add the oil, blending until the mixture reaches a creamy dressing consistency.  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Great with a grilled chicken salad.

Source: Adapted from Everyday Italian by Giada De Laurentiis.

Here We Go ‘Round the Mulberry Bush

I’m on deadline today, so this post is going to be of the 10-minute variety.  But pay attention because this may be the only time I give you more than a week’s notice about anything.  My important announcement is this: the mulberries are almost ready.  In the Boston area, that is.  Don’t miss them!

On a jog earlier this week along the Charles with my friend K, I noticed a few mulberry-looking trees.  The berries looked like elongated black raspberries on bramble-less branches that had slightly shiny, heart-shaped leaves with serrated edges.  Some leaves had a notch out of one side that made them look like children’s mittens.  Since there wasn’t any oxygen getting to my brain, I shoved a few leaves into my pocket for later identification.  Turns out, they were indeed mulberry trees. 

So today I went back for another run.  Lacking anything more appropriate, I grabbed one of the kids’ Easter baskets from the top of a closet as I left.  I know I said I would never eat anything out of the disgusting Charles River, but these trees were only near the Charles.  On the other side of the path that runs along the Charles.  Also, finders-keepers.  I jogged along with my Easter basket in hand, tailing some goldfinches, and, holy crap, there are a shit-ton of mulberry bushes along the river.  I noticed at least 10 on my little bridge-to-bridge loop.  Some of them were giant.  Unfortunately, the berries were not ripe, yet.  Most of them were still white or pinkish-red.  There were some blackish ones, but when I got up close, I realized that they were just dark purple tinged with red and not quite ready.  And the really, really black ones were just bird poop.  You only make that mistake once.

Long story short, I had to jog back empty-handed.  Well, except for the basket.  Now if you’re jogging with a big basket full of ripe, juicy berries, you might be considered a hero by a select few, like the old Russian ladies with babushkas who nod knowingly as you pass or some young person with wildish hair, but, let me tell you something.  If you’re tripping down the path with a brightly colored, plastic Easter basket that’s completely empty, accidentally humming nursery rhymes, you just look like an all-purpose moron.

Rhubarb Pie

Oh, my god, you guys, I am obsessed with rhubarb pie.  Obsessed!  Do you know how many rhubarb pies I’ve made in the past two weeks?  Three.  Three pies and nary a strawberry to be found in any of them.  Strawberries have their time and place, don’t get me wrong, but that time is when they’re raw and right out of the garden, and that place is far away from my rhubarb pies. 

This recipe comes from my friend, Cathy, whom I stalked until she gave it to me.  Yes, I’m back to my stalking ways.  Get it?  Rhubarb?  Stalks?  Shut up.  Her recipe is tart, the way I like my rhubarb, with a touch of cream, which is how I like pretty much everything.  I had to add a little more sugar to appease Husband, and double the flour because my particular rhubarb seemed to have a high water content.  I also added a lattice crust so you wouldn’t be subjected to a photo of a pie that looked like someone just vomited into a pie shell.  Now it looks like someone vomited into a pie shell and I added a decorative lattice crust!  But you know I never discriminate against ugly food on this blog.  Ugly food is the best food.

Make this pie.  Make it early and often.  And I know one of you is going to ask me if you can leave out the cream, and my answer, as always, is that you could, but why would you want to do a silly thing like that?

Rhubarb Pie

Yes, you can use a premade crust, but I won’t stop nagging you to make your own at least once.  Below is a recipe for a homemade butter crust.  Using half butter, half shortening will give you extra flakiness (the tradeoff is transfats).  Or you could make a lard crust.

Crust
2 cups flour
12 Tbsp. cold butter, cut into pieces
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
8-10 Tbsp. ice water (or more)

Filling
1 lb. rhubarb, cut into 3/4-inch pieces (3½-4 cups)
¾ cup sugar
¼ cup flour
¼ tsp. salt
½ cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. lemon juice

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest in the middle of the other.  Folding over the sides of the plastic wrap, flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate at least an hour or until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 450°F.  Have your 9-inch pie plate at the ready.  In a large bowl, toss rhubarb with sugar, flour, and salt.  In a small bowl, whisk together cream and lemon juice and set aside.  Retrieve your pie dough from the fridge.  Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to your pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align dough over pie plate and gently unfurl.

Dump rhubarb mixture into pie shell.  There will be a small pile of sugar and flour in the middle.  Redistribute evenly.  Pour cream mixture over the top evenly.  Roll out the second pie crust the same way as the first, only slightly smaller.  Using a pastry wheel or sharp knife, cut thin strips for a lattice topping.  Arrange strips like so.  Fold over edges of bottom crust and crimp however you like.   Place in oven on top shelf with a baking sheet on the bottom shelf to catch any drips.  Bake 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 350°F and bake until bubbly, puffed, and crust is richly caramelized, about 45 minutes more.  Keep an eye on the crust—if it starts to brown too much, cover with foil.

Let cool.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

Local Sources:
Rhubarb: Verrill Farm, Concord, MA
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Weird Heirloom Vegetables

Today, I have a special guest blogger for you: author Novella Carpenter.  She’s an urban farmer based in Oakland, CA, where she raises vegetables, fruit, chickens, honey bees, rabbits, and dairy goats in the middle of the city.  Novella will be reading from her book, Farm City (now out in paperback), at Porter Square Books in Cambridge this coming Monday, June 7 at 7 p.m., so be sure to stop by for some funny farm stories and a seed give away.  Take it away, Novella…

I can’t help it, I like weird stuff. Like boyfriends who lie in the middle of the floor at a dinner party. Like cats with white paw pads. Like weird fruits and vegetables not available in fine stores. I’ve made it a point to collect strange fruit. I have a Seville orange tree (it’s small and I’ve still yet to get a nary a sour orange off of it). I have a sour cherry tree (we got enough cherries last year for one mind-blowing pie). Every year I graft some antique apple variety to my poor overburdened apple tree (this year it was a Winter Banana).  

Vegetables are no different; I will often wander around ethnic farmers markets with my tongue hanging out. “What is this?” I’ll ask the old ladies nearby, and they will patiently explain about taro root or chayote tendrils. A friend from Los Angeles came to visit and brought seeds for the famous giant radish of Oaxaca. I was so excited, it was as if she had brought me a suitcase full of money. This spring has been a busy one, and I’ve planted some weird vegetables that I wanted to share with you. 

Crapaudine beets (Beta vulgaris)

My sister, who lives in France, was laughing her ass off about this one when she sent me some seeds. We’re into that kind of toilet humor, and she thought maybe the etymological roots signaled that these beets were a, um, stool causer. My sister is always sending me some ancient Roman vegetable information, and these beets were apparently the original beet back in those days, before they became all rounded or striped inside.

Of course, I planted a whole bed of them. After 60 days, the leaves were looking amazing and strong so I went to harvest some for my little farm stand. This is what came out.

So that’s where the name comes from: crappy. No one bought the beets at the farm stand, and so I was left to deal with them. Being thrifty, I recognized the value of those leaves. So I made some beet chips out of them. It was easy, I just tossed the leaves in olive oil, put them in an oven at 350 degrees and cooked them for 7 minutes. They get all green and flat, perfect for tossing with salt and nutritional yeast.  

Next, I had to deal with the pathetic beetroot. I just dropped them into boiling water for a few minutes. I had very low expectations. Turned out, the thin-yucky skin slipped off to reveal a gorgeous mini-carrot-like thing.

The crapaudine beets actually tasted great! Very sweet, more like a carrot than a beet. They had a velvety texture and were lovely in a green salad tossed with boiled eggs. Thanks, Sister! I’ll never grow them for market, though.  

Bleu de Solaise leeks (Allium porrum)

Someone dumped two flats of leeks on my boyfriend. He fixed her truck, and the truck had the leeks inside—and she asked, “Does Novella want them?” Yes, Novella does. She likes free things, especially when they are heirloom leeks. These leeks, true to their name, are blue. Like that violet-y blue that is almost hallucinatory next to the dark earth. Two trays of leeks is a lot of leek. I had enough to sell at my farm stand—and enough to make leek confit.   

Confit always sounds so fancy. But in the leek confit case, it just meant that I braised the leeks in butter in a low oven for an hour. The leeks just fall apart and become gooey and caramel-y sweet. I like to use them to make leek soup (just add stock) or a leek tart (make a crust). Baby! What’s great about heirlooms like the Bleu de Solaise, is you can save the seeds and you’ll get the same beautiful blue leeks year after year.

Rampicante zucchini (Cucurbita moschata)

There’s a seed company called Baker Creek that is perfect for novelty freaks like myself. The catalog did lead me astray with a couple orders—like the Southeast Chinese cucumbers or the Thai Tigger melons that are never going to grow in foggy Northern California. Still, I love Baker Creek’s line-up. So far, I have one freak that is thriving: the rampicante zucchini.

I was drawn to it because the ad copy promised that I could eat the young squash like zucchini, and if it got older, I could eat it like winter squash. This would really solve the problem of too-far-gone zucchini, right? I also liked the name, but later heard rampicante is synonymous with the more well-known tromboncino, which I think I grew four years ago. It was just okay. Fooled again.  

Alrighty, I’m off to scan the nurseries for weird heirlooms like white tomatoes, padrone peppers, and some freaky perennial spinach.

You can read more from Novella on her blog, Ghost Town Farm. 

Lemony Asparagus Hummus

 Have you gotten your hands on any local asparagus, yet?  I did.  At Verrill Farm.  Where else have you guys found it? 

Regardless of where your asparagus came from, have I got a treat for you.  I mean, besides roasting the spears with little more than olive oil and some salt and pepper.  Lemony asparagus hummus.  I can’t stop eating this stuff.  Luckily, I don’t have to because it’s just asparagus and chickpeas and a few other little things that aren’t bad for you at all. 

Just try and stop me.  I dare you.

 

Lemony Asparagus Hummus

Serve with simple olive-oil-brushed, salt-and-peppered pita chips.  Or try the dukkah-spiced pita chips that accompanied this recipe in Yankee Magazine.

2 cups fresh asparagus, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 15-oz. can chickpeas, drained and rinsed well
2 medium cloves garlic
2 Tbsp. tahini, sesame paste
Zest of 1 lemon
Juice of same lemon
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Bring a large pot of water to a boil.  Meanwhile, fill a large bowl with ice water and set aside.  To the boiling water, add a generous pinch of salt and the asparagus.  Return water to a boil and cook about 4 minutes, until spears are tender and bright green.  Drain asparagus and submerge in the ice bath for a minute or two to stop the cooking.  Drain and set aside.

In a food processor, puree the chickpeas, garlic, tahini, lemon zest, lemon juice, and asparagus.  With the machine running, slowly pour in olive oil and process until combined.  Season with salt and pepper.  Serve with pita (bread or chips) and vegetables.

Source: Adapted from Yankee Magazine in an article by Annie Copps. 

Maple-Stout Marinated Brisket

Ever wish there was a cookbook out there with seasonal recipes and sprawling, high-quality photographs that pay homage to your favorite local growers?  I’m sure there are thousands of these kinds of cookbooks that revolve around California farms, at least one cookbook per farm I imagine, but not so here in Massachusetts.  Here, there’s just one.  (So far.)  (That I know of.)

I’m talking about Fresh & Honest, a beautiful collection of recipes and seasonal sources from Peter Davis, chef of Henrietta’s Table in Cambridge.  The focus is on simple, traditional New England fare with fresh, local ingredients, but he takes that a step further by introducing us to the fishermen, cheesemakers, and farmers that supply his restaurant, including Pat Woodbury of Wellfleet, Bob Stetson of Westfield Farm in Hubbardston, and Steve Verrill of Concord’s Verrill Farm, among others.  Recipes include roasted pumpkin soup, strawberry-rhubarb compote, lobster chowder, red flannel hash with poached eggs, and grit cakes with mushrooms.  It’s such a pretty book (it recently won a New England Book Festival award), that I kind of wish I wrote it myself.  But former Boston Magazine colleague Alex Hall wrote it with Davis, so that’s close enough.  The point is that such a book exists and is available for such greedy little hands as mine.

I’ve been agonizing over which recipe to share with you, and I’ve finally settled on one: maple-stout marinated brisket, one last hearty, meaty dish before we move into summer’s lighter fare.  I know I’m in a minority among the Boston-area, beer-loving public, but I don’t love drinking stout (I’ve discussed this before).  I find its meatiness offensive in a beverage.  But I do like to cook with it, so I planned to use Moody St. Stout from Waltham’s own Watch City brewery to continue the local theme.  But, of course, they ran out right before I got there, so I had to quickly formulate a backup plan.  Twenty minutes later, their Chocolate Thunder Porter caught my eye.  Come to find out, it’s made with local Taza chocolate!  And the fact that it’s a porter, which I do like, AND it contains chocolate, meant that I had no problem helping Husband polish off the rest of the growler alongside this rich, tender, dark-chocolatey brisket.  Win-win.  

Maple-Stout Marinated Brisket

This is not a weekday meal.  It requires marinating, browning, and long, slow cooking for 6 hours.  Start early the day before you need to eat it. 

1 4-lb. beef brisket
1/3 cup Dijon mustard
½ cup maple syrup (the darker, the better)
2 cups stout (or chocolate porter!)
½ cup red wine vinegar
2 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
4 bay leaves
2 tsp. Tabasco sauce (I used way less because that much Tabasco scares me!)
1 cup onion, finely diced

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the mustard and maple syrup.  Add the beer, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, bay leaves, Tabasco, and onion, and mix well.  Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer 2-3 minutes.  Let cool completely.

Soak the brisket in the marinade for 24 hours in the fridge.  Heat grill and brown over low heat on all sides, being careful not to burn it.  This can also be done in a hot, oven-proof skillet with a thin film of oil.  Preheat oven to 275°F.  In a tightly covered pan, cook brisket in the oven for 6 hours or so, basting with the marinade every hour.  When tender, remove from the oven and let rest tented with foil for 30 minutes.  Slice brisket across the grain and drizzle with pan drippings.  Serve with mashed potatoes and, I don’t know, maybe something green!

Source: Adapted from Fresh & Honest by Peter Davis and Alexandra Hall.

Local Food Sources:
Beef brisket: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Mustard: Raye’s Mustard, Eastport, ME
Maple syrup: Williams Farm Sugarhouse, Old Deerfield, MA
Beer: Watch City Brewing Company, Waltham, MA

Masala Fried Chicken

So, what do you think?  Is it time for another chicken recipe?  I think it’s time for another chicken recipe.

I know you liked the last one I did: lemon balsamic chicken.  Saveur did, too.  But that was a while ago, so here’s another chicken dish from that same cookbook, American Masala.  It’s fried chicken, but with an Indian twist.  Take your basic Southern fried chicken recipe and replace the basil, thyme, and sage (or whatever herbs you use) with coriander, turmeric, and garam masala.  This is a good example of how just a sprinkling of a few well-chosen spices can change the character of a dish entirely.  The rest of the technique is exactly the same.

I get the most succulent chickens from Chestnut Farms out in Hardwick, MA.  They don’t need any sort of brine to be tender and juicy, but I’m including the brine recipe anyway.  It’s simple enough and certainly doesn’t hurt anything.  Serve your fried chicken with aloo gobi (Indian cauliflower and potatoes) and garlicky greens, and you’ve got yourself a great meal.

Masala Fried Chicken

The cinnamon notes in garam masala seem to appeal to children, so if you want to entice your kids to eat chicken on the bone, this is a good contender.  Just ease up on the cayenne a bit if they’re not used to spice.

Brine
3 cups buttermilk
¼ kosher salt
2 Tbsp. sugar
1½ tsp. garam masala
1 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. ground peppercorns
½ tsp. ground ginger
½ tsp. paprika
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

Batter and Fry
1 chicken (4 lbs.), cut into 8 serving pieces, or 2-3 lbs. of drumsticks, thighs, wings
Canola oil, for frying
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. ground coriander
2 tsp. garam masala
2 tsp. ground peppercorns
1 tsp. turmeric
½ tsp. kosher salt
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

For the brine, mix buttermilk with the eight spices in a large bowl.  Add the chicken and turn to coat.  Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight, or as many hours as you can spare.

Heat an inch of canola oil in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet over medium-high heat.  In a pie plate, whisk together the flour and remaining spices.  Add the brined chicken and turn to coat.  If you’re not brining, you can dip the chicken pieces in a little buttermilk or egg, even yogurt, before coating with flour.  Let the chicken pieces rest in the flour while the oil finishes heating to 375°F.  That’s the secret to a crunchy, flaky crust—gluten.  Shake off any excess flour then fry in batches until browned 5-8 minutes.  Don’t crowd the pan or the oil temperature will drop and the batter will absorb too much oil.  In short, you’ll be disappointed.  Turn the chicken over and fry until browned on the other side, 5-8 minutes.  Transfer chicken to paper towels to drain.  Enjoy.

Source: Adapted from American Masala by Suvir Saran and Raquel Pelzel.

Motherload

I recently harvested a half-pound of shiitake mushrooms from my logs!  I sautéed them with butter, shallots, garlic, basil, parsley, chives, and cream, and served them over fettuccine.  They tasted divine.  Divine, I tell you.  Like a gift from the God of Fungus, whoever he might be.  Mycelius, maybe?  

I was going to ask you to guess what my family got me for Mother’s Day since I thought you were good at guessing games.  After all, you were right about the cold cellar.  But then you failed your last test across the board.  (For the correct answer to the Cabot’s ice cream quiz, scroll to the bottom of the comments on that post.)  So maybe I’ll just come right out and tell you what I got for Mother's Day. 

I got more mushroom spawn!! 

Most mothers prefer flowers for Mother’s Day, but I can’t cook with flowers.  At least not well.  Also, did you know that many types of mushrooms have amazing cancer-fighting health benefits?  I sure didn’t know this nor care at the time I inoculated my logs last spring, but now, exactly one year after my surprise cancer diagnosis, I care very much.  That combined with the fact that a couple of trees had to come down around our house, means it just makes good sense.  The birch logs will be recycled with oyster mushrooms.  And our next-door neighbors are donating some oak logs for additional shiitakes as well as maitake (hen of the woods).  And my four existing shiitake logs, two of which have started producing, should continue to fruit for several more years.

So it’s settled.  I’m building a mushroom garden! 

Mysterious Wisteria

Let me tell you something about wisteria.  Yes, it’s gorgeous, smells amazing, has seduced many a hopeless romantic into buying wicker furniture, but if given half a chance, it will fuck you over something awful.

When we bought our current dwelling eight years ago, it came with a gigantic front porch.  Attached to that porch was a huge wisteria vine.  And I really do mean huge.  Someone with a serious knowledge of plants had taken great care to train the unruly vine into a trunk that twisted and curved gracefully eight feet up off the ground and spun a tangled weft of branches from one end of the porch to the other in a loose, leafy basket-weave.  Like an arbor, but without the arbor.  The main trunk was at least four inches in diameter.  I don’t know how many years it took to get it to grow like that, but I have to think at least 15.  Fifteen years of full-time, dedicated wisteria patrol.

I was newly pregnant with the First Grader the spring we moved in.  That was when we witnessed the wisteria vine explode into an unbelievable display: dozens and dozens of fat, dewy blossoms hanging down like ripe bunches of grapes across the entire front of the house.  It was amazing to see, but what was even more amazing was the smell.  Like floral, purple-scented vanilla.  I would have spent a lot more time on the porch that spring if it weren’t for the first trimester nausea. 

Anyway, years went by and the vine grew more and more out of control.  I tried my hand at trimming it back, but only succeeded in causing it to stop blooming altogether, while in no way impeding its westward progress across the neighborhood.  I climbed up onto the roof to get a closer look, me with my comically tiny pruning shears.  I already knew that the woody vines had anchored themselves around the porch’s beams and had just begun ripping the screens out of their frames, but from my higher vantage point, I could also see that the shoots had infiltrated all the gutters and had even forced themselves up through the roof.  The house wasn’t holding up the wisteria.  The wisteria was holding up the house!

Rebuilding the porch was always part of our plan.  When me moved in, the floor was covered entirely in green Astroturf (mini-golf, anyone?), and underneath was 50% wood rot/50% carpenter ants.  It was a safety hazard even without the wisteria.  But when we were accepting contractor bids, nobody would agree to do the work unless we agreed to chop down the wisteria.  It weighed an incredible amount and would undermine the structural integrity of the new porch, as well as contribute to another wood root problem, not to mention that wisteria has been known to lift whole houses up off their foundations.  I knew it had to be done, but we were talking about a living creature much stronger than ourselves.  I couldn’t be there when they did it.

Long story short, they cut it down and ground up the stump for good measure.  We got a nice new porch in return, which is where I like to spend most of the summer.  Two years later, the wisteria grew back.  A shoot here, a shoot there, then about fifty of them.  A part of me, the romantic part, hoped it would grow back, but now that it has, the wisteria and I are engaged in a bitter death struggle which is best viewed using time-lapse photography and looks something like this: me, dressed up like a ninja, rusty lopper in hand, stealthily creeping out the back door to approach it from behind.  Like a fox, I trip over the 4-year-old’s baseball tee and awkwardly face plant while the lopper goes flying.  Before I can recover, several wisteria runners creep over and slip around each of my wrists and ankles, pinning me to the ground while another stuffs my mouth full of blossoms to silence the shrieking.  Once I stop struggling, the wisteria winds me up into a woody cocoon suspended up near the roofline.  Until Husband comes home from work and cuts me free.  Again.

Well.  I had in mind that this post would be about a delicious wisteria ice cream I made from the fragrant blossoms, but words simply cannot express how truly awful my wisteria ice cream came out.  Like being trapped in a humid, airless room with an entire wisteria plant rammed down my throat.  How can something that smells so right be so wrong?  Maybe I’m too colored by my own personal relationship with wisteria to be objective, but I wouldn’t recommend it for Mother’s Day or anything else.  Not if you actually like your mother.  Maybe just pick some flowers instead.  Bring protection.

H2O

Did you hear that Boston was without clean water for a few days?  It’s hardly as disastrous as the oil spill in the Gulf, but, boy, it really makes you realize how lucky we are to: a) have water; b) have clean water; and c) have it enter our homes through actual pipes in the walls, not holes in our basements.

The short version of the story is that there was a rupture in the 10-foot-wide water pipe that carries clean water from the Quabbin Reservoir in central Massachusetts to the Boston area.  The leak, which occurred about a mile from our house, cut off the eastward flow at Weston, leaving all of Boston, Waltham, and 27 other cities and towns without clean water (but not Cambridge, which has its own water supply).  Water was rerouted from several other area reservoirs, but a percentage of that water was untreated and potentially unsafe, so a boil order was issued mid-day on Saturday to minimize any public health implications from possible bacterial contamination.  The order was lifted today, Tuesday, after the pipe was repaired and water safety testing was completed.

So, two and a half days without clean water.  No big deal, right?  Just boil it.  Buy a few jugs of spring water (if you can find any on the empty shelves).  Except, do you have any idea how much water one uses on a daily basis?  Water that just happens to be mostly free of bacteria and parasites and random floating debris and is delivered promptly to multiple faucets in convenient locations inside one’s home?  It’s a lot.  Trust me.  Because it’s not just drinking water that needs to be clean, but also water to wash your hands, water to wash your food, water to cook the food, water to wash the dishes after you eat the food, water to brush your teeth after you eat the food.  Point is, it ends up being a lot of water.  And if you’re not prepared, you might find yourself with nothing to drink but scalding hot water like I did on Saturday night when we got home to the news and an empty refrigerator and a suddenly unquenchable thirst.  (Okay, fine, I dumped a tray of ice cubes into the recently boiled water.  Why do you always have to ruin my dramatic stories?)

While I can’t deny the inconvenience of the boil order, I guess it wasn’t that bad all in all.  I taped off the refrigerator’s water dispenser and kept jugs of boiled water in the fridge as well as some bottles of spring water that Husband scored out in Framingham.  We used these for drinking and food prep.  I covered the two bathroom faucets with a dishtowel rubber-banded over them to keep us (okay, me) from turning them on out of sheer mindless habit.  Next to each sink was a pitcher of boiled and cooled water for hand-washing and tooth-brushing, which I had to keep a close eye on lest the children cross-contaminate it with something far worse than what it originally contained.  I also had to micro-manage the specifics of hand-washing since my kids seem to like to work the soap into a thick and sickening paste on their hands, which would take an entire pot of water to wash off, and then they start rubbing their hands together again, which whips the remaining soap molecules into another hopeful lather, and for god’s sakes, kids, stop rubbing your hands together when I’m rinsing.  I’ll be boiling water all day.

We kept the kitchen sink open for pot-filling and the dish-sterilization procedure that involved soaking the dishes in a dilute bleach solution in batches and then letting them air dry.  I was not fond of this additional dishwashing step.  Not at all.  If the boil order had continued for another week, I think we’d be looking at the elimination of this step, replaced, perhaps, by preventative post-dinner shots of vodka. 

But, luckily, the water situation was just temporary.  Now I’m looking at my faucets in a whole new light.  Oh, who am I kidding, no I’m not.  I’m back to taking refreshing, potable water for granted again just like I did during the good old days of last week.  It took all of 10 seconds after the boil order was lifted and I finished flushing the bad water out of our pipes in what, to an uninformed observer, must have looked like symbolically wasteful fashion.  The moral of this story is: MWRA, please take good care of our water supply!

Love,

Tammy

More Spring Events

I’m trying to get more than 24 hours ahead of the events I post.  Let’s see how I do this time: 

The 11th annual Boston Bakes for Breast Cancer is taking place all next week (May 3-9, Monday thru Sunday) at eateries in and around Boston, including Finale, Flour Bakery, Sofra, Mariposa Bakery, South End Formaggio, Aquitaine, Elephant Walk, Figs, Henrietta’s Table, and Hungry Mother.  Click here for the full list of participating restaurants, which extends well into the ‘burbs.  All proceeds from select desserts benefit breast cancer research and care at nearby Dana-Farber.  And I think we all know someone who might appreciate that.

On Friday, May 7 at 7 p.m., the Boston Museum of Science is hosting Food, Glorious Food: Our Palate vs. Our Planet.  Corby Kummer (The Atlantic Monthly) and Joanne Chang (Flour Bakery, Myers+Chang) join food sustainability expert Helene York in a discussion about balancing our enjoyment of food with the need to maintain a healthy planet.  Corby will also be signing copies of The Joy of Coffee and The Pleasures of Slow Food.  Event is free but seating is limited.  Passes available on first-come-first-served basis in Museum lobby starting at 5:45 p.m. the day of the event.

And, of course, don’t forget Sprout 2010, which helps fund Waltham Fields Community Farm in their important food distribution and education programs.  Event takes place on Saturday, May 8 from 5:30-8:30 p.m. at the Charles River Museum of Industry with food, open bar, live music, and silent auction.  More info here.

No Ice Cream Left Behind

Last week, during the First Grader’s school vacation, my dad took us out for some good, old-fashioned ice cream sundaes at Cabot’s in Newton.  Because my dad was paying, I ordered the biggest thing on the menu: The Brazilian Combo. 

The Brazilian Combo consists of four scoops of my favorite ice creams (coffee, butter pecan, maple walnut, and vanilla) topped with four different sauces (something chocolatey, something caramely, something mapley, and something with rum) and enough whipped cream to give several Brazilians a close shave. 

The waitress warned me of its ridiculous size.  I knew this—I’ve been there before—but, feeling a few pangs of guilt, I asked if they could make it smaller, maybe half the size, but with all the variety.  She said they could, but they’d still have to charge me full price (just shy of $8!). 

So, what do you think, readers?  You know me pretty well.  Did I:

(a) Accept the half-sized, full-priced sundae because: 1) my dad was paying, so who cares; and 2) we should be mindful of not wasting our precious ice cream resources.

(b) Change my mind and get a small hot-fudge sundae instead.  One that doesn’t cost as much as dinner for four in our house.

(c) Demand to know what kind of a fool she thought I was, order the full-sized, full-priced sundae in all its glory, eat half of it, have the waitress wrap the remaining puddle to go, peel out onto Washington St. and rush home to put it in the freezer, then devour the rest of it standing at my counter at 10 o’clock at night despite its compromised refrozen texture and unappetizing appearance, feeling something akin to shame but I won’t admit it and you can’t make me.

(d) All of the above.

And, yes, you will be graded on this.  Be sure to fill in the circles completely with a No. 2 pencil.

Indian Pudding: A Recipe

It seems cruel to post a story about Indian pudding with no recipe, so here it is, the best Indian pudding in the world. 

I adapted this classic Yankee recipe from The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book by Fannie Merritt Farmer (originally published in 1896).  I think it’s even better than Durgin-Park’s famed Indian pudding, but don’t say anything because I don’t want to get yelled at.  (Do they still yell at people over there anymore?)  My version uses a combination of molasses and maple syrup as well as ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg.  The consistency is very soft and is meant to whey a bit (meaning some liquid separates from the pudding—or, as I like to call it: sauce).  Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream melting all over it in shallow, milky pools.  Dreamy!

Indian Pudding

No Indians were harmed in the making of this pudding.

4 cups milk
½ cup cornmeal
2 Tbsp. butter
½ cup molasses
½ cup maple syrup (preferably Grade B)
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. ginger
Pinch nutmeg
2 eggs, well beaten

Preheat oven to 325°F.  Butter a 2-quart casserole dish.

In a medium pot, bring milk to a gentle simmer.  Very slowly whisk in cornmeal briskly to prevent clumping.  Cook for 20 minutes, adjusting heat to maintain a gentle simmer, until mixture has thickened and coats the back of a spoon well.  Remove from heat.  Stir in the butter, molasses, maple syrup, salt, and spices until well blended.  Temper the eggs, meaning slowly whisk in about ¼ cup of the hot pudding mixture to the beaten eggs, then return tempered mixture to the pot.  This prevents the eggs from scrambling.

Pour mixture into a buttered casserole dish and bake about 1½ hours, until center is set (the center will still be soft, but you don’t want it to look liquidy).  Some recipes call for a water bath (i.e., set the casserole dish in a larger pan, then pour boiling water into the outer pan until it reaches halfway up the sides of the pudding dish), but I’ll be honest, I don’t bother.  This right here is the Indian pudding of my childhood.  Let sit at least 20 minutes.  Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream.

Local Sources:
Milk: Our Family Farms of Massachusetts, Greenfield, MA
Cornmeal: Winter Moon Organic Farm, Hadley, MA
Butter: Mendon Creamery, Mendon, MA
Maple syrup: Williams Farm Sugarhouse, Old Deerfield, MA
Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA

Come to Sprout!

So my farm, Waltham Fields, is having a fundraiser open to the public and you should totally come.  It’s happening on Saturday, May 8 from 5:30 to 8:30 p.m. in the very cool Charles River Museum of Industry space in Waltham.  There will be food, music, open bar, raffles, and a silent auction with all kinds of awesome stuff like shares in Waltham Fields' sold-out CSA, Red Sox tickets, a tour of the cheese cave at Formaggio Kitchen, gift certificates to restaurants like Blue Ginger and Aquitaine, vineyard tours at Westport Rivers and Turtle Creek, and weekend getaways around New England.  You might even see me there, though don’t let that be the deciding factor.  I’m a master of disguise.

Community farms rely on community support to keep their educational programs, public access work, and food pantry donations going.  So if you live nearby and you like fun, and even if you don’t like fun, it always feels good to support a good cause.  Tickets are $35 for members, $40 for nonmembers, $25 for every ticket after your second.  For more info, go here.  Hope to see you there.  (Charles River Museum of Industry, 154 Moody St., Waltham)

Salad Dressing Refresher

We haven't had a bottle of salad dressing in our refrigerator for more than 10 years.  True story.  Now, some of that time had to do with me not eating very much salad, I will confess.  I’ve always been more of a meat and potatoes and dessert kind of girl.  But, most of that time had to do with me not liking bottled salad dressing, and finding that I eat a lot more salad when I actually like the dressing. 

My younger, restaurant-going years were spent in part devouring wonderful tangles of micro-greens, tender lettuces, and pea tendrils and wondering how these little bistro salads could attain such a level of deliciousness while my own homemade lettuce piles remained so uninspired.  The thing to know about salads if you want to like them is that you need to use fresh vegetables.  Like really fresh.  Straight from the farm if you can get them.  They should talk back.

The second thing is to wash your greens and spin them dry, dry, dry if you want your dressing to cling to the leaves instead of sliding off into a puddle at the bottom of the salad bowl.  If you don’t have a salad spinner, toss them into an old pillowcase, then walk outside and whip your arm around real fast as if it were the sole windmill powering the entire Internet.  The people on the sidewalk might look at you funny.  Just aim the centrifugal stream of water at their faces and they’ll keep right on walking.  

Thirdly, you should make your own dressing.  Supermarket dressing sucks.  Most of it, anyway (if you have a favorite, you can put it in the comments).  I don’t even know what they put in those bottles half the time, but you don’t need more than five ingredients, which you probably already have.  Two, if you’re really short on time and patience.  It will only take 30 seconds to make your own and it makes everything go down so much better.

The final thing to remember about green salads is that you should never dress them ahead of time.  Do it approximately one second before you’re going to eat.  Everyone should already be sitting down and complaining about the fact that there's salad tonight.  Don't worry.  They'll shut up once they taste the dressing. 

30-Second Vinaigrette

Here’s my everyday vinaigrette technique.  There’s no recipe—just a basic ratio that you can scale up or down depending on how many people you’re feeding.  Store any extra in a jelly jar in the fridge.  The olive oil might congeal, but some time warming at room temperature and a brisk whisking will revive it.

1 part red wine vinegar, white wine vinegar, or apple cider vinegar
Touch of Dijon mustard (optional)
2-3 parts extra-virgin olive oil (I like my dressings tangy, so I use closer to 2)
Salt and pepper

Whisk together vinegar and mustard.  Add oil in a slow, steady stream until the mixture thickens and emulsifies.  Season with salt and pepper. 

To upgrade this to a 3-minute vinaigrette, juice a lemon instead of using vinegar, add the mustard along with some minced garlic or shallots and chopped herbs.  Then whisk in the oil, salt, and pepper.


Buttermilk Herb Dressing

When I get sick of vinaigrettes, here’s what I make instead.

2 parts buttermilk
2 parts mayonnaise
1 part minced shallots or onions
1 part chopped herbs like tarragon, parsley, and chives (but the seasonal variations are endless)
Salt and pepper

Whisk or shake together in a jar, adding more buttermilk if too thick, or more mayo if too thin.  Season with salt and pepper.  Store in the fridge.  Always shake before using.  This is also great for crudité platters.  Use extra mayo for a thicker consistency.

Mushroom Update

Here’s what my mushroom looks like after the rains. It’s about triple the size it was earlier this week, and has gone from looking like a regular button mushroom to an actual shiitake. Tomorrow I’m putting it in an omelet! Squirrels, stay away or meet my wrath.