Toast

Mothers' Day Digression: Ouef en Gelee (FD #2 1/2)

I admit that this little detour is on the loony side. I was all set to tell you about my duck soup, and the fancy duck breast thing I made, which turned out very well, and was particularly nice with red cabbage. And I will. And then I will get off this duck hobby-horse, I promise.

The thing is, I was side-tracked while leafing through my recently acquired copy of Roald Dahl's Cookbook. In it, there is a picture of, and recipe for a mind-boggling variation on ouefs en gelee., that simple (?) and elegant French classic which I had never, in any form, made myself. You see a big earthenware bowl of brothy-brown flecked aspic scattered with tarragon leaves. Suspended serenely within, well spaced and seemingly not bumped or lumped to one side or the other, are ten (!) perfectly peeled, gently soft-boiled eggs!

Next to the bowl, on the rustic looking table, is a generous platter of buttered toast. I found this set up madly inviting. Could anything be simultaneously simpler and more complicated? One is advised to practice before serving it to guests. I should say so! If you have not tried it yourself, I can tell you that the successful peeling of one soft-boiled egg is no mean feat, and getting it suspended nicely in an appropriate amount of proper aspic is only slightly less crazed. Hence, the far less impressive picture you see before you.

This dish can be made with softly poached eggs, too- and that is easier. Though I am a lover of poached eggs, I promise that the soft-boiled version is noticeably better in this situation- should you find yourself in this situation, which you most likely will not, as you are probably not bonkers. I must admit, the poached egg, done singly, looks fancier and is easier to unmold. Still....

I think that the 10 egg bowl version would be a totally charming Mothers' Day brunch or supper offering. At least for the sort of mother who, like myself, would be wowed by the presentation. it would be so fine, scooping out an egg and some aspic onto my plate- with a big spoon, and nibbling away, with some of that very nice buttered toast. And some strong hot tea. I think I'd have to practice for a year or two to pull that one off, without wasting a few dozen eggs, at least.

Here's where the duck comes in. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you might want to review the most recent few of this series of posts. Or not.) If you make a confit, and chill it, surrounded by the (strained) fat in which it was prepared, there will be, on the bottom of your crock, or in my case, plastic container*, a nice layer of jellied duck juice, a/k/a delicious, natural aspic. If you used a traditional stoneware vessel of some sort, the aspic is not much use- you can't get it out until you've used up your confit , when you scoop the fat out to reheat and strain it. By then, being brothy, it is not so fresh, and maybe even dubious safety-wise.

But, a plastic container is flexible. So you can wiggle the sides, and upend the block of confit-containing fat, and peel of that lovely aspic. If the confit is by this action exposed, you can stick the fat block back in the container, microwave it a little,adjust the confit so it's all encased in the fat, and re-chill for storage. And then you've got some beautiful aspic, enough to do one egg, you see, without resort to gelatin, even. Though I've unmolded this one, it looks a tad goofy. It's kind of too tall, and not so symmetrical. After I did the unmolding, I concluded that it was silly; I should have just made it in a pretty container, and served it still inside, to scoop out with a little spoon. **

Which I will do in the future. It was lovely; the egg (boiled a scant 4 minutes) still soft and runny, but not weirdly liquid, was so nice with the intensely flavored aspic, and I did have buttered toast and tea, too, and it was about as good as I'd imagined.

This is what I did: First, I made the 4 minute egg, chilled it under very cold water to stop it cooking, and peeled it very, very carefully. I made two eggs, and it was a good thing I did, because I ruined the first one peeling it. Then, I spooned a little of the chilled aspic into a small container, big enough to hold the egg, covered. I set the egg on top, then melted the rest of the aspic to liquid in the microwave. I let it cool and poured it over the egg to cover it. There were some fresh tarragon leaves added as I poured- just a few. Then I chilled it, and there you are.

I do understand that if you aren't making a confit, you are not going to go out and get a duck in order to prepare a single egg in aspic. But you can, of course, make an aspic the usual way, with broth and gelatin. You can even make 10 eggs, suspended in a big bowl. If you do, I hope you will tell me about it, email me a photo, and gloat.

If you are looking for a recipe for making aspic from stock and powdered gelatin, you can find quite a few googling around. Here is one that looks credible.

*Clearly, if you are using a plastic container for this, you want one which is heat resistant, microwave safe, and has a really good seal.

**The pretty little spoon in the picture, which says "Muriel" on it, was the proverbial silver spoon with which my mother-in-law was more or less born. In her mouth. As they say. She left me a number of pretty things of this ilk, so it would seem that she liked me. This was not always clear to me during her actual life.

Cinnamon Squares and Prattle

Making gingerbread, and reading about a beautiful bundt cake and lovely applesauce spice cake produced by The Wednesday Chef and the hungry tiger (a/k/a my own fine child), respectively, got me thinking about the kind of sweet baking that seems to be best done at home. Pastry chefs generally make the best croissants, tarts, and fancy pastries ( with the exception of certain strudel making grandmothers) and bakers make the best crusty breads. It is always fun to try these things at home, but it is also nice to make pies and plain cakes. It is a rare bakery or restaurant that offers as good an American style fruit pie or plain snack cake that is as nice as the one your friend makes, and gives you with a cup of coffee.

It may be that it is the person who comes with the cake that makes the difference to the subjective cake experience, and the friend is certainly a factor, but I think it is more than that. Yes, it's true, I have a theory on this topic, and I'm about to go on at length again. I'm so sorry, but I can't actually help it. There's a recipe at the end, though.

This is what I think, if you can bear it. I think that the proliferation of fast food sweet snacks, of the Little Debbie/ Hostess/Mom's Own Hydrogenated Muffins ilk, made with all sorts of xanathan gums and what have you, which look like cupcakes, cookies, plain cakes, and other things once commonly made at home, have caused upscale bakeries and restaurants to shy away from producing anything which might be mistaken for, say, a twinkie. Every once in a while there will be a fad for something-like the present yuppie cupcake business- trading on some sort of mix of nostalgia and camp, but for the most part, there's that unfortunate association with junkiness.*

And too, a lot of the homestyle treats are best made with minimal handling- piecrust especially. This leads to the appearance of imperfection, which pros and their customers may instinctively avoid when there's a cash register in the picture. Finally, many people have forgotten what a plain cake tastes like when it is not made from a box, and think it's bound to be boring, and not worth actually buying. So no one sells them, what with people thinking they will be just like the Duncan Heinz specials with canned frosting that folks make one another for their birthdays and bring to work these days.

So anyhow, I think that's why you can't buy them, and why it is so nice when someone serves you a delicious simple sweet they made themselves, from ingredients you would recognize if you saw them separately. We all have it in our power to make our important people very happy in this way which they cannot, as a general rule, buy. (Not that I would ever wish to discourage anyone from offering me fancy pastries at anytime. It's just another thing entirely..and bring them on, by all means. Got any french-type macaroons?)

So here's another recipe for a plainish sweet treat from Dorie Greenspan's recent book. It needs no special equipment, and reminds me that for most of the years I've spent hanging around one stove or another, I had no stand mixer, or food processor. A person can make some pretty good cakes with a few bowls and a wooden spoon (or as here, a whisk). This is one.

Adapted slightly, with a different method for the frosting, and because I didn't have instant espresso powder in the house:

1 1/4 cups, plus 2 tbsps sugar
1 Tbsp, plus 2 1/2 tsps sugar
1 1/2 tsps powdered cocoa
1 3/4 cups flour
2 tsps baking powder
pinch salt
3/4 cup milk
2 eggs
1/2 tsp real vanilla
10 Tbsps unsalted butter (best with plugra or other very nice butter) melted and cooled
3 oz nice bittersweet chocolate, finelt chopped. or chip

for frosting:
6 oz. more of the chocolate-again, best with very nice chocolate
2 1/2 tbsps butter, cut in 4 pieces

Butter and flour a 9" square pan, line the bottom with waxed paper, and preheat your oven to 350F.

Assemble a small, medium, and large bowl, and a sturdy whisk. In the small bowl, mix 2 Tbsps sugar, 2 1/2 tsps cinnamon, and the cocoa.

In the large bowl, mix the flour, salt and baking powder with the rest of the cinnamon and sugar. Whisk well.

In a medium bowl, mix the eggs milk and vanilla. Whisk up well. Pour the liquid ingredients in the medium bowl over the dry ingredients in the large bowl. Mix until homogenous, and pretty smooth, but don't go on whipping it up too much. Now, fold in the melted butter gently, a bit at a time. the whisk works well for this. Again, as soon as the batter is smooth and uniform, stop.

Pour half of the batter into the prepared pan, sprinkle with the chocolate and sugar, cinamon mix, and gently pour the rest of the batter over the top. Spread it evenly with a table knife, being careful not to disturb the center. Bake about 40 minutes, until the cake is puffed, and begins to pull away from the sides of the pan.

Let the cake cool 15 minutes, and remove from pan, peel off waxed paper, and reinvert onto a rack to complete cooling. When completely cool, frost the top only with the frosting described below. When the frosting has set, trim away the browned sides carefully. (These are an excellent cook's snack). Cut into 9 equal squares, like the blocks on a nine-patch quilt. These keep well in a closed container at room temperature for the very few days they may last uneaten.

Frosting: Put the butter and chocolate in a pyrex cup and microwave for 40 seconds. Remove and mix with a spoon until it is all unlumpy and frosting-like. If it seems too liquid, let it sit until spreadable.

*Endless apologies for having a footnote. I attribute this dubious behavior to reading the blog work of one anapestic, whose digressiveness (charming) is pretty much boundless, allowing me to mentally brush off my own as minor league. Just wanted to mention the other side of this issue, which is that to some people, making a cake from scratch at home seems an affected, snobby thing done only by people who think they are Martha Stewart and/or have too much time on their hands, and no real responsibilities. The reason I know this is that I have actually had it said to me by more than one person who has been offered cookies and the like. So if you want to protect yourself from such remarks, it's a good idea not to mention much about where your cake came from, if you don't know the recipient real well. Or only bake for people you are sure you like!

Moosehead Gingerbread

Gingerbread is one of the classic comfort foods of the English-speaking world, and the stuff of nostalgia, real and imagined. There are endless variations, and I've never tried one I'd reject completely. Ruminations by John Thorne on the subject feature a version which actually included, if I'm remembering correctly, beef drippings. There is a lovely Laurie Colwin essay with two very nice recipes, one of which uses Lyle's Golden Syrup. Nika Hazelton's American Home Cooking has a serviceable, simple one, and I definitely intend to try the Chocolate Gingerbread in Dorie Greenspan's newest book; it looks gorgeous.

These, of course, are all soft, cake type gingerbreads. The gingerbread for cookie-cutter cookies (and gingerbread houses and the like as well) is a different animal entirely. I have favorite old standby recipes for both types. As to the soft kind, I use Maida Heatter's Moosehead Gingerbread, from her Great Desserts. That's the sort I made for dessert, to warm me up.

Gingerbread does nicely in my earthenware 9" square baking pan. I think that it keeps the outside edges from crisping up. Normally, I'm a sucker for food with crispy bits; I make gratins in very low pans, for maximum top, and love the corners of my jam bars. But I like my gingerbread soft all over, with as little hard, dark edge as possible. Using this sweet little Emile Henry number allows me to get that, without (eech) undercooking the gingerbread. The original recipe didn't call for this kind of pan, and of course you can make it in a regular metal one.

My brown pan is from the Emile Henry Artisan Series, which purports to be a reproduction of their original 19th century ware. Emile Henry stuff, in case you are not familiar with it, is made from some sort of special Burgundian clay, which causes it to be much less sensitive to temperature changes than most pottery. You can put it straight into the oven from the freezer, and even cook in it over a gas burner, with a flame tamer in between, and a careful eye. Unlike the other, more colorful EH lines, the Artisan items resemble el cheapo pottery outlet type bakeware. Perhaps this is why they seems to be often on sale, and hence more affordable. I kind of like the "fool the eye" effect myself, and all the EH things work wonderfully.

Maida Heatter's gingerbread, minimally adapted here, came from an "old time fishing guide in Maine." I can't remember which of the John Thorne books his essay came from, but I think he actually went in search of M. H.'s fishing guide. (Well, he did live in Maine then, but still.) It invariably cracks on top, but I don't mind a bit. To make it you need:

All purpose flour 2 1/2 cups
Baking soda 2 tsps
salt 1/2 tsp
cinnamon 1 tsp
powdered ginger 1 1/2 tsps
ground cloves 1/2 tsp
ground mustard 1/2 tsp
black pepper 1/2 tsp
butter 1/4 lb.
dark brown sugar 1/2 cup
eggs 2
molasses 1 cup
strong hot coffee 1 cup

Preheat oven to 375F.

In the bowl of your stand mixer, mix butter and sugar until fluffy. Add eggs, and mix in one at a time. Now, beat in the molasses.

Sift dry ingredients together and add to the bowl, alternately with the hot coffee, ending with the dry mix. Pour into a 9" square baking pan, which has been buttered and dusted with dry breadcrumbs. Bake about 45 minutes, until done. Cool 10 minutes. Invert on another rack, and then back again, top up. It When fully cooled, cut into 9 squares. Consume, preferably topped with a dollop of whipped cream, or in a bowl with some runny custard poured over.

There's definitely a touch of heat in this gingerbread, what with the mustard and pepper. All to the good IMHO. As to the other kingd of gingerbread, we'll go there one day soon.

The Moosehead Lodge sign comes from the Adirondack Country Store, where they sell these wooden reproduction signs for home decor use.

Cabbage Roles

I came home from Cleveland after Christmas replete with holiday goodies, and feeling as if (ha) I might never again be very hungry. I know from experience that this sort of bloat can vanish suddenly, and leave a person rummaging for crusts, but it hasn't happened so far. This is a good thing, because there was just not much food in the house, and I haven't been in the mood for hauling a lot of groceries on the bus.

I'm happy to wait to shop until my kind friend with car returns from out of town. But there are some mouths to feed in the coming week, and a long weekend to cook ahead in. I found a great big savoy cabbage, some onions, and garlic- pretty much the only fresh produce in the house, since I dutifully used up my perishables before leaving for Christmas. The usual pantry things I hoard compulsively are also around, so I had me a mental browse around the various and splendid cabbage options.

God, I love cabbage. As you can see, I decided to make stuffed cabbage rolls- I did a vegetarian version, because of the food preferences of certain expected guests. I assure you that it does not look so lurid in person, I don't know what the story is with the reds here. My decision was not without pause to consider the other possibilities-a raised cabbage pie , Digger's cabbage soup , minestrone, and the like- including Paula Wolfert's semi-insane and totally delicious "Green chicken".

I also thought about trying two cabbage dishes I've not made yet. These were both my mother's special party dishes. She invented her own versions, and they were outstanding. Thus, there are no written recipes, and she doesn't remember how she made them. I plan to figure both out someday, but this was not the day.

One of her creations was a whole stuffed cabbage, with the meat based filling distributed between the leaves, which were gently prised open, after parboiling, without being detached from the core. The whole thing was gathered up in a bag of cheesecloth, to form a larger, slightly opened ball- rather like a blowsy, old-fashioned rose- and poached in a seasoned broth. She cut it in wedges to serve with a tomato and mushroom sauce. Impressive, delicious, and every bit as wacky as P.Wolfert's Poulet Vert. Her other cabbage opus was a strudel, made using purchased filo leaves. The cabbage filling had a sour cream and mushroom component, and it was a very good, and rich treat, usually served as a starter. Someday.

I have probably mentioned before that I don't buy cabbage much in the summer. I get beautiful cabbages in my CSA farmbox, so crisp and sweet that I realize that the average grocery store cabbage must be pretty old. They keep so well, and I guess the stores take advantage, and keep them forever. Probably the only way to get a fresh cabbage is to buy it from a farmer, or grow it yourself. I mostly use those crisp summer cabbages for slaws, and wait until now, when the fresh local veg are no more, to enjoy the many uses of the ordinary supermarket cabbage. Though a little aged, it is not to be sneezed at. This warm season forbearance gives me a feeling for a winter "season" of vegs-including, also e.g. the long storing winter squashes, and plenty of dried beans.

I decided on the cabbage rolls so I could make a lot, and divide them between the two dinners I'm making. You can use any filling you like, of course, but I do think onions, garlic, herbs and mushrooms are especially good in it. You can substitute other grains- barley or quinoa or the like, and your herbs of choice. Personally though, I love tarragon with cabbage. and it is nice to include the tiny, unstuffable cabbage leaves in the stuffing mix as well. This is how I made them, to serve a total of seven people:

I made a couple of cups of basmati rice, while bringing my pasta pot full of water to a boil, and soaking a large handful of dried shitake slices in some very hot tap wayer, to cover. When the water came to a boil, I cut the core out of my very large savoy cabbage, and lowered it into the pasta pot in the strainer. After a couple of minutes, I pulled the cabbage out, and carefully removed as many of the outer leaves as I could, without tearing them. I kept putting the cabbage back into the boiling water until I was able to remove as many leaves as I could, until I got down to the really small center ones. I put all the whole leaves, stacked, back into the strainer, and gave them a few minutes more in the boiling water, for softening, then drained them all, and rinsed them in cold water to stop them cooking.

I sauteed a chopped onion, a handful of pine nuts, the drained mushrooms ( saving the water), chopped, some lovely fresh wild mushrooms I picked up on the way home from work (nice and light, parcel-wise), garlic, a pinch of aleppo pepper, and the middle of the cabbage, minced, until everything was browned nicely, and then stirred in the rice, salt, pepper, and tarragon. While that was cooling down, I cut a little v-shape out of each cabbage leaf, from the hard center rib, to make them easier to stuff and roll.

To stuff a cabbage leaf, you set it on a surface, so that the inside is like a cup, facing you. Spoon a bit of filling in, near the bottom of the leaf, where the cup is deepest, and fold the bottom bit up over the filling. fold the sides in, and roll the leaf up to form the roll- like a burrito. As I do each one, I set it in a baking dish, seam side down, so it won't have a chance to come apart. If I have filling left over, I scoop it into a separate little baking dish, pour some sauce over, and bake it along side.

If I am making a brisket or something else meaty to serve with the stuffed cabbage, some of the meat gravy will be mixed into the baking sauce. Today I just blended a quart jar of home canned tomatoes, a cup of homemade broth, and the mushroom soaking liquid, and some salt and pepper, and poured it all over. I baked my tray of stuffed cabbage rolls for an hour at 350F, covered at first, then uncovered, and will probably bake it again for nearly as long the day I serve it, keeping an eye on, and adding liquid as needed.

These keep well, freeze well, may be improvised upon with impunity, and make me feel as if I might still have a grandmother. I do like my cabbage.

A Buffalo Roast

I have done some nattering here about buffalo meat, which I like very much, despite my irrational aversion to most meats not familiar to me from childhood. I think it tastes very like beef, only even better, sweeter, cleaner. Until recently, though, I'd only had the ground meat, which was all that was available to me locally. Recently, I found a "minimally processed" (whatever that means), "additive free" 2 pound buffalo chuck roast (it magically appeared at the Giant Eagle last week, who knew?), and I was eager to cook it appropriately.

A cursory search through my own library and the internet didn't produce an individual recipe that knocked my socks off, but I did glean some advice that made me a bit nervous. Everyone stressed that buffalo is much leaner and less marbled than beef. There seemed to be agreement that it should be eaten rare, and not cooked too long, or at a high heat, or it would dry out. My own idea of a (beef) chuck roast treatment is a long, slow pot roasty braising, until the meat nearly falls apart, juicy and tender. I favor chuck for beef pot roasts, because of the marbling, which keeps it juicy. I generally make it ahead, so I can chill the gravy, and lift the fat off.

"Treat it like game" and "Cook it like venison" were recurring themes. I am not so familiar with venison treatments, having reacted sqeamishly the only time I tried it. Other game (e.g. elk) I've only had in a barbeque, where the predominant flavor was spicy barbeque sauce. I checked around, and it became clear that a marinade was in order. This made sense, a tenderizing step precooking could reduce the amount of cooking/drying out time needed for the roast. So I decided to marinate it for 24 hours or so, and then pot roast it, keeping a careful eye on it, so I would stop cooking it as soon as it was tender.

This buffalo business, and the first cold, blustery day of the season called to my (admittedly childish) mind, an image of prairie folks of an earlier era, celebrating a rare game/meat meal in a snug cabin, a Laura Ingalls Wilder sort of thing. Thus it seemed that a steaming pile of mashed potatoes with lots of buffalo gravy, red cabbage coleslaw, and a generous amount of roasted root vegetables would be appropriate sides, followed up by some preserved prunes in brandy with cream. This menu allowed me to use almost all organic vegetables left from my last fall farmboxes, and my own preserves, which seemed suitable too.

Of course, the dolcetto in the marinade, left over from a dinner last week, was not so sod house-like. But it did come from the Bartolucci's Madonna Estate, an organic, dry farm, family run vineyard I visited in Carneros, in the Napa Valley a few years ago. I liked the people and I like their wine, so despite the fact that you cannot ship out of state wine to Pennsylvania, I keep, uh, well...let's just say, I still have some.

Preparatory to playing log cabin, or whatever it is I was doing (the absence of young children makes this sort of carrying on seem so much less reasonable), I marinated the roast in a covered earthenware pot in a half bottle of the wine, garlic, thyme, parsley, a little red wine vinegar, 4 mashed juniper berries, sliced carrots, sliced fennel stems, and chopped leeks, salt and peppercorns-for about 24 hours.

The next day, I preheated the oven to 300F, and soaked some dried mushrooms in a cup of hot water for about 30 minutes. I wiped out my lidded pot, and browned the roast in a saute pan, on both sides, nice and deep brown, in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. I put the roast back in the clean pot with 4 sage leaves, a sprig of thyme and one of rosemary, some parsley, salt and pepper, and several unpeeled garlic cloves.

In the leftover fat, I cooked 4 quartered slices of bacon, 2 sliced carrots, the mushrooms, and two onions, cut in thin half moons. When they got a bit brown, I added the reserved marinade, several strips of orange peel, and the mushroom soaking liquid, brought it to a boil, and cooked it down some, scraping up the sticking bits on the pan.

I poured the contents of the pan over the roast, covered that with some dampened, crumbled parchment paper and the earthenware pot lid, and set it in the oven for three and a half hours. I refrigerated the meat and juices separately, and peeled the fat off the next day. then, I strained the juices, pressing on the lumpy bits in the strainer, and made a bunch of gravy, starting with a Tbsp each of melted butter and flour, and whisking the juices in. I sliced the roast thickly, and have been repeatedly reheating slices in the gravy, and enjoying it ever since.

It's tender and it tastes awfully good, and I love the gravy. It is, however, despite the efforts, a bit dry, compared to a beef pot roast.. I'm thinking I'll chop the remaining meat up with the leftover veg, top it with the leftover mashed potatoes and have some shepherd's pie..or buffalo-hunter's pie, or whatever that would be.

Given the dryness, I think the next thing to try would be a tender cut, cooked quickly. I'll have to see what turns up in the meat department. Sorry about the lack of photo, I just didn't get around to it while it was still pretty.

The Maestro

It is a funny thing about flavor, with strawberries. There's not much left to be said about the deficiencies of the steroidal supermarket berry. The best strawberries I ever tasted were from a pick-your-own place in rural Suffolk, near the home of some elderly cousins. They were so delicious, all through their entirely red interiors, so fragrant and heady, that I felt a bit light-headed, actually. I assumed this was merely because they were home-grown, fresh, ripe, and unrefrigerated. Certainly, these were important factors. Later, though, I grew some strawberries of my own, when I had a garden. I was surprised to discover that although they were definitely superior to store berries, they were not a patch on the Suffolk ones.

The difference was sufficiently great that I had no doubt that it was real, rather than the rosy glow of a holiday memory. I had tried to choose a type of strawberry that had not been bred for commerce and storage, but that hadn't completely done the trick. Later, I went to a western PA pick-you-own strawberries place. I got lots of berries and permanently pink knees on my jeans (kind of a nice memento, really). They were good, but not as good as my backyard berries, and certainly less wonderful than my enshrined ideal berry. I have come to the entirely unscientific conclusion that the soil in which the strawberries are grown must be a big factor.

There was a little container of real strawberries in my farmbox this week. They were really very nice berries. It's funny, but some of the berries taste more wonderful than others in the same box. Mysterious. If I had a lot of these, I'd be making jam, tarts, ice cream. But I first I would have had to enjoy some just plain. Since I didn't have enough to cook with, I decided to make a bit of a fuss over having the lot, straight from the box.

This is hardly a recipe at all. It appears in Cuisina Fresca, by Viana La Place, credited to a musician friend-hence the name. The berries are washed, stems left on, air dried and placed in a serving bowl. On each person's plate goes one Tbsp of white sugar, with about 2 tsps of balsamic vinegar poured carefully over the sugar, to form a paste. The berries are dipped in the mixture, and you have some very strong espresso with it . It is, of course, not to be attempted with giant supermarket strawberries that taste like raw potatoes. Other than that, you really can't go wrong.

And I'm consoling myself for my failure to make strawberry jam. I ordered 2 jars of strawberry rhubarb jam from Bakerina Kitchens, a little on line shop of wonderful homemade preserves by the lovely and clever Bakerina.If you want some, you'd better hurry up, as she has only got about 30 jars.

As American As....

Sometimes I envy home cooks who are firmly entrenched in a regional tradition, and make the classic dishes of their cuisine with the confidence normally associated with breathing. While it is a pleasure to investigate new foods and preparations, it is also a (different sort of) pleasure to entirely lose yourself in what you are doing,as if you were on a roll painting, or listening to music or something. And then,too, it is so interesting when individual cooks put their own stamp on some such traditional dish, and discuss the variations among themselves.

Many North American home cooks, as I do, try out and adopt a wide range of dishes with origins beyond our regions, from different culinary traditions. I guess is not surprising, given our "melting pot" population. It has given us a freedom with our food that has only recently been available to cooks elsewhere. There are a few dishes, though, which feel quite uniquely American, and which carry with them the sort of feeling of home that say, a Belgian might associate with moules and frites.

One such delicacy is the BLT. Made with the necessary in-season juicy sub-acid local tomato, crispy bacon, tender lettuce, and a slick of mayo, this is a unequaled flavor and texture extravaganza which, as far as I know, has no precise non-american equivalent. Excluding vegetarians, and folks who keep kosher or traditional Muslim homes, the BLT is pretty much universally beloved. I am eagerly awaiting the first tomatoes of the year, so I can make some.

Another is the pineapple upside-down cake. It is hard to find anyone who dislikes this dessert, which became suddenly popular around the turn of the (20th) century, when canned pineapple began appearing all over the US, for the first time. It has remained a popular classic. The subsequent inexplicable craze for cake mixes and fear of scratch baking does not seemed to have touched this recipe. I don't know anyone who makes this cake with a mix, it's just too simple to bother. Generally, if you are served some, you can be sure it will be pretty good, and will not have weird chemical tastes and textures.

Okay, the PUDC does have something in common with inverted pies and cakes originating elsewhere, but not much. This gooey, fruity, buttery-cake stuff is really nothing like a tart tatin at all. The following version, based on the one in the Gourmet Cookbook, is gussied up with the use of fresh pineapple and (my addition of) homemade maraschinos. It is also made in (overlarge) individual servings, which I think perhaps is not the best idea. I succumbed to the lure of using my sweet mini-tube pans. It's all very cute, but really, this sticky cake is both easier, and better looking, made as one large circle or square. Often, it is made in a cast-iron skillet, which really does the trick, topping-wise.That way, too, you can give people custom-sized portions.

The maraschino cherries are made, quite simply, by soaking good quality dried sweet cherries in maraschino liquor for a couple of weeks. They keep almost indefinitely in the fridge, and are always a delightful surprise anyplace you might expect to see a commercial maraschino plopped. The hardest part of making them is finding the lovely Luxardo Maraschino liquor. Kirsch is really not an adequate substitute. I also dribbled a bit of the cherry-soaking liquor over the top of the upended pineapple. I believe that in one of the Marcella Hazan books, she said that you could make a popular simple Italian dessert, by drizzling maraschino liquor over canned pineapple slices. I think it's nice on the cake, too.

Here's what you need-I don't see why you couldn't make this same recipe in an 8" pan, cooking a bit longer. but I haven't actually tried that with this exact recipe, which makes 6 individual cakes, the size of mini-bundts.

Pineapple Part

unsalted butter, 4 tbsps
dark brown sugar 1/3 cup
6 slices fresh pineapple

Cake

cake flour 1 1/2 cups
baking powder 2 tsps
pinch salt
milk 1/2 cup
vanilla 1 tsp
unsalted butter, softened 6 tbsps
sugar 3/4 cup
egg yolks 2 large
1/4 cup homemade maraschinos and their liquor

Use a nonstick mini cake an or xtra large (i cup ea.) muffin tin. Spray with a bit of light tasting oil spray. Preheat oven to 350F.

Pineapple layer:
Melt butter in a small saucepan or in a microwave. Stir in brown sugar until dissolved. Pour mixture into each min, dividing equally. Fit one pineapple ring in the bottom of each mini pan.

Cake: Mix butter and sugar with electric mixer, until light and creamy. Mix in vanilla. Mix dry ingredients in a bowl with whisk, set aside.

Add yolks to mixer, beat well. Mix dry ingredients and milk alternately, at a low speed, stopping when just mixed. Spoon mixture into minis, dividing equally. Smooth down a bit, and bake 25-30 minutes, or until pufy and pale gold. Cool 15 minutes on rack, then invert onto another rack. If you have mini tube pans like mine, you can fill the holes with your little cherries. If they are smooth topped cakes, push one cherry into the surface, mid-pineapple slice. Drizzle with maraschino liquor, or if you haven't got any, a little rum. Cool completely and serve, with whipped cream if you really want to go to town.

Hot, Sweet Spaghetti

I have been enjoying , on the recommendation of the chocolate lady, a book called The Unplugged Kitchen by Viana La Place.You might like to read it, too. I will not go on about it, except to say that I don't think you have to share her style of cooking or approach to food to feel refreshed and invigorated by it. This simple and surprising pasta recipe comes from that book.

Pretty much every cook I know likes to make a plain pasta recipe sometimes, when he or she is very tired and/or cranky, and does not wish to fuss. When you are worn out and hungry, but a bit out of sorts, of course you do not want to be fixing something elaborate and demanding. You might not want to eat such a thing, even if someone else made it for you. You certainly don't want to clean up and do a million dishes after you eat. The thought of it is enough to kill your appetitie, even though it is considerable, since you haven't had any real food nearly all day, damn it. If you eat something junky because it is easy, in your delicate state, it will make you want to hurl.

Even though you do not want to fuss, the simpler routines of cooking are soothing. You can unwind while setting out a few basic ingredients, chopping a bit , boiling some water, and simmering a few aromatic goodies in a pan. A cloth napkin, a fork, and pasta decanted into a shallow, individual bowl are a righteous reward, with only one pan and bowl and fork to clean, and a pasta pot to rinse when you are done. A glass or wine, or a glass of water, depending on your mood, and you are on your way to realignment-or to bed.

I have most often served these purposes with a garlic, lemon, pepper, parmesan sort of thing, which is very nice and serviceable. This equally simple recipe is going to take over that function for a bit. It is delicious, easy, especially hunger-satisying, and restorative...I think the ginger has a lot to do with that part. Follow the advice of its creator, and do not be tempted to gussy it up, or the balance will be spoiled. You will be glad, when eat it, that you resisted the temptation to grate parmesan all over it.

Viana La Place's Hot, Sweet Spaghetti

serves 2 for main course supper

Extra virgin olive oil 2 tbsps
garlic cloves, peeled and finely minced 2
red pepper flakes 1/4tsp
peeled, finely julienned fresh ginger 2 tbsps
canned whole organic tomatoes (or home canned tomatoes) and juice 1 1/2 cups
sea salt
dried imported spaghetti 1/2 lb
fresh basil leaves, chiffonade 10 leaves or so
freshly ground or pounded black pepper to taste

Put olive oil, garlic and red pepper in a heavy saute pan over a low heat. Put a pasta pot full of water on to boil. Stir oil over low heat 3 minutes. Add ginger and stir one minute. Add tomatoes, crushing with a big spoon. Add salt to taste. turn off heat, and wait for water in pasta pot to boil. Add salt and pasta to pot. Bring tomato mixture to a simmer and cook for about 10 minutes, or until pasta is done to your degree of toothsomeness. Drain pasta, and dump drained pasta into sauce. Add fresh basil and toss with tongs or 2 spoons. Divide into 2 shallow individual bowls, and serve, with fresh pepper grated over each bowl.

You can almost feel it flowing through your veins to your fingertips, purely hot and sweet.

Buffaloed

Like many other people, I find that it is more difficult to appreciate unfamiliar red meats than other novel (to me) foods. I feel quite lucky to have been exposed to a pretty wide variety of food in general as a kid- my mother was an interested cook and both parents adventurous eaters. I am not squeamish, and happily eat many parts of the cow, sheep,and pig others scorn.

This red meat thing was brought home to me some years ago, when I surprised myself by not liking venison. Given a venison flank steak-I marinated it pretty thoroughly, grilled it, and sliced it thinly against the grain. My husband and not-yet-vegetarian child scarfed it up. I tried to like it-it was tender and juicy, and I swear I could even tell that the flavor was good, but my stomach said "No, we aren't going to be eating that. It is meat and it is weird. Why don't we just have some more of that wild rice, missy?"

I was therefore surprised, and pleased to discover that my stomach and I love buffalo meat. Probably this is because it is so very like beef. Similar, but IMHO, better. I have heard it described (I forget where) as like beef, but cleaner and sort of sweeter tasing, and that's about right. It has not been widely available in my immediate vicinity. I live in a provincial city-it is probably old hat in more cosmopolitan venues. Up until recently, there's only been ground buffalo, in packets at the Iggle.

This ground buffalo has entirely replaced beef as favorite burger material in my world. Simply the best, but there's really not a lot more to say on the topic, as far as I'm concerned. I am longing for something akin to a chuck roast, or short ribs, so I can try braising it. It is not available locally though, and ordering by mail and shipping it is very costly.

However, I was quite pleased to discover , this week, some small chunks of "Buffalo Steak" at the Iggle. I was encouraged to try Buffalo Chili. This chili is adapted from the Smithsonian Cookbook of Native American foods and recipes, Foods of the Americas, which I have out from the library at the moment. Since the authors credit Jeremiah Tower with this recipe, it seems unlikely that it is a traditional native American dish of great age. It does use companionable American ingredients, and who cares anyway; as long as it is good?

I liked the touch of bitterness imparted by the finely chopped lemons and limes, which make it unlike any other chili I have had. I certainly do not think that there is anything remotely wrong with regular old chili-which I probably, on the whole, prefer. I do not see that this different sort of preparation is particularly more suited to buffalo than it would be to beef or pork. In fact, if I had it to do over again, I'd have made a more usual sort of chili, to see if it was notably different with buffalo. You have probably already had buffalo a million times. If you haven't, though, I would suggest a simply seasoned grilled burger or steak to start with, so you can see what you think of its very own, untweaked taste.

Buffalo Chili

cayenne a pinch
paprika 1/2 tsp
poblano. ground 1 1/2 tbsp or other relatively mild chili
bay leaf 1
ground cumin 1 tbsp
dried oregano 2 tsps
oil 2 tbsps
buffalo 2 lb ground, plus 1 lb cut in teeny cubes
bacon snipped into squares 2 slices
onion, minced 1 small
garlic 8 cloves, minced
lemon, with rind, seeded and minced tiny as you can 1/4 lemon
lime, treated as above 1/4 lime
stock 3 cups
masa harina 3 tbsps, or a white corn tortilla, crumbled, or substitute finely ground cornmeal
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients through and including oregano in a small cast iron skillet. Toast for 3-5 minutes, stirring with a wooden spoon, being careful not to let it burn. Heat the oil in a heavy saucepan, and brown the buffalo slowly, and thoroughly, for 10 minutes or more. Add bacon, onion and garlic, and continue to cook, stirring for about 5 minutes. Add toasted spices, lemon and lime, and cook 5 more minutes. Keep stirring; you must watch it to make sure it doesn't burn. Add 2 cups of stock, bring to a boil, and reduce to simmer. Cover and cook on low heat 40 minutes or so. Whisk masa harina into remaining cup of stock, and then whisk that thoroughly into chili. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer about 40 more minutes. Serve warm,with corn bread, tortillas or with some corn dumplings.
Chopped cilantro is very nice on top.

Some people like dumplings, others complain they are stodgy. I like the occasional tasty bit of stodge myself, now and again,especially floating in rich gravy. It never occured to me to try dumplings in chili, but these seem to suit. As the weather warms up, they may become a less appealing addition. If you are going to make the corn dumplings, you drop them, by scant tablespoons, into the chili, 40 minutes before it is done, and keep the lid on without peeking until the very end. If you are going to make the dumplings, you probably don't need the masa harina, as they have a sort of thickening effect on the gravy.

Corn Dumplings

2 ears of fresh corn, scraped off the cob, or 2 cups frozen white corn, defrosted
all purpose flour, unbleached 1 cup
cornmeal 1 tbsp
baking powder 2 tsps
salt 1 1/4 tsp
unsalted room temperature butter 1/4 cup
milk 1 or 2 tbsps

Mash corn kernels thoroughly with a fork, or better yet, a potato masher. Combine dry ingredients in a bowl. Cut in butter. Add corn and mix. Add enough milk to make a stiff batter. Proceed as above.

I am still hoping to be able to try a braising cut of buffalo sometime soon.

Roaming buffalo query: When the song says "and the skies were not cloudy all day", do you suppose it means that all day long, it was sunny, or that the cloudiness didn't last the entire day? When I was a kid, this was something I wondered about. I felt it should have been made clear. I expect I was sometimes a nuisance.

Recipes adapted from: Fernando and Marlene Divina in Foods of the Americas: Native Recipes and Traditions, who in turn adapted it from Jeremiah Tower

"A Strange and Fragrant Smell From Far Away"

According to Julianne Margvelashvili, author, in 1991, of The Classic Cuisine of Soviet Georgia, "utskho suneli" means "a strange and fragrant smell from far away." It is an herb, rather than a spice, and an important ingredient in Khmeli Suneli. Khmeli Suneli, literally,"a mixture of dried smells",is a Georgian blend of herbs and spices which figures prominantly in the cooking of the region. The blend varies quite a bit from family to family. It contains coriander, dried powdered marigold petals, utskho suneli, and a number of other herbs and/or spices, sometimes including allspice, dill, mint, or cinnamon.

Ms. M (a Canadian living part of the year in Georgia) bought her Khmeli Suneli from her favorite "spice lady" in the market near her Georgian home. She spent a considerable amount of time and energy, assisted by Marian Burros, of the NYTimes, tracking down the illusive utskho suneli. It turns out that it is trigonella cerulea, or "European Blue White", and is cultivated for food almost nowhere else. The leaves are dried, and crushed into a fragrant green powder. Experimentation revealed that powdered feungreek leaves, or petals, were a close match and an "available" substitute.

This is what happens to me when I take funny looking cookbooks out of the library. I just wanted to know what this flavor was like. But I wanted to know badly. The first thing I found out was that not only are powdered fenugreek leaves/petals pretty sparsely "available", but powdered marigold is not exactly all over the supermarket shelves either. It is less available than powdered fenugreek petals. In fact, it is less common even than culinary quality rosebuds, if you were wondering. (Don't ask.)

I had pretty well given up when, noodling around the internet, I found a little outfit selling Khmeli Suneli (and other spice mixes) on ebay, but also through its own website. They "masterfully prepare" other herb and spice blends too , and package their concoctions in rather touchingly decorated little boxes, as you see. Concerned with freshness, they have hand written expiry dates on the interior ziplock bags. These folks are called Chumley and Stella and their khemli suneli contains mint, fenugreek leaves, marigold petals and "spices." Like the Georgian market ladies, they are coy about their exact mix.

Anyhow, it arrived promptly and smelled very good, so I decided to give it a try in this chicken stew. This recipe is a sort of Georgian cacciatore, adapted from the library book. It is called "Chakokhbili". If you would like to make some too, this is what I used- or you could try making your own khmeli suneli, if you live near a well stocked herb shop of the exotic sort. I live near a Penzey's, but they don't do powdered marigold.

In addition to a tablespoon of khmeli suneli, you will need:
1 small chicken, cut up*
butter 2 tbsps
medium onions chopped fine 2
chicken stock 1 cup
potatoes, peeled and cubed 4 large
tomatoes, peeled and seeded (canned okay) 6
hungarian paprika 1 tsp
garlic 2 cloves
bayleaf
salt
finely chopped fresh parsley 2 tbsps
finely chopped fresh coriander 2 tbsps
finely chopped fresh basil 2 tbsp

Melt the butter in a heavy skillet and brown the chicken on both sides. Remove to a 3-4 qt flameproof casserole. Add onions to skillet and cook until just golden. Add to chicken. Deglaze pan with chicken stock, and pour over chicken. Add remaining ingredients, except for the fresh herbs, bring to a boil. Turn down to a simmer, cover and cook til chicken is almost done and tender. Add 1/2 fresh herbs,and cook 10 minutes more. Decant into deep bowls with the juices , sprinkle with the rest of the fresh herbs, and maybe tuck in some toasted flatbreads to dunk.

I liked the distinctive khmeli suneli flavor very much. It is not a strange taste; it seemed rather familiar in a way, even. Stewed chicken is not usually my favorite, texture-wise, but I enjoyed this. I think I liked it in large part, because of the potatoes, which gave the combination some body, partially breaking down and thickening the juices. And the second day, like so many braised and stewed dishes, it was far more delicious; the flavors were intensified and blended nicely.

There's a recipe in this book for a kind of spinach/ walnut dip or pate calld ispanakhi pkhali, which also appears in a slightly different form in Please To The Table, Anya von Bremzen's excellent compendium of Russian recipes. I'm planning on making some of that, and some flatbread to scoop it up with. Stay tuned, as they used to say when the Box had antennae on top.

Of course if you notice seeds for the european blue white in a catalogue somewhere, you'll let me know, won't you?

*According to my library book, a Georgian cook is judged in part on his or her ability to neatly cut a chicken into more parts than you would think possible. I divided the back and breast sections in half. This would not impress a Georgian, but the pieces were pretty small, in my view, totalling 12. Wing tips were frozen for stock.

Addendum: There it is, the european blue-white, a clover and a fenugreek relative- photo added! I also have a few tiny seedlings sprouted, in a pot on my porch. I think I'll plant a few pot marigold seeds as well, and see if anything comes of them.