Past Prime: Versatile Syrups

When all the fruit is coming in like runners in the Olympic torch-bearing relay, it is hard to keep up with the hand-offs.  No matter how much time you spend in your too-hot, too-humid summer kitchen (not, as we know, the ideal weather for jam and jelly making), you are bound to be left with miscellaneous bits of fruit that is no longer—perhaps never was—quite perfect.  In my waste-not, want-not world, which I believe is the world of all true and natural cooks, it’s not possible to throw it out. It is not merely frugality that leads us to resist, although that is part of it. It is challenge:  what can I do with this? If cooking is transformation, what can I make of this? What can I turn it into? The humblest transformations are, in the end, a combination of austerity and creativity.

As Anthony Bourdain pointed out in his Les Halles Cookbook, the French were masters of turning questionable ingredients and odds and ends into good things to eat. From cutting meat creatively to cooking tough pieces for a very long time with flavorful aromatics, they not only made do with what they had, they made things that have become soul-satisfying classics.  One thing you might notice about this, though, is that there was, at the same time, a recognition that you don’t slave and fuss over these less-than-stellar ingredients, or try to make something of them that no amount of attention is going to produce.  If nothing else, a good cook is pragmatic, and knows you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But you can make a very good braised sow’s ear.

It’s the same with fruit past its prime. No pies, no plump preserves or clear jellies, no decorating cakes and tortes, certainly no eating out of hand. But they do make very good syrups and sauces, flavored iced teas and shrubs—anything where the flavor is extracted (usually through heat) and the less-than-perfect fruit strained out, and where you don’t need much if any pectin, which is lost as fruit becomes old or overripe.

I really like to have syrups on hand (two of my favorites are rosehip and rosemary) —and not just for cocktails, although of course they are great for that.  Syrups have many endearing qualities. They last forever. They can be used as an ingredient—in drinks, salad dressings, sauces, frostings and glazes—or as an embellishment—drizzled over cheese, fresh fruit, grilled meats. You can utilize other marginal items in making them—shriveling herbs, fading whole spices, a single slice of lemon or squeezed peels.  They make you feel virtuous because, of course, you did not throw anything out.

Fruit Syrups

You can use any combination that you have, or fancy. For one of these, I used about half blueberries and half sour cherries (for this purpose, you needn’t bother to pit your fruit); I had some leftover, drying mint. This made a deeply flavorful and refreshing syrup. For another, I used Karla’s imperfect peaches—half the price of her perfect ones—slightly bruised and overripe, but still juicy and flavorful and not too far gone. My friend Trina loves bellinis, so I made the peach syrup with her in mind, and with the inspiration of Katie Loeb. A Bellini made with this is much better than, well, a Bellini.

Measure your fruit. Put it in an aluminum or other nonreactive pan with an equal amount of sugar and an equal amount of water.  If you have a small wedge of lemon or orange, squeeze it and then drop it in. Bring to a boil and cook at a moderate bubble for 5 minutes or so, until your fruit has softened, popped, or otherwise begun to break down and release their color and juice. It is not necessary to skim. Remove from the heat. Toss in your herbs and/or spices, stir, and cover. Let steep until cool, or until it is as intense as you like (taste it from time to time). Strain through a fine strainer or cheesecloth into jars; you have my permission to press gently, enough to encourage the fruit to drain, not so much that you force it through as a puree. Cool completely and store in the refrigerator or freezer. Reboil briefly before using after three months or so if you keep it refrigerated rather than frozen.

Lemongrass: Citrusy Complement

I imagine that, like me, when you hear “lemongrass,” you think: Thai food. That’s pretty much been the extent of my use of it, anyway. But I’m beginning to change my pigeon-holing of this somewhat odd ingredient, thanks to a new book out on cocktails—as previously mentioned, my latest culinary inclination—by Katie Loeb. Self-described bartendrix and Aphrodite of Alcohol (don’t you love that?), Katie has produced a book that fits more into the genre of cookbook—one of my few true addictions—than any of the other recent, and often laudable, rethinkings of the cocktail book. While others raise the cocktail to the artisan, craft level, Katie brings it closer to the realm of, well, food. Her book, Shake, Stir, Pour: Fresh Homegrown Cocktails, has all the characteristics of a cookbook, too. Her recipes are more fully developed and individually introduced, and are accompanied in many cases by step-by-step technique photos as well as photos of the finished drink. The explanations and overall tone are clear and unpretentious—some of the cocktail stuff lately has gotten a little gee-whiz—and the book itself is attractive and user-friendly, lying flat in its nicely trimmed and designed spiral binding.

I should say that I don’t know Katie. Except that I sort of do, in a virtual kind of way. She is one of the many professionals on the e-gullet forum, a culinary micro-world where the technically ideal and the palatably sublime are in a constant search for perfect balance. And where, I’ve noticed recently, all things drinking-related are starting to gain a curious primacy.  Chefs and alcohol, no real surprise there, but still, an unexpectedly dominant theme.  Apparently, I’ve been sucked in. And can’t believe I never met Katie all those years I lived in Philly, where she presides over the imbibing needs of lucky locals.

Anyway, back to lemongrass and cocktail-making as cooking. Lemongrass is, as its name suggests, a citrusy grass. Its stalks have a kind of sheath, rather fibrous, that should be removed before you slice and, to release the flavor, lightly bruise the centers. You can slit the length of the sheath with the tip of a paring knife or a sharp fingernail to remove it. Lemongrass serves the function of an aromatic, like leeks or garlic, in this case one that is more fruity and sweet, almost perfumey, than pungent and savory. I would not have thought of using it to make cocktails, but a recipe in Katie’s book for Ruby Red Grapefruit-Lemograss Cordial inspired me. Her 50 recipes include classics like grenadine and cocktail onions and, close to my heart and equally opinionated, cocktail cherries (see mine here). Thanks, Katie.

Vodka Sunset

I had both lemongrass and local ruby grapefruit on hand, so the cordial recipe called to me. I made this drink, also with things I had on hand, with a slight adaptation of the cordial recipe (subbing coconut water for some of the called-for grapefruit juice and jasmine water for the rose water, which appears to be lost in my kitchen). I named it for the beautiful glowing color of the cordial.

2 oz vodka

1 oz lemon juice

1 oz orange juice

¾ oz Ruby Red Grapefruit-Lemongrass Cordial from Katie’s book

2 dashes orange bitters (I used Regan’s)

Shake well with crushed ice til very cold; strain; garnish if desired with a twist of orange or lemon.

Grapefruit: Cocktail Companion

In last week’s post I mentioned that I have been making cocktails for the first time in decades. I had grown up knowing how to make a whiskey sour—my parents’ cocktail of choice—but naturally felt that I should learn more, perhaps something to make with gin, which I like, but something other than a martini, which I don’t like.  Quickly jumping to the conclusion that I needed a recipe book—any excuse to add to my cookbook collection—I ordered two books, trusting to my friends on egullet, who appear to be astounding drinkers judging by the number of threads about drinks and there being an entire category on spirits and libations. The two I chose were one that has been around a while, and one that is new and trendy, in keeping with the cocktail resurgence:  respectively, Esquire Drinks and The PDT Cocktail Book by Jim Meehan. The PDT, as it is known, is beautifully designed and illustrated, workmanlike (that’s a compliment), and contains classic as well as contemporary/new-age bartender recipes, seasonal recommendations, bar food recipes, and a bibliography of further reading. It’s fault is its trim size and heavy weight: I see compromise at work here, the author maybe wanting a traditional bartender handbook trim, the book designer and acquisitions editor not getting that it should not be a hardcover but rather a soft, leatherlike and flexible volume. And the closest thing to what I consider a whiskey sour is the Shiso Malt Sour—which actually makes me wonder, is this what made whiskey sours so popular after the war (WWII)? Ah well, the recipes are good and, as I said, the book is serious.  The Esquire book is badly written and opinionated (I just noticed that it actually admits to being opinionated in its subtitle)—this from someone with many opinions, but who believes those should be well-situated within a proper argument. But it has a focus on classic cocktails, which I did seek out, and seems OK, although the whiskey sour recipe seems all wrong and there is, of course, no excuse for the bad writing.

One thing I learned when reading these books is that grapefruit is as accepted and common as lemon and lime in cocktails—an essential. Who knew? Since I am widely known as having a perfect palate (there are some things that are just statements of fact, and cannot be considered boasting), I had to conclude that I had never had a cocktail made with grapefruit before. The challenge arose, and so when I saw these Arizona grapefruit at the farmer’s market, I immediately knew to what useful end they would be put.

These grapefruit were smallish but full of sweet/sour juice. I perused my newly acquired books and lit on the Swiss Mist, the beginning of my week of shaken cocktails with egg whites that yielded the surfeit of egg yolks that went into last week’s ice cream.

Swiss Mist Without the Absinthe

 This is very good on a hot day. Serves 1.

2 oz gin (I used Bombay Sapphire)

¾ oz lemon juice

¾ oz grapefruit syrup (see Note)

1 large egg white

Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker and shake without ice. Add crushed ice, shake again, vigorously, until very cold, and strain into a chilled stemmed glass such as a coupe or, my preference, martini glass.

Note: To make the grapefruit syrup, make simple syrup by heating 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water, stirring occasionally and brushing down the sugar crystals until they are all dissolved. Cool. Zest one grapefruit and add to the syrup in a canning jar. Seal and turn several time; let steep for 10 minutes. Strain and store in the refrigerator. Makes about 1 cup, enough for 5 or more cocktails, depending on the recipe.

    

Late Corn, New Potatoes, Early Chowder

    
As it was two years ago, the corn was late. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s a little dry. It’s good, mind, but not iconic. When you go to scrape the milk from the cob after cutting off the fresh corn, there’s very little there. As I said, dry.
So the corn is not as good as I would prefer for fritters or other things where I like all that corny milkiness; I made some corn pancakes, and they were good, but not as infused as they might be. Still, the cobs boiled up into a pretty creditable corn stock, though I did cook them a little longer than usual to extract their flavor.
This week, following on the record-breaking heat that the East Coast and much of the country has experienced, has been rather cool—more like a nice June than a peak-summer July. I don’t know if it is a sign of a shift toward the end of a short summer. I did notice that the Joe Pye-Weed has appeared at the side of the road, always an omen. There was one night when I wished I had some socks. Perhaps I am just talking myself into end-of-Little-Compton-summer to ease myself out, heading as we are toward the start of another academic year. All good things. . . .
While the corn was late, the potatoes were, I think, a tad early. How I love them. I culled all the tiny ones to make cocktail potatoes (can I reiterate how much I love these and  how perfect they are with a crisp white or champagne?), and have been making lots of potato salad as well. A few extras are just enough to combine with the stock to make a chowder.
Corn Chowder

This is a simple, straightforward soup. I like my chowder thin, not thick and pasty. Serves 6.
3 oz salt pork, chopped, or 2-3 T lard or butter
1 small onion, chopped fine
3 medium red skin brand new potatoes, diced
2 T finely minced celery
2 medium cloves garlic, minced
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1 qt corn stock (follow instructions here)
2 ears corn
1 ½ c heavy cream
1 c whole milk
1 medium-large ripe tomato, seeded and chopped

½ tea Aleppo pepper (optional)
Dozen or so Ritz crackers, ground with a rolling pin
Chopped fresh cilantro or basil for garnish
Cut the salt pork into small dice and cook over medium heat to render the fat. Turn the heat up a little and add the onion, sautéing until translucent, then add the potatoes  and cook, stirring from time to time, until they and the onions begin to brown. Add the celery and garlic, tossing for a few minutes; add additional fat if needed (lard or butter) to keep it from sticking. Season with salt and pepper.
Cut the corn from the cobs and add to the potato-onion mixture. Add the stock, cover, and bring to a boil; remove the cover and cook, skimming until clear, for about 5 minutes; the potatoes should be crisp-tender when tasted. Remove from the heat and let sit for a few minutes. Add the tomato, cream, and milk; taste for seasoning, adding the Aleppo pepper now if using. Refrigerate overnight. To serve, reheat almost to a boil; serve in soup plates, garnished with a big tablespoon or so of the Ritz crackers, which thickens the soup just a little, and fresh herbs.
                                                                             

Strawberry Fields—Not Forever II

Did I mention that strawberries, indeed berries of all kinds, cry out to be matched with corn? Strawberries are very nice as an accompaniment to this little cake, a plain, slightly sweet, eminently sliceable little summer dessert. This has the added benefit of being gluten-free and has no leavening aside from beaten egg whites. Made with stoneground Rhode Island jonnycake cornmeal, it has a satisfying bite and could not be more local. For a finer texture, use regular  yellow cornmeal.

 

Little Corn Cake

1 cup RI jonnycake cornmeal or yellow cornmeal
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 tea salt
3 eggs, separated
1 stick unsalted butter, melted

 

Preheat the oven to 375 F. Butter a 6” cake pan, preferably aluminum. Line with wax paper and butter or spray with Pam.

Combine half the cornmeal with the sugar and salt; make a little well in the center and drop in the egg yolks. Slowly add the melted butter, stirring to incorporate until all is absorbed. Add the rest of the cornmeal.  Beat the egg whites until stiff and shiny, and fold into the batter. Pour into the buttered pan.

Bake for 40-45 minutes, until brown and a skewer comes out clean. It should be very brown, and will look sort of like a big Thomas’s corn toastie (don’t let it get as dark around the edge as in the photo; I don’t have the right pan with me).  Turn out onto a rack to cool, and cut into thin slices, and serve with strawberries or other fresh fruit, and a little Vin Santo or other light dessert wine.

 

 

  

 

 

Cocktail Potatoes

I had every intention of doing something with blackberries this week before they disappear from the local scene. I really did. But you know how I feel about freshly dug potatoes. And despite the fact that I’ve already done a potato entry this season, yesterday I saw these tiny potatoes at a roadside stand. They had, according to the farmer, been grown by one of his neighbors and dug that morning. We cooking fiends all know the truth about the best-laid plans of mice and chefs. I bought them.
The variety of these potatoes are Red Pontiac, sometimes called Dakota Chief (Kennebecs were also on offer, equally small and new). They are an all-purpose early-season potato with the thin skins that I like, for either rubbing off with a towel or leaving on. Since they are pink—the skins can fade and so are not as rosy as a lot of red-skinned potatoes—I generally leave them on, but some does always come off when they are washed. And yes, despite my general aversion to washing versus wiping, I do wash most potatoes because they are, well, just too dirty even for me.
Much as I feel about corn, new potatoes deserve their own spot on the menu, as a showcase rather than a side. A great additional benefit is the ability to have them really hot, too, given the tendency of both potatoes and corn to end up rather cooler than one would like by the time all plates hit the table. When I locate these tiny taters my preference is to microwave them whole and serve them simply—olive oil, salt, pepper, herbs, sometimes a little sprinkled freshly grated parmesan—for an appetizer (whence my name for them, “cocktail potatoes.” Here is the simple way I do it:
Cocktail Potatoes

The skins of these potatoes burst as you bite into them, releasing the soft, sweet potato. They are delicious.
Any number of tiny new potatoes
1 tea regular olive oil + ½ tea or more extra-virgin olive oil  
¼ cup water, to start
¼ tea kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper
Chopped chives, parsley, basil, or other herb for garnish; freshly grated parmesan if you like
Use a shallow au gratin pan, glass pie plate, or other rimmed dish large enough to hold the potatoes loosely. Put about ¼ cup of water and a teaspoon of ordinary olive oil into the pan with about ¼ tea salt; add the potatoes and toss briefly. Microwave on high for 5 minutes; check, and if the water has largely boiled away, add another scant ¼ cup. Cook until the potatoes can be pierced with a small skewer or the point of a sharp paring knife; this will take about 10-12 minutes, depending on the size and freshness of your potatoes and your microwave, for potatoes in the size range of 1-1 ½". When they are done, drain off any remaining water and toss with a small amount, perhaps ½ teaspoon or a little more, extra-virgin olive, and freshly ground pepper, additional salt if needed (they absorb the salt while cooking, so be cautious), and herbs and/or cheese of your choice. Do not over-dress them. Serve on toothpicks with drinks.