Comfort and Joy – Skillet Macaroni and Cheese

Well, I said I needed shortcuts this holiday season.   Who would have guessed that a pretty ingenious culinary hat trick would arrive at my doorstep in the form of an early Christmas present?  

My favorite high school English teacher, Mrs. Kast and I always exchange Christmas gifts, and this year her present to me was “The Cook’s Country Cookbook,” a collection of classic and heirloom recipes.  

Imagine the technical precision of America’s Test Kitchen, combined with the sheer joy of classic comfort food.   I was hooked with the table of contents. A recipe for Skillet Macaroni and Cheese instantly intrigued me.   (A version of the recipe can be found here.) Forget about pre-boiling macaroni, simmering a white sauce, or lengthy baking time.   The chefs at Cook’s Country figured out how to make a gooey, cheesy, comforting macaroni dish all in a single skillet in about 10 minutes.  

Dried macaroni shells are simmered in seasoned evaporated milk.   Once the shells cook and the sauce thickens, it’s enriched with handfuls of Monterey Jack and Cheddar cheese.  I used high fiber macaroni and threw in sautéed garlic and broccoli florets for an extra health boost. 

It’s a brilliant one skillet dish, with enough macaroni and stringy cheese to sooth any holiday bruises.    

Forget fancy shmancy.   I’ll take a serving of Skillet Macaroni and Cheese any day of the week.  With recipes like this, I have more time to focus on trying to keep my New Year's Resolutions! 

©2012 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Classic Covered Dish – Mary D’s Notoriously-Good Rice Pudding

I won this recipe in a blind, white wine tasting contest about ten years ago. It would have been a better story if it were a poker game, but what can you do? I’m not bad at wine tasting – better at red than white – but I had incentive to succeed. At stake was Mary D’s famous Rice Pudding Recipe, the most closely-guarded secret since Batman’s alter ego.

I’ve been friends with Mary D for more than a decade. She’s a classy, sassy blonde who teaches math to kids on Long Island (don’t mess with her), sings choral music and is an accomplished guitarist who does a kick-ass rendition of the theme from “Secret Agent Man” (among other more traditional works). She also has a wicked sense of humor. Some might call it notorious.

Mary’s Rice Pudding recipe is a classic – a signature dish and crowd pleaser that became a hotly-anticipated offering at pot lucks, holiday parties and buffets as we forged our way through life on Long Island in the mid-1990s.

There it was again at my brother’s annual Carols and Carousing party just after Christmas. Mary had brought her Rice Pudding – covered in foil – in one of those archetypal Pyrex oven-proof bowls. She’d thought of everything. Half of the pudding contained raisins, and half was plain, in case somebody at the party didn’t like raisins (try and figure out that technique!).

Some time later, I decide to give it a try and dig out the recipe, long-buried in my somewhat poorly organized “historic recipe” file. The directions are exactly what you’d expect from Mary – straight-talking and to the point. It’s not a simple recipe – and requires more than an hour of hands-on preparation.

When the pudding comes out of the oven, I dial up Mary.

“Are you ready for a rice pudding break?” I ask. “I made your recipe and I thought you might like to check it out.”

“Because I’m the Alexa Hente of rice pudding?” she asks.

“Actually, I’m a little nervous,” I admit. "You're the master."

“I’d hate to be you right now,” says Mary.

I show up on Mary’s porch that afternoon, covered dish in hand. She passes out bowls and she takes a taste. I hold my breath. Mary is not the type to gush with praise. She nods slowly and approvingly. It is good. That’s praise enough for me.

I ask her why the rice pudding became her signature dish.

“It’s traditional,” she says. “But, people don’t make pudding much anymore. I serve it warm, which is nice. It’s very comforting.”

She tells me she got a version of the recipe from a colleague some twenty-five years ago and “changed it up” a bit to make it her own.

“Most people bring Entenmann’s or Dunkin Donuts to a party,” she says. This takes time. It’s unique.”

For years, Mary has kept this recipe under lock and key, awarding it only to me after proving my nose for white wine. She’s now graciously agreed to share it with the readers of Culinary Types. And, you don’t even have to know the difference between a Pinot Grigio and a Sauvignon Blanc.

As the rice cooks, it takes on the characteristics of a creamy risotto. When the eggs are added, and the pudding is baked, it emerges from the oven a glowing, sunny-golden color. The raisins add a little attitude. Mary recommends serving slightly warm, or at room temperature.

I think you'll agree that it's a classic - just like Mary D.

Mary D’s Notoriously-Good Rice Pudding

2 cups water
1 cup rice
Dash salt
5 tablespoons butter
5 cups milk
3 eggs
¾ cup (plus a bit more) sugar
Vanilla to taste (about 2 teaspoons)
½ cup raisins (optional)

1. Boil the water. Add the butter, salt and rice. Continue boiling mixture for 7 minutes stirring often.

2. After the 7 minutes, stir mixture again making sure none is stuck to the bottom. Then add 5 cups of milk and turn flame on high for a few minutes to get things going. Keep stirring.

3. When the mixture heats up pretty well, turn heat way down and simmer covered for one hour, stirring often.

4. While that is simmering, combine eggs, sugar and vanilla and beat with a whisk until well blended. You’re gonna bake in this so you should be using a large oven-proof bowl or casserole.

5. The rice mixture is done when you’ve got a nice thick consistency. At that point, pour the rice mixture into the egg mixture stirring vigorously. When that is thoroughly mixed, add raisins and bake for 20-25 minutes at 350 degrees.

©2010 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Guy, a Pie and a Fistful of Corn Chips

Some folks spend years perfecting a signature dish. You might even say that the signature dish is a window into a home cook’s psyche. For example, there’s my pal Mary’s hot and sassy Penne a la Vodka, or the international panache of my buddy Rocky’s Paella. And, don’t get me started on Mad Me-Shell’s slow-simmered, “I can handle anything with the greatest of ease,” Pulled Pork with Bourbon Barbecue Sauce.

Then, there’s a certain dish and its creator whom I encountered on New Year’s Eve. Manhattanite David Shamoon – a regular reader of Culinary Types – is a chili kind of guy. But, not just any chili. David is a Frito Pie connoisseur.

For David, his signature dish reflects a quirky sense of tradition seasoned with a flair for adventure. I’ve tasted David’s fabulous, from-scratch Frito Pie before, but this time around, the crafty guy threw in a secret ingredient.

What?? You’ve never heard of Frito Pie? Well, David can wax eloquently on the dish that many believe to be the champion of casseroles. We meet up at the buffet table at an impossibly chic Soho New Year’s Eve pot luck party comparing the attributes of his covered dish and my famous Double Good Macaroni & Cheese, an equally stupendous suburban staple.

“I'm sure you, T.W., will do the research,” David tells me, “but my guess is that Frito Pie was invented in a dingy trailer park in Oklahoma by a blue haired woman, with surprisingly nimble hands, who smoked Old Gold 100s.”

Well, as David anticipated, I did my homework. While Frito Pie was not listed in Larousse Gastronomique, it is indeed featured in the Back of the Box Gourmet, and The Dallas Morning News had recently done an extensive profile on this Southwestern classic.

The year is 1932. The place is San Antonio in the midst of the great Depression and C.E. “Elmer” Doolin invents Fritos corn chips, one of the legendary snack products of our time. Elmer’s momma, Daisy Dean Doolin, takes the bright idea one step further, and decides to top off some of the chips with chili. Eureka!! Frito Pie is born. Some people say it’s the Southwest equivalent of the tuna noodle casserole. Now, here’s where a little Hatfield-McCoy action surfaces. The city of Santa Fe also claims that Frito Pie was invented there by a woman named Teresa Hernandez at the Woolworth’s lunch counter in the 1960s. It’s a romantic tale in its own right, but trust me, this is one culinary squabble you don’t want to get in the middle of.

(I must confess, here and now, that I once made Frito Pie. This was well before all my fancy-smancy French culinary training. I had to come up with something for a church pot luck in a pinch, but I didn’t quite follow David’s “from scratch” approach. I have a propensity for short cuts. Instead, this “future chef” warmed up two cans of Hormel Chili and topped them with a bag of Fritos. It was a big hit at the Parish Hall. After all, Long Island is the Casserole Corridor.)

So what is it about Frito Pie that caught David Shamoon’s eye?

“It’s kind of a bachelor thing,” he tells me, explaining that all single guys need one reliable, no-fail recipe. Sarah Jessica Parker had her cosmopolitans. David Shamoon has his Frito Pie and he’s been perfecting it for years.

“Chili is hard to bring over to a party, but when you serve it in a casserole, it’s magic,” he tells me. “The Frito curls on the top make people go wild. “The reptilian part of your brain says, “I gotta try me some of that.”

Recently married, Dave made a departure from his bachelor ways for a new – dare I say, haute cuisine? – version of Frito Pie, as we all stood on the verge of 2009. Apparently, innovation is in the eye of the beholder.

According to David, “My Frito Pie is even red-neckier than usual. The secret ingredient is venison. A week earlier I visited Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a town deep in Steeler country that is most famous for its floods. The area's economy was depressed by the decline of the steel industry, but somehow Johnstown had somehow managed to turn it's propensity to flood into something charming. The town has two flood museums. At a Christmas party there I met a really nice guy who gave me over ten pounds of venison. He was a truly generous guy. His wife showed me the two goats she received for Christmas on her digital camera.”

How did this new twist impact the proven formula? “Venison is very lean meat,” explains David. “I fixed that problem by making the chili with bacon. Once you make the chili, turning it into a pie is easy. All you do is get your casserole dish, lay down a layer of Fritos, glop on some chili, add cheese and top with Fritos. After about 20 minutes in the oven you have your Frito Pie. It's always a big hit. There's something about seeing those crispy Fritos on top and the melted cheese that makes people lay into it.”

Now, I don’t know if David wooed his bride Dawn Marie with his Frito Pie, but he was convinced that everyone who attended the New Year's pot luck in New York City was swooning over the dish. Says David, “Everyone at the SoHo loft apartment agreed, the Frito Pie was delicious. High praise from a tough crowd. There were some serious foodies there. Bill, a computer book publisher from San Francisco likes to pick up kosher pickles in the Lower East Side whenever he's in town. Doug and Nelson, the hosts of the party, consider Dean and Deluca their neighborhood market. But, the Frito Pie was undeniably delicious.”

I have to agree. The addition of venison was an audacious move, worthy of some of New York’s top chefs. The chili was rich and flavorful, not at all gamey, with the perfect balance of that bold, familiar seasoning. And, those Fritos just seem to melt into the perfect “pie crust” all on their own.

With such a radical experiment deemed a success, are there new culinary challenges for David Shamoon to tackle? “It's 2009 and I have a New Year's resolution to loose 10 pounds,” he says.

Here’s the recipe for Frito Pie that I once used so long ago. It’s definitely the “quick-cook” version, but if you’ve got a favorite “from-scratch” chili dish, and like David, you have an iconoclastic streak and want to satisfy a certain creative desire, feel free to go crazy. But, don’t forget those obligatory corn chips, and be sure to sprinkle a handful of feisty sunshine on top.

Frito Pie (from “The Back of the Box Gourmet” by Michael McLaughlin, 1991)

Three cups Fritos Corn Chips, divided
1 large onion, chopped
1 cup grated American cheese, divided (preferably pre-grated)
1 19-ounce can chili

Spread 2 cups Fritos in a baking dish. Arranged chopped onion and half of the cheese on top of the corn chips. Pour chili over onions and cheese. Top with remaining corn chips and cheese. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 15 to 20 minutes or until hot and bubbly. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

©2009 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Little Dose of Macaroni Healing

I got a little bruised this week. Nothing serious and it was probably my own fault. Sometimes the mouth and the brain just aren’t working together.

So as the weekend arrives and I’m searching for something more productive for the oral cavity to engage in, I stumble upon this curative recipe in The Gourmet Cookbook. It’s billed as “arguably the best mac and cheese on the planet.”

That sounds alarmingly like a controlled substance. Hey, I’m game. But, I don’t want to go on a bender or anything, so I parcel the recipe out into these fetching mini cast-iron casseroles.

The list of ingredients would give an internist the shakes – whole milk, cream, and about a pound of sharp cheddar cheese. Then there are the adventuresome flourishes, like red pepper flakes, a spoonful of Dijon mustard and a topping of crunchy, whole-wheat Panko bread crumbs. To hell with the diet. This isn’t about the body. We’re talking soul food, all the way.

Mary Poppins pushed "a spoonful of sugar" to help the medicine go down. I wonder if Mary ever tried macaroni and cheese? It’s a dose of miraculous healing, arriving piping hot to the table in a little fire-engine red package.

When Monday comes along, I’ll be ready.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Spring Forward: Lamb Stew with Dill, Sweet Peas and Root Vegetables

The following is a public service announcement from Culinary Types: Check the time. Did you set your clocks ahead one hour last night?

Here in the United States, we just marked the return of Daylight Savings Time. The “Spring Forward” event, which used to happen in … the Spring … has now been moved forward by an act of Congress so that we can lose an extra hour of sleep and enjoy an extra hour of daylight in the dead of Winter. Very useful.

About the only benefit I can see here, is that I can now place the blame for all my chronic time management and sleep deprivation issues squarely with the U.S. government.

Fortunately, for those of us pressed for time, struggling to adjust all of the digital clocks in our homes and still needing to get a meal on the table, there’s Lamb Stew with Dill, Sweet Peas and Root Vegetables.

Lamb was not a common dish growing up in “The Casserole Corridor” on suburban Long Island. It was costly and considered exotic. The only time we ever had it was during an occasional Sunday Dinner at Nana’s house in Laurelton. As multiple generations of brothers, sisters, spouses and cousins sat down at the table, Nana would announce, “I made lamb, because I know you never get it at home.” The traditional preparation was a roasted Leg of Lamb, served with iridescent green Mint Jelly that looked like it came straight from the dinner table of the Wizard of Oz.

We knew that Nana spent hours preparing those Sunday Dinners, something most of us rarely have the time to do these days. But, lately I’ve been dreaming of lamb, perhaps as a more delicious way to accelerate the arrival of Spring, beyond simply pushing the clocks forward on some arbitrary date. Mark Bittman’s “How to Cook Everything” offers many variations on Lamb Stew that require about as much effort as tossing several ingredients into a Dutch oven. Frankly, turning all the household clocks forward is taking more time than was needed to prepare this stew. Served with fresh pasta, the lamb is rich, succulent and earthy, the sauce is light – more like a broth – and the addition of sweet peas and fresh dill makes this one-pot dish a welcomed harbinger of Spring.



Lamb Stew with Dill, Sweet Peas and Root Vegetables

Adapted from “How to Cook Everything” by Mark Bittman

2 pounds boneless leg of lamb cut into cubes by the butcher
1 ½ cups sliced onions
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 to 3 cups liquid – I used one cup of Cabernet Sauvignon and two cups of beef stock
3 pounds of root vegetables cut into 1 inch chunks – I used two pounds of pre-cut baby carrots and one pound of small red potatoes, peeled and sliced
One large bunch of dill with stems
About one cup of frozen sweet peas

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the lamb cubes and onions in a Dutch oven, add one cup of red wine, one cup of beef stock and season with salt and pepper. Cover, bring to a boil and place in the pre-heated oven for 45 minutes.

Remove the leaves from the bunch of dill and tie the stems together with cotton cord. Add the carrots, potatoes and dill stems to the pot along with the remaining one cup of beef stock. Cover and return to the oven for about one hour.

When the lamb is tender, remove the dill stems from the stew. Chop the dill leaves fine and add to the stew, reserving about one tablespoon for garnish. Stir in the frozen peas. The hot stew will warm the peas. Add some freshly squeezed lemon juice and season with salt and pepper. Garnish with chopped dill and serve.

This recipe makes 4 to 6 servings and will put a spring in your step if Daylight Savings time has left you sleep deprived.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Double-Good Macaroni and Cheese

“Double” is always good, right?

Twice the quantity. Twice the value. Twice the payoff. Twice the results.

Double Play. Double Header. Double Feature. Double Scoop. Daily Double.

Double or Nothing. Double Entendre. Double Indemnity. Double Agent. Double Life. Double Cross.

Okay, maybe I should stop now.

But, consider a double helping of cheese? How can that be bad?

By special request, I present Double-Good Macaroni and Cheese, perhaps my favorite dish of all time. Mom probably clipped the recipe for Double-Good Macaroni and Cheese from a women’s magazine when I was in high school. For those of us who grew up on suburban Long Island, smack in the center of the Casserole Corridor, Double-Good Macaroni and Cheese was ambrosia and truly the food of the gods.

For my brothers and me, it was perhaps our most requested meal, and one that I often helped prepare in my formative years. Double-Good Macaroni and Cheese meant an unusual combination of two kinds of cheese. We loved the way the sharp golden cheddar cheese contrasted the firm, creamy white curds of cottage cheese, of all things. A touch of grated onion gave the dish some unexpected bite and sour cream added extra tang. In the days before low-carb diets were invented, it was like heaven multiplied by two. We were fascinated by the way our engineer Dad cut the toothsome casserole into geometrically-precise squares, much like a slice of lasagna. As I recall, he also sliced cartoon ice cream into neat rectangles, a habit acquired by having to dole out economically-equal portions for a family of six.

At a recent reunion of the entire family, Mom prepared Double-Good Macaroni and Cheese knowing quite well that it would fill our stomachs and feed our appetites for nostalgia. And, she made two pans-full! We all did a double-take!

For a pot luck dinner party a while back, I embellished the classic casserole with crunchy Panko breadcrumbs (top photo). When it comes to fine culinary techniques and comfort food, I am rumored to maintain a double identity.

Now, let’s look at the possible historic connections, because you know I love old stories, and you must know that Macaroni and Cheese is just brimming with history.

Many people don’t know that Thomas Jefferson, our gourmet president, introduced a macaroni machine to the United States in the late 18th century. This has led to the perception by many that the inventive Jefferson created the Macaroni and Cheese dish. While this fact is often debated among culinary scholars, there are a number of recipes for the dish attributed to Jefferson and thought to have been served at his hilltop Virginia home, Monticello.

The famous – and some might say infamous – Kraft Macaroni and Cheese Dinner was introduced by the food manufacturer in 1937. The deluxe version with the can of Velveeta cheese sauce included was a convenient one-pot dinner and considered fine dining during my university days.

We must also review the crucial historic impact of double-ness. Actress Patty Duke played identical cousins on American TV in the 1960s that were double-the-trouble, and suburban sorceress Samantha would often prepare a double martini for husband Darrin on “Bewitched” usually after her mother Endora had turned him into a mule. Let’s not forget Sam’s wacky twin cousin Serena. When they were together, people thought they were seeing double.

Not a lot of people can make references to macaroni and cheese, Thomas Jefferson, Patty Duke and “Bewitched” work together in the same context.

But, enough of all this double-talk. Don’t we get plenty of that all week? You want the recipe, right?

Double-Good Macaroni and Cheese

Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 45 minutes.
Makes 8 servings.

Ingredients
8 ounces uncooked elbow macaroni
1 container (1 pound) cream-style cottage cheese
¾ cup dairy sour cream
1 egg slightly beaten
1 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon pepper
2 teaspoons grated onion
1 package (8 ounces) sharp Cheddar Cheese, shredded

Cook macaroni following label directions. Drain.

Combine cottage cheese, sour cream, egg, salt, pepper, onion and cheddar cheese in a large bowl; mix lightly until blended; fold in macaroni.

Spoon into greased 9x9x2 baking dish.

Bake in moderate oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 45 minutes or until bubbly.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Roaring Twenties Slice of Chocolate Malted Milk Cake

The Old Foodie is the Bee’s Knees. She’s given me an earful about retro cakes and now she’s got me goofy over Chocolate Malted Milk Cake.

I don’t know from nothing about Chocolate Malted Milk Cake, so I get a wiggle on and see what I can learn.

The yarn is nifty. Malted milk is dreamed up in 1887 by William Horlick in Racine, Wisconsin. The Midwest brew of extract of wheat and malted barley is supposed to be a health food that helps digestion, but whip smart soda jerks mix it into milk shakes and invent the Chocolate Malted. “Burn one,” is the lingo to order a chocolate malted milk.

The Roaring 1920s blaze into town. The Charleston, Charlie Chaplin’s “Gold Rush” and malt shops are the rage, and Chocolate Malted Milk Cake is all dolled up in hometown bakeries in the U.S. of A.

I don’t want to beat my gums, so I get right to baking. The batter looks just keen and the creamed sugar and shortening, evaporated milk and malted milk powder fluffs into tawny copper peaks.

The pans go into the oven, the tangy scent of chocolate does the Fox-trot through the kitchen, and the finished layers are the berries.

The icing is just a bit ornery and doesn’t hit on all sixes. The malted milk powder doesn’t quite dissolve, but the evaporated milk and gelatin whips into a topping that’s hotsy – totsy and glossy.

Here comes the Chocolate Malted Milk Cake, as stacked as a contestant in the 1921 Miss America Pageant.

The taste? It’s the Cat’s Pajamas. The cake is light and airy and the velvety flavor is just like a rich chocolate milkshake, but without a paper straw. I feel like the Big Cheese. I’m as dapper as a sheik in a raccoon coat, as brave as fly boy Lucky Lindy and as audacious as Harry Houdini.

I’m kinda stuck on Chocolate Malted Milk Cake.

Now beat it.

Click here for more slang of the 1920s.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved.

Windy City Comfort.




My colleague, Splint McCullough is a mess.

We’re on assignment in the Chicago area and he’s looking a bit like the travel companion from hell. Splint’s allergies have invaded and are doing a shock and awe number on his head, leaving him a pitiful mass of sniffles and snorts. On top of that, he’s penniless. A moment of confusion back home means he’s without his wallet forcing us to rely on my fragile credit line to temporarily bankroll all our expenses.

We sit in snail-like traffic on route 90, pointed in the general direction of Chicago, but going nowhere.

“You’d hardly qualify for road warrior of the year,” I point out, somewhat unsympathetically.

“Just shoot me,” Splint moans.

“You need comfort,” I suggest, softening a little.

“Would that be Southern Comfort?” he asks, perking up.

“I’m talking about a square meal, the kind of comfort that only comes from Mom’s home cooking.”

“Brilliant idea, but my mother lives in Texas,” Splint snaps peevishly.

We finally arrive in the city, and Splint perks up a little, referring to points of interest like a double-decker tour bus guide.

“You’ll notice that traffic is not so bad here and the roads are much wider than what you would find in New York,” he points out. “That’s the benefit of having the city burn down and having to rebuild all the main roads. What was the name of that cow, by the way?”

Despite this surge of energy, Splint is still a bit surly. Our quest for the restorative powers of food lead Splint, me and a young colleague we’ll call “Babs Gordon” to the South Water Kitchen on N. Wabash Avenue. The restaurant’s slogan – “Reminiscent of a day when the kitchen table was the cornerstone of American cooking.”

We descend a steep and dramatic staircase worthy of Norma Desmond, to a cavernous sunken dining room that is about ten feet under sea level. There is warm brown paneling, copper highlights and charming sepia murals of old time Chicago on the walls. The decibel level is manageable, and accented by an occasional baby screeching. Oversized ceramic salt and pepper shakers are the size of bell clappers.

We settle into a booth and are given light and tangy cheese bread as a starter. Splint orders an Olympic-sized bowl of tomato soup, while I request the winter beet salad, and Babs gets the Caesar salad. Splint says his soup is so rich it tastes like a pasta sauce. My beets are swabbed with horseradish and buried under a mountain of peppery watercress. Babs is pleased with the generous shavings of parmesan that accent her salad.

The main courses arrive and Splint is beginning to seem like his old-self again. He dazzles us with stories of his culinary triumphs in the kitchen, from that ‘extra special something’ you can achieve by adding a dash of dried basil to scrambled eggs, to the time he accidentally added cumin to his oatmeal instead of cinnamon. (“I was sleepy,” he protests.)

Our entrees arrive and Splint revels in his Chicken and Handmade Buttermilk Dumplings with Peas and Carrots. “It looks like a pot pie that exploded,” he chuckles with glee. Indeed, the dumplings are the size of hockey pucks.

Babs orders fresh duck breast from Indiana with a bright orange peak of whipped sweet potatoes. I dig into a stack of roasted salmon and shitake mushrooms in a rich balsamic glaze balanced atop a cake-like slab of sweet cornbread. The flavor combination is satisfying and sublime evoking the ocean, the forest and the heartland. For a little over-the-top indulgence, I sample a side of creamy baked mac and cheese and the kitchen table symbolism is all but complete.

For dessert, the usually mild-mannered Babs opts for a chocolate banana martini, with a dramatic curl of banana garnishing the rim of the glass.


Splint acknowledges that he is now full of comfort, to the point where the buttermilk dumplings are weighing a bit heavy. Yet he still finds room for a serving of blueberry sorbet, because blueberries are a good source of antioxidants. Still there comes a point where all that comfort and healthy ingredients can overwhelm even the most seasoned of diners.

“I’m so stuffed, these antioxidants are killing me,” says Splint.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Herdsman's Chapel

It is numbingly cold in Helsinki -- the kind of cold where all your joints feel distressingly fragile. Yes, I do manage to get around -- one man, one carry-on suitcase, a suped-up laptop and a Ziploc bag full of toiletries. One day I can be eating homemade ice cream in suburban Long Island, and the next day I’m freezing my buns off in Nordic country. Fortunately for me, it is “Blini Season” in Finland.

The restaurant Kappeli is located in Helsinki on the Esplanade, a strip of park currently coated with a layer of ice that runs along a main avenue in the historic section of the city. The sun has long since disappeared, and my colleague and I brave the 10 minute walk from the hotel in subzero temperatures for a bite of supper.

Kappeli means “chapel” and the restaurant was built in the 1860s on the site of an outdoor market where a herdsman would sell cows milk in a little decorated stall that was referred to as a “chapel,” and the herdsman called a “pastor,” or shepherd.

Kappeli is an enchanting crystal pavilion on the edge of the park that glistens in the evening twilight. Neo-classic statues and scroll work adorn the outer peak. Inside, the restaurant is warm and inviting with the open appearance of a baroque sculpture garden. We are seated by a window that overlooks the icy park and handed a special blini menu that celebrates the long season of winter. Our waiter, Eero politely answers my numerous questions about the food, even retreating to the kitchen to check certain facts and provide me with as much detail as possible about the menu and ingredients.

We start with Burbot Soup, a dish I’ve not come across before. Eero tells us that burbot is a firm white fish, a “bottom feeder” like catfish that thrives in icy temperatures. It’s been an atypically warm winter in Helsinki (hard to believe), and the supply of burbot has been limited so we are lucky that the restaurant has gotten some in. The steaming soup is an elixir on this frigid night with chunks of smoky fish, potatoes and fresh dill in golden broth, with a touch of richness from butter. The intoxicating aroma of dill is apparent as the soup bowl is placed on the table. As an accompaniment, Eero passes a large basket of exquisite breads from Finland – tangy brown bread the color of molasses and soft, chewy rye dotted with caraway seeds.

Blinis are of Russian origin and are hearty, disk-shaped russet-colored pancakes made from three flours – wheat flour, rye flour and buckwheat flour. The batter is mixed with beer, rests for many hours and then is fried. At Kappeli, the fragrant six-inch pancake is brought straight from the stove to the table in a small cast iron skillet and served with condiments and perfectly-shaped quenelles of various savory toppings like sour cream, whitefish roe, mushroom salad, herring caviar, crayfish tartar, chopped onion and smoked reindeer tartar.

For dessert, I tackle a stack of thin tender caramelized blinis layered with cream and cloudberries, a thick, translucent, amber jam that is pucker tart. Body and soul fortified, we must then bundle up and head back into the frozen midwinter night.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Corner Ice Cream Parlor

I’m feeling a bit nostalgic for those neighborhood institutions and establishments that, one-by-one, seem to be slipping away. In most communities the family-owned, corner ice cream parlor is an anachronism, having long been replaced by drive-through or national chain restaurants.

The idea of an old fashioned ice cream parlor conjures up images of Archie Comics and “Happy Days.” Believe it or not, one actually still exists not far from my home. OK, maybe it’s not my corner, but Krisch’s Ice Cream is located on a corner in the slightly drowsy town of Massapequa, Long Island. The family-owned business has been operating on Long Island for 87 years, originally in Queen’s, before eventually migrating to Massapequa. They are famous for their homemade ice cream.

It’s been years since I’ve visited Krisch’s, so I locate their menu online which promises retro 50s style burgers, fries and many luscious flavors of ice cream. If that’s not tempting enough, there’s also meatloaf, milk shakes and cream pie. Meatloaf, ice cream and pie??? That’s the food of the gods in suburbia. It seems like a visit is in order.

I recruit Cousin Steve to join me. Cousin Steve is an edgy graphic illustrator and comic book artist who knows far more about four-color printing than four-star restaurants. I can confirm that he has an identical twin brother named Frank, which can cause some wacky mix-ups at family gatherings. What better person to take to a restaurant that may only really exist in the funny papers?

There is a full moon, and it’s a frigid night, a dubious time to sample homemade ice cream, but we’ve come too far to turn back. As we approach Krisch’s, I take note of the fact that there is outdoor seating available. “Let’s try that … next summer,” Cousin Steve shivers.

Inside, I see that Krisch’s has had a bit of a makeover since my last visit, in basic primary colors of red, turquoise and black, but the booths and swivel stools at the counter remain a staple. Most of the wait staff is about a third of my age. We are seated in a back corner in the “cheap seats” as there is a line for the cushier booths in the center of the restaurant. There’s a glass case filled with homemade chocolates, and some kind of Valentine’s Day decorative theme going on with lots of hearts, flowers and stuffed bears. I scan the main dining room for any sign of Betty and Veronica. “Are you hungry for Wonder Bread, yet?” Cousin Steve asks.

Cousin Steve checks out the authenticity of our booth, and holds up an old-fashioned glass sugar dispenser that sits with a bottle of Heinz on the gray Formica tabletop. “No Splenda here.”

The theme from “Hawaii Five-O” is playing in the background and we are handed oversized laminated menus to peruse the endless selection of entrees. Cousin Steve comments that the logo has recently been updated to the 1980s. I’m torn between the Corn Dog Platter and the Pizza Burger, but Cousin Steve seems fascinated by two karmic options: The Twin Burger or the Mt. Steven Burger Deluxe.

“Did you see that there’s also Mt. Steven Chicken on the menu?” I ask.

“What’d you call me?” retorts Cousin Steve. He’s a little put off by the fact that “Mt. Steven” is not spelled “Stephen” but when he learns that the deluxe burger entree comes with two burgers, he’s convinced. “Two burgers!” he cheers. “Biology is destiny.” I settle on the less ambitious Pizza Burger.

As an appetizer, we split an order of potato pancakes and applesauce, and I order Krisch’s famous milk shake. At the risk of seeming too Vanilla, I order … well, Vanilla. The drink arrives in a tall silver “frappe can.” The thick, chilled milkshake crawls up the straw and tastes sweet and silky-smooth.

On the wall is lots of Massapequa and malt shop memorabilia. There’s a poster of “Monkey Mountain,” a peculiar roadside tourist attraction that was part of the Massapequa Zoo in 1954, and there are signed photographs of Jerry Seinfeld and Alec Baldwin – Massapequa’s first sons of comedy and theater – hanging just over the cash register.

Our entrées are delivered and Cousin Steve is aghast at the sheer volume of his burger. “It’s got its own zip code. Even my mouth’s not that big!”

The Mt. Steven Burger is a double stack of beef sirloin, bacon and cheese (“real cheese, not that orange goo,” according to my cousin) that sits about eight-inches high once you’ve figured out how to cap it with the pile of shredded lettuce, pickle and Kaiser bun that sits to one side. Cousin Steve slaps the two parts together like cymbals, and clutches it tightly. “With the Mt. Steven Burger, you have to commit,” he explains. “Once you’ve got the two parts together, you can’t put it down.”

I try the same technique with my Pizza Burger, and a river of marinara sauce floods out of the other end of the bun. On the other side of the table, Cousin Steve is trying to conquer Mt. Steven. “It’s smirking at me,” he proclaims. “It’s daring me to finish it.” Finally, the man triumphs over the mountain, and the Mt. Steven Burger is no more.

But, Cousin Steve is in search of another conquest. He orders a Mini-Waffle Sundae with Cake Batter Ice Cream, real whipped cream and hot fudge, topped with a maraschino cherry. I regress back to childhood and order a huge scoop of Fluffer Nutter Ice Cream. The Cake Batter Ice Cream tastes like something Betty Crocker just popped out of the oven, “but colder,” as Cousin Steve points out, “despite the hot fudge.” The Fluffer Nutter Ice Cream is a super-soft and creamy blend of Marshmallow Fluff and Peanut Butter, although after several spoonfuls, I start to crave Welch’s Grape Jelly.

Cousin Steve’s dessert platter is close to squeaky clean. “There may be some volcanic activity in Mt. Steven Burger tonight,” he groans. As he is consuming the last bit of Cake Batter Ice Cream, an entire Pee-Wee Basketball Team enters for some post-game refreshments.

“Kids in shorts, hopped up on sugar, and a full moon?” asks Cousin Steve in horror.

We decide it is prudent to pay the bill and make a quick exit.

©2007 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

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 Rare Bit of Welsh Cookery:

It’s time for Sunday Supper at the end of a long holiday weekend. My inclination is to avoid heavy casseroles or roasts, and I land on page 112 of the “Joy of Cooking” where my eyes scan a familiar title – “Welsh Rarebit.”

“Is it Rarebit, or Rabbit?” I ask aloud.

It is perhaps one of the great culinary riddles of all time. And, Mrs. Rombaurer does little to illuminate the question. She simple puts her foot down, squarely on the kitchen floor, and tells us in the recipe notes, “It is called rarebit. Rabbit is something else.”

But I won’t be deterred. Maybe it is simply the difference between the vegetarian and meat version of the same dish? Before I eat, I must know.

There is quite a bit to learn about this hopping good dish which is basically melted cheese over toast. Alan Davidson's “The Oxford Companion to Food” says the term “rabbit” was found in print as early as 1725, with the term “welsh rarebit” appearing 60 years after. Davidson also notes that 18th century cookbook author Hannah Glass offered four different recipes in her 1747 book, The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, including Scotch-Rabbit, Welsh-Rabbit, and two for English-Rabbit which use ingredients like mustard and red wine. I also find some speculation that the name links back to some derogatory remarks about the Welsh people, which doesn’t seem right when you’re talking about good food.

While the accuracy of Wikipedia can at times be questionable, there’s a ripping good story about people getting nightmares from eating too much Welsh Rarebit and the logical connections are made to other relatives in the bread and cheese category including Croque Madame, Croque Monsieur and the good old American grilled cheese sandwich. Cook UK says that “Caws Pobi” is the name of the recipe in the Welsh language, which means “lightly cooked” or rare “small portion” or bit.

I find various debates over the types of cheese to use and aged cheddar seems to emerge as the clear favorite. Shredded cheddar cheese in plastic bags is viewed with considerable scorn, particularly where Welsh Rarebit is concerned.

Food historian Alice Ross provides some alternative views writing in the May 2000 edition of Journal of Antiques & Collectibles, and says that cheese and bread were staples in the English diet. Ross suggests that the dish migrated to American and took on many names and variations, but was eventually renamed “rarebit” in the late 1800s when the “chaffing dish” era arrived and a more upscale name was needed.

I know one thing. After several days of feasting I want something fast and this recipe will be ready to eat, quick like a bunny. I cut several slices of whole grain bread and toast it in the oven. I set up a double boiler and heat melted butter and McSorley’s Ale together. A deep, nutty aroma rises from the pot. I melt handfuls of aged cheddar in the broth and then quickly add a beaten egg, Worcestershire sauce, dried mustard, curry powder, paprika and red pepper. It all melts into a lovely golden orange concoction that pours over the toast like an afternoon sunset.

The aficionados are in agreement on one point – you must eat Welsh Rarebit hot. So I do. There are rich, savory flavors of ripened cheese, yeast, toasted whole grain and tangy ale. It is like fondue, but more rustic and elemental.

The Welsh Rarebit is gone faster than a magician might pull a rabbit out of a hat. And I make sure the bowl is licked clean.

Now, about those rumors of nightmares …

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Baked Indian Pudding:

This is a very old recipe that appears in many books and pamphlets. A version is even referenced in “American Cookery” by Amelia Simmons, which was the first American cookbook, published in 1796. I decided to bake this as one of my contributions to the family Thanksgiving meal because it is simple and uses lots of wonderful old-fashioned ingredients and flavors that would have been readily available to the early colonists.

The name may seem a bit outdated, but the reference in “American Cookery” mentions “Indian Meal” as an ingredient, so I suspect that was the term used for corn meal and it would certainly follow the various stories that say the Native Americans taught the colonists how to plant and cook with corn.

The corn meal used is actually just a thickener. The recipes include the unusual step of pouring a cup of milk over the pudding after it has baked for half an hour. The pudding bakes in a 300 degree oven for two hours total and the house fills with the aromas of delicate cinnamon, ginger and the robust malt of molasses.

You start by scalding three cups of milk in a saucepan. Combine four tablespoons of cornmeal with 1/3 cup of molasses and stir into the hot milk. Cook, stirring constantly with a whisk, until the mixture thickens and coats a spoon. Remove from the flame and whisk in a ½ cup sugar, 1 beaten egg, butter “the size of a walnut” (which for me was three tablespoons), ¼ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon ground ginger and ½ teaspoon cinnamon. Pour into a buttered casserole dish and bake for ½ hour at 300 degrees. Pour one cup of milk over the pudding and continue to bake for two more hours at the same temperature.

Most of the recipes recommend serving with heavy cream or ice cream!

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Thanksgiving Original:

Mom brings the steaming pot to the table. "I hope it will be alright," she says. "I've never tried this before. It's Venison Stew."

My Dad ladles an ample portion onto each of our plates. The stew emanates a rich, savory aroma and there are lovely chunks of meat surrounded by colorful vegetables in a thick, brown gravy. Just days before Thanksgiving, Mom's timing couldn't be better. Without realizing it, she's selected a "Thanksgiving Original" to serve us in advance of the national holiday.

There's only one written eye-witness account of the meal that we now call "The First Thanksgiving" that took place in Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1621. The summary tells us how little we actually know about the so-called Pilgrims, and challenges a number of widely held beliefs. Namely, that turkey was the main dish served at that first Thanksgiving.

According to a letter written by Plymouth colonist Edward Winslow, who describes a harvest celebration shared with the Native American Wampanoag People, "... for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and the others. And althought it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty."

No turkey, but venison, confirmed in this first-person account. Mom's hearty "Hunter Stew" is much like what they would have eaten as they gave thanks, nearly four hundred years ago. The meat is smooth and full of earthy flavor, mingled with carrots, celery, red bell pepper, red potatoes and spices. As we eat, we are transported to that moment when visitors to the New World gave thanks, and it tastes incredibly good.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Somewhere Beyond the Sea:

I am somewhat tentative as I approach Sunday Supper this evening. Over at “Baking and Books,” Ari is churning up delicious homemade coconut ice cream. On duty in her "Test Kitchen," Veronica is exploring the art of white truffles and risotto.

Me? I’m about to prepare “Fish Loaf” from page 106 of the 75th Anniversary Edition of “Joy of Cooking.” While my colleagues are investigating new culinary frontiers, I’m wallowing in comfort food. I’m hoping my reputation doesn’t suffer much. This recipe uses pouch tuna. Shocking!

With the hopes of salvaging my culinary self-respect, I set out in search of more information about a dish that probably has the most unimaginative, least appealing name ever created in the history of food.

Frankly, I’d never heard of Fish Loaf. We were all about Meat Loaf growing up in suburban Long Island, and rarely did anyone stray from the standard menu items or ingredients. Nobody wants to be a fish out of water in the suburbs.

So, I take a deep dive into the virtual world and make a few interesting discoveries. I find a recipe for Gefilte Fish Loaf, which is often made for Passover. It is low in fat and low in calories. There are numerous Salmon Loaf recipes attempting to swim upstream, and I learn that in the Italian town of San Remo on the Mediterranean, one can find a dish called “Pan Pesce.” Short of the fancy name, and a touch of European cache, the ingredients are almost identical to the recipe I have in hand. I even find a few versions of a Caribbean-style fish loaf. And, of course, one can’t miss the potential culinary connection to crab cakes, although most of us consider them to be far more upscale. No matter the culture or region of the world, all of the recipes I uncover involve flaked fish, chopped aromatic vegetables, egg, bread crumbs and seasonings.

Yet, I am just at the start of my journey to the bottom of the sea. I gather the ingredients and begin the preparation. The elements are simple: albacore tuna, bread crumbs, chopped celery and onion, egg, lemon juice, red pepper sauce and basil. I combine it all in a food processor, so the preparation couldn’t be easier. Then, I press it into a loaf pan. When all the ingredients are combined it smells suspiciously like a fresh tuna salad sandwich, and as it bakes and that salty smell of the sea fills the air, I am flashing back to the tuna casseroles of my youth.

So, is Fish Loaf seaworthy, you may ask? I whip up the recommended side of Horseradish Cream – which is foreshadowed in some of the Gefilte Fish recipes – and is basically whipped cream infused with sharp horseradish and tangy lemon juice. What could be better than that? I garnish the loaf with paper-thin lemon slices, dill, and a few shrimp because every chef must add his own creative flair. It’s starting to look like something that might be served at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade. The taste is comforting, but actually somewhat mild, bordering on the bland. The loaf doesn’t hold its shape for very long and rapidly dissolves into a kind of seafood hash. But, add a dollop of that Horseradish Cream and the tides shift. When that razor-sharp horseradish and sweet fluffy cream collides with the briny tuna, get ready for a tidal wave of flavor.

My suggestion is this. When they re-issue the 80th Anniversary Edition of the “Joy of Cooking” they should rename this dish “Neptune’s Fantasy.” It will get far more respect that way.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

In Search of Johnny Marzetti

It’s a culinary mystery worthy of Sue Grafton’s, Kinsey Milhone. Who was Johnny Marzetti?

There was absolutely no evidence that he’d been a great chef or even attended culinary school, yet Johnny has the distinction of the lead position in the old/new “Joy of Cooking’s” Brunch, Lunch, and Supper Dishes chapter – Johnny Marzetti Spaghetti Pie. Hardly gourmet fare, but certainly worthy of a Sunday Supper.

But, who was Johnny Marzetti?

I didn’t have much to go on – a name, a recipe and a town in the midwest. The author’s note in “Joy” says this pasta casserole was made famous at Marzetti’s restaurant in Columbus, Ohio.

I put my Internet browser on overdrive and managed to track down a few leads. The trail takes me to a clipping in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette which confirms that the casserole was create in the 1920’s by the owner of Marzetti’s and named for his brother Johnny.

There are other connections. Marzetti’s, located in downtown Columbus, was a hang-out for writer James Thurber and his newspaper cronies. It’s not clear when it was demolished, but by 1981, a reference in the New York Times indicates that Marzetti’s had given way to a fast-food store. I even surface a sepia postcard of Marzetti’s dining room, available for $5.00 on EBay. It looked like a respectable establishment with crisp white table cloths and comfortable chairs.

I push further. The name evokes fond memories from hungry baby boomers, mostly in middle-America, where folks recall eating “Marzetti” at lunch in the school cafeteria. Others deem it “quasi-Italian” but nobody really seems to mind. There are multiple versions of the recipe, including one made with turkey which was clearly designed to use up Thanksgiving leftovers. The Bob Evans restaurant appears to have offered Johnny Marzetti on the menu in the not-to-distant past, and I uncovered a gourmet shop that promotes their version of Marzetti as perfect for a tailgate picnic. There’s even a passing reference in “The Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America.” Beyond that, the man remains a bit of a question mark.

Now, it’s time to taste for myself – what is the culinary legacy of one Mr. Johnny Marzetti? I turn to page 95 of “Joy of Cooking” to begin the voyage. For added authenticity, I pull out my suburban Sunbeam Electric Frying Pan, circa 1979. It was standard issue for those of us who grew up in the “Casserole Corridor.”

The ingredients are simple. Ground beef, green pepper, spaghetti, cheddar cheese, and diced tomatoes. I toss in the “chef’s choice” suggestions offered by the original “Joy-rider" Irma S. Rombauer – sliced mushrooms and olives – but I throw in a few culinary twists of my own to add dimension – thick, tubular Perciatelli instead of spaghetti for added bite, Italian-style Panko breadcrumbs for a heartier crunch and black Kalamata olives for a briny snap.

As the ingredients hit the frying pan, I am transported back to the kitchen of my youth – the astringent freshness of the green pepper, the sharpness of the raw onion and the sizzle of the beef tickles my nose. It reminds me of the many spaghetti and meat dishes we used to dine on growing up in the 60s – but ours were usually clipped from Family Circle, and had names like Noodle Lasagna, Spaghetti Bravisimo or Spaghetti Amore. Great “handles,” no doubt, but lacking the obvious cachet of being named after the sibling of a colorful restaurateur from Ohio. While the truth about Johnny and his casserole-crazed brother may be lost to the annals of time, Johnny is just one of a long line of auspicious “celebrities” immortalized in the kitchen. Even the ubiquitous béchamel sauce was named for Louis de Bechamel, the Marquis de Nointel (1630-1703).

The meat sauce simmers, and I combine the cooked pasta with the cheddar cheese and bake for 30 minutes before removing from the oven. My first impression is that it’s a heck of a lot of food. No wonder the Ohio Public School System dubbed it the cafeteria dish of choice. Impression Number Two – it’s a lot of carbs. I’m going to have to do extra time on the stationary bicycle tomorrow morning. Impression Number Three – I should have invited a dozen people over to join me for dinner.

I pour a glass of Chianti because I think Johnny would have wanted it that way and take a taste. The meat sauce is rich and savory with the taste of garlic and simmered tomatoes. The cheddar cheese and bread crumbs give the pasta a crispy and nutty crust. It’s certainly not haute cuisine, but it’s pretty darn tasty. So much so, that I have three helpings.

Who was Johnny Marzetti? We may never know his complete back story, but I do know this. He liked food that sticks to your ribs and probably enjoyed cooking for a crowd. And, if Johnny’s up there in heaven enjoying a little grappa right now, he knows I ate well tonight.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Meatloaf Remastered:

It's autumn, there's a chill in the air and our thoughts immediately turn to comfort food.

Across Manhattan, meatloaf cominates menus. This somewhat stodgy mainstay of suburban cuisine - once glorified as trendy "comfort food" - has transcended the hype, with New York restaurateurs applying their deeply personal stamp to a dish that has become a durable urban classic.

Check out my "Culinary Types: Stories about Food and Food Enthusiasts" website for a tasty look at Meatloaf Remastered.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle You Got Nothing to Lose:

The name inspires a haughty smirk, a touch of smug food snobbery, yet this past week the media coverage may have exceeded that of John Kerry. Yes, the 1931 classic recipe “Shrimp Wiggle” is back, courtesy of the “Joy of Cooking” 75th anniversary edition.

The news left many staunch foodies scratching their heads. Shrimp Wiggle was a revered standard in the original “Joy” but was unceremoniously axed from the 1975 and 1997 editions. There were plenty of reviewers who seemed to feel it was better that way. I wondered why? So I headed for Google in search of answers.

The name intrigued me. It sounded like something out of Beatrix Potter. Such a moniker can’t help but inspire a smile and isn’t that what dinner is all about? What’s more fun than food that wiggles? It is, in fact, the ultimate pantry supper, with all ingredients freezer safe or shelf stable until you are ready to cook. And there’s nothing we suburban gourmands love more than convenience – we who were reared on Betty Crocker and Pillsbury Poppin’ Fresh Dough, and still show traces of Chef Boyardee in our blood.

I found a surprising number of recipes online and many varieties, some simple and others more elaborate. But they all centered on the idea of a few sea-worthy crustaceans doing the backstroke though a creamy pink lagoon of sherry, lemon and petite pois.

If that’s not enough, the venerable authors of “Joy” add the ultimate retro touch in presentation. The dish is served in “toast baskets,” crispy little containers described as “delicious and utterly charming” and whipped up by spreading white sandwich bread with butter, pressing each slice into a muffin cup and toasting in a 275 degree oven until golden. It is so faux-elegant, so suburban-stylish to transform white bread into something it’s not.

I just had to try it. So here I stand solemnly at the stove, the Sunday Supper tradition weighing heavily on my shoulders. Surprisingly, there are classic culinary techniques stirred into “Shrimp Wiggle.” The base of the sauce is a roux, and a standard reduction method concentrates the flavor. But, be sure to season generously, as roux-based sauces can be notoriously bland and those little wigglers do love the taste of the sea.

The result? Why, Neptune himself would salivate at the velvety-smooth, coral-pink sauce with sprightly shrimp and bright green peas bobbing throughout. The sherry lends a nutty taste, and there’s a slight tang from the lemon. The crisp, buttered toast adds an appealing crunch and nicely soaks up the delicious deep-sea sauce.

I’m a convert, and in true blogger fashion, I’m now planning to sample all of the additional 65 recipes in the “Brunch, Lunch, and Supper Dishes” chapter of “Joy of Cooking” for my Sunday Supper. I might even invite a few guests. My study should be completed in early 2008, but heck, there is Welsh Rarebit and Johnny Marzetti Spaghetti Pie in my future!

Welcome back, “Shrimp Wiggle.” It was worth the 75 year wait. (With thanks to Bob Dylan for today's title.)

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved