Christmas Pudding, Stirred-Up on Sunday

The time? Just a few days ago. The occasion? Stir-Up Sunday, the date on which households around the world, for eons upon eons, have prepared their holiday plum pudding.

What do you mean, you forgot to celebrate Stir-Up Sunday?

Until just one year ago, I too, was a plum pudding novice. That was until Jill from Ottawa and I initiated our cross-continental celebration of Stir Up Sunday and the traditional lighting of the Christmas Pudding.

For those of you who just joined us, Jill and I met while pounding veal into paper-thin cutlets at La Varenne cooking school in Burgundy in September 2006. Since she lives about 400 miles away, we will periodically cook together virtually, although on occasion, we have actually cooked together in person. See “The Tale of Two Puddings” for last year’s holiday culinary collaboration, “The American-Canadian Cooking Project” and “A Locally Grown Canadian Feast.”

Stir-Up Sunday is known in England as the Sunday before the first day of Advent, but it is also the day to prepare Christmas Pudding, a steamed dessert of dried fruit, spices, and butter or suet. Family members each get a chance to stir ingredients into the batter and tradition allows them to make a wish with each stir. The steaming technique gently cooks the fat in the batter, and allows the pudding to slowly expand over several hours.

Last year, we gave scrupulous attention to our Christmas Pudding project. We researched the history of this yuletide dessert, we investigated the benefits of ceramic and tin pudding molds, and we debated over just the right recipe. We checked in on each other’s progress by the hour, praised the virtues of hard sauce, and made a big fuss over the ceremonial flaming of the pudding.

This year, it’s been more like “Fa la la la la, la la la la!”

Jill was feeling under the weather last week, so she decided to go with last year’s recipe for the sake of expediency. I am a chronic experimenter, and wanted to try something new. Yet I am also starved for free time. I’m also not sure I want to go the beef suet route this year. Jill had used a recipe with butter which looked quite nice. So I dip into the classic “The Frugal Gourmet Celebrates Christmas” where I find a festive recipe for Steamed Date Pudding with Whiskey Sauce. Once the ingredients are combined and steaming in the pot, it is a mere two hours to completion. That gives me plenty of time to catch up on back-logged episodes of the Bionic Woman.

The Frugal Gourmet being, well, frugal, means that the recipe is a little low on alcohol. There is a whipped whiskey sauce that can accompany the dish, but I want my Christmas Pudding to be boozy, completely drenched in liquor. I locate a bottle of 80 proof Irish whiskey that has been aging (or perhaps neglected) in the cellar for nearly 20 years and go to work. I submerge the dates in whisky overnight, and I plan to soak the cheese cloth, that I will use to wrap the completed pudding before storing it for up to four weeks. With the really important ingredients accounted for, Sunday morning arrives and I realize that the recent Robert E. Lee Cake has completely depleted my cache of butter, so I must run out to the market at the last minute to pick up a fresh supply.

So much for making that list and checking it twice.

While at the grocery store, I suddenly experience a carnivorous craving and also purchase all the ingredients for a slow cooker dinner of polish sausage, apples and sauerkraut. At least I’m keeping consistent with the cooking techniques of the day, but clearly, the omission of beef suet from the pudding recipe has left me feeling deprived.

Meanwhile, up in Canada, Jill has invited several friends with their toddlers to help assemble the pudding and make wishes. Kitchen helpers! Why didn’t I think of that? In addition to assembling plum pudding, she is serving apple cider-cheddar soup for lunch, which frankly, I find incredibly ambitious. Her lunch guests have gotten into the holiday spirit and bring her a gift of a "spurtle" to use for stirring the pudding. I can’t quite decide if it looks like a culinary tool or a blunt instrument from an Agatha Christie mystery. Jill writes: “I'd never heard of or seen a spurtle before, but a little research informs me that it is a traditional Scottish tool for stirring porridge. I'm not sure that it's a traditional tool for stirring plum pudding, but it did the trick.”

I just use one of those space-age silicon spatulas. No sense of tradition, whatsoever.

Jill is matter-of-fact about her Christmas Pudding results: “It looks...well... just like last year's.”

Back in the States, I am deep into preparation. In addition to dates, the recipe contains butter, honey, lemon zest and chopped pecans. I toast the pecans for a special touch. The batter mixes up quickly with my KitchenAid, which I’m certain Mrs. Crachit never had access to in Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” I snap the lid of my tin mold shut, place it in the steamer, and position myself in front of the television for the next several hours. I don’t smell much in the way of spices, but the sauerkraut and beer is really tempting the old nostrils.

About 120 minutes later, I return to the steamer and the results are heavenly. The lofty pudding is a golden-honey color and it slips easily out of the mold. It has the subtle aroma of warm spices, conjuring up mental images of gingerbread and visions of sugar plums. I wrap the finished pudding in gauzy cheese cloth, drenched in Irish whiskey, and tuck it into the back of the refrigerator for a long winter’s nap.

It all takes about as long as an episode of Iron Chef. Which means I now have plenty of time to focus on the real joys of the holiday season – like online shopping! (I’m just kidding, Dad!)

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

General Robert E. Lee Cake from 1879

Annabelle stood beneath the portico of the manor house at Davenport Hall Plantation and surveyed the estate. The warm breeze off the James River ruffled her petticoats and the afternoon sunlight danced across the shimmering fields of cotton. The seemingly-endless view of low-lying shrubs were now unkempt and unruly but that iridescent silvery haze that magically embraced the surrounding countryside each day never failed to dazzle her.

Annabelle’s people were deeply rooted in this territory. The Davenport family had secured a land grant in 1650, and many generations had managed the Virginia estate, building a prosperous agricultural enterprise. She was the last of the Davenports and the guardian of their legacy.

She took a deep breath, turned and entered the main hall. She walked past the parlor and made her way to the kitchen. The wallpaper in the entry hall was peeling and the curtains in the parlor hung askew. The North wall was damaged by canon fire from the Union Army. The gilded mirror had become cloudy and there were hairline cracks in the glass. Upkeep was difficult, but Annabelle remained optimistic. Today was a special day. It was his birthday. She would be reunited once again with the handsome and gallant Major Grant Finchley.

Annabelle fondly pictured Major Finchley in her mind. He was tall, with a broad chest, powerful shoulders and glossy ebony hair. Standing six-foot-two, he cut an imposing figure in his pewter gray Confederate uniform. Major Finchley was an exemplary soldier. Indeed, he was commended for his bravery at the Battle of Beaver Dam Creek.

Caterina was in the pantry, putting the finishing touches on the birthday cake. At one time, hundreds of slaves had worked the Davenport Hall Plantation. Caterina was an enslaved African who had been freed when the Emancipation Proclamation was signed, but she’d stayed on at Davenport Hall. It was the only home she’d ever known, and she’d been Annabelle’s constant companion for years.

Annabelle inspected Caterina’s work. It was a grand, impressive cake – four layers tall, filled with a golden lemon-jelly filling and adorned with beautiful dollops of fluffy frosting. She could smell the delightful essence of orange and lemon. “How lovely, Caterina,” commended Annabelle. “Major Finchley will be so pleased.”

Annabelle glanced down on the work table. The hand-written receipt with directions for preparing the cake was in a diminutive penmanship. She’d gotten it from her mother who had died earlier that year. “A favorite of General Lee,” Mother Davenport had written at the bottom of the receipt.

This was the perfect cake to celebrate Grant’s return. Major Finchley worshiped General Lee, as had so many of her friends and neighbors. Annabelle recalled when General Lee had died in October of 1870. Thousands of mourners came out to witness the funeral procession.

The clock chimed in the entry hall. “It’s time, Caterina,” said Annabelle. “Major Finchley will be arriving momentarily.”

“Yes, Miss Annabelle.” Caterina carefully carried the cake to the parlor and Annabelle followed. She placed the cake at the center of the tea table. On the settee, a gray military uniform was neatly laid out next to an officer’s sword and a folded Confederate flag. Annabelle took a seat at the tea table and Caterina quietly backed out of the room.

Her grandson Billy had crept into the entry hall and was peering into the parlor, watching with curiousity.

“Why is Miss Annabelle sitting alone in the parlor?” Billy whispered.

“She’s waiting for Major Finchley. She does it every year on his birthday.”

“Major Finchley?”

Caterina nodded with some sadness. “He was an officer in the Confederate Army and he was her beau. He and Miss Annabelle were to be married, but he died a hero in 1862 at the Battle of Beaver Dam Creek.”

Billy’s eye’s widened. “Miss Annabelle is waiting for a ghost?"

"Perhaps,” replied Caterina. “But, I think Major Finchley is still very real to Miss Annabelle, even after all these years. We should leave her alone.” Caterina pulled Billy back and silently shut the parlor door.

The shadows of late afternoon had enveloped the parlor. Twilight was approaching. Annabelle cut two slices of the exquisite layer cake. She placed one golden slice at the place setting across the table, and one slice in front of her.

She took a ladylike taste of the cake, the crisp citrus flavors melting on her tongue. Major Finchley was still alive to her. She could feel Grant in the room again, strong, dashing and heroic. He would always be with her.

Life would change. Institutions would crumble. Some people would prosper, some would struggle, and some would die. But tradition and heroism would always survive.

Author’s Note: Several months back, The Old Foodie sent me some recipes and historical background on the Robert E. Lee Cake for our Retro Cakes project. This cake is representative of regional confections named after revered political and historic figures. Many cakes commemorated Northern and Southern heroes after the American Civil War (1861-1865). One can find recipes for a loaf cake served with butter or jam called the Lincoln Cake, which honored President Abraham Lincoln, a style of cookie called Davis Jumbles, named for Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate States, or General Gordon Cake, a cornstarch cake named for a controversial Confederate officer from Georgia.

The Robert E. Lee Cake – an orange and lemon layer cake – was traditionally believed to be a favorite of the Civil War general who led the confederate troops in the “War between the States,” although this is difficult to confirm. Most sources date the first written version of Robert E. Lee Cake to 1879 and General Lee died in 1870.

A reference in the book “The Robert E. Lee Family Cooking and Housekeeping Book” (1997) by Anne Carter Zimmer suggests that a recipe for citrus layer cake was well-known in the Lee family but never written down. She does include a recipe for a version called “Mrs. Lee’s Cake.” The early variations are complicated and time-consuming and produce very large cakes. The term "receipt" was used to describe recipes transcribed by hand and passed from mother to daughter, a practice that occurred well before the proliferation of cookbooks, cooking shows and food blogs available today. Subtle variations on a recipe would often occur between generations, and there are many versions of Robert E. Lee Cake. I used a recipe that evokes the flavors and style of the earliest versions, but employs more modern baking techniques. It is still a complex baking project requiring many techniques and lots of patience. This is a very sweet celebration cake, and the first bite of lemon curd filling packs a tart punch, much like the filling in lemon meringue pie.

The fictional story of Annabelle Davenport’s longing for the return of her lover, the war hero Grant Finchley, evokes the sensibilities behind the Robert E. Lee Cake -- that of deeply-rooted pride in the history and traditions of the Old South, despite the passage of time. Today, one can still visit a number of majestic plantations along the banks of the James River in Virginia, and be transported to another time and place.

I baked the Robert E. Lee Cake for the 50th birthday celebration of my brother Ken, a Civil War enthusiast who has long harbored an impish fascination with unsuspecting frosted layer cakes. I dedicate this post to Ken. Many thanks to Veronica, the proprietor of the blogosphere’s top Test Kitchen, for graciously providing the photos of the impressive statue that stands in Richmond, Virginia as a memorial to General Robert E. Lee.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Giving Thanks at Breakfast

I’ve never met Plymouth, Massachusetts native Marjorie Cronin. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. But for the past several years, Mrs. Cronin and I have shared a Thanksgiving morning tradition. We both make her Cranberry Cornbread for breakfast on Thanksgiving Day.

I first encountered Marjorie Cronin’s story in an article by Joan Nathan in the New York Times Food Section, published on November 19, 2003, called “Practically a Pilgrim, Celebrating the Old Way.”

The story describes how Marjorie Cronin, who was born in Plymouth (home of “The First Thanksgiving”), has been a Thanksgiving enthusiast her entire life. She and her family participated in the annual Plymouth community celebrations, and in recent years, she and her sisters spent days preparing pies and side dishes in the kitchen of her converted 18th century tavern house located in Kingston, Massachusetts.

Mrs. Cronin’s traditional Thanksgiving breakfast consists of Cranberry Cornbread. She picks the cranberries by hand at the local Bog Hollow Farm, and cuts each berry in half before folding them into the sweet, rich batter of stone ground corn meal. The slicing of each lipstick-red cranberry becomes a thoughtful, rhythmic, meditative action.

For me, Cranberry Cornbread is at the center of my quiet time on Thanksgiving morning. It’s a moment to watch the autumn leaves blow across the deck, drink coffee, listen to music, watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, count my blessings, and anticipate feasting with family in the afternoon.

Mrs. Cronin would be 79 this year, and I hope she’s celebrating with the same kind of joy and thanksgiving that she’s had for nearly eight decades. I’ll be thinking of her, as I slice my Cranberry Cornbread.

Happy Thanksgiving to All!

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Old-Time Maple Gingerbread in a Snap

My schedule becomes a nightmare around the holidays. Every year, I can see it coming like a turkey waddling across the barn yard. It may look like a clear shot to Thanksgiving, but suddenly my calendar is choked with out-of-town assignments. Last year, I dozed off three times during Thanksgiving dinner, having just arrived home from Europe the night before.

And, now as another festive season approaches, instead of spending time preparing in the kitchen, I’m on the security line at the airport.

I’ve learned to cope with the travel. I got rid of my lace-up shoes years ago, and I have a whole selection of microfiber clothing that crunches into any suitcase and comes out wrinkle-free. I listen to seasonal music on-the-go on my Ipod, and I dream up holiday menus while reclining in the emergency exit row.

It helps to have a selection of recipes at hand that are short on preparation and big on those traditional autumnal Thanksgiving flavors.

Quick breads are a welcomed addition to any road-warrior’s culinary portfolio, and easily prepared and frozen in advance of the holiday feast.

Old-Time Maple Gingerbread takes only minutes to prepare and can be squeezed in between a flight to the Windy City, a trek to Denver, or an Amtrak trip to our nation’s capital. It’s a great way to use the gallons of maple syrup I purchased in Vermont, and it’s a snappy alternative to the usual options of pumpkin or corn bread on the Thanksgiving table. The loaf emerges from the oven a lustrous amber-color and each sweet, tender slice has hints of ginger, toffee and caramel.

And, if you happen to see a guy trying to get a 20-pound turkey through the metal detector at LaGuardia Airport this holiday season, be sure and say “Hi!” It’s probably me.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Tackling Tagine

The Halloween-orange clay pot and cover -- shaped suspiciously like a pointed witches hat -- had been hoisting a guilt trip on me since last summer. Not to mention, collecting a thin layer of dust.

I’d purchased the tagine at Sur La Table in New York, when Veronica and I were browsing between classes at the Harold McGee Lecture Series. Immediately, I thought of John and Ramiza, my brother and sister-in-law who live in Morocco. Ramiza is an excellent cook and is particularly skilled at Middle Eastern, Indian and Moroccan dishes. She’s inspired me to venture outside my culinary box, and creating an authentic Moroccan dish would be a nice way to evoke their presence, even though they now live thousands of miles away.

That was July. Now, here we are approaching the end of the year and my little personal-sized tagine is feeling decidedly unloved.

Enter Lydia of the Perfect Pantry. Recently she wrote about a tagine she had designed with an artist friend, and offered a recipe for Chicken with Prunes and Almonds, a dish traditionally served at Ramadan. The list of ingredients set my mouth a-watering and I knew it was time to take the plunge and tackle tagine.

I choose a Sunday night for the big event, but quickly realize that I’ll need to plan ahead. The sticker on the glazed terra cotta tagine strongly recommends that it be submerged in water for 12 hours before its first use. Ah, well. Saturday night is “bath night,” after all.

On Sunday the tagine is removed from its long soaking and wiped dry with a dish towel. I spend the afternoon at a chamber music concert and return home confident that I’ll have dinner on the table in about an hour, according to the recipe. I halve the recipe, since my tagine is smaller, and quickly combine boneless chicken thighs, cinnamon, nutmeg, honey, almonds and prunes. I top the concoction with the witch’s hat and place it on the electric cook top set on low heat.

That’s when the paranoia sets in. Instead of kicking up my feet and enjoying a cocktail, I keep returning to the kitchen to make sure the clay pot doesn’t explode. I’ve never put a casserole directly on the cook top. However, the old adage, “a watched pot never boils” can be applied to the tagine -- “a watched tagine never explodes.” That’s fortunate.

However, it does start to sweat, and a hint of steam begins to rise.

Dutifully, I stir the mixture from time to time. I am somewhat concerned about regulating the heat on the stove, which I find is a chronic problem with electric ranges. In her directions, Lydia says “be patient” and the watery liquid will eventually become a thick, mahogany sauce. It is beginning to simmer, but I’ve already passed the one hour mark, and the chicken is still somewhat raw (note previous remarks about temperature regulation of electric ranges). It is at this point that I go for the cocktail.

We are now nearing the second hour of the great tagine test. The terra cotta has not exploded, and I hear some sizzling happening inside that supernatural witch’s hat. At this point, it is almost time for “Brothers and Sisters” and I would very likely be borderline cranky, if not for the cocktail, but I am determined to see this experiment through. I open the pot for one more stir and witness a transformation. Before my eyes are succulent tender chunks of chicken covered in a rich glossy sauce. The taste is sweet and savory, infused with honey, warm exotic spices and melt-in-your-mouth almonds.

I nearly squeal with delight. It is that good. The witch’s hat has performed its magic. John and Ramiza would be proud.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Cranberries Down Under

No, this is not a post about perky red fruit found below the Equator. But, for those of you who have a driving desire to turn Thanksgiving upside-down this year, this tempting cake is a fine option.

There have certainly been many attempts to turn our national day of Thanksgiving topsy-turvy. Sweet Potato Casserole with Mini Marshmallows, and Turducken immediately come to mind. Then, there are the annual "new-and-improved" turkey techniques we have to master for one meal out of the year, be it brining, or backyard grilling. Has anyone tried beer can turkey? (I'm not joking!)

In many respects, Thankgiving is really about culinary individualism. When my nephew Doug was just a young tike, he made the ultimate culinary statement on Thanksgiving Day when he skipped the turkey, gravy and stuffing and had a banana instead, because "it's the only thing I like here."

Cranberry Upside-Down Cake isn't about a radical reinvention of the holiday menu. It's a nice blend of elegance, tradition and suburban kitsch. Cranberries are high in Vitamin C, were cultivated by the Native Americans before the early settlers arrived, and were grown for commercial purposes beginning in the early 19th century in Cape Cod, Masssachusetts. The first American cookbook, American Cookery, written by Amelia Simmons in 1796 recommends that turkey be served with cranberries. More than a decade ago, during an autumn visit to Cape Cod, I was lucky enought to visit a cranberry bog during harvest season. The bog was flooded with water and looked like a crimson lake. Over the years, creative food marketers have come up with thousands of formulas for cranberry relish, and even a recipe for Mock Cherry Pie, made with cranberries.

The process is exactly the same as pineapple upside-down cake. Butter and spices coat the bottom of the cake pan, followed by a layer of fresh cranberries and a thick batter. Once baked and inverted, the glistening top is thick, jammy and studded with jewel-like ruby-colored fruit. You immediately note a tart scent of warm spices which evokes a memory of cinnamon "Red Hots." The recipe is simple, takes just under an hour to prepare and can be found here. Try it this Thanksgiving. It might inspire you to do a headstand in the kitchen. Just be careful not to hurt yourself.

I made Cranberry Upside-Down Cake for the farewell party for our intrepid associate, "Babs Gordon," who is leaving us and moving on to new adventures. For the past two-and-a-half years, Babs has graced us with her razor-sharp insight, keen intelligence and gracious humor. No doubt her new employer will be head-over-heals for her as well!

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Drop In & Decorate: Cookies for Donation

Cookies and love go hand-in-hand. I learned that from my grandmothers who would bake us luscious sand cookies pressed into fluted molds, rich holiday butter cookies and chewy oatmeal raisin cookies from a recipe invented by fitness expert Jack La Lanne. The action of preparing and bringing us the gift of cookies was an expression of love. I learned it from my mom, as well, who patiently taught me to make Peanut Butter Cookies and Chocolate Coconut Drops, from Betty Crocker’s New Boys and Girls Cook Book, that our family would share.

My friend, Lydia – one of the nicest people in the entire blogosphere and the proprietor of the Internet’s best-stocked pantry – also knows that love is the primary ingredient in homemade cookies. Lydia is once again leading a program she created five years ago called “Drop In & Decorate: Cookies for Donation.” She’s asked her blog friends to spread the word. The concept is simple, and a great way to share confections and love throughout the community: bake some cookies, invite family, friends or co-workers to help decorate and then donate the cookies to a local shelter, food pantry, lunch program or senior center.

It’s amazing the happiness that has been generated by some sugar, flour, icing and a little love. Last year, Lydia herself hosted 62 adults and teens who decorated 800 cookies for delivery to six shelters in Rhode Island. But even a single batch of cookies is sure to inspire an afternoon of fun and put a smile on the face of someone less fortunate. Would you give it a try? Lydia offers a well-stocked pantry of resources that can help you get started at her Ninecooks web site.

This year, King Arthur Flour is pitching in and has created a special kit to make it easy to host your own Drop In & Decorate party. If you order a Drop In & Decorate baking kit now through November 15, King Arthur Flour will include a free dough scraper with each order. Add the kit to your shopping cart. On the payment page, enter Promotion Code "Dropin" to the Promotion field and click the Update button. The page will refresh and the dough scraper will be added to your order. The offer is valid through November 15 only, but the kit is on sale until December 26, and would make a great holiday gift.

I love to visit Lydia’s Perfect Pantry and learn the real story behind my favorite ingredients. Lydia is one of my favorite "Culinary Types" and her pantry prose makes me smile every day. And, if you join her Drop In & Decorate party, you will surely spread smiles throughout the community this holiday season!

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The ABC of Casseroles (1954)

I discovered the slender orange-and-brown cookbook in an antique market in Vermont, tucked between stacks of Pyrex in primary colors and translucent green Jadite mixing bowls. The retro-culinary illustrations called out to me and the exuberant celebration of the classic casserole touched my suburban-born soul.

“The ABC of Casseroles” was published by the Peter Pauper Press, Mount Vernon, New York in 1954, and sold for one dollar, a bargain, as it promises “countless ideas for quick one-course dinners as well as imaginative and festive dishes that you will want to set before your most cherished guests.”

A curious preface, signed by an anonymous entity named “The Editor" takes a distinctly mid-fifties view of gender roles and culinary qualifications. "The Editor" writes: “None of the recipes is complicated, or too difficult for the inexperienced cook. We have had her particularly in mind in assembling these recipes, since it is she, and not her older and more experienced sister, who usually holds down a job, and cooks too.”

Given this seemingly parochial viewpoint, one can only imagine what “The Editor” would have thought of Rachael Ray or Emeril Lagasse.

According to “Square Meals” by Jane and Michael Stern (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. 1985), one-dish meals, or casseroles were the epitome of glamorous convenience in the 1950s. A casserole would usually contain meat, fish or poultry, and vegetable and starch all in one. Casseroles were a time-saver, as they could be prepared in advance and frozen, and were a technique for economizing, as less money would be spent on individual portions when all ingredients were combined in one dish. A colorful range of snappy serving dishes were available to the discerning host or hostess to artfully present the casserole on a buffet table.

“The ABC of Casseroles” appears to be designed for a new bride and revels in its June Cleaver-ness. “The Editor” tells us: “Many of the dishes can be prepared the day before, and baked at the last minute. And many are quickies that can be both prepared and cooked in an hour’s time…A casserole, a tossed green salad, and steaming coffe make an elegant and sophisticated dinner. Add a fancy dessert and you have a feast!”

Each section is adorned with chocolate-brown calligraphy for each letter of the alphabet, and a poetically-inclined copywriter crafted priceless rhymes like, “Brides can’t be bothered to cook all day long so they whip up a casserole and sing a fine song.”

One wonders if “The Editor” managed to kitchen test or time out any of the recipes. No less than six recipes contain oysters (Jenny’s Oysters and Macaroni could cause an international culinary incident), but offer no instruction on how to clean, shuck or prepare the bivalves prior to mixing them into a casserole dish. Then, there’s that mysterious “White Sauce” that keeps showing up page after page. It’s hardly a timesaver, and there are no instructions on how to whip up a successful batch, nor how much time it will take (I suspect “The Editor” might never have set foot in a working kitchen.).

Most of the recipes hearken back to a nostalgic and comforting, pre-packaged and perhaps less healthful culinary era (Noodles and Salami???!!). But, if you’re feeling in a retro 1950s mood, put on that Perry Cuomo LP, and try your hand at this elegant entrée from “The ABC of Casseroles." It can be found under “C” and be advised you’ll have to come up with 1 ½ cups of white sauce, as the recipe appears to start already in progress. The walnuts are obviously added for protein, color and texture. Obviously.

Crab Casserole

½ cup Parmesan cheese, grated
3 tablespoons sherry
Salt, pepper
1 ½ cups white sauce
2 cups crabmeat
6 hard-boiled eggs, sliced
½ pound mushrooms, sauted
¾ cup walnut meats, halved

Add grated cheese, sherry, salt and pepper to white sauce and simmer gently. Butter baking dish, arranging crabmeat, eggs, mushrooms and walnuts in alternate layers. Cover with sauce and top with bread crumbs and grated cheese. Bake at 350 degrees F for about 1 hour. Serves 6.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Pumpkin-Free Zone

A little while back, while driving on the South Fork of Long Island, I got stuck in a major traffic snarl just west of “Pumpkintown.”

Yes, there is indeed such a supernatural place in Water Mill, Long Island, and literally thousands of people had decided to explore it on that fine autumn day. The massive pumpkins were outer-worldly. One man was seen wheeling a 50-pound orange orb in a baby carriage. The baby was nowhere in sight.

Once I got over my traffic stress, I had to wonder why the pumpkin gets so much attention. Sure, there’s the Cinderella story, and a pumpkin was required gear for the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. But there are plenty of other deserving squash that exist on this planet, even if they don’t have a small Long Island community named after them.

Now, this might be heresy given the fact that Halloween is nearly upon us, but it was then and there that I decided I wasn’t going to be swayed by public pressure and allow a plump self-satisfied garish orange squash to hijack my autumnal celebrations. I would stand up for under-represented squash everywhere. Take acorn squash, for example. It may not be as famous as the pumpkin, but it is more surprising, with a dark green skin concealing a saucy golden flesh. It’s got plenty of fiber and potassium, and the acorn is a symbol of independence, so it’s quite appropriate to become the focal point of my pumpkin-free campaign.

If you’d like to join me in solidarity to support squash that deserve a fair shake, why not bake this delicious Acorn Squash with Wild Mushroom Cranberry Stuffing? I clipped this vegetarian recipe from Bon Appetit in 1995 and have been making it every autumn since. It can be easily doubled, or provide a hearty meatless dinner for two. The sweet yellow flesh plays nicely with the earthy wild mushrooms and sage, and the cranberries offer a nice burst of tangy sweetness. Every bite says “autumn harvest.”

Acorn Squash – Anonymous No More!!!

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Got Syrup?

It is clear – even months before the annual sugaring season in February and March – that maple syrup pulses through the veins of Vermonters. It is the life blood of the state, blanketing every hill and valley with a glossy coating of sweet amber sap, even when the sugarhouses have gone dark and the steam has dissipated.

In October, the maple leaves turn an incendiary crimson red and the maple lover can find sugary maple leaf candies, maple dessert wine, maple ice cream, maple-flavored mustard, maple pumpkin butter, maple fudge, and shelf-upon-shelf of bottles and rectangular tin jugs of traditional maple syrup labeled Grade A Fancy, Medium Amber, and Dark Amber. Fancy is the color of golden honey, Medium Amber resembles a wheat-colored pilsner and Dark Amber is the color of English stout.

In Vermont, maple syrup is magic. Native American’s called the sugar maple “Sweet Bud.” For the true enthusiast, a single word on a license plate declares a life-long devotion.

Nearly every farm seems to have a sugarhouse out back. We spot shiny tanks and miles of tubing in the woods, a sign of the annual sugaring season.

It will be several months before maple sugar production begins, but the family is on duty at Sprague and Son Sugarhouse on Route 100 in Jacksonville, Vermont, even during the fall foliage season. Sprague and Son is a sturdy wooden structure, trimmed in honey-colored wood panels, with shiny chimney pipes emerging from the roof. Cords of firewood are neatly stacked out back.

Karen Sprague greets us as we enter the sugarhouse. The day is warm, her hair is pulled back and she wears a sleeveless top. She is full of energy and bursting with information about the production of maple syrup.

“I married into the business,” she explains. The Sprague family has been collecting maple syrup in Vermont for six generations, and practices traditional methods of producing maple syrup. On the average, the Sprague family produces about one quart of syrup per tree each season, working from about 4,800 maple trees. Karen explains that the product of each sugarhouse is distinct and original.

“There are no two batches of syrup that taste the same, and no two sugarhouses that taste the same. We are all completely different.”

It was a commitment to sharing their craft with the public that inspired the Sprague family to build their sugarhouse on a main road. They liked the idea of inviting the public in, but the first weekend they were so busy with visitors, it proved a distraction.

“We actually scorched the pans,” laughs Karen.

Small glass vials filled with syrup line the window sill, showing the variation in color from the previous year’s batch. In the center of the room is a long metal pan, which sits atop a rectangular enclosed wood burning stove. The sap is stored by tanks at the side of the road, piped into this evaporator and then heated until it reaches the critical temperature that turns the mixture to syrup. The evaporator can hold up to 1,000 gallons of sap.

I learn that there is an instinctive feel to producing quality maple syrup. “My husband and father-in-law can determine when it’s syrup just by looking at it,” explains Karen.

I ask how she would describe the flavor of their syrup, and she gives her answer some thought. “Woody, because we burn with wood, so it does pick up a natural woody flavor.”

The finished product is stored hot in metal drums and eventually packaged in smaller batches.

Karen takes some syrup that has been heating in a metal box with a spout and pours it into Dixie cups for us to sample. We sip the silky liquid. It is a wild toboggan ride – clean, molten flavors of caramel, toasted nuts, sweet smoke and honey. We purchase several jugs of Vermont Grade A Medium Amber. The containers are still warm in our hands as the batch has just been bottled hours earlier.

I ask Karen about her favorite methods for using maple syrup in the kitchen. “I’m a vegetarian,” she replies. “I steam most of my vegetables and sprinkle them with maple sugar or syrup.” She drizzles sweet potatoes with maple syrup before baking, and her son is an advocate for using maple syrup as a glaze for pork or veal.

“You could get rid of every sweetener in your house for cooking or baking and use maple syrup,” Karen explains.

One gets a sense of the sheer excitement the Spragues experience each season as they produce a completely natural food product. “It’s the most amazing thing to take something from the tree that looks like water and see that liquid turn to syrup,” says Karen with a broad smile.

During the sugaring season, results are dependent on nature and what the trees offer. The Spragues have worked as briefly as four hours, or as long as 72 continuous hours done in shifts. The maple trees set the schedule.

“When the sap flows, you boil,” Karen smiles.

What better way to make use of my supply of Pure Vermont Maple Syrup from Sprague and Son than by mixing up a batch of hearty muffins for autumn, bursting with the flavors of New England?

Cranberry Maple Walnut Muffins

(Adapted from "The Official Vermont Maple Cookbook, Third Edition, Published by the Vermont Maple Foundation)

2 cups sifted flour
¼ cup butter
¼ cup sugar
3 tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
½ cup chopped fresh cranberries
½ cup chopped walnuts, toasted and cooled
1 egg
½ cup milk
½ cup Vermont maple syrup

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Combine flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a large bowl. Cut butter into small cubes and cut in with your fingers until blended well. Add cranberries and walnuts. Beat together egg, milk and maple syrup and fold into dry ingredients until just blended. Fill paper-lined muffin tins 2/3 full and bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Yield: 12 muffins.

Click here for more information on the history of Vermont’s maple sugaring industry. Click here for more recipes using Vermont maple syrup.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Vermont Gold

The town of Grafton, Vermont has been called one of the ten most picturesque spots in America. During the autumn foliage season, the views along the historic Main Street are burnished gold. Grafton is a quintessential New England village, the type that only seems to exist in a Currier & Ives print. There is a pointed white church steeple, a country store, a history museum and the Old Tavern Inn, which was built in 1801 and where charming wicker rockers are artfully placed along a rambling front porch.

Another kind of gold can be found in the nearby pastures – “Grafton Gold,” the three-year-old, extra-aged cheddar of the Grafton Village Cheese Company.

Grafton, Vermont is dedicated to tradition, and a simpler way of life, and cheese making is part of that tradition. The Grafton Cheese Cooperative was established in 1892 so that local dairy farmers could turn surplus milk into cheese. The cooperative was destroyed by fire in 1912, but re-opened by the not-for-profit Windham Foundation in 1964. There is much to learn here about the techniques employed to create world-class cheddar.

We enter the immaculate white clapboard structure, just outside the village, where cheese making has been underway since dawn. While parts of the process have been updated, Grafton Village Cheese still uses methods that originated in the 1800s. Long rectangular stainless steel vats are filled with pale, spongy slabs of bonded curds. Two men in crisp white uniforms will turn the slabs by hand. This process is called “cheddaring.” One man moves down along the vat and feeds each slab into a milling machine that shreds it into dozens of squiggly fingers that tumble into the vat. Another man tosses fists full of salt onto the shreds and a large automatic mixer crawls through the curds, turning the mixture over numerous times. Eventually, the other man takes the curds by the handful and packs them into 60-pound size metal boxes, pressing the mixture in carefully and closing the lid. The boxes will be placed under pressure for 14 to 16 hours to squeeze out as much moisture as possible.

In the tasting room and retail shop, Wendy Brewer, the marketing director, willingly answers my barrage of questions while I indulge in a progressive sampling of classic cheddar aged one, two, three and four years. The longer the cheese ages, the sharper it becomes and I tremble with pleasure as a chunk of four-year-old cheddar explodes in my mouth. It is vividly tangy, buttery and nutty all at once.

Wendy explains that the cheese making technique for cheddar is designed to squeeze out as much moisture as possible. This will deliver the dense, crumbly cheddar texture. Grafton maintains high standards for the milk used, which is locally sourced from Jersey cows on 38 farms.

“We’re doing our part for family farms,” says Wendy. She explains that Jersey cows produce premium milk with high protein and high butterfat, ideal for “Grafton Gold” and the company’s wide selection of award-winning cheddars. Demand for Grafton cheddar continues to increase nationwide and the company plans to open a second production facility in Brattleboro, Vermont. Clearly, I am the ideal customer for Grafton. I like modern and I like classic, so I purchase 1-year, 2-year, 3-year and 4-year cheddar. 2003 was a very good year, after all. I also pick up a recipe for Grafton Cheddar Cheese Soup, one of their collection of signature cheese dishes.

Later, in the emerald pastures behind Grafton Village Cheese Company, we strike up a friendship with a couple of “Grafton Girls” – a pair of fetching, honey-brown Jersey cows ready and willing to do their part for “Grafton Gold.”

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Apple Pie in a Bottle

The afternoon sunlight filters through the trees, and we hear the sound of water softly trickling under the footbridge as we make our way across. Just up the road, in the town center of Jacksonville, Vermont, we have passed a community pie sale that is drawing some attention.

This is apple orchard country, producing a yield that is good for pies and much more. The Vermont climate is too dramatic to cultivate grape vines, so the local wines are made from the fruit of the land. Everywhere we have walked, we have encountered gnarled and twisted apple trees, branches bending and studded with globes of red fruit.

We cross the North River, and enter the tasting room of the North River Winery, a tidy white structure attached to a red barn that dates to the 1850s and houses the winery.

I am somewhat ambivalent about fruit wines. In a side-by-side taste test, I’m likely to pick the Bordeaux every time. But, the homegrown quality and resourcefulness behind North River wines has intrigued me. Comparisons may be misguided. Apple wine is, in fact, a different product that harkens back to a day when thrifty homesteaders would ferment almost anything -- barley, rye, corn or potatoes. Even Martha Washington’s personal recipe collection includes directions for fermenting wines made with cherries, currants, lemons, gooseberries, blackberries and elderberries.

We step up to the tasting bar, and are greeted by an earnest young man who hands us each a list of wines. The North River Winery was started in 1985, and most of the apples used in the wine come from the nearby Dwight Miller Orchards, a certified Vermont state organic orchard. We start with a taste of Vermont Pear which is labeled “semi-dry” but is sweet and thick like nectar. Green Mountain Apple is more to my liking – its crisp, tart flavors reminiscent of a Sauvignon Blanc. The signature Rhubarb wine is perhaps an acquired taste, and while it might actually defy description, tart and earthy are two words that immediately jump to mind. Cranberry Apple tastes tart like a Thanksgiving relish and Blueberry Apple would make a nice topping for vanilla ice cream.

Finally, we sip Vermont Harvest, a blend of apples, cinnamon and Vermont maple syrup. Our host calls it “apple pie in a bottle” and it does conjure up flavors of the sweet finale to a fine autumn dinner.

The old saying, “an apple a day, keeps the doctor away,” actually has its roots in medieval times. Green Mountain Apple and Vermont Harvest could be an interesting way to get more of the health benefits of apples into my diet, so I purchase a bottle of each. It’s not as crunchy as the real thing, but I can use my imagination.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Chocolate Barn

In rural Shaftsbury, Vermont, cars from New York, Pennsylvania and Vermont are lined up outside an 1842 sheep barn for their afternoon chocolate fix.

The barn sits on the edge of Historic Route 7A. Shaftsbury was established in 1761 with its first settlers from Rhode Island. Shaftsbury was sometimes referred to as “Little Rhode Island.”

There is no clever, creative way to describe the exterior of the barn. It is painted a rich chocolate-brown, it is called “The Chocolate Barn,” and inside the barn you will find row-after-row of exquisite hand-dipped chocolates.

We climb the steps past an antique sleigh and enter. The Chocolate Barn was opened in 1976 by Lucinda Gregory, a collector of antique tin chocolate molds. The collection now numbers more than 800 pieces from Holland, Belgium, German and France.

The chocolate kitchen is to the left as we enter. Two young women work the window and behind them is a battalion of pewter-colored molds – Easter Rabbits, Father Christmases, Storks, Jack-O-Lanterns and Thanksgiving Turkeys are neatly lined along three long, narrow shelves. The effect is as though whimsical characters from Peter Rabbit, The Night Before Christmas and Dr. Doolittle have cued up for a military inspection.

The Chocolate Barn produces more than 65 varieties of chocolates as well as a celebrated recipe for fudge. We take some time to inspect the selection of chocolates, and the stock of rare chocolate molds, some of which cost upwards of 100 dollars. Some are flat molds used for crafting chocolate candies on a stick. Others open on a hinge and clamp together to create a three-dimensional chocolate original.

The section of hand-dipped chocolates and truffles would make Willy Wonka wilt. They are displayed behind glass, and – like the proverbial kid in a candy shop – we run our eyes along the line of perfect, pillow-shaped candies each topped with a squiggly chocolate swirl. There are Strawberry and Vanilla Creams, Coconut Bon Bons, Raspberry Jellies, Cordial Cherries, Peanut Butter Meltaways and Nougatines. In honor of Vermont’s state tree, we indulge in a handful of Maple Cream Chocolates that are delectably smooth with just a hint of buttery mountain sweetness.

Back in the car, I inspect my crisp white bag of treats and take note of the canary-yellow form tucked into the sack. There’s no website – just a charmingly old-fashioned mail-order approach to satisfying a sweet tooth.

The Chocolate Barn is at 5055 Historic Route 7A, Shaftsbury, Vermont, 05262. Phone – 802-375-6928.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved.

Oh My Gouda!

If you travel west on Route 11 -- just past the town center of Londonderry, Vermont -- a battered green farm truck is tucked into the pasture that creeps up to the southern side of the road. Atop the truck cabin roof is a sign, hand painted in red block letters with an arrow that reads “Vermont Cheeses.”

We turn right and climb the dirt road to Taylor Farm. At the top of a small hill is a rustic, fire-engine red cheese house and shop. On the hill beyond, we can see the shiny apparatus of a working dairy. A woman with a kind smile, wearing layers of flannel, strolls down the hill to greet us and takes us into the shop.

The woman is Mimi Wright, sister to Taylor Farm’s cheese master, Jon Wright. Taylor Farms produces award-winning Gouda cheese from raw cows’ milk, totaling 70,000 pounds annually.

“Why, Gouda cheese?” I ask Mimi as she invites us to sample cubes of traditional Gouda and maple smoked Gouda.

She tells us, “That’s what worked,” and that few dairies in Vermont were producing Gouda cheese, so therein was the opportunity. And, as Taylor Farm keeps a herd of 55 Holstein and Jersey cows, it made good sense, since the Holstein breed originated in the Netherlands where Gouda was perfected.

Using toothpicks, we pierce several cubes from the tall mound of traditional Gouda. It is a sunny golden color and tastes rich, tangy and creamy. The maple smoked Gouda is buttery, smoky and sweet and was awarded 1st Place by the American Cheese Society.

There is a window that separates the cheese house from the retail shop. Mimi points out the brine bath and I can see stacks of traditional Gouda sealed in bright red wax and wedges of maple smoked Gouda sealed in chocolate-brown wax, aging to perfection.

Vermont farmers have produced cheese since the 1800s. Taylor Farm is a member of the Vermont Cheese Council. Three-dozen cheese makers produce more than 100 varieties of small-batch artisinal cheeses. Jon Wright has produced his award-winning Gouda for eight years. Mimi prepares all the baked goods for the shop and we purchase a crusty loaf of her oat bread made with curds and whey from the dairy and sweetened with honey. Mimi also sells brilliant earth-colored yarns made from the wool of sheep on the farm, poetically labeled “Yarns from the Hills.”

We have purchased as much cheese and bread as we can carry when cheese master Jon Wright enters the shop. He is dressed in a well-worn navy blue sweatshirt, jeans and work boots, and there are splashes of mud on his cuffs. He has rugged features, a lined face and a warm smile. I ask him how he got into cheese making.

“I tell people we started out of desperation,” he laughs. “Dairy farmers gone awry.”

While most of the money made from farms in the state of Vermont has typically come from dairy products, that percentage has been decreasing as the price of land becomes more expensive. Farmers sometimes have to take second jobs to make ends meet.

“We were looking for ways to add value to our milk,” Jon explains. They were able to expand the operation for a small capital investment. The dividends have been clear. There are magazine articles mounted on the walls, praising the quality of the cheese from Taylor Farm.

Jon Wright is one of a new generation of food artisans, and the joy he takes from his work is evident. He is physically and emotionally connected to the land, and the agricultural products he produces.

“The cows are my life,” he says. “I love them.”

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Zucchini and Tomato Gratin and Alice Waters' Food Revolution

Alice Waters is everywhere these days, shopping at the Union Square Greenmarket, cooking lunch for New York Times reporter Kim Severson, advocating for fresh and locally-grown food in Gourment Magazine, publishing a manifesto on the American food supply, changing the way we look at what we eat.

I must admit, I had never thought much about locally-grown produce. I'd heard the rumors, and I'd even shopped at the Union Square Greenmarket in New York City, but it was never really part of my consciousness. But, Susan at The Food Blogga is crazy for vegetables, and in the past year, she's caught my eye more than once with some of the freshest and colorful veggy creations on the planet. When Jill took me to the Ottawa Farmer's market to forage for ingredients for what she insisted be a locally-grown Canadian Feast, I could no longer deny the fact that there was something to this whole perspective. Frankly, the produce was far superior to anything I've ever come across in my local Waldbaum's grocery store.

So I was intriqued when a colleague suggested I pick up "Alice Waters and Chez Panisse: The Romantic, Impractical, Often Eccentric, Ultimately Brilliant Making of a Food Revolution." How can you pass up a title like that? It's a little like something P.T. Barnum might have dreamt up!



Author Thomas McNamee delves into Alice Waters' psyche, the origins of the world famous Chez Panisse restaurant in Berkley, Calif0rnia, and most important, Waters' philosophy about food -- that it must be fresh, locally-grown and sustainable. The book is a tasty read, indeed. McNamee explores Alice's highly developed senses, her extraordinary palate, and the sex, drugs and drama in the kitchen at Chez Panisse over more than 30 years. There is her obsession with salad, and her drive to change the diets of American school children with the incredible "Edible Schoolyard" project that teaches children to grow, prepare and eat fresh food.

I'd made the obligatory foodie pilgrimage to Chez Panisse in 2004, but what I was lacking then was context. At the time, I didn't fully understand the philosophy behind the food. It would be a very different meal for me now. Alice's ethos says that food, ingredients and community are interdependent, and ingredients properly grown and prepared can sustain the community. Still, I have been troubled by the term "revolution" that is used frequently when referring to Alice Waters. To me, a revolution suggests dramatic, and permanent change. Waters has a life-long calling and mission, indeed. But there is still a significant portion of the population who won't or can't eat locally-grown produce. Still, I can't get those dazzling purple cauliflower I saw in Ottawa, or the stunning yellow zucchini from the North Fork of Long Island out of my mind.

Maybe a revolution can happen in a quiet kind of way, not dramatically, but with crisp flavors, and beautifully brilliant flashes of color. Maybe, if we all committed to one locally-grown dish per week, behaviors might begin to evolve, habits would change, health would improve and good taste would prevail. So I dug out my copy of Chez Panisse Vegetables, and joined the revolution, using locally-grown ingredients I purchased on the North Fork of Long Island:

Zucchini and Tomato Gratin (Adapted From Chez Panisse Vegetables by Alice Waters)

1 yellow onion

Olive oil

Salt and pepper

1 branch fresh thyme

Fresh basil leaves

6 plum tomatoes

2 large yellow zucchini

Balsamic vinegar

Panko bread crumbs

Chop onion and sautee in olive oil until translucent. Season with salt and pepper, add thyme leaves and basil. Slice tomatoes and zucchini into rounds. Layer the onion mixture in a deep, buttered quiche pan. Add a layer of tomatoes in an overlapping, circular pattern. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle with balsamic vinegar. Add a layer of zucchini and alternate with tomatoes until the dish is full. Finish with a layer of zucchini and sprinkle with Panko bread crumbs, season with salt and pepper and drizzle with olive oil. Bake in a 350 degree oven uncovered for about 30 to 45 minutes.

Meantime, I'm off to Vermont in search of autumn leaves and food artisans of New England. See you back here later in October.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved