An American-Canadian Cooking Project:

The proposal arrives via email, while I’m hiding out in Little Washington, Virginia. We’ve discussed a new cross-border culinary exchange and my friend Jill from Ottawa, Canada (of the famous Tale of Two Puddings) has been investigating the regional cuisine. Jill writes:

While you've been exploring American culinary history, I've been thinking about Canadian cuisine - specifically, what dish to propose for you to make. There definitely are some Canadian classics, but it's not as easy as it might seem to find a good choice, given the influences of other cuisines and the regional nature of Canadian specialties.

The province of Newfoundland and Labrador claims the title for the most creative names. My book of traditional Newfoundland dishes includes recipes for jiggs dinner, fish and brewis, figgy duff and flipper pie. I won't pick one of those, given that they're not really widely consumed outside of the province...and perhaps not broadly appetizing, either. No offence to Newfoundlanders and Labradorians - I really did enjoy dining on fish and brewis in Labrador!
In Aboriginal communities, I've eaten Arctic char, caribou, moose, Canada goose, beaver and - while I'd like to think I imagined it, I didn't - muskrat. You can't get much more Canadian than Canada goose or beaver, but I don't think there are too many beavers wandering the sidewalks of Long Island. So I'll rule those out.

Quebec offers some possibilities: tarte au sucre, tourtière, and that modern-day classic, poutine -- an artery-clogging mess of French fries, gravy and cheese curds. A few of Canada's trendier restaurant chefs have taken to featuring upscale versions of poutine on their menus. Moving west, there are recipes using Saskatoon berries, Alberta beef and there's the delicious Nanaimo bar from British Columbia.

That very quick culinary tour gives me a few possibilities, but I'm also thinking of something a little closer to home, perhaps. Stay tuned while I do a little more thinking...

Certainly, food for thought. Jill is right about the lack of beaver on Long Island, however, there is an ample population of Canadian Geese. Just visit any golf course in the area. Still, this exchange is really about cooking the food and not hunting it …

I must admit, when it comes to Jill’s assignment, I’m stumped. After suggesting an exchange of regional cuisine, I’m having a little trouble identifying something uniquely American. Okay, pizza and beer would qualify, but we’re looking to aim just a little higher on the food chain. Like Canada, there are so many regional and global influences on what we eat in the United States.

So, I head for my cookbook library to see if I can come up with an intriguing American culinary challenge for Jill.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Stack of Sunnyside Eggs and Toast for a Buttondown Chef:

When it comes to cooking, I’ve typically been a slave to the recipe. I don’t waver much from the prescribed directions. When it comes to braising, basting or blending, I’m Buttondown Oxford all the way.

Lately, I’ve had an urge to loosen up, at least in the kitchen, attempting to let the recipe serve as inspiration for a more creative culinary process. I’m trying to think more about flavor combinations and I’m keeping watch for techniques in other kitchens that I can add to my repertoire and recreate at home.

My recent visit to the Foster Harris House in Washington, Virginia was instructive. John MacPherson is an intuitive chef who can look at a set of ingredients and see something beyond the conventional picture. Each morning, I studied John’s breakfasts carefully. There were certainly eggs, and breakfast meat and potatoes, but the traditional ingredients were deconstructed and rebuilt as brilliantly colorful and whimsical creations.

Think of this as the “Rubick’s Cube Culinary Technique.” Back home, I decided to take the plunge. No recipe – just ingredients. I stand at the fry pan with a momentary feeling of uneasiness, like I don’t have enough starch in my collar.

The primary ingredients are eggs, cherry tomatoes, avocados, Yukon gold potatoes and whole wheat bread. I’ve also got a new tool from William Sonoma – Egg Fry Rings that promise to produce fried eggs that are perfectly circular.

I try to visualize the end result, and circles become a common theme – circles of eggs, circles of toast and circular potato chips. It all comes down to looking at the dish in components, preparing each part and then assembling the final project. The petite Yukon gold potatoes are boiled, peeled and sliced before browning in butter. The eggs take about five minutes in the fry pan, and the tomatoes and avocados are dressed in fresh lime juice and cilantro. The miniature “bacon” garnish is a bit of kitchen prestidigitation I learned from John – slivers of prosciutto are fried crisp and sprinkled over the plate. The result – A Stack of Sunnyside Eggs and Toast.

My breakfasts still have a long way to go before they match the excellence at the Foster Harris House, but I’m exploring and becoming more adventurous in the kitchen. I’m even thinking of leaving my shirttail un-tucked tomorrow.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Inn at Little Washington

Sunday, January 21 – Tonight is my big celebration – another year on this Earth. Since it’s been a year of culinary discovery, I’ve decided to mark the evening at a place that the International Herald Tribune called one of the 10 Best Restaurants in the World.

To get a bit more emotive about it, my friend Jill in Ottawa provides this little tidbit she found on the Internet – the food is so good, it will make you cry.

That’s extraordinary praise when you consider the humble beginnings of The Inn at Little Washington. The Inn opened on January 28, 1978 in a renovated garage located in a town that most of the world had forgotten. Washington, Virginia has deep historic roots. As a young surveyor, George Washington laid out the town in July, 1749. But until the opening of the Inn, the town was an intriguing footnote in the life of a Founding Father.

Chef Patrick O’Connell and Reinhardt Lynch are the proprietors of this culinary shrine, due west of Washington DC. In his book Refined American Cuisine, Chef O’Connell says that restaurants are “living theater” and that cooking is a means of communication. I agree with the philosophy wholeheartedly, and I wonder if the food will “speak to me.”

Before we get to that, allow me a slight diversion, since half the fun of any culinary adventure is getting there. The morning starts cold with just a few flurries. At the Foster Harris House, John and Diane serve a memorable breakfast of fresh fruit and vanilla yogurt, ginger scones, Puff Pastry Topped with Avocado Salsa, Poached Egg and Chipotle Cream Sauce with Paradise Bacon and two tender shoots of asparagus placed across the top. For the finale, we are served Dad’s (that’s Diane’s dad’s) Favorite Pancake with Chocolate Chips and Maple Butter Sauce. The salsa is impossibly bright and fresh with red and yellow heirloom tomatoes and finely chopped cilantro that pops like Independence Day firecrackers.

The snow flurries appear to be no cause for concern, and I gas up the rental at a filling station on Route 211 in preparation for a short excursion. An older woman, perhaps in her late fifties, pulls into the station and parks on the other side of the pump. She smiles at me as she parks, clearly recognizing that I’m not a local.

“Filling up before the snow gets bad?” she asks.

“I’m heading over to Monticello,” I reply, as I am intent on learning more about Thomas Jefferson’s gourmet pursuits.

She shakes her head and smiles again. “You’re heading into it. Be careful,” she recommends, and explains that the snowfall can vary considerably in the Blue Ridge Mountains. She tells me that she originally lived in DC, but moved out here to start an animal sanctuary and has learned the personality quirks of the local weather.

“I can always turn back, if it gets worse,” I offer.

“Be careful,” she tells me again, and gives me a friendly wave as I depart.

By the time I reach Route 29 outside of Madison, Virginia, the snow is thick, and I’ve skidded twice. The countryside looks like something out of Currier and Ives, but I see there is now a dense layer of snow on each cow in the field. I decide to heed the friendly stranger’s advice. She is perhaps the guardian angel of my culinary pursuits. Thomas Jefferson’s culinary story will have to wait for another day. A fender bender could really ruin my dinner plans, so I turn back towards Washington.

It is slow going on country road 231, but eventually I make it back to the Foster Harris house by about 12:30, car and body intact, content to sit with a glass of wine and watch the snow fall from the window. John prepares savory curried chicken sandwiches on toasted bread, pours red wine, and he and Diane and their young son and I spend a delightful afternoon chatting about culinary pursuits, food, wine and favorite restaurants. The snow continues to fall into the evening and the flakes get larger. It’s really quite beautiful if you have no where to go and one of the best restaurants in the world is just up the street.

About 6:00 p.m., I step out on the porch, open my umbrella and set out by foot to the nearby Inn at Little Washington. I walk, down the center of Main Street, resembling Mr. Tumnus from the Narnia books, a lone figure crunching through the snow by lamplight with umbrella in hand. Just up ahead, the warm glow of the Inn beckons me closer.

Inside, I check my coat and I’m escorted to the Living Room and served a glass of Brut Champagne. I’ve entered a wild imaginary land, the décor an exotic explosion of Tales of the Arabian Nights, Kismet, and Sunset Boulevard. There is velvet, golden tassels, fringed lamps, tapestries and tables adorned with miniature elephant tusks. I settle into a neon-blue velvet throne and snack on Pineapple chips dusted with Cajun spices and Parmesan Crisps as I take it all in.

The effect is one of being swept away by a cyclone and finding oneself in the Land of Oz, although carried away by a snowstorm is probably a better analogy. I am about to meet the cast of whimsical characters who will lead me on this culinary journey. Simon escorts me into the dining room, wishes me many happy returns for the day, and I nestle into a perfect corner table among a cluster of small pillows. Ross presents me with a personalized menu that that is inscribed with “Happy Birthday” and the date at the top. I am conscious that I have been thrust into a grand theatrical adventure, not just as an observer, but a wide-eyed journeyman at the center of the action.

Miniature appetizers appear as if by magic – intense dollops of flavor to be sipped off white spoons, such as Parmesan Cream, Red Beet or Tuna Carpaccio. There are also crispy Tempura green beans in a silver cup with Thai dipping sauce and a pristine white porcelain tea cup filled with warm red bell pepper soup perfumed with the intoxicating scent of Sambuca.

I spend some time studying the menu, as the choices are extensive. There is a
Chef’s Tasting Menu, and many dishes under First Courses, Second Courses and Entrees with ingredients that are either exotic, artisinal or regional to the local Virginia countryside. I make my selections, and engage the knowledgeable and friendly wine expert, Sabato to create a series of pairings. He asks me if there is any particular wine I would prefer and I put myself completely in his hands. “We’re going to travel the world,” he tells me.

The first course is Carpaccio of Herb Crusted Baby Lamb with Tabouli and Rosemary Mustard. The paper thin circles of lamb are layered in a concentric pattern on a large platter. The lamb is milky, grassy and herbaceous and Sabato pours a clean, citrus-flavored Riesling from Australia.

A Fricassee of Main Lobster with Potato Gnocchi and Curried Walnuts arrives next. The succulent chunks of lobster flesh and melt-in-your mouth pillows of gnocchi are paired with a slightly spicy Viognier from Washington State.

I’ve had to do some personal soul searching over the main course. I’ve heard raves about the sweetbread entrée, and while I want to be adventurous, I’m just not sure. Ross solves the dilemma and offers me a tasting before my entrée. Sabato pours an Australian blend of Shiraz, Grenache and Mouvedre that smells of fragrant holiday spices. The tasting of Veal Sweetbreads Braised in Ruby Port on Pappardelle Pasta with Huckleberries and Country Ham is sublime with a sweet caramelized crust, and tender center that frolics with the savory ham and delicate pasta.

My Main Course is a bounty of flavors of farm and harvest. The Seared Four Story Farm Duck Breast on Turnip Skillet Tart with Wild Rice Pilaf, Brussels Sprouts and Chestnuts, is brilliant pink, fanned across the plate, and glistening with tiny pearls of Brussels sprouts. Sabato lines up three reds, from Spain, Italy and France to frolic with the duck. Simon the maitre de glances over, grins and says, “Sabato likes to play!”

I forgo the sweets for dessert in favor of the cheese course. Robin rolls out a honey-colored cow named Faira on wheels. She moos as she inches towards me, a tray of enticing cheeses on her back. Robin cuts me at least six slices describing each cheese, and he ends with a spoonful of molten-soft cheese from Burgundy which is like ambrosia. Having consumed the last morsel of cheese, I am presented with a wicker basket of sweets and a yellow marzipan banner with the words “Happy Birthday.”

With the celebratory feast concluded and my palate in near ecstasy, I am taken behind-the-scenes for a tour of the kitchen. I marvel at the sleek green custom built ranges and the scene of kitchen wizardry that continues this late in the evening.

Shortly after, it is time to bundle up again and step out into the snowy Virginia night. Like in all those fanciful adventure stories, I must finally leave this supernatural place and its wonders, but the culinary magic of the Inn at Little Washington will continue to enchant my memories.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Foster Harris House

Saturday, January 20 -- Near the edge of the tiny town of Washington, Virginia, in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, sits the Foster Harris House, a handsome yellow-and-green bed and breakfast that is as vibrant as a sunflower in full bloom.

As a young surveyor, a 17-year-old George Washington plotted the town of Washington in the year 1749. Today, there are less than 200 residents in this historic village.

I awake in a plush bed at the Foster Harris House after nine hours of deep sleep, something unheard of for me. The aroma of eggs and sausage caress my nostrils from the kitchen below.

Proprietors Diane and John MacPherson offer a gracious haven that delights the senses. The MacPhersons abandoned the corporate grind in California several years ago for life as innkeepers in the rural Virginia countryside. They are ever-present with welcoming smiles, a complimentary glass of wine and advice on local sights. John even loans me a new sport jacket to wear at dinner, since my packing on this trip has left something to be desired.

The rooms in this Victorian home, circa 1900, are bright and cheerful. Mine has a view of the rolling countryside behind the inn. Linens feel incredibly soft and the smoky sounds of Diana Krall and Nat King Cole fill the dining room where breakfast is served at a rustic tavern table. The MacPhersons have followed their dream and it is delicious.

John prepares a four-course breakfast that is nothing short of a work of art. He is a self-taught chef, and tells us that he is from a family that loves to cook and eat. We are served fresh mango, kiwi and blackberries with vanilla custard yogurt and granola, a perfect golden omelet of spinach, mushroom and goat cheese with tarragon potato “roshi” and apple chicken sausage, and lemon “Liebchen, ” a type of German pancake, with blackberry maple butter sauce, sprinkled with mint chopped extremely fine. It is a morning feast. The ingredients are garden-fresh and burst with an harmonious symphony of colors and flavors. The MacPhersons’ passion for good food and the country life infuses every detail of the Foster Harris House.

After the long and leisurely breakfast, I drive along the Skyline Drive deep into Shenandoah National Park. It is colder at the higher elevation, and I encounter no more than a dozen tourists during the entire drive through the park. The car thermometer reads 23 degrees, and the frigid wind buffets the rental car. I spot several deer foraging for food. I hike to the top of the Stony Man peak where a lone blackbird glides the stiff wind currents and ice fills the crevices between ancient gray boulders.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

First Lady of American Cookery:

Friday, January 19 -- The sky is colored robin’s egg blue, the sun glistens at midday, and there is an icy wind glancing off the Potomac River. I stand on the bluff above the river and admire the stately and symmetrical white house with the brick red roof, cupola and broad piazza that stands before me.

Mount Vernon in Virginia was the life long home of George and Martha Washington. History was made with great frequency in this gracious home. And, the Washington’s fed a lot of people along the way, to the point where General Washington described the operation as similar to a well-functioning tavern. Mount Vernon was the home of the First President, but it was America’s home, with hundreds of visitors annually.

I’m at the start of a four-day celebratory trip – sort of an excursion of historic and culinary destinations in Virginia. I’m in search of distinctly American food and the people who prepare and eat it.

George Washington was deeply involved in the building and even the decorating of Mount Vernon, ordering crates full of plates, silverware and table accoutrements that adorned the dining room. But, it was Martha Washington who was the commander-in-chief of the culinary activities at Mount Vernon.

Martha was a voracious collector of recipes. If she’d lived today, she would have likely been a regular subscriber to Gourmet, or even kept a food blog. After Washington died, she burned their personal correspondence, but her culinary legacy remains. Food historian Karen Hess chronicled Martha’s efforts in the book Martha Washington’s Book of Cookery. Hess examined a document, long in Martha’s family, that contained hundreds of handwritten recipes for everything from fancy dishes, to everyday food. Some were passed on from her mother, which was the tradition, and others she added to the collection. During the 18th century, homemakers would keep handwritten books of “receipts,” or what we now call recipes. The idea was to capture the culinary knowledge, so that it could be passed on through the family.

The Mount Vernon estate was self-sufficient. Washington was a gentleman farmer who grew wheat, corn and potatoes, that is when he wasn’t out fighting the good fight for liberty. The plantation raised cows and pigs, and they caught fish in the Potomac River. What they didn’t eat fresh, they smoked and stored for later use. Many of the home-grown ingredients are found in Martha’s recipes, from a well-spiced Chicken Fricassee, to a dessert called Syllabub, which contains fresh cream and sherry.

In one of the galleries of the newly-opened education center, there is a cookbook and domestic manual called The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Mrs. Hannah Glasse, who was the Martha Stewart of the 18th century. Martha Washington gave this copy to a young relative. While she herself had great culinary knowledge, Martha Washington clearly appreciated expert advice, as Glasse was the thought leader of her day.

In many ways, Martha Washington was an individual who lived in extraordinary times, but still engaged in activities of hearth and home with great care. Her husband was away for long periods in battle, but she still had day-to-day concerns. She thought and cared about the type of food she served her family, the types of ingredients used and how it looked. And, she made an effort to pass her knowledge along to her children and grandchildren. In many ways, we are a bit like Martha Washington, too.

Late in the evening I arrive at the Foster Harris House, a bed and breakfast in Washington, Virginia. The night sky is aglow with a million stars, and the proprietor welcomes me with a glass of red wine from Washington State tasting of oak and tannin. The breakfasts are said to be sumptuous, so I’m looking towards Saturday morning with great anticipation.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Skinny on Yogurt Cheese:

I heard you. You just gasped, “The skinny on WHAT?”

Yes, I’m going to talk about yogurt cheese. Hang on.

My name is T.W. Barritt and I am a cheese addict. Admitting you have a problem is half the battle.

I’ve struggled for years, in fact, ever since I had my first taste of Velveeta. The minute I walk in the door from a tough day at work, I crave cheese and crackers and a glass of ruby Pinot Noir. I admit the response is Pavlovian, a survival instinct I’ve cultivated during years in the business world. It’s like Snoopy’s love affair with cookies, or Garfield’s fatal attraction to lasagna. Gorgonzola, brie, cheddar or blue – my addiction knows no boundaries.

But it’s January, and I’ve been eating everything in site since mid-November. I need a “lighter” alternative to port wine cheese. As I was cleaning out a kitchen cabinet the other day, I came upon my answer – a yogurt strainer.

A yogurt strainer is a miraculous conical device that transforms plain, non-fat yogurt into a tangy cheese snack. Just drop a six-to-eight ounce container into the strainer and let it sit, covered, in a tall container for 5 hours or more. The whey – which is the milky liquid in yogurt – strains through and what’s left, is a thick spread that is the consistency of cream cheese. It is reminiscent of the thicker, rich yogurt served in Middle Eastern countries. And, if you’re trying to tame the knoshing demons just a tad, one batch is only 80 calories – with zero fat calories – per 6 ounces.

The flavor combinations are as broad as your imagination. I added a teaspoon of roasted garlic and chives, but you can use citrus zest or a touch of tahini. Any strong flavor you enjoy will blend nicely with the savory goodness of the yogurt. It’s tastes great on a crisp wheat cracker.

After all, who wants to give up snacking completely?

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Pasta Presto:

The best recipes are simple and uncomplicated with just a few, fresh ingredients. Despite an adventurous soul, and a tendency towards culinary experimentation, it’s always reassuring to return to old favorites. This is one of the first pasta dishes I ever made, in the Roman-style, and I first discovered a version of this recipe in a whimsically-illustrated book that was a gift from my parents. Just to prove to myself that I’ve “come a long way, baby” I made the pasta from scratch, but the sauce remains an effortless classic, that assembles in minutes, and is easy enough to make a weekend dinner a truly special occasion:


Tagliatelle alla Romana

10 to 12 ounces of Tagliatelle or Fettuccine Pasta
One half pint heavy cream
½ cup unsalted butter at room temperature
6 to 8 tablespoons grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
9 ounces frozen peas, (microwave for 5 minutes to heat through)
6 ounces thinly sliced prosciutto cut into strips
Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper

Cook the pasta in salted, boiling water. Meanwhile, heat the cream in a small saucepan. When cooked, drain the pasta. Return to the pot and melt the butter and cheese with the hot pasta. Add the hot cream, prosciutto and peas. Season with salt and pepper, toss and serve.

Makes 4 Servings

This dish is fresh, creamy and bursting with bright colors. Don’t forget to uncork the Chianti!

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

It’s Not Easy Being Green:

The bottle of emerald liquid sits on the table at the front of the room. On its label, a single eye stares back at the audience. It’s giving me the once over, daring me to take just a little taste.

I’m attending the monthly program of the Culinary Historians of New York to hear the dark and sordid history of Absinthe, a liqueur credited with everything from instigating murder to causing fatal brain degradation. The crowd is standing room only. Everybody loves a good villain.

I wasn’t familiar with this jaded cocktail, but the very name “Absinthe” was enough to send a young colleague fleeing from the room screaming something about hallucinations.

It looks a bit unearthly. Like something the Wizard of Oz or Puff the Magic Dragon might serve as a cordial. Make that something Kermit the Frog might drink on a bender. The contents are far from magical according to lore. In fact, the stuff was banned in most countries at the turn of the last century.

What is this controversial brew? Absinthe is actually distilled from herbs in the thyme family (hence the green color) and was first used as a medicinal drink. In plain terms, it was a vermicide, and was great for ridding the digestive system of parasites. French soldiers used it during the Algerian campaigns to purify water and later drank it as an aperitif. The key ingredient is wormwood, a bitter compound that can be toxic in large doses. Sounds like fun, huh? Well, the café culture in France loved it. They would drink it with sugar cubes and ignite tablespoons dipped in Absinthe.

Yet, despite being banned, Absinthe seems to be enjoying a renaissance. Just last week, Harold McGee explored the drink in the New York Times and our speaker, Professor David Weir of Cooper Union, seems intent on rescuing Absinthe’s tattered reputation. He is wearing a Kelly green handkerchief in his breast pocket. He reads a quote from a late 19th century author who describes Absinthe as “a nectar like the last kiss on the lips of a discarded mistress.”

The story of Absinthe is really about a clash of cultures. It was a working class drink. Weir shows us slides of famous Impressionist art depicting the iconoclastic members of the French café culture, each enjoying a bright green glass of Absinthe. As the years progress, and the reported effects of Absinthe spread, the pictures get uglier. The upper class blamed it for all kinds of distasteful, common behaviors. It was said that it only took six glasses before you would start hallucinating.

I’m about to get my first taste.

Glasses are passed through the audience containing one part Absinthe and five parts water. When combined with water, it takes on a milky, chartreuse color, and looks a bit like fresh squeezed lemon juice. I smell the astringent aroma of caraway and herbs. I take a sip and detect anise and licorice. There is a bitter, chemical aftertaste on the tongue and a strong aroma of insecticide or cleaning solution. This stuff is potent, with a capital P. Forget about hallucinating. Six glasses would probably kill me.

Professor Weir says the appeal of Absinthe was in its forbidden qualities. After two sips, I decide I’ll stick with approved beverages like Green Apple Martinis or Green Tea.

Besides, my taste buds are in shock, and I need to save them for next month’s program – an historic overview of love and chocolate.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

An American in Paris in Las Vegas

I’m on an unusual weekend work assignment, and find myself in Las Vegas, Nevada of all places. Not at the top of my list for cities to visit, and even worse, I’m alone. Where is my colleague, Splint McCollough when I need him? Vegas is his kind of town – tawdry and as glittery as a disco ball, with a slot machine for every out-of-town tourist.

Alas, Splint is at home. I send him an email upon arrival: The Christmas lights are still up here, and David Hasselhoff is starring in “The Producers.”

Splint responds within the hour: Wow. You mean he’s not doing “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat” anymore?

So, when work is concluded I am forced to strike out on my own in this dazzling city of decadence.

I step out of the hotel and onto the Las Vegas Strip. It is a chilly night. To the left, I see the Empire State Building. To the right, I see the Eiffel Tower. I set off in the direction of Paris.

The contentious voice inside my head immediately starts an argument. “But, you’ve already been to the REAL Paris.”

“Sure, but it’s either French food Vegas style, or the all-you-can-eat Comfort Food Buffet at the Aladdin Casino,” my rational side argues back.

As I head down the strip, I encounter a life-size version of the Arch de Triumph, and a gargantuan hot air balloon, done in neon lights, with the word Paris emblazoned in script letters across its mid-section. I have arrived in the City of Lights, and I’ve only had to walk a quarter mile. Above me, the Eiffel Tower looms. It is a luminescent gold against the desert night sky. I decide to dine at Mon Ami Gambi, a Parisian-style bistro that sits in the shadow of the faux Eiffel Tower. I take a seat in the outdoor café that parallels the Las Vegas Strip. Torch heaters radiate warmth to fend off the cold desert air. In fact, they are downright toasty, and I fear my hair has been singed as I am led to my table.

Mon Ami Gambi is billed as a French Steak House, so I make a swift decision after quickly reviewing the bill of fare and order Steak Roquefort from the “Steak Frites” section of the menu. After all, “When in Rome…” Or is it, “When in Paris?” Or should that be, “When in Las Vegas?” I fear that I am suffering from a case of mistaken location. I decide to roll with it. Las Vegas is the land of dreams and illusions. Okay, maybe it’s not really Paris. But I could do a lot worse on a Sunday night on the road.

The dinner effectively fuels my Parisian hallucination. I start with a ruby-red glass of Louis Jadot Beaujolais 2004. A waiter brings a hot, crisp baguette to the table tucked in a narrow white paper bag. The Salad Maison is fresh greens dressed in tart vinaigrette and topped with a long narrow crouton spread with creamy goat cheese. The Steak Roquefort is classically prepared. The steak is carved thin, infused with smoky charcoal and topped with a slab of blue-green tangy cheese that melts over the hot meat like butter. The mountain of frites are wiry, crisp and paper thin, almost like wontons. Quite frankly, the meal is exquisite in its simplicity and intense flavors. As I bask in the golden glow of the Eiffel Tower, I’m starting to believe that I’m on a Parisian holiday. All that’s missing is Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron dancing in the street.

To my right on the Las Vegas Strip, the tourists stream past, some in scarves and parkas, and some in shorts and tee-shirts. The torch heaters are so hot, that I fear I am getting sunburn. I’m almost certain that I’m getting feverish.

As I devour the steak, the fountains across the street at the Bellagio erupt into a twenty-story high dance, and the voice of Gene Kelly croons “Singing in the Rain” as the fountains spurt in unison.

“Wrong movie, Gene!” my contentious inner voice complains, but it is still kind of charming, nonetheless.

In the end, it’s all pretty absurd, but it has a certain appeal. It takes a city with an outrageous imagination to imitate the great cuisine and wonders of the world. Think Epcot Center with neon and showgirls and you’re well on your way to imagining the experience.

As I leave the restaurant through the casino exit, there is a woman about to win big on the “Wheel of Fortune” special edition. Tres bien!

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Twelfth Night Cake

Not much is made of Twelfth Night in the United States, although there is the occasional Three Kings Celebration to signal the start of the Epiphany season. While the celebration of Christmas once lasted for 12 days, now it seems to start in early October. Too often, the Christmas holidays can whimper to a close in January, and I like the idea of one final, festive night to enjoy the music, the candles and the confections of the most special season of the year.

January 6th or Twelfth Night is the Feast of the Epiphany, celebrating the arrival of the three Kings from the Far East to worship the Christ Child in Bethlehem. They brought with them gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. The Twelve Days of Christmas were typically a time of great merriment. Families were gathered together and balls and celebrations were held to mark important occasions. George Washington married Martha Custis on Twelfth Night. Shakespeare wrote a theatrical comedy called “Twelfth Night” to be performed for Queen Elizabeth I at the close of the Christmas holidays.

Just as important, there were sweets prepared to serve on this final night of feasting. The custom of Twelfth Night was practiced for years in England, where Victorian homemakers baked fancy, rich “Twelfth Night Cakes” flavored with candied fruits, citrus zest and liquor. Buried in this “Cake of Kings” was a bean, a tradition that dates back to Roman times. The guest who found the bean in his or her serving of cake would be named the king or queen of the revelry.

Some years ago, I purchased a lovely terra cotta Twelfth Night Cake mold. In honor of the 12 Days of Christmas just past, I give you this simple version of a Twelfth Night Cake that sparkles with colorful candied fruit and is heady with the flavor of orange and Grand Marnier.

If truth be told, the intricate crown design in the cake mold doesn’t really show in the final cake, so I decorated mine with powdered sugar stars to remember the “Star of Wonder” that shown brightly on this singular night.

A Festive Twelfth Night Cake

¼ cup golden raisins
¼ cup chopped candied fruit
4 tablespoons Grand Marnier
3 cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup sugar
Zest of one orange
1 egg
1 ¼ cups milk
¼ cup orange juice
2 tablespoons butter melted and cooled
½ cup chopped almonds
1 large dried bean

Glaze:

2 tablespoons butter, melted
½ cup powdered sugar
2 tablespoons Grand Marnier

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Mix the raisins, candied fruit and Grand Marnier together in a bowl and let soak. Sift flour, baking powder and salt. Mix the sugar with the orange zest and add the dry ingredients. Beat the egg with the milk, juice and butter. Stir the almonds and the fruits and liquor into the liquid and add the dry ingredients. Combine with several strokes until barely blended, but don’t over mix. Pour half of batter into a greased round, flat cake pan that is approximately 11 inches wide (a large shallow, ceramic quiche pan is a good option). Place the dried bean on top and cover with the rest of the batter. Bake for 30 minutes. Cool briefly in the pan and then turn out. Mix together the glaze ingredients and pour over the cake while it is still warm. Decorate with powdered sugar.

Technorati Tags: christmas, holidays

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Tale of Two Puddings - The Lighting of the American Plum Pudding

Exactly 28 days after its creation, my American Plum Pudding is ready for its fifteen minutes of fame.

In the morning, I busy myself preparing the house for the ten guests who will arrive at 3:00 for the ceremonial lighting and tasting. I have one final piece of preparation. A Christmas Pudding is traditionally served with Hard Sauce. But, I’ve neglected to answer a key question -- What in the world is Hard Sauce?

I go to my most reliable source – Lynne Olver’s “Food Timeline” – where the answers are waiting. Olver cites one resource that says the origin of plum puddings can be traced back to the 15th century. She references another that says the Victorians popularized the cold, hard sauces of unsalted butter, sugar and alcohol. The warm, fruity pudding melts the hard sauce, and the burning brandy is a symbol of the rebirth of the sun. I find one other piece of folklore. A sprig of holly with a red berry was placed on both sides of the pudding in ancient times to ward off witches. Since I grew up on a steady diet of “Bewitched” and I am generally tolerant of witches, I forgo the holly.

So, Hard Sauce is basically a cross between butter cream icing and a compound butter, with a hefty shot of brandy thrown in to liven up the festivities. It can’t be bad. I find the best butter possible – Plugra European Style Butter, which has a higher butterfat content, and I select a Brandy Butter recipe flavored with orange zest, orange juice and brandy. The fluffy mound of Hard Sauce looks like a snowball sprinkled with Grand Marnier.

The pudding, which has been reposing in my refrigerator since December 3rd, is now put back into the steamer for a quick warm-up bath.

My guests are unusually prompt and by 3:00 p.m. they are crowding into my kitchen. I pass flutes of champagne as I make the final preparations for the lighting ceremony. The steaming, coffee-colored dome of pudding is placed at the center of the table, and I warm a sauce pan of brandy on the stove.

We dial up Jill in Ottawa so she can join in the festivities, albeit virtually. After all, it is she, and her family’s antique Grimwade Quick Cooker that were the inspiration for our cross-country culinary collaboration. We do quick introductions, and I suspect that Jill wishes she had a score card to keep track of the folks standing shoulder-to-shoulder in my kitchen.

Cousin Frank prepares for the photo op, and Cousin Megan takes charge of the video camera. I drizzle the warm brandy over the pudding and into the center and light a long wooden match. I sense my guests taking a slight step back. I touch the match to the pudding and it is immediately wrapped in a very subtle cobalt-blue flame. In the background I hear murmurs of, “It’s gonna explode,” “I hope the fire doesn’t crack the plate,” and “Is that a paper plate?”

There is a tantalizing sizzle, and the fragrant aroma of warm fruit, cloves and brandy, with a glistening pool of amber liquid that gathers at the base of the pudding.

I cut the pudding into slices and each guest takes a spoonful of Hard Sauce. The response is enthusiastic and soon there is only less than a quarter of the pudding left on the serving platter. My brother Ken is particularly enamored of the hard sauce. There are luscious flavors of molasses, nutty brandy, citrus and cloves and chunky pieces of sweet fruit drenched in the buttery Hard Sauce. It has been worth the wait.

But more important, this plum pudding, so long in preparation, has the rich taste of centuries of historic holiday traditions, family gathered close and family far away, and new-found friendships.

In the evening, after all has been cleaned up and the guests have returned home, I write Jill one more time and provide a report on the day. I close with the question:

What should we make next?

Technorati Tags: christmas holidays

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Tis The Season To Bake Biscotti:

Veronica started it. There she stood in her virtual Test Kitchen, conjuring up an army of rich chocolate biscotti and musing over the number of eggs her squadron might contain.

After salivating over her results, I started thinking, and dug out the recipe for Mrs. Maio’s Christmas Biscotti. My former neighbor’s golden anisette biscotti – containing, count ‘em, six eggs – traveled far and wide this holiday season to great acclaim.

Now I’ve got biscotti on the brain, and I crave yet another batch. It didn’t help that Veronica gave a glowing endorsement to “Baking: From My Home to Yours” by Dorie Greenspan. I need nothing more than a lukewarm recommendation to add another cookbook to my collection. It probably took me ten seconds to order “Baking” after reading Veronica’s blog.

So, while other folks are writing up resolutions, I’m left in the waning days of 2006 exploring my inner biscotti “twice baked” soul.

I have to be different, so I turn to page 141 in “Baking” and select Lenox Almond Biscotti. I’ve always been a fan of Dorie Greenspan, and the book is gorgeous and this recipe a winner. She was given it by Tony Fortuna, the owner of the restaurant Lenox in New York City.

A couple of interesting ingredient options make Lenox Almond Biscotti a standout. There’s a half-a-cup of cornmeal included that gives the biscotti a sunny-yellow color and a nice crunch along with a cake-like flavor. The soft, chunky dough is easy to handle and shape into logs, and the almond extract and slice almonds deliver bursts of exotic flavor through the sweetness of the corn meal.

I’m feeling creative, so I follow Dorie’s “Playing Around” guidelines on page 143 and toss in a handful of dried cherries and finely minced candied ginger. The result is a beautiful and thoroughly distinctive dessert cookie that is spicy and sweet and might not make it to the holiday party this weekend!

Technorati Tags: cookies baking

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Tale of Two Puddings - The Lighting of the Canadian Plum Pudding

When last we left the “Tale of Two Puddings,” both the Canadian and American versions of the classic Christmas plum pudding were “aging” in the refrigerator awaiting their Yule tide debut.

On December 18th, Jill provides a status report from Canada:

“Well, a week from today will be the true test. I checked my pudding one day last week and it still seemed to be intact - and still looked and smelled good. Hope all is well with you in the frenzy leading up to Christmas.”

I’ve been afraid to check my pudding, to be perfectly honest. I’m a little nervous that if I open it, I’ll unleash Marley’s Ghost. So, for over three weeks, the foil wrapped pudding has been taking up an incredible amount of space in the refrigerator, as I try to squeeze in condiments, cheese spread and egg cartons around it. I hear an announcer disparaging plum pudding on the radio, and I stick my fingers in my ears.

The days leading up to the holiday pass quickly. There are cocktails with colleagues in Manhattan and Christmas Caroling parties closer to home where most of the singers end up wearing felt reindeer antlers. Jill checks in on Christmas Eve as holiday preparations accelerate towards the Canadian lighting of the plum pudding:

“Merry Christmas! I'm finally taking a break (and sipping a kir royale) before moving to the next stage of dinner preparations. Have baked and decorated gingerbread cookies and made blueberry white chocolate clafoutis for tonight's dessert. Now the salmon, rice and salad remain. I did manage to squeeze in some skating with my niece and nephew this afternoon. In Kingston, where my parents live (and where I am now) there is an outdoor rink behind the historic city hall, so it’s a really nice spot to skate. Artificial ice, of course, given that it's unseasonably warm here too. Not a speck of snow. Tomorrow we'll have the turkey and the plum pudding (!) And then another big feast on Tuesday when my sister and her husband and kids arrive. I'm off until Jan 3rd, so I'll have some time back in Ottawa to relax after a few days with 9 adults, 4 kids, 2 dogs and a cat. It gets a little chaotic! Hope Santa is good to you tomorrow! I'll send the pudding photos as soon as I can, possibly tomorrow evening, but Tuesday morning is more likely as we usually get caught up in a cut-throat board game on Christmas night.”

Several days pass with no word, and I’m beginning to wonder if the Canadian Plum Pudding suffered a setback. But, in fact, the delay is only the result of a large Canadian family still digesting their Christmas dinner. Jill sends a full report on Thursday night:

“The pudding was a success. It actually tasted quite good, and about half was eaten on Christmas night, by seven of us. Quite a bit of hard sauce was consumed as well. I think my father has polished off most of the rest of the pudding since then. It had a very nice texture - - not as heavy as some that I've tasted, which I expected given that the recipe had a bit of baking powder in it. The reviews were good - hopefully everyone was not just being polite! All in all, a successful project... and I'm beginning to think about next year's version. Have to run, since my niece is harassing me to let her back on the computer. I'm heading back to Ottawa tomorrow, so will have a few days to relax - and try out my new copper pot for beating egg whites - before going back to work. Hope you had a good Christmas. Look forward to hearing your pudding results. I think the big day is Saturday?”

Jill is correct. I’ve decided to squeeze every moment of entertaining out of the holiday, and ten guests will descend on my house this coming Saturday for the ceremonial lighting and tasting of the American Plum Pudding. My cousins have been instructed to bring a fire extinguisher. As they say on television – Don’t touch that dial!

Technorati Tags: christmas holidays

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Aunt Greta's Christmas Stollen

Holiday food traditions are a miraculous mix of time, place, ideology and ingredients. Often times, a single person can be the catalyst for a family culinary tradition. They bring it to the table as a delectable gift, wrapped with their own cherished memories and life experiences. Through this act, they offer us a bit of themselves, and enrich our holiday celebrations.

In our family, there is the story of Margareta West, better known as Aunt Greta. Born in Kleinheubach, Germany in the year 1919, Greta began working as a domestic when she was 17 years old in the town of Offenbach. Greta worked for Frau Knudle for 23 years where she learned to cook and bake. At the age of 40, Greta was sponsored by her friend Sophie and came to the United States in 1959. In New York City, she worked for a doctor who resided on West End Avenue, and eventually met others who had immigrated from her hometown in Germany. She was introduced to my mother’s Uncle Karl by mutual friends and married him in 1961.

Throughout my lifetime, our family has enjoyed Aunt Greta’s homemade stollen at Christmas. Stollen is rich fruit bread made with yeast that originated in Central Germany in the town of Dresden. The characteristic oblong shape, with a ridge down the center is said to represent the Christ Child in swaddling clothes, and it is sometimes called the “Christstollen.” Greta’s stollen was enriched with butter and eggs, adorned with brilliant red, green and gold candied fruit, flavored with almonds and citrus zest and generously dusted with powdered sugar.

These days, Greta’s hair is snowy white and she moves a bit more slowly. She has essentially retired from baking. Her words are sprinkled with German phrases like “Ach du Lieber.” She is wry, usually opinionated and direct, and always incredibly generous.

I was of the impression that Greta’s recipe was an old European family heirloom, perhaps committed to memory. As I became more interested in food, I asked her to teach me how to make it and spent a Saturday at her home in Laurelton, New York learning her techniques. There, she produced a tattered, yellow clipping from a defunct Long Island newspaper, dated December 13, 1968, some nine years after she’d arrived in the United States.

At first, I was taken aback. Did this mean there was none of the history I’d typically associated with Greta’s stollen? But, when I read the recipe clipping, my perspective began to change. It showed an enticing picture of a plump stollen decorated with whole candied-cherries and flanked by two cups of black coffee. The article described the importance of home baked goods to the German “kaffeeklatsch” tradition. The phrase translates as “coffee chat” and refers to conversation or gossip enjoyed by German hausfraus who gather for a cup of coffee and a sweet treat.

I think the newspaper clipping was a tangible reminder for Greta of community and family traditions from her original home, and as she adapted the recipe and made it here, it was her way of sharing a festive custom from her homeland with her new family. I am now the keeper of that original newspaper feature that Greta clipped so many years ago when it likely inspired a fond holiday memory in her own mind that she generously passed on to us each year. Here’s the recipe:

Aunt Greta’s “Old Time Stollen"

¾ cup milk
1 pkg. active dry yeast
¼ cup warm water (105 to 115 degrees)
3 ½ cups enriched flour (divided)
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup butter
6 tablespoons sugar
½ teaspoon grated lemon and orange peel
2 egg yolks
1 cup mixed, diced candied fruits
¾ cup golden raisins
¼ cup whole glace cherries
¼ cup slivered or sliced blanched almonds

Scald milk; cool to lukewarm. Dissolve yeast in warm water. Add to lukewarm milk. Sift 1 ½ cups flour with salt; stir in to yeast mixture and cover. Let rise in warm place until doubled. Cream butter until light and fluffy. Add sugar gradually, while creaming. Add lemon and orange peel. Add egg yolks one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gently combine egg mixture with raised dough. Add fruits and almonds. Roll out on a lightly floured board or canvas into circle, about 10 inches in diameter. Fold over once into traditional pocketbook shape. Place on greased baking sheet. Cover and let rise until doubled. Bake at 350 degrees until golden brown 35-40 minutes. Brush with melted butter. Cool on rack. Before serving, sprinkle with powdered sugar.

On Christmas morning, we will be enjoying Aunt Greta’s stollen and coffee, now prepared by me, chatting about the diversity of our family and our yuletide traditions and wishing Greta a hearty Merry Christmas, or Frohe Weihnachten!

Technorati Tags: christmas holidays


© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Mrs. Maio's Christmas Biscotti

As Christmas nears, I find am remembering Mrs. Maio once again. Our neighbor across the street during my childhood was born in Italy in 1908 in the town of Messina in Sicily and eventually immigrated to the United States, where she and her husband settled on Long Island. My parents met the Maios in 1957 when they moved into the house across the street and became lifelong friends.

Rose Maio was a small, sturdy woman with a round face and steely gray hair. She grew pears, peaches and all types of vegetables in her yard. As I played outside, I remember seeing her work for hours cultivating her expansive garden, a kerchief covering her head to protect her from the sun.

Each Christmas Mrs. Maio brought a plate to our front door, wrapped in aluminum foil and piled high with homemade golden biscotti scented with anisette. Mrs. Maio’s biscotti were one of the signature flavors of our holiday. The long, slender cookies were a delicacy, unusual in appearance, and very different from the typical chocolate and peppermint flavors of the Christmas season.

Harold McGee says in “On Food and Cooking” that biscotti is an Italian hard cookie that is leavened with baking powder. The term biscuit is derived from the French term for “twice cooked.” Biscotti are indeed, biscuits that are baked twice to develop a toasty crisp crust. Anisette liquor is a sweet, licorice-flavored drink made from the seeds of a plant in the parsley family. The anise seed is native to the Middle East and has been used as a flavoring and for medicinal purposes for centuries. Ancient Romans hung anise plants near their beds to ward off bad dreams.

Mrs. Maio’s been gone now for several years. A while back, I acquired the recipe for Anisette Biscotti from Mrs. Maio’s daughter, and began to make biscotti during the holiday in remembrance of our neighbor’s annual Christmas gesture. Here’s the recipe:

Rose Maio’s Anisette Biscotti

6 eggs
¼ lb butter
1 ½ C sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 tsp anisette extract (or extract of anise)
2 ½ C flour
1 ½ tbsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

Set eggs out about 15 minutes. Cream butter and sugar together then add eggs one at a time, mixing after each. Add extracts followed by flour and baking powder.

On greased and floured cookie sheet (12x18) spread batter as a log the length of pan. Bake 30 minutes or till golden brown. Cut biscotti down center and cut slices from each half (use sharp knife). Remove half of slices to counter. Turn remainder of slices in pan on their side, bake another 10 minutes. Repeat with remaining slices. Enjoy!

This recipe makes a smooth golden batter that is much lighter than the typical, chunky biscotti dough. It is closer to a cake batter and resembles a large vanilla wafer when it is baking in the oven. The end result is a moist, tender lemon-yellow cookie with a slight crunch, flavored with peppery licorice and ready for imminent dunking in a hot cup of espresso. The recipe makes about 30 cookies.

If you make this biscotti recipe, give some to friends or neighbors during the holidays, just as Mrs. Maio always did. I took some to Nelson and Doug’s “Blue Christmas Party” in Soho and gave some to my parents and the team at work to spread a little of Mrs. Maio’s Christmas spirit.

Technorati Tags: Christmas holidays

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Great Pretender – Corn Bread Tamale Pie:

It is holiday baking day and the kitchen is in an uproar. The live Handel broadcast on the radio does little to mask the chaos. Sheet pans and mixing bowls are scattered about, and the sink is full. Hallelujah!

I’ve been surrounded by food all day, but I’m already thinking about Sunday Supper. I’ve made my selection on page 102 of the Joy of Cooking, and it’s a little touch of Mexico right here in suburban Long Island – Corn Bread Tamale Pie.

While I might try to convince myself that supper will be like a sojourn South of the Border, there’s actually nothing authentic about Corn Bread Tamale Pie. The Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America says it is part of the group of American foods that were “invented outside the ethnic communities they refer to.”

The Food Timeline quotes the Encyclopedia of American Food and Drink as saying that Captain John Smith made reference to a tamale-style dish in 1612 and that the term Tamale Pie first appeared in 1911. Perhaps this recipe is a distant cousin of the “hot tamale” which the Oxford Encyclopedia describes as a popular southern street snack of the late 19th and early 20th century, made with larded cornmeal. Mexican American women were said to make hot tamales in large quantities months before festivals such as Christmas. Heck, it’s the holiday season. That’s all the connection I need!

Certainly casseroles of this type continue to arouse appetites and inspire great interest. The December 2006 issue of Saveur has a lip-smacking feature on the history of casseroles which features a recipe for Tamale Pie (aptly described as an “American classic”) along with such chic suburban suppers as Tuna-Noodle Casserole and Chicken Divan. Joy of Cooking does its share of gushing on all aspects of savory pies, and extols the virtues of topping a mixture of meat and vegetables with a variety of crusts, including homemade biscuit dough.

Scanning the recipe, I can see its attributes immediately. The preparation takes no time, and many of the ingredients are at hand in the pantry. Browning ground beef and onion is the first step, so this is a job for the venerable Sunbeam Electric Frying Pan. No suburban cook should be without one. I brown the beef and onions and toss in black beans, corn, tomato sauce, chili powder and cumin. There’s very little fat, and the dish is packed with fiber. The topper is a thick paste of cornmeal, egg and milk. I stare into the oven and watch as the molten bean sauce creates fissures and eruptions across the rugged topography of the cornbread topping.

Finally, the moment of truth, and I dip a large spoon into the golden crust. The ragu of black beans and corn looks a ladle-full of colorful confetti and the cumin and chili powder does the rumba with the sunny yellow goodness of the cornbread. Who needs authentic Southwestern cuisine? I can get that any night in New York City. I may still have a long way to go before I get to Mexico, but Corn Bread Tamale pie spices up Sunday night supper with the flair of a fiesta! Maracas for everyone!

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Culinary Celebrity of the 19th Century

The small, battered, cornflower blue book sits atop a dusty pile in an antique store in Central Pennsylvania. It is the day after Thanksgiving and we are foraging for a “find” amidst vintage postcards, Depression glass, and a frightening tableau of stuffed squirrels dressed as baseball players.

Suddenly, there it is in my hand: Mrs. Rorer’s – My Best 250 Recipes.

I flip through the brittle, yellowed pages. The publisher is Arnold and Company of Philadelphia and the copyright date is 1907. This cookbook is ninety-nine years old.

But who is Mrs. Rorer? Copyright 1907 by Sarah Tyson Rorer. The name has a ring of authority and expertise, but I don’t recognize it. Anyone with their name on a cookbook must have some notoriety. Martha Stewart and Betty Crocker come to mind. And, anyone with 250 “best recipes” must have had some reputation to speak of. There are passing references to her lectures and articles. Yet, the name is a mystery to me.

The dealer sells me the book for a fair price and I spend some time exploring the recipes. There is everything a home cook could ask for: My Best Twenty Soups, My Best Twenty Ways of Cooking Meat, and even My Best Twenty Left-Overs. The advice is practical and to the point: “As a rule left-overs are extravagances; they show thoughtless buying; but to utilize them is the stronghold of every housewife.”

The pages of the cookbook are worn and stained, and the binding is slightly cracked. Inside the back cover, a list of ingredients is scribbled in pencil: bay leaves, cream, “cutsup,” walnut, mace, bread, apples and “magic yeast.” In another spot, a hand-written menu is scribbled: pork chops, sweet potatoes, cabbage fried, sliced tomatoes. What recipe or family dinner might these notes have represented?

Back home, I start my investigation in earnest, and very quickly uncover the history of Mrs. Sarah Rorer. Some refer to her as the first American dietitian. She was, in fact a culinary sensation of the late 19th century. If the Food Network had been around, Sarah Rorer would have been a celebrity chef with a prime time slot.

The story unfolds for me in the Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America. The parallels between Sarah Rorer, Julia Child and Martha Stewart are fascinating. Rorer was a bored suburban housewife who started attending lectures at the Woman’s Medical College in Pennsylvania in the late 1800s. Later she took up cooking classes and eventually became an instructor and regular lecturer. She studied nutrition texts and built her expertise and reputation as a teacher and in 1883 opened the Philadelphia Cooking School. Her husband was a bit of a slacker as a provider, but eventually came to work for her at the school, making Mrs. Rorer the breadwinner in the family.

Rorer’s lectures attracted audiences of thousands and in 1886 she published her recipes and advice in Mrs. Rorer’s Philadelphia Cook Book. She authored an advice column called Table Talk in a culinary magazine, and eventually became the “domestic science editor” for The Ladies Home Journal. She held live cooking demonstrations at food expositions and eventually authored more than fifty books, booklets and promotional pamphlets.

Maybe modern day foodies have forgotten her, but Sarah Rorer and her little book of Best 250 Recipes is a slice of culinary history that now has a place of honor on my cookbook shelf. She turned culinary expertise into a vocation and amassed a huge following. As a woman in the 19th century, she was a food pioneer, and uniquely American as well for the ingenuity she showed in reaching a mass audience. I suspect that most food bloggers have a little bit of Sarah Rorer's spirit in their genetic makeup.

Perhaps this weekend, I might just try Mrs. Rorer's Best Left-Overs recipe for Prune Souffle.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Tale of Two Puddings - Stir-Up Sunday

Twas the night before Stir-up Sunday, and all through the house, T.W. Barritt was learning how ill prepared he was to organize a successful plum pudding project …

I get home from New Orleans on Saturday night, anxious to get going on the plum pudding. I chop the raisins and start them simmering with the currants in two cups of water. It looks like an awful lot of fruit. The recipe calls for a large, 3-quart container. I eye the pudding mould. Then I decide to measure it. My fancy Christmas tin only holds 1 and ½ quarts. I start to scour the house for alternatives and find a second container to hold the overflow.

Meanwhile, the fruit continues to simmer. The technique seems to plump the raisins and currants, while concentrating their flavor. This produces dark, aromatic syrup that coats the raisins and currants.

Stir-up Sunday dawns, and Jill finds that the Canadian weather is adding to the seasonal mood. She writes:

It's snowing a bit here this morning, so it seems like a particularly good day for this project. Just heading out for my morning run, so I can get that out of the way before the stirring starts. I've invited a few friends for lunch to help stir the batter....but that means I have to feed them as well. Time to get moving. More later on the results.

I measure out all of the ingredients and the final step is to prepare the suet. Mom has done her part while I was gone, and the suet is waiting for me in the refrigerator. I learn from her later that the butcher didn’t even charge her. He simply wrapped up the suet and wished her “Merry Christmas!”

Last night, I cleaned and froze the suet. That makes it easy to mince the fat into tiny pieces and dredge them in flour. The suet is suspended through the mixture and as it steams, the fat melts and gives the pudding its cake-like texture.

Stir-up Sunday is all about making wishes, according to Jill. As the master of the house, I grant myself three wishes – one for the world, one for my family, and one for me. I stir the brown sugar and spices into the flour and suet and for the world, I wish for recovery for the city of New Orleans. I stir in the eggs, brandy and sherry and wish for good health and happiness for my family. I stir in the raisins, currants, dates and citron and wish for myself a challenging new recipe to learn in 2007.

The fruits are jewel-like and remind me of gold, frankincense and myrrh as I fold them into the batter. The creamy, coffee-colored batter is thick with fruit and smells like cinnamon, cloves, fruitcake, George Bailey, Clarence the Angel and Christmas at Fezziwig’s.

I fill the moulds, place my puddings in their steamers, send off an update to Jill, and start to make a few ornaments for the tree. I’ve got at least four or five hours ahead of me, tending the puddings. By early afternoon there’s still no word from Ottawa, probably because Jill is busy feeding lunch to an army of holiday helpers. Then an update arrives:

Mine's steaming as well. Smells great, and the batter tasted good! I had some tiny assistants to help stir and make wishes. I only have a half-hour left, which is great because I really need to get some Christmas shopping done today. Think I will go outside and string up the Christmas lights on my cedar tree while I'm waiting.

Jill’s butter-based plumb pudding is done before me (top photo). She writes:

Pudding looks good. House smells like Christmas. Photos to follow....

I return to the kitchen and sniff. I can’t smell anything. When I take off the pot cover, the dish towel that has been boiling at the base of the pot for several hours to anchor the mould actually makes it smell more like laundry day. There is a subtle scent of cloves, but maybe I’m too close to it.

Just before 8:00 p.m., word comes from Ottawa that the Grimwade Quick Cooker plum pudding with butter has been successfully completed. Jill provides a full recap of the Canadian version of Stir-up Sunday:

I’m up early for a morning run before the pudding assembly starts in earnest. With lightly falling snow and the sun shining through the clouds, it seems like a perfect day for pudding-making. The mixing begins at noon, with the help of my able young stirring assistants, Lucy and Thomas. Lucy won't reveal her wish, but all Thomas wants is for the cat to come out of hiding. Fortunately she obliges. But in all the excitement, I forget to make a wish! Oh well, there's always next year's pudding.

After mixing in a final dose of rum (and sampling a few tastes of the batter), the "Quick Cooker" is greased, filled, parchment paper put on top, and the lid tied on. I never did find any charms, but I think I'll slide a coin into the pudding before it's served on Christmas Day. The pudding goes into the steaming pot at about 12:30. There's a moment of panic about whether I'll be able to put the lid on the pot, but it just fits. In the meantime, I'm trying to serve lunch to some friends, so the preparations are a little hectic. No wonder I forgot to make a wish.

I check the pot every so often and top up the water. My recipe only requires about 3 hours of steaming, so at around 3:30 I decide it's time to take the Quick Cooker out of the steamer. I manage to avoid any major burns. After the pudding sits for five minutes, it's time to un-mould. The pudding slides out easily, stays in one piece, and I breathe a sigh of relief! The pudding looks and smells lovely. We'll know in 22 days how it tastes!

My recipe requires that the pudding be at room temperature before un-moulding and shortly before 9 p.m., I slide my pudding out of the mould (bottom photo). One tap and it drops onto the plate, fully intact and with a nice scallop design around the pudding. While Jill’s pudding is a beautiful amber color, mine is darker, like black coffee, and denser, and smells much like a traditional fruitcake. I worry about whether it has enough alcohol in it, but for now, I must think about returning to work on Monday and letting the plum pudding ferment in the refrigerator. Joy of Cooking says, “…the pudding will become softer, darker, and more flavorful with age.” Don’t we all?

Jill has the last word on our cross country plum pudding collaboration, until we ignite them as part of the Christmas celebration several weeks from now. She writes:

Hmmm. I wonder if pudding can be sent over the border?

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Technorati Tag: Christmas

Coffee and Hope in the French Market

Jazz musicians in New Orleans sing of optimism, but the road back for this city appears incredibly challenging.

The big storm passed more than a year ago, but the aftermath is still evident no matter where you look. Historic buildings are boarded up and the narrow streets of the French Quarter are eerily empty. The devastated 9th Ward is a war zone, a patchwork of leveled plots and hollowed-out shells of homes that were once inhabited by families. A solitary honey-colored feline, flee-bitten and desolate, huddles on the pavement in a catatonic state.

So much about the future of New Orleans is unknown.

Still, certain institutions persevere. Restaurants in the French quarter serve distinctive Cajun fare and Creole cooking to a city that is at far less than capacity. At Café Amelie on Royal Street, Chef Jerry Mixon’s doors are open. Mixon grew up in St. Bernhard, learned to cook from his mother and trained under Paul Prudhomme. Each day at this historic carriage house, he prepares rich, lively gumbo – dense with pulled chicken and andouille sausage – that simmers in the soup pot for six hours and builds to a spicy sensual crescendo.

And, at the French Market, hot coffee and chicory and crispy beignets are offered 24-hours-a day, seven days a week at Café Du Monde.

I’ve spent much of the week with colleagues at a business meeting in New Orleans. Several of us arrive around 10 o’clock on a weeknight evening at Café Du Monde for an after-dinner treat. We have walked along historic Jackson Square, past flickering gas lights and wrought iron balconies and cross Decatur, where the beams from car lights illuminate the November night.

Quaintly referred to as “the original French coffee stand,” Café Du Monde sits on a large triangular plot near the Mississippi River and was established in New Orleans in 1862. For perspective, that’s a year after the American Civil War began. The signature offering is a coffee and chicory blend, served black or “au lait” which means the coffee is mixed half and half with hot milk. Chicory was added to coffee as an extender by the French during the French civil war when beans were scarce. Acadians from Nova Scotia brought the drink to Louisiana when they settled there.

In the evening, both the small indoor café and the outdoor café are bustling with activity. The seating area is covered by a green-striped awning. We push together two tables, and order coffee and chicory and plates of beignets stacked high and covered with drifts of powdered sugar. Warm tropical breezes dip under the awning.

Simply put, a beignet is a pillow-shaped, deep fried doughnut. Beignets are often referred to as French-style doughnuts and were also brought to Louisiana by the Acadians. Recipes call for whole milk, shortening or lard, yeast and oil for deep frying. Beignets are rich, and well worth the caloric investment.

They say a visit to Café Du Monde is like no other culinary experience in the world. The resident food maven in our party extols the virtues of dunking beignets, and it is intriguing to watch the doughy cake absorb the caramel-colored brew. The powdered sugar sweetens the coffee and adds a touch of luxury to the silkiness of the hot milk. The Boss is a first-timer to New Orleans and Café Du Monde. He attacks his beignets with gusto. The powdered sugar flies, and he looks like he just stepped out of a driving snow storm.

Two day later, I return alone, early in the morning. It has turned uncharacteristically cold for Louisiana, wind-chill tears sting my face, and the palm trees strain against frigid gusts.

Inside the cafe, I take a table amidst tourists, faithful locals, and even a few vagrants there to keep warm. There are remnants of powdered sugar on the floor. French doors line the façade and in warmer weather would open out onto Decatur. There is an old-fashioned upright rectangular paper napkin dispenser on the gray melamine table. Historic black and white photos line the wall.

The server arrives with my order precariously propped on a massive tray crowded with coffee cups and beignets. She slides onto the table a battered pink plastic tray with the name “Kim” stamped on it, where I’m supposed to leave my payment. The bill is a whopping $3.50 for what many consider the best breakfast on the planet.

The beignets come in servings of three and are more dense, flavorful and crisper than a doughnut. I have sworn that I won’t eat them all, but quickly renege on my word. I pull a chunk of the golden beignet and splash it in the hot foamy drink. There are many complex flavors – earthy, sweet, yeasty, robust, light and smooth all at once. It is like a soothing milk shake with a kick. It gives me some fortification for the long day ahead as I head for my next meeting. Others are edging their way into the crowded café.

Where there is a good cup of coffee and tradition, there is hope, and perhaps a bit of restorative power.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Tale of Two Puddings - The Recipes

We are rapidly approaching Stir-up Sunday and the preparation of our Canadian and American plum puddings. Jill in Ottawa is still debating over the best recipe for her plum pudding, while I’m already committed to my selection in the Joy of Cooking. Give me a recipe in a best-seller and I’m good to go. Jill writes:

Decision-making not being my strong point, I'm torn between recipes from the “Canadian Living Christmas Cookbook,” “Julia Child's The Way to Cook” (both using butter), and something from Epicurious titled "Superb English Plum Pudding" It's a James Beard recipe from “House and Garden” in 1963. I'm leaning toward the latter, but it is fairly similar to the Joy of Cooking version. Of course, I also have a tree's worth of others that I printed from the Internet. On the BBC website, I found a little piece written about an early vegetarian version that didn't contain suet but included a pound of mashed potatoes, a pound of boiled carrots and two pounds of dried fruit. I'm not sure I'd want to try choking that down!

I give thumbs down to the boiled carrots as well, but you sure can’t beat Julia Child and James Beard. I like the contrast of Canadian butter versus American beef suet and suggest that Jill might go that route.

Meanwhile, I’m embarking on my own investigation of plum pudding – the history, the lore and the technique of steaming. The Oxford Companion to Food (Davidson) says that pudding “may be claimed as a British invention, and is certainly a characteristic dish of British cuisine.” It also extols the virtues of steamed suet puddings and says the high melting point gives suet puddings a lightness not attained with other fats. Tins and moulds came into use when pudding cloths became unwieldy for the homemaker. Sweet suet puddings reached the height of popularity in the Victorian era and there was even a pudding named for Prince Albert. I also locate the definitive reference in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol:

“In half a minute, Mrs. Cratchit entered – flushed, but smiling proudly – with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.”

Jill decides to go with the Canadian Living butter-based recipe in her classic "Quick-Cooker Bowl." With fruit soaking in an 80-proof hot tub and most ingredients in hand, we are nearly ready to begin our cross-country Christmas culinary collaboration.

Next: Stir Up Sunday

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

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