Apple Cider Vinegar: What Grandma, and Hippocrates, Knew

I am never without cider vinegar. Because if I run out, I immediately need it again before I can even get to the store (word to the wise: Buy at least a half-gallon; it lasts).  Cider vinegar is that versatile, and that, in my opinion, nonsubstitutable. If that is a word.  You may sometimes see distilled white vinegar suggested as an alternative, but no, too sharp.  Apple cider vinegar is sweeter and more mellow—I’d go for my white balsamic, to which I am equally devoted, before that, at least for dressings and maybe some chutneys. But really, just have it on hand. It’s dirt cheap and always produces just the right subtle result.

Of course we cook and preserve with it. But it has been a kitchen and apothecary staple for many other purposes since ancient times—as a refreshing and healthful tonic (making a come-back today, bottled like water and sold, like water, at high prices to the susceptible); an excellent cleaning product and stain remover; a cool skin astringent; a rinse for squeaky clean hair; a pesticide; a disinfectant; a de-scaler; a weight-loss aid--and Colonial bakers understood that a little bit worked a tender magic on pie crust and bread, and that it was just as at home in a homey dessert as in a jar of pickles, as this unusual—and unusually good--roly-poly attests.

Vinegar Roly-Poly  With Corn

You can’t get more old-fashioned than my version of this old idea: truly, something my Pennsylvania German grandmother would have made, even with what turned out to be a somewhat inspired use, if I do say so myself, of Coll’s corn. I do sometimes think Grandma’s spirit lives on in me.  Serves 8.

For the syrup

¾ cider vinegar

1 ½ c water

1 cup sugar

2 tea cinnamon

For the dough

2 c sifted a-p flour

1 T bp

1 tea salt

1/3 cup (5 T) lard or, if you must, Crisco

¾ whole milk

For the filling 

1 ear fresh corn

4 T butter, divided

¼ c sugar plus a little more

2 tea cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 375 F. Lightly grease a 9” round pan or pie plate and set aside.

Combine the vinegar, water, 1 c of sugar, and 2 tea cinnamon in small pan over low heat til sugar dissolves. Raise the heat to medium, and reduce by half or so to a light syrup, about 20-30 minutes. Set aside.

While making the syrup, shuck the corn and cut the kernels off; do not scrape the ear yet, but set it and the corn aside.

In a medium bowl, mix the flour, bp, and salt. Cut in the lard or shortening. Scrape the milk from the reserved ear into the mixture, add the whole mile, and stir to make a soft dough. Lightly flour the counter or a board and roll the dough into a rectangle ¼” thick, about 9 x 10. Sprinkle the remaining ¼ sugar and 2 tea cinnamon over the reserved corn kernels. Sprinkle a bit of extra sugar over the dough, then distribute sugar-spiced corn over it.  Dot with 2 T butter.

Roll the dough gently from the longer side and cut the dough crosswise 1” thick, first trimming each end by about ½”. Place the slices cut side up, close together, in the pan. Dot with the remaining butter. Pour over all the hot vinegar mixture. I recommend  placing on a nonstick sheet pan or enameled broiler pan. Bake 30-40 min at 375, until lightly golden and dry to the touch, with no apparent liquid: a sauce will have formed on the bottom of the pinwheels.  Let sit for just a minute, then serve very warm, with some pan sauce and then some heavy cream spooned over, as a dessert or breakfast treat.

Note: Don’t be tempted to cut back too much on the 4 tea of cinnamon. It’s a lot, but not too much; it transforms quite a bit in the syrup. If you cut it down, cut a teaspoon from the sugar mixture that goes inside the dough.

C3: Corn to the Third Power

I’m a eating a hot meal for the first time in almost two weeks—at least, the first time cooked in my own cottage kitchen, which has been an oven in and of itself.  It’s gone from HHH—the abbreviation every New Englander knows, Hazy, Hot, and Humid—to TDCWFJ—that’s my own abbreviation for too damned cold and wet for July. Of course, it’s only one day, and I do not expect—are you listening, weather gods?—it to last. But I am already wishing for the heat back. Except for the fact that I was able to turn the real oven on today.

I would like to report that I was baking a cherry pie with, finally, the Montmorencies. But I totally missed them. For the first time in…well, forever!  It was that perfect storm of not being here on the ONE day when they were picked. But I don’t think I really missed much. The fruit lady said they were fermented. Cherry wine, anyone?  They had never seen it before.  Waited and waited to pick them because they were not ready, and then when they were…they were already gone. A strange year.

But the blueberries are in. And you can be sure there is a pie in our future.  But for today, in the cold, when I have on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt for god’s sake, and just pulled out a pair of socks, I kid you not (note that I have them with me: it’s New England, after all), I turned to the comfort of corn.

While I’m still waiting for my favorite varieties, Temptation and Lancelot, to appear, the corn is good, and this was a variety I have never seen at Walker’s or really anywhere before, Illini. I bought a few ears, and was planning to cut it off the cob (which I did) and sauté it (which I didn’t), but ended up going out with a friend and having—gasp—a bowl of cut corn more than an hour old. That’s tantamount to sin in Yankee religion.

So I decided to make some cornbread. Even though I am, thanks to the wonderful Rachel of the equally wonderful and evocative Lawn Tea blog, an honorary G.R.I.T.S. member (and let us never forget that I did serve three years hard time in Nashville), I rarely make cornbread.  I don’t like the dry, crumbly sort,  the kind that you can slather to death with butter and still choke on on the way down. I imagine it’s really good for stuffing a bird, able to suck up all those juices without totally falling apart. But then, I don’t stuff my birds—we do dressing, baked on the side.  And I don’t like the sweet sort, the yellow, sugary stuff that is the staple of middling restaurants. I don’t like the over-stuffed sort, much as I don’t like pizza with tons of toppings, or ice cream with, god forbid, candy and cookies and nuts and swirls and…please stop!  Hold the chiles, the cheese, the bacon: don’t you know that cornbread, like pizza and ice cream, should be pure?

I am no corn bread maven. But a lot of corn, in its various forms, makes for a good corn bread. Hence the name.  Since I don’t like it dry, I make it moist. And since I don’t like it sweet, I make it…just sweet enough to balance the acid edge.  It can be eaten plain, without butter (enough fat in it). It stands on its own for breakfast. And that, for me, is the ultimate test.

C³ Cornbread

This will sit nicely on the counter for a few days with little damage. What more could you want? As with all moist foods, the microwave at low temp does a nice job of reheating, but it scarcely needs it.  The yellow cornflour gives a  yellow color when you use white cornmeal; white cornflour can also be used. Serves 12 generously.

2 c a-p flour

½ c stoneground yellow cornflour (I use Bob’s Red Mill, or a noname white version from the supermarkets          here)

1 c stoneground white or yellow cornmeal (I use RI jonnycakemeal)

2 tea baking powder

1 tea baking soda

1 tea salt

3 T brown sugar

2 T pure maple syrup

½ cup unsalted butter (1 stick), melted

2 large brown eggs

¾ best sour cream

1 cup whole milk

Cut kernels from 2 ears of fresh corn (about 1 cup)

Additional maple syrup for brushing top (optional)

Preheat oven to 350F. Butter a 13x9” baking pan, preferably a nice one for serving, and set aside.

Mix the flours, cornmeal, baking powder, soda, and salt together in a large bowl. In a medium-size bowl, whisk the melted butter, cooled a little, with the sugar and syrup. Whisk in the eggs, then the sour cream, then the milk. Fold into the dry ingredients just until the flour disappears, as for a biscuit. Fold in the corn kernels, which you have cut off and scraped a little from their cobs (freezing the cobs for corn stock), until just distributed. Scoop into the prepared pan, and spread around with the back of a wooden spoon.

Bake for 30-40 minutes, depending on your oven (mine in LC is HOT!), until lightly browned all over, a little more so on the edges, which may just begin to pull away. The top should spring back to the touch, and you can always stick a skewer in to make sure it is cooked through.  Remove to a rack to cool, and brush lightly with maple syrup if you wish.

Back in LC: Green, and Green Beans

I arrived in Little Compton late Wednesday, after a series of travel setbacks, but in time for the Fourth. I brought the sun and the warmth and blue skies with me from Arizona, as I promised I would. Everyone is grateful, and I was happy to oblige.  Who knew I had such power.

The fact that everyone was begging for sun and warmth, however, tells you what it has been like here. In a word, raining.  And in another word, cool.  In addition to being a total drag after a brutal winter and miserable spring, it has been quite difficult for the farmers.  I can only imagine the stress as we approached the fourth, and they had no corn: it’s like having to tell a bunch of kids on Christmas that there will be no presents. At least, that’s how it is here. We’ve been known to eat corn as a main course.

Coll Walker had no corn (we looked for the corn flag, a sign of victory if there ever was one, in vain—the second time in history that there was, yikes, no corn on the 4th), but he did have beautiful slim beans, bushy basil, and truly giant lettuces (there’s always someone who thrives on the chilly weather). Young Farm, however, managed to pick a small amount of corn, and I snagged a few ears. I can be a creature of habit on holidays, but decided to forgo the potato salad in honor of these determined vegetables. Corn and beans are starchy sisters.

And I made a home version of the Newport Creamery burger—a relatively thin burger, grilled, and immediately placed between two buttered pieces of lightly toasted white bread, with tomato (also Coll’s) and lettuce, mayo and ketchup, and a generous amount of salt and paper. The toast absorbs some of the burger juices, and it is all very tasty; toast should be very light (lighter than in the photo) so the bread won't break on cutting. Times have changed—Newport Creamery used to make all their burgers this way—but thankfully, still have one on the menu.

Everything here in Rhode Island is so green, in stark contrast to the desert I just left. The air smells of grass and the sea, and the humidity (100% a few days ago!) was a welcome wave over my parched skin when I first landed. But I am settling back in, I guess: it's getting a little too humid even for me. Off to the beach!

Summer Veggies with Sour Cream

Long before recycling, waste not, want not New Englanders put sour dairy products to good use. We love our sour milk and sour cream, and of course, our buttermilk. All contribute to tender and tangy baking products. But sour cream, like plain heavy cream, does amazing quick duty as a sauce—for noodles and meats, and also for vegetables. This is a very New England side dish. Adjust according to whatever quantities you have on hand. Serves 2.

 

½ lb fresh new green beans

2 ears fresh-picked corn, shucked

1 T unsalted butter

2-3 T sour cream

Salt

Pepper

1 large scallion, white and green parts, sliced

2-3 big leaves fresh basil, chiffonade

Break the stem ends from the beans and cut the corn off the cob with a sharp knife. Bring a pot of water to the boil; drop in the beans and a little salt, and cook for about 3 minutes; add the corn and cook for another minute. Drain.

Melt the butter in a sauté pan and add the beans and corn, tossing to coat and heat through. Add the scallions and toss for a minute or so over low heat—don’t brown anything. Add the sour cream, salt, and pepper, and stir for another minute or so. Add the basil, toss once more, and taste for seasoning. Remove from the heat and serve immediately. If you make it a little ahead, add up to another T of sour cream when reheating. You could add some chopped tomato if you wish.

August Corn III: Corn Fritters

One of the benefits of the early growing season is that we’ve had corn since the first of July, so August corn this year doesn’t have quite the same meaning as in years when corn is really just coming into its own. For me, though, it has a different meaning: the last time I will really eat it until next year.

Yes, I am back in Tucson. You may have suspected, since I missed posting last week--the first sign, at the end of the summer, of impending blog hibernation. I was traveling back to Tucson last weekend, and there is nothing like a change in schedule to throw you off your blogging game. School starts tomorrow, and you know what that means. The game of weekly posts is up.

But back to corn and why I will be on corn, as well as blog, hiatus until next summer. There is corn at the farmers market here, but I can scarcely bear to look at the poor things, let alone buy and eat them. (I know there is an agreement issue with that sentence, but I couldn't make it come out right in singular. Feel compelled to explain.) So I limit my corn eating to New England summer. Ditto with fish.  Fortunately, the Hatch chiles are in to distract me. Maybe this year I will figure out what all the fuss is about.

I love corn fritters of all shapes and varieties, and so decided to make some on one of my last evenings in LC.  These below are yet another type than others on the blog, very much like a clam cake, for those of you from Rhode Island who know from whence I speak.  For those who don’t: they are like little puffs of slightly eggy, fried, studded (with corn, or clams, or…) bread.  I was in the process of cleaning out refrigerator inventory, and made a little dipping sauce with sour cream, buttermilk, scallions, lemon, salt, and pepper.  I had them for my dinner with a glass of wine. A very nice last supper.

RI Corn Fritters

6 ears corn

3 eggs, separated

scant c sifted a-p

1 tea sugar

1 tea salt

2 tea bp

Cayenne and black pepper to taste

Oil for frying

Into a small bowl, cut the kernels from the cobs and and scrape the milk from the cobs. Stir in the egg yolks.  Sift the dry ingredients together and mix into the eggs and corn.. Beat the egg whites stiff and fold them in gently.

Heat about 4” of oil to 375F; drop the batter by the tablespoon into the fat, without crowding.  Cook them, turning them over with a slotted utensil, until they are golden brown. Remove to paper towels and salt while hot. Make sure  your fat is hot enough or these will be too soft; you want them a bit crisp on the outside.  Eat plain or dip into a sauce of your choice.

Sunny Squash Blossoms

For better or worse (often worse), I am one of those over-tolerant people. I am open-minded. I accept things. I make do. I forgive (except the unforgivable—yes, there is such a thing). I eat squash.
No, it’s not a favorite. But my Pollyanna tendencies, catholic as they are, are wide-ranging and expansive. As with a lot of things, and a lot of people, I look for the best in them. Surely the very best a squash has to offer is its flower.
To begin with, squash blossoms are as irresistibly sunny as Pollyana herself. They are pretty but fragile, so use them as soon after you buy (or if you are lucky, gather) them, before they wilt. Despite putting them in water (if on stems), they will fade fast, so stuff them right away even if you are going to cook them later. Naturally, I like to fry them. But you can poach or steam them, stuffed or not, if you insist.








Fried Stuffed Zucchini Blossoms, Mexican-style
They’re only Mexican-style because of the cheese and the beer. Treat zucchini flowers as their delicate nature demands: minimally. Serves 4 as an appetizer or a side to plain grilled chicken or fish.
One dozen fresh picked zucchini flowers, preferably with stems
½ cup queso fresco (or use farmers cheese, ricotta, or goat cheese)
1 ear corn
¼ tea salt
freshly ground pepper
1 large egg, beaten and divided
½ cup flour
3 oz, approx, Corona™ or other lager, enough to moisten
salt
olive oil for frying
salt
lemon or lime (optional)
Gently separate the leaves of the flower and, using your finger nails, clip off the pistil of the flower at the base of the stem; you should be able to see the hollow of the stem. If your flowers are dirty, wipe them carefully with a paper towel so as not to tear them; do not wash.
In a small bowl, cut the corn from the cob with a sharp knife, then scrape the cob to extract any milk; as mentioned last week, the corn is a little dry this year, so not to worry if there isn’t much. Add the ½ cup of cheese, crumbled well, and the salt and pepper; stir/break up with a fork. Add ½ the beaten egg, reserving the rest for the batter, and stir.
Using a small spoon—an iced tea spoon works very well, but so does a plastic picnic spoon—open the flowers with your fingers and spoon some of the corn-cheese filling into the cavity: how much will depend on the size of your flowers, which may vary. Fill them to the top of the cavity, where the blossoms separate into the darker petals. Pull the petals together into a point or, on smaller flowers, fold them over a bit. Set aside on paper towels.
In another small bowl, mix the flour and a little salt, and stir in the egg and beer until you have a batter about the viscosity of thick heavy cream.
Choose a heavy frying pan and pour in about ¼” of olive oil. Heat to medium high; you can also use an electric frying pan heated to about 360F, and if you can fry outside, do: these spatter. Holding a flower by the stem, put it head-first into the batter and twist/twirl it to cover; place it in the pan. Repeat with additional flowers, being careful not to crowd the pan. Fry the flowers until they are golden brown, turning once or twice; remove to paper towels to drain, and salt. Serve at once, as is or with a squeeze of lemon or lime, with a glass of white wine.
                                                                   

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.
                                                                             

Summertime, and the cream is good

It’s odd to think I have a lot in common with a dairy cow, but the truth is, I do. We both like to laze the day away in a nice field, grazing from time to time if we get hungry. And we both are at our absolute best in the long, warm days of summer. Despite any appearance to the contrary, which you might gather from glimpsing either one of us lying on the grass from a passing car, we are amazingly productive when the weather is good. We feel great, and work hard.

So it is that at this time of year, local dairy products are a precious gift of high-fat milk and cream. It is, in fact, all that rumination and grazing in the grass that is responsible for dairy’s productivity and high fat content in the summer months. If you are able to buy local milk and cream right about now, and it is not homogenized, you are truly lucky. I currently can buy nearly 50% heavy cream and light cream that is in the high 30s. In glass bottles, too: I make a $1.00 deposit on the bottle, credited next time when the bottle is returned.

When good cream is available, it should be used simply. For heavy cream, whipped, of course, (unhomogenized cream beats lightning fast, and is amazingly good); poured straight over a fruit pie or a cake, crisp, or buckle; frozen into a mousse or ice cream; as a base for salad dressing; or made into a simple sauce for pasta. Light cream is good for most of these uses, too, and is my choice for summer soups  and chowders, which I prefer on the thin side.

Thinking about my affinity with cows, I could mention a few other things that we have in common. For example, we both have brown eyes, and, umm, large udders. We both wear a lot of black and white or brown and white. I am getting old enough to be called an “old cow,” if only behind my back. But I won’t mention these things, lest you think I am a bit strange. But really, it can’t just be coincidence that cream and I are such good friends.

Summer Garden Soup

I often say that in the summer I could live on corn and tomatoes. Neither is very good in Rhode Island because of the rain this year, but what there is can be turned into a simple summer soup—a kind of light vegetable chowder.

2 T butter
1/3 cup onion, finely chopped
6 medium plum tomatoes, seeded and coarsely chopped
2 ears corn, shucked
1 ½ cups corn stock
1 small bay leaf
½-3/4 tea salt
few twists of the pepper mill
1 cup cream

½ cucumber, skin on, chopped fine
few sprigs parsley, chopped fine

Cut the corn from the cobs.

Melt the butter in a 3-qt chef’s pan. Sauté the onion in the butter until translucent, about 2-3 minutes, then add the corn and sauté another 2-3 minutes. Add the tomato, ½ tea salt, pepper, and bay leaf, toss for a minute, then add the corn stock. Bring to a low boil, reduce to a moderate simmer, and cook for about 10 minutes, until the tomatoes are soft but still hold their shape.

Remove from the heat and let cool down just a bit. Remove the bay leaf and discard. Stir in the cream and taste for salt and pepper; you may want another ¼ tea of salt and a little more pepper. Serve warm, not hot, or cold, garnished with the chopped cucumber and parsley.

Living on Borrowed Corn

It’s the Fourth of July, and we are beside ourselves here in Little Compton. Yes,there is finally some sun among the clouds today, at least this morning; storms are predicted for later. But it feels and looks like a blustery fall day; the wind is literally whistling around the house. Still, that is only the source, not the manifest consequences, of our distress. It’s the Fourth of July, and there is no corn.

Perhaps we’re spoiled—OK, we are—but one of the things in life you always look forward to seeing is that corn sign, up at the local stands, almost like clockwork on the 4^th. Not that we can’t still, and won’t, look forward to it. But it will not be the same, like being told on December 25th that you have to wait to celebrate Christmas until sometime in February. It's not that there’s no corn at all, of course; there is. It’s just that it’s not from here, and no self-respecting farmer would ever put his corn sign up for that.

So far this year I’ve only seen my own farmer-purveyor from a distance, and from the back, passing his tractor on the road with a wave, catching a glimpse of him carrying things into the barns or moving equipment. Even from afar, I think I can see the anxiety in his shoulders. But I don’t need to ask what’s wrong, and why there’s no corn. And I don’t need to ask why the fields out back, which normally would have knee-high corn by now, sit still untilled. We all know. Rain. A stunning 6" in one day this week alone.

So this Fourth of July we are celebrating our independence with dependence, and it sticks in our craw. We are eating corn from —the hushed response to my question about where the corn was from, as only local produce carries the farm’s own sign—Delaware. Not even New Jersey, which would have still brought shame but that we all secretly know is almost as good as ours. (Having been raised in New Jersey, I do not say that lightly). But Delaware? It’s not like it’s Florida—we would never eat that--but this is a new low. On this day of all days, we know that not all corns are created equal.

Still, it’s the Fourth: as Americans, we must soldier on. We will make do. Even though the corn looks quite presentable—I’m guessing it had been picked within two days—there is no question about eating it on the cob. We measure corn freshness in hours, even minutes, not days. Although of course I tried the smallest of the already small ears. No go.

So while we are living on borrowed corn, do something to cosmetic it up, and conceal its age. Appropriately dressed, it will be good, even very good—and pass for much younger. And have a Happy Fourth of July, knowing that we will, yet again, soon be free of foreign invaders.

Oysters On A Bed of Seaweed

Not really oysters, not really seaweed. A simulacrum, like the corn. This is one of many kinds of corn fritters, of different styles, that I make. I love them all. Serves 4 as an appetizer or first course.

2 medium ears corn, shucked
1 small ear corn, shucked
1 large egg
1 T butter
½ tea Dijon mustard
½ tea salt
freshly ground pepper
4 large scallions

½ tea baking powder
½- ¾ cup flour, preferably bread flour

corn oil

Using a small, very sharp knife (I use my beak parer), slit the kernels of the two medium ears lengthwise down the rows, and scrape the milk into a medium bowl; cut the kernels from the smaller ear into the bowl. Melt the butter with the mustard in the microwave; stir into corn with the egg, the salt, and a few twists of the pepper mill.

Trim the outer membrane from the scallions and cut the white parts neatly into 1/8” rounds; add to the corn. Reserve the green tops. Sift the flour and baking powder into the corn mixture, starting with the ½ cup and gradually adding additional flour until it has enough body that it won’t spread in the pan, but is still very moist.

With your sharp knife, cut/slit the scallion greens finely, so that they curl. Blanch for about 30 seconds in boiling water and drain/dry completely. Dress with enough oil to look glossy; if you want to eat it (it’s really just for show), dress it with a light vinaigrette. (You could skip the blanching if you want.) Set aside.

Heat about ¼ inch of oil in a skillet until moderately hot. With a tablespoon from the silverware drawer, drop ovals of batter into the pan. Cook until they are nicely browned, turning once and tipping up on their sides if needed. They will only take a minute or two. Drain briefly, salt, and serve on the bed of scallion greens. These need no adornment, other than a glass of wine. If you serve them as a first course with knife and fork, a little simple tomato coulis would be good.

Too Hot to Cook: A Grilled Soup

While glorious, this run of spectacular July weather we’ve been having has brought its share of still, humid evenings. For the most part, there’s been a lovely breeze, but the other night was one of those times when the thought of boiling water for the corn—one of my favorite varieties, Temptation—made me wilt. Or turning on the stove generally. I love hot weather, cannot abide air conditioning, and begin to complain of the cold when the temperature drops below about 65, so if it is too hot for me, it is hot.
I’d been planning to make some corn chowder, and was about to give up the idea as too steamy when I thought, why not just grill it? Everything over a single outdoor fire, sort of like camping, but with sleeping inside. This seemed like a reasonable thing to do. After all, here in Rhode Island, and popular elsewhere, we grill pizzas, made famous by Al Forno restaurant. Yes, you’re thinking, but pizza is solid, and chowder is, let’s face it, liquid.
Ah, but the liquid is the final stage—sort of the reverse of grilled pizza, where the grilling is the final stage after preparing dough, sauce, and so on. For a grilled chowder, it seemed logical to grill all the ingredients and then add the liquids to them, in a pot set on the by-then moderate-heat grill. The depth of flavor, and the no muss, no fuss, of charcoal grilling--for a soup.
So I did that, and it turned out very well; I’ll do it again. I don’t take any particular credit, beyond the original desperate thought of how to avoid the stove: with fresh-picked corn and tomatoes, locally grown or produced chouriço, corn, garlic, and basil, and your own corn stock from inventory, you can’t really go wrong. Or as we say around here, what could be bad? As it turns out, absolutely nothing.
LCM Grilled Corn and Chouriço Chowder
Except for the basil garnish, this is cooked entirely on the grill. It makes for a summery but satisfying meal; nothing more is needed but a green salad or some buttered (and grilled, of course) common crackers. Serves 4.
¼ lb lean salt pork, rind removed 
½ lb (1 link) chicken chouriço, such as Sardinha’s
4 large ears of corn, shucked
½ large sweet onion, cut in two
2 large cloves garlic, from a head (see directions)
1 medium-large ripe tomato
2 ½ cups corn stock (see Note)
1 cup whole milk
¼ cup sour cream, plus more for garnish
¼ tea salt
4 twists of the pepper mill
Olive oil
About 8 large basil leaves
Prepare a medium-hot fire on the grill. Cut a square of aluminum foil large enough to hold the tomato, a head of garlic, and the onion. Brush the corn, garlic, onion, tomato, and meaty side of the salt pork lightly with the olive oil.
Put everything on the grill, placing the pork meat-side down. Quickly cook the vegetables, allowing them to char slightly but not to burn, turning them over to brown. Turn the chouriço once. After about 5 minutes, remove the corn, the salt pork, and the chouriço and set aside, and move the onion, garlic, and tomato to the square of foil. Put the lid on the grill to continue cooking until the vegetables can be pierced with a knife but still hold their shapes—i.e., the tomato should not collapse, the garlic should not ooze.
Cut the corn off the cobs, and slice the chouriço, breaking the slices apart with your fingers and discarding the skin that wants to come off. Slice the onion, and thinly slice 2 fat cloves of roasted garlic, reserving the rest for another use. Remove the skin and stem end from the tomato; cut it in half and gently fish out the seeds with a finger; and chop the tomato flesh roughly. Cut the salt pork into small dice.
Place a 3-qt chef’s or other open pan on the grill; use your flat palm to find a spot where the heat is medium to medium-low (alternatively, use your stove for this last stage, no more than a few minutes). Quickly toss the salt pork, chouriço, onion, and garlic in the pan, adding a teaspoon or so of olive oil if needed to prevent sticking. Add the stock, the corn, and the tomato, and season with the salt and pepper; move the pan to the coolest spot (or reduce the heat to low), and stir in the milk and the sour cream. As soon as the soup is hot through, remove it from the heat, taste it, and adjust the seasoning if necessary. Garnish with sour cream and finely cut basil.
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Note: As discussed in a post from last year (click the corn stock link above), I try to always have corn stock on hand; it's versatile and flavorful, and it is not much effort to throw a few cobs into water to make it. If you do not have it handy, though, you could use a very light, minimally salted chicken stock.

                                      

Lobster and the New Year: Last Hurrah

There is the blue lobster like the one owned by my local market—and their prior one, a taxidermied giant now gracing the wall near the check-out counters like a fantasy sculpture you’d see over the door of some dive with a name like “The Shipwreck Bar.” There is the equally fantastic, yet also real, two-toned lobster, vertically divided with hairline precision down its length, half-black, half red, the second one caught by one of my neighborhood purveyors, Sakonnet Lobster—a 1 in 50 million chance. And then there is the last lobster—of the year, that is.
For it’s not just the end of the year, it’s the end of lobster season. Come January, the vast majority of lobstermen pull their pots until spring, repairing them and their boats until the water warms enough to bring the lobsters, pretty much too cold to move from the bottom, back to the surface. Although they are scarce and therefore expensive—not that they are ever cheap—now is the time to have a fresh-caught lobster before they disappear for the winter months, and nothing is available but “held” lobsters, caught previously and kept in tanks or other special holding areas for who knows how long and under what conditions. Eating lobster, accompanied by its perfect match, champagne, seems a fitting way to send off both the year and the winter-torpored arthropod.
My favorite way to cook lobster is to grill it over charcoal, but the season, at least here, is not conducive to outdoor cooking. And maybe, just maybe, the preparation is a bit summery anyway; certainly boiled lobster with drawn butter doesn’t attract the way it does on the 4^th of July, when bright sun, a pile of steaming lobsters, drawn butter, lobster bibs, and wooden picnic tables overhanging the pier are akin to a holy tableau. You could bake and stuff your last lobster of the year, a favorite New England preparation, and certainly a warming one. But for New Year’s Eve, one must approach the uncertainty of the turning point in Time’s relentless march—will it be a good year? A bad year? A same old, same old year?--with the defiance, confidence, and dignity so well-represented by the luxurious splurge: lobster bisque and champagne. As you head into the unknown of 2008, only the best will do.
Jane’s LC Lobster-Corn Bisque
This soup is my Rhode Island variation on the classic French haute-cuisine lobster bisque, made with the addition of corn and simplifying the steps a little while preserving the intensity and fineness of the finished product. While not quite as complicated as the original, it still takes a bit of time; I suggest making it over two days, dealing with the lobsters one day, then actually preparing the soup the next. Westport Lobster in Westport, MA, was kind enough to provide me with scarily huge extra lobster carcasses for the stock. Ask your own lobster purveyor or fish market to save you some. If you do not have corn stock (shame on you!), you may substitute a light homemade chicken stock or use all lobster stock. Serves 6.
A 2# lobster
12 cups water
About 2-3 lbs lobster bodies (torsos)
2 large bay leaves
12 peppercorns
¼ tea red pepper flakes
6 sprigs parsley
6 sprigs cilantro
salt
4 T unsalted butter
2 large cloves garlic, minced
1 ½" piece fresh gingerroot, minced
½ large sweet onion, roughly chopped
1 large carrot, roughly chopped
1 large stalk celery, roughly chopped
1 ½ cups corn off the cob, thawed if frozen
¼ tea saffron, coupe grade
1 cup dry white wine
½ cup homemade plain tomato sauce or, if not on hand, imported ground tomatoes
1 quart corn stock, or use all lobster stock or light chicken stock
2 cups strong lobster stock
salt, pepper
3 T converted white rice
2 T cognac or brandy
¼ cup or more heavy cream
Reserved lobster meat for garnish
Chopped parsley for garnish
In a small stock pot or other pot of at least 16 cups capacity, boil the water and plunge the lobster in head-first, covering with the lid. Boil 15 minutes, remove the lobster with tongs to a colander (reserving the water), and rinse well with cold water. Cool until you can handle it, then remove and refrigerate the meat, reserving the body with the others (see Note).
Preheat oven to 400 F. Clean the lobster bodies of any tomalley, roe, and head sac (you may keep the tomalley for stirring into the soup, but I do not); place them into a buttered roasting pan and roast for about 40 minutes, or until they smell lobster-y. Add ½ cup of water to the hot pan to deglaze, then add the bodies and the deglazed liquid to the pot of lobster water, pressing them down to submerge as well as possible; add the bay leaves, peppercorns, pepper flakes, cilantro, and parsley. Bring to a boil, skim, and then reduce and simmer for about 2 hours. Near the end of the cooking time, add a little salt and taste. It should have a deep lobster flavor. Remove the bodies with tongs, letting them hang over the pot for a minute to drip their juices, and discard; you should have about 2 ½ quarts. Remove two cups broth and freeze the rest for future soups or chowders. At this point you can either proceed or refrigerate the 2 cups broth, covered, until next day.
In a Dutch oven or other pot of at least 16 cups capacity, melt 3 T of the butter. Add all the aromatics and vegetables except for the corn and cook over moderately high heat, stirring so they don’t scorch, for about 8-10 minutes, or until the vegetables are brown. Add the corn and the other T of butter and cook, stirring, for about 5-6 minutes. Dissolve the saffron in the wine and add to the pot along with the tomato sauce; let it boil 2-3 minutes.
Add the corn and lobster stocks to the pot (6 cups total). Bring to a boil, skim the foam from the edges, and reduce and simmer, lid ajar, for 1 ½ hours. Add a large pinch of salt and a few twists from the pepper mill; taste and correct seasoning. Add the rice and simmer for an additional 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Using a food processor or an immersion blender, puree the broth and vegetable mixture. Strain through a conical strainer (a “China cap”) or other fine sieve into a 3 qt saucepan. Refrigerate until serving time.
To serve: Reheat the pureed soup base over medium heat. Heat and ignite the cognac, and pour it into the soup. Stir in the heavy cream; this is one of the unusual instances where less is more. Serve in shallow bowls (the classic is a white two-handled cup or shallow, rimmed dish), garnished with the reserved fresh lobster meat and a little finely chopped parsley or other compatible herb. Don’t forget the champagne.
Note: In Rhode Island, as along most of the New England coast, children learn how to remove the meat from a lobster before they know how to tie their shoes. If you are, as they say, “not from here,” you can follow these directions. I use minimal water when making stocks; just cram the bodies into the pan, crushing the shells down if needed.

Beets: Sweet

How could you not like a vegetable that is simultaneously considered an aphrodisiac and all-around medicinal superstar, and when cooked and peeled glistens like a jewel and tastes like buttered silk? That comes in purple, gold, and pink-and-white striped packages? This is the not-so-humble beet, excellent source of sugar, dietary fiber, folic acid, minerals, and antioxidants like vitamin C. Beets are one of the few vegetables I liked as a kid (along with their less sugary but also sweet friends, corn and carrots), but when I started cooking I really came to appreciate them. Like a reliable dinner party guest, they can blend in anywhere and keep up their end of the conversation.

That is, pickled beets and borscht are only a few of their many amenable talents. They or their juice add intense color (and sweetness) to pasta, custards and ice creams, broths, and cakes; they are even used rather widely to enhance reds in commercial food production. Beets can be candied, pureed, or grated raw. They have a natural affinity for similarly hard vegetables and fruits, cooked or not: carrots, apples, pears, radishes, jicama, celery root. They love acid—any vinegar, especially sherry or balsamic, and orange, lemon, or lime—and spices like ginger, black pepper, allspice, and chili. They are good w/ nuts and with most soft cheeses like blue, goat, and mozzarella. They are at home with meat or fish. And, of course, you can make wine.

A basic and infinitely variable combination of flavors and textures that I like is beets with corn and goat cheese. I use it for my favorite pizza in the world (after the simple Margherita, of course), a grilled pizza with a smear of tomato sauce topped with beets, onions, corn, goat cheese, and a sprinkling of parm and basil. If I have time, I cook all the vegetables on the grill. Sometimes, as in the photo, I finish the pizza indoors, either in the oven or on top of the stove on my trusty old Calphalon. I love the beet/corn/goat cheese combo so much that I often eat it as a salad with a sherry vinaigrette, or make some sort of taco or egg or stuffed beef dish with it.

Local beets are available spring through fall. Buy beets that are firm and of uniform shape, and that look, even when dirt-covered, smooth and purple rather than woody; the leaves should be fresh and sprightly. Try to cook them as soon as possible after buying; it is better, in my opinion, to store them cooked rather than uncooked. If you do refrigerate them before cooking, cut the leaves off a few inches from the beetroot (the color starts to bleed as soon as you cut into the root), do not wash, and store in a paper bag in a low-humidity bin. To cook, roasting is the way to go: Preheat oven to 400 F (for a few beets, I use the toaster oven). Trim beets close to the root. Place each beet onto a rectangle of foil; roll up and twist the ends. I don’t season them before cooking because who knows what I may want to do with them, but you could, with a little salt, pepper, and olive oil or butter in the packet. Roast until easily pierced with a paring knife; depending on the size of the beets, this could be 20-40 minutes. If not using immediately, I throw the foil packets right in the fridge until I want them, up to several days. When ready for them, unwrap and rub the skins off with your fingers.

The late fall beets are a nice size and shape—and luckily for me, there is still corn, both the bicolor variety Providence and white variety 86. I consider goat cheese to be a staple, so that’s on hand. I have my favorite Mexican chorizo, El Popular (o.k., I consider that a staple, too), Serranos, and coriander. I’m hungry for breakfast, so make these sweet, sour, spicy taquitos.

Triple S Breakfast Taquitos

This makes enough for about 8 taquitos, with leftover meat and possibly cheese for making an omelet the next day. Note that this is Mexican chorizo, a completely different product than the Portuguese or Spanish; if you can’t find it, it’s relatively easy to make (but not as good as El Popular’s). Although this recipe has several steps, they only take a few minutes each.

For the corn

3 ears corn, cut off the cob
1-2 Serrano chilies, stem trimmed
¼ cup water
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup heavy cream
Pinch kosher salt

For the beets

3/4 lb beets (about 4 medium), roasted as directed above
1 stick El Popular or other Mexican chorizo, or just under ½ lb
1 tea sherry vinegar

For assembly

5” corn tortillas
2 or 3 teaspoons lard
5 oz mild cold goat cheese, such as Montrachet
2 T finely chopped cilantro
Reserved beets (optional)

Over high heat in a 9” lightly buttered skillet, toss the corn and the chili for a minute or two until it is smoking and begins to brown. Add the water and sugar and cook over medium-high heat for about three minutes (it will begin to brown rather quickly); add the cream and a large pinch of salt; cook another minute and set aside; it will be saucy, not thick.

Peel, slice, and chop the roasted beets into ¼” dice; if you wish, remove about ¼ cup of them for garnish and set aside.

Slit the plastic casing of the chorizo along its length, and turn the chorizo into a frying pan. Cook over medium heat, chopping with the edge of a wooden spoon, until it’s a fine mince and has released its red oil; do not allow it to brown. Toss in the diced beets and the vinegar, and stir to heat and combine. Keep warm.

In a small cast iron skillet or crepe pan, melt about a teaspoon of lard. The oil should be enough so that the tortillas coat and sizzle, but not enough for them to submerge. Fry the tortillas until they are lightly brown and puff a little; drain on paper towels, then place on the rack of a 300 F oven to stay warm.

Crumble the cold goat cheese quickly with your fingers; using a fork, toss with the chopped coriander. For each taquito, spread about 2 T of the caramel corn out to the edge; put a generous T of chorizo-beet mixture in the center; garnish with a few of the reserved beet jewels if desired; and top with a sprinkling of the goat cheese.