Poblanos: Chile Charmer

   

There are absolutely gorgeous poblano peppers available now: just the right size—about 4” long and 3” wide at the shoulder--, perfectly conical or heart-shaped, glossy dark green-black. You might not go out looking for them, but they will charm their way into your shopping basket anyway, they are just so fresh-faced and spotless.

And you know that their beauty is more than skin-deep; there’s real substance there. Poblanos are meaty and rich-tasting with a mild-to-moderate flavorful, never raw or grating, heat. They have a medium-thick wall that holds up well when grilled, stuffed, or fried, but that allows them to be at home in gentler preparations, like stir-fries and soups. While I love the small, hotter Serrano for seasoning, the poblano is my idea of the perfect all-around chile pepper. It also is the source of my favorite (and again, the most versatile) dried chile, the ancho, an essential for earthy sauces.

To prepare poblanos, broil or grill them, taking care that they don’t burn, until the skins are lightly charred and blistered all over; I use my toaster oven when doing just a few. Put them in a plastic bag or towel to steam for a few minutes, then pull and rub off the skins, and gently pull out the stem and attached seeds; it can be helpful to do this under running water, and to let the water flow into the chile to remove any escaped seeds. Pat hem dry or set them to drain between paper towels, and then they are ready to use. One of my favorite supper dishes is chiles rellenos, so I tend to make them over and over—and will share my recipe soon. I have already told you about the divine chile-relleno burger. And I often make corn soup with rajas de chile poblano (strips of poblano). But in a pinch I just lightly dust them with cornmeal, fill them with a little cheese, and sauté and serve them with an uncooked fruity and creamy sauce that sets off the heat. It makes a quick appetizer.

Poblanos with Pineapple Cream

Use white or yellow cornmeal; I use my jonnycake meal. Serves 4.

4 medium perfect poblano chiles, skins and seeds removed
2 oz firm mozzarella or soft goat cheese 
1 large egg
1 tea water
1 tea corn oil
pinch salt
cornmeal
2 T unsalted butter
1 T corn oil

¼ buttermilk
¼ cup light cream or half and half
½ cup fresh ripe pineapple

finely chopped cilantro or parsley

Divide the cheese into 4 portions and insert gently into the chiles. Spread a cup or so of cornmeal on a board or sheet of wax paper. In a shallow dish, beat the egg with the water, oil, and salt. Dip the chiles into the egg mixture, turning, and then coat them with cornmeal. Set aside to dry a little.

In a blender, combine the pineapple, buttermilk, and cream or half and half. Puree till smooth; strain if you wish (I don’t), and refrigerate until needed.

Melt the butter with the oil in a 9” sauté pan. Cook the chiles two at a time, turning once, over medium-high heat until golden and the cheese has melted (keep the first batch warm in a 250 F oven while you cook the second). Serve hot with a little of the cold sauce and some chopped fresh coriander or parsley.

 

Eureka: The Elusive Stayman Winesap

   

Late last summer in my post about apples, I listed the Stayman Winesap as one of my grandmother’s favorite cooking apples, and how unusual it is to find it these days. I am happy to report (mostly for myself, as it doesn’t much help you) that I am presently, and of course fleetingly as with all earthly gifts, in possession of this wonderful apple. My grandmother loved it for pie, as I do as well. It is a late season, October apple, so look around for them and you too may find them, if you are lucky. They are not grown commercially much anymore in these days of the perfect-looking (if tasteless or over-sweet) apple, as the skin is prone to cracking if conditions are not right. But mine, locally grown, look beautiful.

The Stayman Winesap is a cross between two distinct apples, a Stayman and a Winsap, that appeared by chance in the late 1860s; by 1895 it had been introduced by Stark Brothers, the famous seed nurserymen, and from a timing standpoint it would have been in its heyday when my grandmother was a young woman. It is crisp but not dry like some crisp apples; tart and spicy; and yes, has a winey, or sort of honey-nectary, taste. This makes Stayman Winesaps good for eating as well as pies and other desserts, and their texture  and color--a sort of yellowy gold--also suits them nicely for applesauce.

My grandmother was one of those women who baked as regularly and naturally as she breathed; it was part of the continuous motion of her presence in the kitchen, seamless with the washing of dishes, the cleaning out of the refrigerator or straightening of the pantry shelves, the taking out of the trash. So routine and low-key were her efforts that it was sometimes a shock when, though you’d been sitting right there talking with her when you got home from school, some favorite treat appeared on the counter before you like a conjurer’s trick. This might be an apple, chocolate cream, or lemon sponge pie, or her inimitable yeast coffeecake. But more often than not it was this Dutch Apple Cake, which, like any good magician, she could produce in the blink of an eye.

Grandma’s Dutch Apple Cake

I have never seen this cake anywhere but home. It is plain and delicious, and was a family weeknight standby and favorite. It is best served the day it is made; in our large family, we rarely had leftovers, even though my grandmother made this in a big rectangular pan twice the size of here. Serve it alone, or with a little heavy cream or ice cream. Serves 6-9.

10 oz. butter
2/3 cup sugar
2 large eggs
¼ tea pure vanilla extract
1 ¼ cups a-p flour
¼ tea salt
1 ½ tea baking powder
3-4 medium Stayman Winesaps or other tart, firm apple such as Corlands

1/3-1/2 cup sugar
½ teaspoon fresh ground cinnamon
2 T butter

Preheat oven to 350 F. Butter a 9” square pan. Mix the 1/3 cup sugar with the cinnamon and set aside.

In a 2-3 qt saucepan, melt the 10 oz of butter and remove from the heat to cool slightly. Stir in the sugar, and then the eggs, until combined and viscous; stir in the vanilla. Sift the flour, salt, and baking powder into the pan and stir well to form a batter. Pour into the prepared pan.

Peel and core the apples, and slice about ½” thick. Press the slices into the batter, curved side down, in neat rows (truth be told, I don't know why I did not put a fourth row in--I had the apples all cut--as the apples should be close together, and it is all right for them to intersect somewhat). Sprinkle generously with the cinnamon-sugar, dot with the remaining butter, and bake for about 35-40 minutes. Let cool on a rack at least 10 minutes before cutting into squares. I happen to like the slightly chewy end piece.

                     

Pole Beans: A Wonder

    

Those of you who are home gardeners, or who are old enough to remember “when green beans were green beans”—stringy, large, and grown vertically rather than in bushes—will remember the Kentucky Wonder. I remember my father, a suburban dweller and an occasional gardener with a country man’s heart, raving about them.

Originally called “Old Homestead,” the Kentucky Wonder has been around for over 150 years and is enjoying renewed interest as an heirloom variety. While the venerated Blue Lake variety is more popular, especially in the East, the Kentucky Wonder is being rediscovered. In the South, it was never lost, and remains the choice bean for stewing with a little smoked pork.

While not nearly as smooth, straight, and beautiful and deep green as Blue Lakes, Kentucky wonders certainly take the prize on size. This is a major reason for their name, but another is their wonderful true green-bean flavor. Yes, they can be stringy (unlike Blue Lakes) or a bit tough, but only if they are old. If you grow them, or locate them very fresh, you will find they have a beautiful snapping quality—hence their other moniker, snap beans—and may not need stringing at all. The fresh-picked beans pictured here did not.

Look for beans that are long (curvaceous is fine) and bulging with seeds, but flexible (not leathery) to the touch; snap one as a test of its freshness and taste it. A good pole bean is tasty raw, not fibrous or tough. They will only need breaking off the stem end. Cook them as soon after buying them as you can, as they will toughen and lose flavor with storage.

Coming across these beans at the farmer’s market took me back. I am accustomed to cooking my green beans uncovered for four minutes—and serving them bright and crisp-tender with butter and salt. But these beans call for something slower and more old-fashioned. They are still cooked this way in the South. And they are delicious.

Pole Beans with Smoked Ham Hock

If fresh, these beans could technically be eaten after 30-45 minutes of cooking. But if you double that amount of time, you will have greater depth of flavor—and a wonderful “pot liquor” in which to dunk some cornbread—and still have good texture. The directions are general, as this is not precise cooking. Have old, somewhat overgrown Blue Lakes or other beans? Try them this way. You can also add some small potatoes for the last half-hour of cooking for a nice one-pot vegetarian meal. Serves 4.

1 lb pole beans, such as Kentucky Wonder
½ lb lightly smoked ham hock (with bone) or 1/3 lb slab bacon
1 small onion
big pinch salt
1 cup or more light ham or chicken stock, or water
half a mild chile, such as Hatch, Anaheim, or Poblano

Remove the stems from the beans and snap them into pieces about 2” in length. Set aside.

Cut the meat off the hock and chop it into small pieces, or dice the bacon. Render in a Dutch Oven or other heavy pot. Slice or chop the onion and add it to the rendered fat; sauté over medium heat until both the pork and the onion are lightly brown. 

Add the snapped beans and sauté for a few minutes. Add a big pinch of salt and add stock just to cover the beans. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer, cover, and cook for about 45 minutes. Add the chile and cook for another 15-30 minutes.

 

Store Cheese

        

You don’t hear the term “store cheese” too much anymore because, well, most of the stores are gone. The general stores, that is, where giant wheels of cheese sat out on the wooden counter, usually the meat counter, waiting to be cut to order. These wheels weighed some 40 pounds, maybe more, and they were a beautiful, reassuring sight. As long as that sturdy wheel sat there, you knew that some things, at least, could be relied upon. Its sheer size, its magnificent presence, was a kind of guarantee. Whether you bought some or not—which usually you did--it was there if you needed it. Without the store, there’s no cheese, and life in places where the store and the cheese have disappeared is less secure because of it.

Store cheese is always cheddar, but very fine cheddar—one that is well-aged, white, meltingly creamy, ideal at room temperature—indeed, almost warm. To describe it as extra sharp would be an injustice; its mouth-filling flavor is more aptly expressed as intensely rich with a saliva-producing edge. Its texture is firm but not hard, and it should fracture or break nicely when cold. Because a well-aged cheddar will soften considerably as it warms, be sure it is cold when you grate it, and keep grated cheese cool until you are ready to use it so it doesn’t mush together.

Cheddar’s origins are English, and New Englanders remain deeply committed to their ancestral cheese. The store cheese that I know and love comes from Cabot Creamery in Vermont, and for years it was sold at Wilbur’s Store in Little Compton. Actually, it still is: Wilbur’s is still there, and the cheese is still sold there. But Wilbur’s changed hands, and now the store cuts it up in advance rather than to order, and sells pieces already wrapped and marked. It’s the same cheese. But it’s not the same.

LCM Store Cheese Soufflé

Bread forms the “base” of this soufflé, eliminating the need to make a white sauce. You could serve this for lunch with a big plate of sliced tomatoes or as a side dish at dinner, especially with ham. Serves 4.

1 cup coarse fresh bread crumbs plus additional for topping (see Note)
1 cup grated best-quality store cheese or well-aged white cheddar, packed
2 cups whole milk
2 large eggs, separated
½ tea salt
1/8 tea cayenne pepper
1-2 T cold unsalted butter

Preheat oven to 400 F. Butter a 1 ½ qt soufflé dish or 4 1-cup ramekins or small bowls; tapered bowls seem to encourage a nice mound.

In a medium bowl, place the bread crumbs and cover with the milk; allow to rest for a minute. Drop in the egg yolks and beat. Add the cheese and stir. Beat the  egg whites until stiff and fold them into the other ingredients in two stages.

Using a ladle, fill the dish or distribute the batter among the ramekins or bowls. Sprinkle the tops with additional breadcrumbs, and dot with butter.

Bake for about 30 minutes, or until puffy and nicely browned. Like all soufflés, these will fall soon after removing from the oven. By all means send them to the table, but wait ten minutes or so before cutting into them or they may throw some liquid. They will still be hot, and their texture excellent, after the wait.

 

Note: Fresh bread crumbs can be made from any fresh or day-old but not dry or hard bread, crusts removed. A food processor is the perfect tool for this; a few pulses with give your coarse crumbs, and few more, fine ones. If you don't have a food processor, your can tear the bread into small pieces for this recipe.

I keep a bag of fine dry bread crumbs in the freezer at all times, and replenish it whenever I have a few leftover pieces or an odd bread end. They have endless uses as toppings and thickenings, and for breading meats and fish. There is nothing so alluring as a casserole topped with a crunchy golden crown or a plate-size veal schnitzel with lemon, and having crumbs always on hand makes them everyday options.

                   

Remembering Rosemary

Rosemary is for remembrance, so as the nights cool and fall is officially upon us, we should not forget her. It’s not quite time to bring in the herbs for drying before there is a sudden frost, but it’s getting close enough that we should probably put our fresh herbs to use as often as we can, while we can. It’s easy enough to use up the basil and parsley; one scarcely needs, or even wants, to think beyond pesto for the freezer, to be taken out in the dead of winter, or a hearty tabouli that has the additional virtue of using up the last of the tomatoes. Even the abundant sage lends itself to treatments that quickly utilize its production: frying up the leaves produces a wonderful crunchy salted appetizer or garnish for a rustic plate. But rosemary presents a little more of a challenge. It is very strong and astringent, almost piney, and its leaves are stiff and stems are woody. It always seems easiest to dry the branches, shred off the leaves, and save them for what we normally would use the fresh branches for: stuffing into a chicken, or using sparingly in a marinade for lamb or poultry, or to scatter over the grill to scent the smoke as we cook.

But there are other uses for this assertive herb, and they fall into the category of preserving their fresh taste for a punch of summertime flavor when we most need it, in the dark days of winter. Rosemary makes wonderful jelly for serving on muffins or biscuits or as an accompaniment to lamb, veal, or poultry. It can be used to infuse oils and vinegars for salads, for dipping bread, or for pickling or marinating bright vegetables such as carrots. Another nice way to use it is to make this syrup, which is pretty versatile. You can use it in drinks calling for simple syrup for an unusual cocktail; every time I try one of my preserves in a drink recipe (I have used rose hip syrup and pickled sour cherries, among others), I am always pleased. Rosemary syrup is excellent over cheese, alone or with fresh or dried fruit; try it with parmesan, gouda, or a tangy goat cheese. And it makes for a nice dessert, simply poured over pound cake or vanilla ice cream and, if you have it, a little fresh grilled fruit such as figs or pears, or some lightly sautéed apples. 

So remember rosemary as you put your herbs away for the year. And of course, if you forget, she will be back, loyally popping up out of the ground next year to remind you of her virtues.

Rosemary Syrup

In keeping with the Mediterranean roots of Rosemary, I use honey; you can use all sugar if you like. Makes about 1 1/2 cups.

½ cup rosemary leaves, stripped and firmly packed
1 cup boiling water

¼ honey, preferably from fruit or wildflowers
2/3 cup sugar
3 dime-size pieces lemon zest
1-2 drops pure orange oil (optional)
1 T white balsamic vinegar
2” piece fresh stick cinnamon

Make an infusion: pour the boiling water over the rosemary leaves in a small bowl. Cover and let steep about 10 minutes. 

In a small saucepan, put the honey, sugar, lemon rind and orange oil if using, vinegar, and cinnamon. Strain the rosemary infusion into the pan, discarding the spent leaves, and stir to combine. Bring the mixture to a boil, reduce somewhat, and let bubble for 5-10 minutes, until it forms a light syrup; you can boil it down to be a little thicker if you wish, but it is more versatile if it is thin.

Strain into a measuring cup or small bowl, transferring the cinnamon stick from the strainer to the syrup; leave it in while the syrup cools. Store in the refrigerator.

                                              

Indian Meal

I was rearranging my cookbooks recently and as usual, got sidetracked. It is always my collection of old pamphlets and antique cookery books that draws me in the most. Inside one I found some notes I had taken at the Brown University archives in Providence a few years ago. I was supposed to be working on something else at the time, but of course I got sidetracked again—to their own collection of old cookbooks. That’s one of the lovely problems with libraries.

The notes I found were all on various recipes using corn and Indian meal, which is the old term for stoneground white-cap flint cornmeal, or jonnycake meal, discussed in this blog in the context of Portuguese bread and thick and thin jonnycakes. The recipes came from books with titles like The Indian Meal Book: Comprising the Best Receipts for the Preparation of That Article (1847). I’ve yet to try many of them, but looking them over reminded me of how long it had been since I’d made Indian Pudding.

Indian pudding, like jonnycakes, is a bit of an acquired taste. It’s old-fashioned enough that it has disappeared from the majority of restaurant menus, but, for the same reason, remains firmly on the menu of many a Rhode Island and Massachusetts country or traditional restaurant. It is made with cornmeal, so has an unusual, slightly grainy texture. Some versions are strongly flavored with molasses, to which some people are partial, some are not; and some are very (I think overly) sweet. All versions qualify as nursery food—soft and comforting.

Here is a version of Indian pudding that is a little less sweet and more delicate than some, as it is made with a modest amount of maple syrup and only enough molasses to give it a good color and characteristic flavor. It uses the trick of pouring cold milk over it partway through cooking to create a softer texture—and a more authentic one—than those puddings that more closely resemble a baked custard. Both types are good. Vanilla ice cream is more often than not the accompaniment, with whipped cream a fine alternative.

Indian Pudding

If you like raisins, you can put some in with the milk when you scald it, or you can stew some in a little brandy or rum and pour them over the ice cream when you serve. Serves 6.

3 cups whole milk
2 T butter, lard, or chopped suet
½ cup Grade B pure maple syrup
2 T molasses
1 ¼ tea ground ginger
generous dash cinnamon
½ tea salt
½ cup RI stoneground white flint cornmeal
3 large eggs, beaten
1 cup cold whole milk

Preheat the oven to 300 F. Butter a baking dish, about 9” square or about 2 quarts.

Scald the milk together with butter, syrup, molasses, ginger, cinnamon, and salt. Add the cornmeal and stir constantly until it is about as thick as a thin cake  batter, about 10 minutes. Pour a little of the hot cornmeal-milk mixture into the eggs to temper them, then stir the eggs into the cornmeal-milk mixture in the pan. When well combined, pour into the prepared pan and bake for about a hour. Open the oven door, stir the pudding (which will be quite firm), smoothing the top with the back of the spoon, and then pour over it the cup of cold milk. Continue baking for another hour. You can serve the pudding warm (cooled for 20 minutes or more) or cold.

          

Pie for Lunch

My preference for eating pie for breakfast is near-congenital, as I grew up at a time, and with a familial background, that viewed a big slice of apple pie before school not only as normal, but darn good for you. I maintain this view, and am hard-pressed to think of something I’d rather, or even just as soon, have with my morning cup of coffee.

Of course, by pie for breakfast I mean the same pies you’d have for dessert, at least in summer and fall when fruits are abundant, and you are joining their ripe and juicy nutrition with just a little sugar and a nice complement of flaky pastry. At lunch, my idea of pie is of something more savory, with a hint of richness instead of sweetness. Beginning in the 1950s, as soldiers brought back a little continental awareness from the war and ordinary Americans began to travel, quiche Lorraine became all the rage. While it has been distorted beyond belief and is often served abysmally old, cold, and watery, this lunchtime pie, made well, remains a wonderful dish. But long before quiche hit our shore, another kind of lunch pie was popular in New England. Pie is, after all, what we do.

I speak, naturally, of the tomato pie, which appears to be making a comeback of sorts. Tomato pie is and always has been a way that frugal or desperate farmwives have found to use up a seemingly never-ending supply of tomatoes. After a magnificent August, what is usually a bumper crop of September tomatoes is more of a bumptious crop: aggressively asserting its insistent presence everywhere one turns, demanding to be used, demanding to be eaten. So, tomato pie for lunch it is—and we wonder, with the first bite, why we don’t make it more often.

New England Tomato Pie

If you make the crust the night before, this goes together quickly. Butter in the crust both complements the tomato and gives it a firm base. Children seem to like this as much as adults do. Serves 6 for lunch, with a salad on the side, or 12 as a cocktail appetizer.

Crust

1 ¼ cup a-p flour
1/3 cup stoneground RI white flint cornmeal
¼ tea salt
1/8 tea ground white pepper
6 T cold unsalted butter
4-5 T ice water
1 egg white (save the yolk for your salad dressing)

Filling

½ large sweet onion, generous, sliced 1/8” thin
1 T olive oil
1 T unsalted butter
½ tea kosher salt
8 or so twists of the pepper mill

2-3 medium-large, perfectly ripe tomatoes, sliced ¼” thin (heirlooms or beefsteaks are good)
5 oz extra-sharp white cheddar, such as Cabot’s, coarsely grated
¼ cup chopped fresh parsley
2-3 T finely grated parmeggiano reggiano
additional chopped parsley for garnish (optional)

To make the crust, combine the dry ingredients and cut in the butter until the mixture is like coarse, pebbly sand. Add the water gradually; because of the cornmeal, it will require more than a standard pie crust. When the dough comes together, form it into a flat disk, wrap, and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight. I generally use a food processor to make pastry these days because it saves time and mess.

Preheat the oven to 375° F. Remove the dough from the refrigerator to soften enough to roll.

On a floured surface, roll the dough out to a circle of 11-12". Fit it loosely into a 9" fluted tart pan with a removable bottom, pressing gently with a finger along the bottom rim. Roll the pin across the top of the pan, which will cut the excess pastry off (see Note, below). Brush the surface of the dough with egg white, and refrigerate while you make the filling.

Heat the butter and olive oil together over medium-high heat, and add the onion. Sauté a few minutes, and as they begin to soften, add the salt and white pepper. Cook them until they are soft and translucent, but do not let them shrivel and brown. Set aside to cool.

Slice the tomatoes; holding the slices over the sink, shake and gently press out most of the seeds. Lay the tomato slices between paper towels to absorb excess juice. Grate the cheese, chop the parsley, and loosely combine them.

Remove the chilled tart shell from the refrigerator, and distribute the cheese and parsley on the bottom of the tart pan, then the onions on top of the cheese. Arrange the sliced tomatoes over all, overlapping the slices no more than two layers deep. Press down gently with the palm of your hand. Sprinkle with the remaining cheddar and the parm.

Bake for about 50 minutes. Let cool on a rack for 10 minutes or more before removing the tart ring. Slide onto a platter, and serve warm or at room temperature.

Note: You can make crackers out of the strip of pastry that falls off. Cut leftover scraps (don’t re-roll) into 1 ½-2” pieces. Dust with caraway powder and sprinkle with caraway seed. Put them on a cookie sheet and bake about 8 minutes, or until golden. Sprinkle with kosher salt on removal from the oven. Serve with cocktails.