Vittles

day five

2011-03-18T19:33:00.000-07:00

Thankfully, arugula is not Dumb and Dumber.

Everyone told me for years that Dumb and Dumber was the most hilarious movie they'd ever seen. A classic. Slap-your-grandma, laugh-til-you-cry, beyond-words funny. And then I finally saw it, and regretted the utter waste of a good hour and a half.

Chefs do the same dadgum thing with arugula. It's on every the menu at any restaurant with more than two stars, tossed, sauteed, wilted and dressed. If you watch "Chopped" once, you will see arugula used, probably in every course. That stuff is used in nearly every dish on the Food Network, and lauded by chefs as if it is the green of heaven, the Old Faithful of salad.

And you know what? It lived up to its reputation. I couldn't believe it! It's like finally seeing The Shawshank Redemption, and you laugh and weep along with everyone else. Granted arugula may not bring you to tears... but it's so good it'll make you want to eat salad*, and that's saying something.

It's bright and succulent, earthy and somehow rich. I've never tasted a leaf like it!

Day Five: it's weirding me out how well this experiment is going...

*I made mine with a quick dressing of white wine, olive oil, white wine vinegar, and lemon juice. Mwah!

day four

2011-03-17T16:51:00.000-07:00

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

Until a couple years ago, cabbages, for me, were never something that should be paired with kings. Sealing wax, I could see. In fact, I imagined the taste was something similar to sealing wax... unspeakably bland and better suited for idiotic soup diets than my kitchen.

Then I discovered the magic of caramelization, and its reliable power to elevate and transmogrify even the most vanilla of vegetables.

Today I picked up a beautiful, firm, pale head of organic cabbage on my daily trek to FRESH. Generally speaking, I'm not one to grab something because of the organic label, but this cabbage was so cunningly displayed, scattered among halves of purple cabbage, the celadon and violet so lovely against each other... and anyone who knows me at all knows I am helpless against the allure of well-placed colors.

The cabbage (after being tossed into the air by my husband like a volleyball -- see below), ended up shredded, sauteed in chicken stock and olive oil, and thrown into a giant pot with rice soup, smoked chicken and asiago cheese. Hearty and warm, and an apt farewell to the winter months.

Day Four: a tasty, albeit safe, success.

day three

2011-03-16T18:52:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to deny it... I judged a book by its cover. Or rather its title. A vegetable by its title. Or rather its name. Argh, mixed metaphors!

But ruby crescent fingerling potatoes, who could resist? I also stocked up on goat cheese, rosemary-olive oil bread and a smoked chicken, and we ate like French picnickers while watching HGTV.

The potatoes were so delicate and pretty I wanted to treat them simply, so I just cut them in half, tossed them in olive oil and s&p and roasted them for half an hour. My husband's reaction was, "They taste like potatoes." But perhaps my palette is more refined -- no, not "perhaps," but "because" -- I tasted a faint sweetness to the potato's flesh, and the skin was ever so fragile and crisped up beautifully.

Day Three: I'm bound for a failure soon...

day two

2011-03-15T18:38:00.000-07:00

It shone up at me, winking with all its faux dew among the bins stuffed with leaves. Those stalks, brilliant as ripe rhubarb and half the size! Those leaves, gently curled and green as the deepest forest! And what an ethereal, gossamer name...

CHARD.

Ugh. Seriously, who named this jewel-toned vegetable "chard"? It sounds malignant, smelly, unpleasant -- like a cross between upchuck and... you know... other bodily functions that will not be named by this delicate lady.

Chard is, however, abundant along the Mediterranean coastline and absolutely packed with nutrients and other good stuff. Which, naturally, I banished by cooking this wholly healthy green in a pan slick with bacon fat.

Which, naturally, was delicious.

Day Two: Success, encore!

day one

2011-03-14T18:33:00.000-07:00

Picking up sea beans for dinner, eh?

Yup.

Today, in an effort to both stop eating like a McDonald's-addicted-glutton AND yank myself out of a cooking rut, I began a grand scheme. My goal is simple: actually consume vegetables, and try something new in the kitchen EVERY day.

So, on the way home from work, I stopped at FRESH, the glorious mecca of gourmet food that is so brand spankin' new and shiny it nearly blinds you. It's beautiful. It's prefect. So stocked and chock full of pristine fruit and wheels of cheese and fresh-baked bread and cured meats you simply canNOT walk through the store without your hands inexplicably filling with goodies. Of course, my inordinate love for Brookshire's (which my husband views with an appropriate amount of kindness and embarrassment) may cause me to be a little biased, but this is the kind of Central Market big-city market we never thought would grace Tyler. And the overstuffed parking lot leads me to believe I'm not the only FRESH devotee.

On my very first visit to FRESH's produce section, meandering past the bittermelon and giant radishes and baseball-bat-sized Japanese potatoes, I was seized with a fantastic idea. Every day, I'll stop by FRESH on the way home, pick a different vegetable and structure a meal around it -- gradually working my way through the seemingly infinite rows of produce. Just figure it out, look up a couple recipes, and see what magic I can work with anything from mini purple artichokes to golden beets.

What spectacular successes and failures will undoubtedly beset me! And what fun along the way!

So here goes. Today a tiny, hidden bin of sea beans caught my eye. Crunchy, salty, and brightly verdant, these teeny-tiny beans sat atop a bowl of white cheddar risotto I whipped up, and were quite delicious. Like a funky, wonderfully salty garnish, they lent a smoky, somehow delicious seawater flavor to the dish. With a bit of research, I discovered that sea beans are hermaphrodite herbs (seriously) that are otherwise known by the unflattering names of marshwort, salicornia and pickleweed, and they grow all over the place...as long as there's a sea nearby.

Day One: total success.

birthday cake

2010-09-02T19:29:00.000-07:00

It just seemed appropriate to celebrate my great grandma Vae's birthday by making a recipe that must've been destined to come into my hands -- Vanilla Wafer Cake. While she pulverized the cookies and made them into batter, I apparently used to climb into any cabinet to get into a box of my own and would scream bloody murder if denied. Four generations between us, but clearly we both love those cookies!

Executing this queer little recipe was a near-herculean task and a definite comedy of errors. Vae's instructions are beautiful, certainly, but pretty vague. I'd love to know how many ounces of Nilla Wafers were in that "25-cent box" she refers to, and I'd really love to know how the heck she ground up all those cookies without a food processor. Right now my favorite image involves her pouring them into a sack and pounding them to dust with a hammer on the sidewalk. Still wearing a skirt and heels.

How long did it take her to get the icing (a cooked icing, no less!) to the soft-ball stage?? Because it took me almost an hour. Then I spent another 45 minutes fiddling with a bowl of, let's face it, hot caramel and trying to whip it into something resembling icing. All this after spending a good half hour getting the cake together and fudging this and that to make it less a thick goop and more a pourable batter.

It was an interesting, and highly enjoyable, process, and you'll be glad to know I've simplified things for you quite a bit. Below you'll see the original recipe, because it just looks so darn cool, but scroll down a bit farther to find a fleshed-out recipe that'll guarantee a much less haphazard and prolonged time in the kitchen.

(Oh, and this cake is rich, decadent, and totally sinful. As all cakes should be...)

cake
3/4 cup sugar
1 stick of butter, softened
4 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1 box Nilla Wafers
1 cup chopped pecans
1 cup coconut flakes
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

Cream together the butter and sugar, then add the eggs one at a time. Add the milk. Pulverize the cookies in a food processor till they are finely ground. Add the cookies to the batter, then fold in the pecans, coconut and baking powder. Grease and flour either two round 9-inch pans or a 9x13 pan. Spread the batter in the pans, then bake at 325 for 30 minutes.

icing
2 cups sugar
1 stick of butter
1 can of evaporated milk
1 tsp. salt

Put all ingredients into a small saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to low to maintain a rolling simmer. Allow to simmer for 45-50 minutes (haul out a good book), stirring occasionally. Remove from heat, and allow to cool for 30 minutes. If you're making a sheet cake, poke holes into the cake and pour the icing all over the cake. If you make a layer cake, allow the icing to cool completely, then beat at a high speed for 7-8 minutes or until spreadable. Ice the cake, and serve!

penmanship

2010-08-26T20:20:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile. I've been away. My fingers have been idle... at least in the literary sense. Sure, I've been cooking. Almost every night, in fact, and now I have an even bigger table to feed. The only problem is, I haven't really felt... inspired. Inspired to try something new, something different, something fresh. To unearth and savor old family recipes that have long been forgotten. And, you know, write about it.

But inspiration attacked me this weekend in the form of a warped, battered navy cookbook from the 1940s -- my great-grandmother Vae's copy of The Household Searchlight Recipe Book.* Modestly sized, virtually free of photography and sepia-toned, the book is a treasure trove of the delicious (cheese soup, butter cake) and the bizarre (Baked Heart, Prune Whip). But the most precious thing it contains is several recipes in Vae's scrolling, perfect cursive.

My Nanny still loves her handwriting so much it makes her a bit misty, and I can't deny the emotional pull of seeing the words she labored over sixty years ago. There are so many delightfully old-fashioned phrases... "sweet milk" to distinguish from buttermilk, "oleo" instead of butter or margarine, "a 25-cent box of Vanilla Wafers" instead of, well, I have NO idea what size that'd be today.

Sure, it's cheesy and dorky and smacks of sentimentality, but I just can't help it. I can't wait to try Vae's toffee bars and sand tarts and her sister Grace's recipe for pecan pie... I can't wait to feel like I'm connecting with a woman I've only ever known through stories, getting to know her in the place where she must have churned away hours by herself, a place where she expressed herself and created beautiful things. When I make her recipes, it's like I get a little slice of time in the kitchen, right next to her. Are these recipes precious to me? Beyond words.

And I can't wait to try every one!

*Where did those wonderfully sturdy cookbook names run off to? Now cookbook titles are all fancy-schmancy... "From Vines to Wines," "Earth to Table," "Harvest for Hope"... huh?

oregon - a visual feast!

2010-06-18T21:35:00.000-07:00

Every Saturday, near Portland State University, local farmers and growers spread out the jewels of their labor for all to marvel over and enjoy. And during our recent family trip to Oregon, we cut out a couple hours for time at the farmers' market and were not let down. From picturesque piles of crisp winter vegetables...

... to mounds of sun-hued carrots...

... to the French radishes I've longed to taste for a year, there was a wealth of beautiful, delicious food at our fingertips. We ate the radishes that night during dinner, dipped in dairy-fresh butter and sprinkled with salt, and though my brothers wrinkled their noses at the taste, I was happily satisfied. They were just as mild and sweet as promised by my beloved French cookbook! And accompanied by sheep's milk cheese, crusty baguettes and sauteed asparagus (all gleaned from the market), they were the perfect summer's meal.

To my husband's great delight, we found a singularly calorie-packed lunch at The Grilled Cheese Grill... a hamburger nestled between 2 grilled-cheese sandwiches instead of buns. I have no words for this divine combination. There was a lot of joyous groaning as we ate.

Now, I consider myself a gigantic pastry snob since I had my pick of patisseries in Paris for a year, but the Hazelnut Cream Danish at Pearl Bakery left me claiming, at a rather embarrassing volume, "This is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth!" The perfect amalgamation of textures, from creamy to flaky, is housed in this peerless little pastry... rich hazelnut cream, bedecked by crushed hazelnuts, nestled in layers of buttery croissant. The fact that this danish is now over 1,000 miles away from me brings me infinite sadness.

Our trip was a wonderful chance for family bonding, inside jokes and intimate conversations, but who cares about that when you're constantly stuffing your face with amazing food?! To read my reviews of the restaurants we visited in Oregon, visit my Yelp page.

honey likker

2010-05-31T16:15:00.000-07:00

The somnolence of summer has arrived in its full, drenching glory here in Texas. The trees are heavy with leaves, the air has stopped breathing, and the days are long and woozy.

And even though your armpits soak and mosquitoes suck like starving babies, the back porch begs you to sit a spell. The only thing that makes the heat more like a blanket than a slap in the face is a tall glass of some sweet Southern drink, slick with condensation and floating with chunks of ice.

Here are my two favorites:

Sweet Tea Martini

1 part sweet tea vodka
1 part sweet tea
Slice of lemon

Mix in a shaker and pour into a chilled martini glass. Or, in a pinch, pour all ingredients over a glass of ice.

Bourbon & Coke

1 part bourbon (I love Maker's Mark)
2-3 parts Coca-Cola

This is no time for Diet. Get the real stuff. Pour over ice.

potato lust

2010-03-19T08:50:00.001-07:00

The following are ten things I would do because of/with gratin dauphinoise, the greatest, creamiest, saltiest, perfectest dish EVER.

1. rub it on my feet in place of lotion. fragrant, buttery lotion.
2. eat it every single day for the rest of my life
3. make it into a candle for my bathroom
4. petition the FDA to sanction it as one of the necessary 5 daily fruits/vegetables
5. bury my face in it. scream because it's hot and i just burned my face. lick my lips. re-dunk my face in it.
6. buy a $40 mandoline just so i can make it more often (this I actually did)
7. find it strangely more attractive than leonardo dicaprio in 'the departed'
8. become sexier than a victoria's secret model to leonardo dicaprio by seducing him with a plate of it
9. imagine that heaven is comprised of diamond roads, wine rivers, and buildings made of potatoes
10. grow morbidly obese with it, like at least 417 pounds

Oh yeah, and here's the recipe.

Gratin Dauphinoise

8-10 red potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced
1 stick butter at room temperature
s&p
1 cup heavy cream
1 garlic clove

Cut the garlic in half, and rub the cut sides all over a large casserole dish. Discard the cloves. Peel and slice the potatoes, then rinse them with cold water and pat them dry with paper towels (removes all starch and makes the texture divine).

Arrange a single layer of potato slices in the dish. Heavily salt and pepper them. Dot them with butter. Repeat until all the potatoes are used. Dump the cream over the whole mess. Stick it in the oven for an hour at 325 degrees. Devour.

death to bisquick

2010-01-22T20:22:00.000-08:00

With five words, my hopes were dashed. My heart began beating erratically, my palms broke out in a sweat, and I was suddenly, irrevocably gripped with a fear so great, I considered chaining myself to the couch to physically prevent the terror from becoming true. And yet, my courtesy-drippin' Southern blood prohibited me from backing out on an RSVP. All day, the five words hovered like some gut-grinding harbinger of nausea... the five words promised with pride by the hostess of a church dinner I'd agreed to attend:

"Tuna Ring with Cheese Sauce."

What was this fearsome beast? What onerous textures and tastes awaited any who partook of such a revoltingly named creation? A TUNA RING. My stomach, so open and accepting of the vast quantities of food I feed it, closes its mouth in fury. A TUNA RING. It sounds like a dolphin's vomit. A jello-molded fishy circlet. The punchline for an inappropriate joke. For heaven's sake, the primary ingredient is Bisquick.

I suppressed my disgust, put on a dress, and carried my dish of gratin dauphinoise (recipe to come... a decadent success!) to the church dinner so I could count on SOMETHING edible. And an hour later, I was mechanically putting a slice (yes, a slice) of tuna ring on my plate and spooning something that looked an awful lot like paste over it. Ironically, the paste was the most delicious part.

Tuna Ring is a mysterious concoction involving tuna salad stuffed into a circular shape, covered in a tasteless dough, and drenched in gluey cheese sauce (which also has Bisquick in it. My gosh.) It is served warm and sliced like a horrifying fishy Bundt cake. Here's the recipe...

(Psyche.)

trailer treasure

2010-01-18T20:01:00.000-08:00

"They make maple bacon donuts."
"I'm sorry... WHAT?!"
"Yeah, it has maple icing and bacon on top."
(Gasping for joy like a three-year-old at FAO Schwarz. Continue stuffing face with olive-and-chevre ravioli.)
"Say that one more time."
(Ok, now friend is looking at me with a slight air of horror. Am I drooling whilst reloading my fork? Too much?)
"Umm, maple and bacon donut."
(Chest now heaving. Voice becomes embarrassingly urgent.)
"We. Must. Go. Get. One. Now."

Half an hour later, ravioli freshly eaten and bill just paid, we pulled into the parking lot of Gourdough's, an unassuming silver trailer in a parking lot in Austin with a menu of donuts so daring it makes you laugh and cry simultaneously. And as the sky dripped and the air froze, we made our selections (mine was easy -- bacon + donut = utopia) and crammed back into the car to crank up the heat and devour our fancypants fried rings.

Allow me to highlight the perfection of the Flying Pig donut (such was my precious dessert named) in greater detail. The donut was thick and yeasty, crisp on the edges and pillowy on the inside. The icing was drizzled atop it in the exact quantity necessary to balance the salty grease of the unglazed donut with the cheek-puckering sweet of maple syrup. The bacon? Sigh. Oh, the bacon! Four curly, chewy-crispy pieces of pig belly cradled atop the pastry with the attention of a sculptor!

Within five bites, I had declared my bacon donut one of the most delicious things I've ever ingested, ranking among my mother's dumplings and my Nanny's cobbler. It is a high honor, and Gourdough's deserves it. If it were not three hours away from my house, I would drive there every day. And weigh 467 pounds.

And if you do not go and get one the next time you're in Austin, I will have no choice but to slap you soundly for your culinary stupidity.

the upscale pancake

2010-01-02T19:50:00.000-08:00

My half-French, half-Texan family has an odd and delicious holiday tradition... seven days after tamales on Christmas Eve, my dad whips out a very thin, flat disk of a pan, mixes batter, and makes fresh crêpes. We pour champagne, open a jar of Nutella, sit around the kitchen island, and wait for our New Year's Eve treat -- a piping hot, fresh, oh-so-slim crêpe.

In Paris's always bustling Les Halles, you can scarcely throw a stone without hitting a street vendor offering crêpes (usually by shouting) to passersby, and I could scarcely resist buying one, no matter what time of day or what I'd just eaten. On the streets, Parisians eat them "avec beurre et sucre" (butter and sugar), folded six times, and tucked in a cone of paper, which is typically tossed on the streets in a crumpled mess... Paris is not renowned for its cleanliness. And in a French kitchen, the edges of crêpes are folded inward like a burrito over fillings both savory and sweet -- coulis, berry jam, chicken, vegetables, you name it.

But my favorite crêpes are still my dad's, smeared with the heavenly goodness of Nutella. The edges are crunchy, lacy, and golden, the center slightly eggy and soft. Ah! Perfect for breakfast... or lunch... or dinner... I think crêpes should be a Saturday morning tradition in the Boone household.

Sweet Crêpes

2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups milk
1 tablespoon canola or vegetable oil
1 cup flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla

Put all ingredients in a blender and mix well. Dip a paper towel in more oil and rub it all over a frying pan on medium-high heat (I prefer using a smaller, 8-inch pan). Let the pan get very hot, then pour a little bit of the batter onto the pan, about 2-3 tablespoons. Pick up the pan and swirl the batter around so it covers the bottom of the pan in a very thin layer. Place back onto heat, and flip onto a plate when done. They cook very fast, less than a minute, so the second you see that the liquid batter has turned solid, remove them from the heat!

And before you cook another one, be sure to re-grease the pan. If you like, you can lay wax paper between each crêpe and keep warm in the oven.

If you want to make savory crêpes, nix the sugar and vanilla and add 1/2 teaspoon of salt.

terrific trifle

2009-12-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite episodes of "Friends" is the one when Rachel attempts to make a holiday trifle. She spends all day on it (though her perfect hair and makeup show nary a smudge), and proudly describes each layer to anyone who will listen. There are ladyfingers, and cream, and jam, and of course, "beef sauteed with peas and onions," thus exemplifying the perils of cookbook pages stuck together.

My trifle is woefully lacking in savory ingredients, but it was certainly a labor of love spawned by my husband. He saw about 2 seconds of Paula Deen making a fruit trifle on the Food Network and earnestly, adorably "suggested" I make one for our annual Christmas party.

Of course, I had to go completely overboard and make the pound cake and cream from scratch, so the recipe is definitively my own at this point. I believe Paula used raspberry liqueur for hers, but I couldn't resist use creme de cassis to add a geniunely French twist. Plus I have plenty leftover for Kir Royales!!

Christmas Trifle

1/2 recipe whipping cream pound cake*
Double recipe pastry cream
1 pint blueberries
1 pint raspberries
1 cup creme de cassis

Layer ingredients in the following order: cake, liqueur, fruit, cream. Divide ingredients so you have enough for at least two layers, then add a dollop of cream and a few berries to the top.

*Whipping Cream Pound Cake

2 sticks soft butter
3 cups sugar
6 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups flour
1 cup whipping cream

Cream butter and sugar, then add eggs one at a time. Add vanilla and flour, mixing well, then slowly drizzle in cream. Bake in a greased, floured Bundt pan at 325 for 1 hour and 15 minutes.

birthday tart

2009-11-28T23:48:00.001-08:00

Twas my precious mom's birthday the day after Thanksgiving, and though the fridge was packed and our bellies rotund, I had to make something sweet and fresh to celebrate. Cake-from-a-box simply wouldn't cut it for my own mother, so I set out to make a strawberry tart worthy of a patisserie.

I used my tried-and-true crust recipe, bought sliced strawberries, then hunted for a solid recipe for pastry cream... that tongue-coating, lip-smacking divinity that is the necessary middle note between the tartness of the berries and the blandness of the crust. This one comes from allrecipes.com, and it's perfectly easy and delicious.

So delicious, in fact, that it'd make a wonderful summer dessert all by itself, or topped with a couple peach slices.

Pastry Cream

2 cups milk
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
6 egg yolks
4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons butter
1 pinch salt

Place the milk, half the sugar and the vanilla in a saucepan over medium heat. Combine the yolks and the remaining sugar in a bowl and whisk until light in color. Add in the flour and the salt, mix to combine.

When the milk just begins to boil, remove from heat. Very slowly dribble the hot milk into the yolk mixture, stirring all the time. When about half of the milk has been added, place all of the yolk mixture into the saucepan over medium heat. Using a spatula or a whisk, mix the pastry cream as it heats, making sure to reach all of the corners of the pan when you stir. Bring the mixture to a boil. Let boil for about 1 minute, stirring constantly.

Remove from heat and add the butter. Strain for a smooth cream. Pour into a bowl and chill.

hairy coat bears

2009-11-28T16:15:00.000-08:00

(That's haricot verts in TexFrench...)

Our Thanksgiving dinner this year was quintessentially Randall - there was poetry, there was film discussion, and there was French food. Each chef in the family contributes one dish, and my two sides were an homage to La Rochelle, where my tiny mother was born. I made my favorite mushroom dish EVER (a la bordelaise... for a later post) and marinated haricots verts.

That disgustingly pretentious phrase simply means tiny whole green beans, but, as my dad would say, it is so much more decadently EUROPEAN to stick to the French term! I mashed two recipes together to create this dish, and it's mild, fresh and lightly sweet.. a perfect treatment of an otherwise dull, salty T-day side.

And do not even THINK about dousing them with canned fried onions. Bouef!!

Haricots Verts

1 package frozen tiny whole green beans
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon white wine or tarragon vinegar
Sea salt and pepper
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup toasted almonds

Bring water to a boil and cook the beans for 4 minutes, until crisp but cooked. Meanwhile, whisk together the mustard, wine and spices. Slowly drizzle in the oil, whisking constantly, to create a smooth emulsion. Strain beans and cool, then toss with marinade. Refrigerate for a few hours, then serve with toasted almonds on top.

tarte tatin

2009-11-08T17:26:00.000-08:00

There is no greater month than November... it finishes off October's blitzkrieg of business, holds the alluring promise of Christmas, and guarantees an abundance of warm, hearty meals. And what word rolls off the tongue more beautifully? November has the soft, velvet texture of a comfortable idea wrapped in rusty colors and chill mornings.

A crumbly, buttery, decadent French tart seems the perfect way to usher in the autumn nights, and this recipe for Tarte Tatin is scandalously simple. The crust is not a traditional tart crust, but one given to me by a friend's mother that has absitively, posolutely never failed me. The filling is tres riche -- gobs of butter and frosty brown sugar and crisp apples melting together in a cast-iron pan.

This oh-so-French dessert has a delicious little backstory as well: the Tatin sisters, who owned a small cafe in southern France, were renowned for their apple tarts. One day, in a haze of distraction, one of the sisters accidentally poured the filling in before she'd made the crust. Shrugging and grinning, she laid the crust gently over the filling, tucked in the sides, baked it, flopped it out on a plate.. and people were hooked!

Tarte Tatin

Crust
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 cup shortening
6 tablespoons cold water

Sift the flour and salt into a bowl. Cut in the shortening until dough is in pea-sized crumbles. Using a fork, dribble the water over part of the dough, one tablespoon at a time, tossing to mix. Form the dough into a rough ball, lay out onto flour-doused countertop, and pound with the side of your hand, three times horizontally and three times vertically. Roll out, and set aside.

Filling

5 ripe green apples
1 stick butter
1 cup brown sugar

Caramelize apples in sugar and butter in a cast-iron pan, simmering about 10 minutes. Remove from heat. Carefully lay crust over pan, tucking in the sides around the filling. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. When done, allow to cool for 10 minutes, then flip the tart onto a plate. Serve with a splash of cream if you're feeling very French.

les deux salades

2009-09-26T22:20:00.000-07:00

The French have a delicious way of throwing together a couple things in a way that ends up being simultaneously effortless and amazing. They do it with their outfits, with their parties, and sometimes, even in their kitchens.

These two salads are perfect for a first course, a light lunch, a snack, a side... they're pretty much awesome any time. They require only a few key ingredients, five minutes, and an accompaniment of good, crusty bread.

Carottes Rapees
(or raped carrots, as we Boones call them)

1 pound carrots
2 shallots
1/2 tablespoon white wine vinegar
pinch of sea salt and sugar
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon sunflower oil

Shred the carrots and shallots in a food processor. Whisk together the rest of the ingredients, slowly drizzling in the oil so it emulsifies nicely. Toss with the salad and leave to stand 30 minutes before serving.

Salade des Concombres

Two cucumbers, cubed
1/2 cup plain yogurt
1 clove garlic, minced
4 mint leaves, thinly sliced
Sea salt

Toss all ingredients together and serve chilled.

the booneburger

2009-09-16T19:38:00.001-07:00

Last night, my husband and I drove to the grocery store with empty stomachs and an evening stretched out before us. We wandered around aimlessly, trying to pinpoint what exact dish would hit the spot, and what resulted was the single greatest burger I’ve eaten in my life.

Seriously. I ate two.

Daniel mixed the hamburger meat with bits of uncooked bacon, one egg, salt and pepper, and fixed them on the grill with utter perfection. Then we sandwiched the meat between French bread smeared with Dijon, and one salty slice of Swiss cheese -- a true European amalgam.

But the true revelation came on a whim, with a pile of burgundy onion strings that added juiciness and richness and flavor in a way I never could have predicted. I’ve always wanted to try simmering onions in wine… tres simple, tres elegant… you simply MUST try them for yourself!

Burgundy Onions

Two yellow onions
1/2 cup of Merlot

Halve the onions and very thinly slice them into moon shapes. Cook the onions in olive oil over medium heat for 15 minutes. Slowly add the wine, turn down the heat, and let the onions simmer for another 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

a bit of introspection

2009-09-13T16:31:00.000-07:00

This beautiful picture of my great-grandmother, Vae Midgley, and my Nanny has been on my mind lately.

I’m sitting on our back porch, surrounded by glorious, dripping, sopping rain, watching the greens of the grass and leaves melt into one verdant pool and writing for the first time in two months. I feel I’ve drifted away from the wonderful kitchen memories of Vae, which were the impetus for writing this blog in the first place. Something in me seems to have stopped for awhile. I haven’t been cooking or moving my fingers over the keyboard except for to weekly emails and lesson plans. Blech.

Granted, I don’t think anyone’s reading this, but it shouldn’t matter, right? This is a way for me to flex my soul’s muscles and explore my “culinary heritage” (I feel absurd even typing such a saccharine phrase…), and if my family’s the only one reading, it shouldn’t matter a whit.

So I’m back. Full of ideas and ready to start another year of writing and cooking. I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I miss my French side, how very few dishes I have that represent such a big part of my blood, and that’s going to change. I want my kitchen to be as full of the smells of rosemary, wine and bread as it is of butter and onion. Today I bought Food & France, a beautiful cookbook that divides its recipes up by region, and I’m going to make at least one dish from it a week if it kills me.

Vittles is now going to represent both sides of me — the Southern and the French, and you’ll see a few small changes in the next week or so. I want this to be a site where I can celebrate Vae and Nanny as well as Alice Madeleine Angele Moreau (that’s my French grandmother’s name… c’est magnifique, non?).

But it only seemed appropriate to return with a Texan vengeance, with a recipe that is so cherished by my dad’s side of the family it practically glows with a hallowed light. Because no one makes custard pie like the Martin-Randall women. Step aside, Paula Deen; my great-great-grandmother’s recipe is so perfect it cannot be improved upon or altered in any way. It’s one of those beautiful pages in my recipe book that is in my grandmother’s handwriting, with my mom’s notes scrawled on it.

I’ll give it to you exactly as it was written for me… but I’ll warn you, I can’t even dare to just call it plain ole “custard pie.” It’s too close to manna, too sacrosanct of a thing to be taken with anything less than reverence. I pray God’s forgiveness for leaking it outside the family even. Sigh. Amen.

Susan Anis Martin’s Custard Pie

Recipe from Vae Midgley and Susan Anis Martin (Nanny’s mother & grandmother)

1 cup sugar
1 scant cup milk
2 eggs
1 Tablespoon flour
1/2 t. nutmeg
1/2 stick oleo

Beat all together in large bowl. Pour into unbaked pie crust. Bake 10 minutes at 450, lower heat to 325, bake 25 minutes or til done. *Makes 2 pies or 1 deep-dish pie

This will be a big hit with the Doctor. (That’s my Dad!)

farm fresh

2009-07-08T19:35:00.000-07:00

Look at that.

Just LOOK at that... all that vivid green, lush leafy beauty... carried in from my modest veggie garden by the armfuls, torn from its long stalks and stuffed into a blender. Can't you see it aching to be made into a salty mixture to toss with pasta or smear onto French bread?

Yes, that blenderful of fresh basil was simply begging to be transformed into pesto. And of course, I obliged.

As is my custom, I didn't measure a thing, and my only real tool was that sturdy blender, a rubber spatula, and my tongue. Pesto is such a rich, decadent thing to eat, I figure it should be a rich, decadent thing to make. Pouring olive oil until it glugs with happiness over the leaves, sprinkling pine nuts by the handful, all while relishing that gorgeous, spicy-sweet scent. A waterfall of salt and another handful of parmesan, and it's done. You could eat it by the spoonful.

And you should.

Fresh Pesto

6-8 cups fresh basil leaves
1 cup or so of pine nuts
Several generous glugs of olive oil
1 cup or so of parmesan cheese
Liberal amounts of salt

Blend all ingredients together until smooth.

in a pickle

2009-06-29T07:45:00.000-07:00

The afternoon my Nanny first told me we'd be having squash pickles with lunch, I distinctly remember thinking, "Ew." Daddy Tom had fried up a huge mess of crappie that had been plucked from the lake a couple miles from their house, and along with the usual mac-and-cheese, salad, and bread, Nanny brought out the squash pickles.

I bit into one, and distinctly remember thinking, "Wow, these are light, sweet, crunchy, and delicious and may be better than any normal pickles I've eaten. I simply must obtain the recipe!"

(Okay, I was really thinking along the lines of "yum," but I digress...)

And since my second cousin planted a big bag of homegrown squash in my mom's hands and the yellow jewels ended up in my fridge, I finally had the opportunity to make my very own jar of weird pickles. I wish I had some fried crappie to go along with that, (sigh), but they're pretty awesome all on their own.

Squash Pickles

8 cups squash, sliced
2 cups chopped bell pepper
2 cups chopped onions
1 large jar pimiento

Mix the vegetables and soak in 3 quarts of water and 2/3 cup salt for one hour. Drain and rinse, set aside. Then bring the following to a boil:

3 cups sugar
2 teaspoons celery seed
2 teaspoons mustard seed
2 cups white vinegar

Once the sugar-vinegar mixture is boiling, drop in the vegetables and bring back to a boil for one minute. Remove from heat and pack in jars. Let cool, then refrigerate.

a brantastic welcome

2009-06-27T22:13:00.000-07:00

(Please forgive the terrible wordplay in the title...)

My thoughtful mother has always extended her thoughtfulness to those she hardly knows, namely, anyone who moves within a block of her home. When I was little, I remember hearing of a new neighbor, and Mom's immediate reaction was to take out the cookbook and turn to the bran muffin recipe. She'd whip up a dozen or so and we'd carry them down the street.

That's true Southern hospitality, and from a woman who isn't even a born-and-bred Texan!

And now that we have our own beautiful home in a rolling, tree-filled neighborhood, I feel compelled to continue the tradition. A retired couple just moved in on our cul-de-sac, and out came the bran flakes and flour. This recipe is wonderful, very simple and quick, and produces muffins that are just lightly sweet and perfect with your morning coffee. Or a neighbor's.

Bran Muffins

1 1/4 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups bran flakes (all-bran cereal works fine)
1 1/4 cups milk
1 large egg
1/4 cup vegetable oil
Sprinkle of nutmeg

Stir together the first four ingredients and set aside. In a bowl, let the bran flakes sit in the milk for 3 minutes. Pour into a stand mixer and add the egg and oil, mixing well. Add the flour mixture and stir until just combined. Spoon into a greased muffin tin and bake for 20 minutes at 400 degrees.

susan's squash

2009-06-20T19:35:00.001-07:00

I made good use of the shockingly sunny produce my mom passed along from my second cousin’s summer garden -- a whole mess of crookneck squash! I fixed them my favorite way, and it’s so simple you could go pick some and have them on a plate in 15 minutes flat.

(It’s a short post for a short recipe. Hope you don’t mind.)

Perfect Squash

Several yellow squash, firm and bright
A shallot
Olive oil
S&P

Thinly slice the shallot and squash. Warm olive oil in a pan, add the veggies and S&P, and sauté for a good 10-12 minutes. Wait till that dark brown crust just touches the edges of the squash… you won’t regret it.

led by our stomachs, part 2

2009-06-17T19:49:00.000-07:00

The next morning we drove the hellish, abandoned stretch of earth toward the border and ended up in Terlingua, a desolate place with a single open restaurant and, seemingly, 12 inhabitants, all sitting immobile on the porch of the trading post with cigarettes in hand. We ate at the Ghost Town Café, and Daniel had great chili (as well he should, considering Terlingua hosts the statewide chili cookoff) and I had a good patty melt. The owners watched us carefully for our reactions, and we smiled weakly, mainly because even the air conditioning couldn’t defeat the oppressive heat.

After a long, dry, monotone trip through the Big Bend Nat’l Park (not as cool as you think it’d be…), we left the dusty stretch of West Texas behind us and traveled to the Hill Country, perhaps Texas’s most beautiful body part. Gentle rolls of land swathed in emerald and streams criss-crossing, it’s also home to the great tourist stop of Fredericksburg, which hosted Daniel’s favorite dinner. We ate at Der Lindenbaum, an (obviously) German restaurant on Main Street, and he adored the pepper-topped wiener schnitzel and fuchsia cabbage. I had the traditional schnitzel with potatoes and found it quite yummy.

That ended up being a blessed day, because we happened upon MY favorite restaurant that evening, back near our motel in Kerrville, a tiny, elegant room hovering over the Guadalupe River, which was solidly dark as melted sapphire and just as lovely. The place was called River’s Edge, and I had a Bolognese so spicy it made my annoyance of a cold clear up for one precious hour.

On our last day away, we drove to Blanco for the lavender festival and had lavender lemonade, one of the best drinks I’ve ever had in my life! It was cold and crisp and just kissed with lavender sugar, and I simply must try it soon. Will post recipe, I swear, because how chic would it be to serve lavender lemonade to your next guests?

The final restaurant on our list was the ages-old Bluebonnet Café in Marble Falls. We arrived at 1:45 and had to wait in line to be seated… and there were a LOT of tables. But it was obvious why the place was so packed from the second she set down my plate, shimmering with fried eggs and stacked high with fluffy biscuits. Oh. My. Goodness. I went all out and even got the breakfast plate with chicken fried steak, and I did not regret it.

But the Bluebonnet is known primarily for their pies, and once you catch sight of a slice, you understand completely. The meringue-topped varieties are piled with 6 inches of cloudlike meringue, and the apple pie made me swear off my hatred for apple pie instantly. The real kicker was the peanut butter pie, creamy and eggy and rich and delish. A very sweet ending.

led by our stomachs, part 1

2009-06-15T22:52:00.000-07:00

At yesterday’s twilight, we rolled into our driveway, bellies full and legs stiff from an ambitious road trip across our great state (former a republic, lest we forget) centered almost exclusively around food. Where most people would spend time deciding on recreational activities, nice hotels, and cultural fripperies, we spent hours finding quirky restaurants in strange towns. I mean, why else would ANYONE intentionally drive to Amarillo, the un-deodorized armpit of Texas?!

Our first stop was not far away, the Chef Point Café in Watauga, just northeast of Fort Worth. Guy Fieri of “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” had done a piece on this eatery that says it’s a “five-star restaurant in a gas station,” but we found it a bit underwhelming on the quality side. Certainly charming and full of local yokels, the café sports fold-up tables and paper napkins with escargot and scallops on the menu.

I tried the stuffed blackened pork chop, which was actually TOO stuffed with crab, though it swam in a delectable asiago cream sauce. I’d go again, but I’d stick to a cheaper entrée, like the chicken scampi, which was less ambitious and more delicious.

Next was the famed Big Texan Steakhouse in Amarillo, and it’s one of those wonderful places that advertises its 72-oz. steak-eating challenge every few exits for 100 miles outside the city. We had steak, predictably, rolls, potatoes and mac-and-cheese, and it was good and fun, though eating under such a wide variety of dead, stuffed animals was a tad creepy.

For breakfast the next morning, we were the first customers at Biti Pies, a bakery that specializes in itty-bitty pies. (And yes, the primary reason we had to go was my female obsession with all things miniature.) Went to a local coffeehouse to eat them and discovered the best darn chocolate meringue pie I’ve ever eaten. Though the buttermilk, pecan, and coconut cream varieties were just as perfect!

We drove down the flat, crusty expanse of the Panhandle down to the flat, dusty expanse of Odessa for lunch at Rockin’ Q Smokehouse and had pulled pork that just about melted in your mouth. The ranch beans were sweltering with jalapenos but the cole slaw cooled it right off.

On to Marfa, to see the fabulous Prada Marfa and see the alien lights dipping over the horizon (and yes, Scully, we saw them!). We were out so late our only option was a 24-hour diner near our motel in Alpine. Nothing to write home about.

I shall continue relating our culinary adventures on the morrow.

fresh at last!

2009-06-09T18:43:00.000-07:00

It has been an atrociously long time since I last cooked or wrote, but you may blame the taxing needs of young Mexican children running about the disorderly charter school where I teach.

The summer has begun with two wonderful things: a huge sigh of relief (anyone who thinks teachers have an absurd amount of time off should spend a single hour in a classroom) and my first harvest from my fecund veggie/herb garden!

A solitary banana pepper, pale and pendulous, hung from a rather spindly green plant, and I watched it devotedly for weeks until it almost fell off in my hand. Then I split it open, cut it into tiny slivers, and spread it on a grilled turkey-and-cheese sandwich. Its flavor was crisp, light, and ever so delicate, and my mouth sang!

Then, a week later, another jewel: a firm jalapeno, ripe and dying to dive into a vat of salsa (as soon as tomatoes are ready). It is now waiting with the shallots and garlic near my stove.

*Sidenote: Tomorrow Daniel and I leave for an extraordinary trip, one governed entirely by food. Many colorful blogs to come.

tipsy carbs

2009-04-25T18:16:00.000-07:00

My staunchly Baptist nanny eschews alcohol without a second thought. And yet, she recently gave me a recipe for a dish that includes an ENTIRE CAN OF BEER.

(tsk, tsk, Nanny. I'm e-mailing your Sunday School teacher to alert him to your sinful ways!)

Now, she might insist that a 400-degree oven blasts away any trace of mind-altering substance, but I think we both know she's living large. Pushing the limits. Dangling off a precipice. And all under the guise of "beer bread."

This stuff is quite delicious and extraordinarily easy, though of course, if you prepare it, it means a trip to the liquor store. And in Smith County, where Nanny's from, it means a trip over the county line. (See how devoted she is to this supposedly innocent food?) But it's divinely buttery and redolent of a sweet, yeasty taste that will have you coming back for more.

Non-Alcoholic Beer Bread

3 cups self-rising flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 can beer (we like Shinerbock)

Mix ingredients; it'll be sticky. Spray pan, pour in dough, bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes. Pour 1/4 cup melted butter over top. Bake 15 more minutes. Yummmmmm.

soupe a l'oignon

2009-04-01T16:24:00.000-07:00

I’ve been spending some time getting back to my beloved French roots… in the kitchen, at any rate. I’ve been slightly terrified of trying to make my own onion soup -- it’s one of those delicious, hearty French staples that is so classic, and so terribly emblematic of simple, French country cuisine. Hence the terror.

And yet, one unseasonably chilly evening I spilled a quantity of multicolored onions on the counter and got to slicin’. My eyes were pouring by the time I finished, and I had nothing more than a general idea of what to do to make these piquant crescents into a salty, rich soup, but I threw them in a big silver pot, convinced their natural onion goodness would prevail.

It actually worked, too!

Thrown-Together Onion Soup

8-9 onions (yellow, purple and white)
4 cups chicken broth*
4 cups beef broth*
2 cups water
Plenty of S&P
A splash of white wine and Worcestershire

*best if homemade!

Strip, slice and caramelize the onions in a hot pot smooth with olive oil. Pour broth, water and spices over the onions, and bring to a low boil. Simmer for 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Top with gruyere or swiss cheese, and serve with crusty bread.

quel quiche!

2009-03-20T21:00:00.000-07:00

So far, our spring break has been packed with eggs, milk, crust, and cheese. Yum! In a span of a scant 5 days, I have made two quiches, both entirely homemade, from the crust to the meaty fillings. And best of all, I’ve made my distinctly non-francophile husband drool and beg for quiches, to the delight of my quarter-French heart.

The fabulous thing about quiche is that not only does it taste stupendous when cooked well, but it’s also a great way to get rid of leftovers. Five days ago, after staring at the tubs of leftovers in our fridge with much consternation, my eyes clapped on a bagful of roast chicken and a bowlful of baked ham from the weekend. Voila! That took care of two of my three favorite quiches: quiche lorraine (ham and swiss) and roast chicken and gouda. (The third, my dear quiche au poireaux, was sadly neglected, as I had no leeks.)

So I’ll divulge these two oh-so-French varieties in the recipes below, but rest assured that you can toss most any vegetable, meat and cheese in a quiche and it will still taste delicious. And feel free to use the prepackaged crust — that little cheat alone makes the entire quiche-prep process a mere 5 minutes.

P.S. Please forgive the hazy amounts listed below… I really measure and cook by feeling more than number. It makes it difficult to nail down recipes.
P.P.S. I know you’re thinking, “Then why do you have a food blog in which you share recipes? Clearly you are too flighty, emotional, and scatterbrained to create trusty recipes.” To this I shall respond: “Who has the food blog? You or me? All right then.”
P.P.P.S. My skills of debate are about as mediocre as my aptitude for precision.

Basic Quiche

1 deep-dish crust
8-9 eggs
Approx. 1 1/2 cups milk (About three hearty glugs)
S&P
A baby sprinkle of nutmeg
Possible fillings: 1 cup each of chopped ham and swiss, 1 1/2 cups sliced leeks, 1/2 cup sautéed onions and 1 1/2 cup cheddar, etcetera

Whisk together the eggs, milk, and spices. Place the fillings in the crust, then pour the egg mixture over the filling. Bake at 350 until the middle is set, about 50 minutes to 1 hour.

violet vegetables

2009-03-14T19:08:00.000-07:00

I went to the grocery store in an adventurous mood and left with two tomatillos and three potatoes of an extremely abnormal color. When you clean them, the skin is dark indigo and actually shimmers. When you cut them, the flesh looks streaked with red wine. And when you cook them, ah! They arrive in all their shocking, purple glory.

I sliced, boiled, and sautéed them, then sprinkled them with shredded asiago cheese. Daniel and I spent most of our time at the dinner table trying to pin down the very subtle differences between the violet variety and the all-purpose yellow kind. We decided that they’re strangely creamy and bit softer in flavor.

But the greatest discovery is that these babies would make a beautiful mess of mashed potatoes, and nothing could be more delightful than serving our next dinner guests a pile of purple mush with absolutely no explanation. Imagine the awkward small talk!

chocolatey goodness

2009-02-26T19:20:00.000-08:00

Things have been more than a bit crazy in my crazed, attempting-to-get-novel-published mind, so I'll leave you with a rich little tidbit of a recipe. The perfect thing to whet your appetite -- or douse on fruit, bread, cake, peanut butter, fingers, you know, anything.

Ganache

1 cup of good, semisweet chocolate
1/4 to 1/3 cup heavy cream

Melt chocolate over a double boiler (metal bowl over a pan of boiling water), stirring often. Stir in cream. Eat with a spoon.

hippy love

2009-02-11T15:41:00.000-08:00

Don't these little jewels just reek of Valentine’s Day cuteness?

My mother thought I was slightly deranged when I asked permission to harvest rose hips from the front garden one rainy day in December. “But they’re pretty,” I said, “and I’ve always wanted to make jam out of them.”

So I ambled on out to the garden, armed with scissors and a wal-mart bag, joined by my intrigued dad and a continual dusting of light rain. (And in case your mind goes kinda fuzzy when I mention rose hips, these are the beautiful, often colorful berries left after the blooms falls off.) We clipped and picked and filled just the bottom of the bag, and despite my father’s considerable doubts, I did in fact glean enough to make a pint of jam.

And make jam I did! With just two cups of perky, coral-colored “berries” and a ton of sugar. They happen to release the most lovely, subtly strawberry-esque fragrance as they cook. The results were less than spectacular, considering I let them boil too long, but I’ve amended the recipe, positive that your results, should you care to dedicate a couple hours to them, will be positively spectacular.

Rose Hip Jam

2 cups rose hips
2 cups sugar
Water

De-stem and clean rose hips with a paring knife, then soak them in about 2 1/2 cups of water for an hour. Boil hips in the same water for 15 minutes to soften them. Remove from heat, strain liquid into another container, and roughly chop the berries. Add them back to the water, stir in the sugar, and set to boil for 12-15 minutes. Remove from heat (even if it seems too liquid!), pour into a jar, and refrigerate.

black beauty

2009-01-28T11:34:00.000-08:00

My ardor for cooking is unflagging. It has survived many things… smoke alarms, microscopic galley kitchens, chunky cheesecake, missing ingredients, ill-timed meals… I haven’t substituted salt for sugar yet, but it’s only a matter of time given how scatterbrained and clumsy I tend to be.

But this culinary passion of mine has conquered all disasters, including the truly obnoxious existence of electric stoves with coils. Every apartment (that’s reasonably priced) has them, and I balanced sauté pans on them faithfully for 3 years until becoming a homeowner. Then, prettily housed within a blinding array of strawberry-dotted wallpaper, another kind of electric stove greeted me. A kind that has not been reproduced since the 80s, and for good reason -- the solid, cast-iron plated electric stove.

They take 18 years to heat up and 18 years to cool down. They look hideous. They’re impossible to clean. If they didn’t happen to be immovable, they’d be worse than the loathed coils.

Yet lo and behold! A light shineth in the distance, and that light was a brand-new Frigidaire glass-ceramic stovetop that is flat as a pancake and glossy with promise! Thanks to Conn’s and my husband’s prowess, I am now thrilled to announce that I can plop four frying pans on that baby with nary a wobble or shake.

Sigh. Frigidaire, I love thee! (Ahem… you, too, honey…)

olive oyl

2009-01-18T21:23:00.000-08:00

I tasted tapenade for the first time in Paris, smeared on crusty bread and redolent of salt. And every time I’m in the condiment aisle at the grocery store, its blackish sheen, trapped inside a pathetically small bottle, catches my eye. Then the $7 price tag propels my feet onward.

(By the by, tapenade is this divine purée of black olives, capers, olive oil and anchovies that Europeans adore. Like olives and salt had the most delicious baby ever. Too creepy?)

Spurred by a random streak of inventiveness, and my husband’s recent obsession with gin-and-tonic-soaked olives, I bought two cans of olives -- green and black -- but couldn’t find capers or anchovies. C’est la vie. So I drained and chunked the little buggers in a food processor along with a clove of garlic and, voila! Out came a most delicious olive relish that cannot truly call itself tapenade, but makes my mouth just as happy.

It’s fabulous on a baguette, or try it on good bread with salami, ham and provolone and you’ve got a Muffaletta -- one of only two good things that came out of Louisiana. (The other being Harry Connick Jr.)

Mock Tapenade

1 cup green olives, pimiento-stuffed
1 cup black olives
2 cloves garlic

Blend all ingredients well in a food processor.

a fresh start

2009-01-03T14:55:00.000-08:00

It may not seem a likely choice for a cold-weather culinary entry, but considering it’s 80 degrees outside and most of the trees are still fully clad in green leaves, iced tea is the ideal drink for a day like this. And it’s such a lovely, crisp thing to swirl in your mouth, to cleanse out all the fatty, rich foods you’ve probably been cramming in your mouth since November, that I just couldn’t resist.

My husband is a great tea-drinker, and when I type “great,” I mean, he puts most big Southern boys to absolute shame. Waiters tend to find him tiresome because he requires refills every ten minutes (not an exaggeration.) Our gallon-sized pitcher is well-worn with use, because he grows through A WHOLE PITCHER OF TEA PER DAY. I kid you not.

This quantity of tea, however, has not dulled his palate at all. Daniel is persnickety about his tea - he wants it lightly sweetened, preferably with Sweet-n-Lo, with a touch of citrus and a subtle-rather-than-strong flavor. Sigh. It took me a whole year to figure out exactly how to craft this fragile balance by the pitcherful (this is the picture of true love). I borrowed from Nanny’s method and tested multiple batches on the man himself until I came up with a foolproof way to make perfect tea. Even I’m hooked now!

Barely Sweet Tea

2 family-size bags Luzianne or Lipton tea
1 small bag of orange-and-spice tea
5 packets of Sweet-n-Lo

Dunk the tea bags in boiling water and let steep for about 4 minutes. Pour the sweetener in the bottom of a gallon-sized pitcher and pour the tea over it to dissolve quickly. Fill the pitcher with cold, clear water, pour over ice, and gulp.

better than black-eyes

2008-12-30T22:19:00.000-08:00

Just read their delicate, poetic name -- Lady Cream Peas. Can’t you feel them melting in your mouth, with perhaps a hint of dairy and plenty of salty liquor? (That’s the liquid surrounding cooked legumes, for the teetotalers out there…)

And this is just what these perfect little beans do. Ever so much more aristocratic than the lowly purple hull, yards more fragile in flavor than brash black eyes, and infinitely more complex than any that arrive in a can, the Lady Cream Pea is a precious, fresh-butter-colored legume that is a bit harder to find than the aforementioned lesser varieties.

But Canton (which, as you know if you’re from East Texas, markets everything that could possibly be sold, whether quilts or Corian cutting boards) happens to house Sides Pea Farm, and if you’re clever enough to stop by their produce stand at Highway 19 and I-20, you can snag a bag of Lady Creams for a few dollars. You’ll never go back to black eyes, even to ring in the New Year.

And have a happy one, by the way!

Lady Cream Peas

2 cups fresh Lady Creams
A pat of butter
S&P

Cover the fresh peas in plenty of water and set to a low, rolling boil for 1 1/2 to 2 hours. About five minutes from done, add the butter and douse with salt and pepper. Serve hot, and in a big bowl.

in between

2008-12-28T17:10:00.000-08:00

The days between Christmas and New Year’s Day are a little odd, I must admit. We typically leave the lights and ornaments up until January 1, but the trees are bare of gifts and the stockings hang dull and empty. Gorging on leftovers is a given, but the guilt is steadily beginning to creep up. And it’s definitely still a few days too early to start the annual diet.

My outrageous love of holiday cooking has also begun to wane, as steadily as the bag of peppermint bark in the fridge depletes. I want simple, warm food, easily whipped up in a matter of minutes but still loaded with enough cheese to keep me in vacation mode. So I’ll share one of my favorite recipes, plus an easy, interesting way to cook pasta that lifts the lowly egg noodle to true gourmet status.

If you don’t have leeks and Swiss on hand, feel free to switch ‘em out for sautéed onions, zucchini or squash and cheddar or gouda.

Absorption Pasta with Leeks and Swiss

1 pound pasta (rotini and farfalle work best)
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cloves garlic
1 leek, thinly sliced
As much chopped-up cheese as you can stand
S&P

Heat the olive oil in a large, shallow saucepan and sauté the garlic for 2 minutes. Add the pasta, stirring to coat the noodles in oil and sautéing for another 2 minutes. Pour enough water in the pan to just cover the noodles and bring to a boil. Boil for 8 minutes or until pasta is tender.

Meanwhile, sauté leeks (or other veggie) in a bit of olive oil until tender. When the pasta is done, strain and toss with sautéed veggies and cheese. Douse with salt and pepper and… you know… gorge!

sweet thing

2008-12-22T12:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas is sheer delight simply because it provides a great excuse to make and ingest tons of candy. People pass out candy canes like coupons and share chocolates like air, and our belts complain loudly. And it is so worth it.

My number-one favorite holiday candy has always been peppermint bark. Put away the divinity, for heaven’s sake, and the pecan turtles and chocolate-covered cherries (those are just for my Daddy Tom, anyway) -- I could scarf down a full pound of peppermint bark and never be quite satisfied. Something about the crunchy mint and the creamy chocolate is more potent than the best gin. And infinitely more addictive.

I’ve always associated it with those pricey gift baskets grateful patients and cloying pharmaceutical reps shower on my doctor dad. You know, the ones full of smoked cheddar and logs of sausage and grapefruit and, occasionally, those shiny tins of peppermint bark from somewhere fancy like Williams-Sonoma. And thus, I’ve always thought of my precious PB as a bit expensive, a bit rare, a bit… riche.

Then I look it up on foodnetwork.com and realize it’s just white chocolate and crushed peppermints. Hey, I can make that, and so can you! Except I prefer PB with a backbone of semisweet to balance out the tongue-numbing sweetness of white chocolate, so my version just happens to be even better than Mr. Sonoma’s.

Peppermint Bark

2 packages white chips
2 packages semisweet chips
12 candy canes, crushed*

Line a big, flat pan with wax paper. Melt the semisweet chocolate over a double boiler (I don’t even know if they sell real ones anymore… just plop a metal bowl over a pan of boiling water) and pour into the pan, spreading evenly. Stick in the fridge for about 45 minutes to cool and harden the chocolate.

Melt the white chocolate in the same way, then stir in the peppermint. Spread the mixture over the cooled dark chocolate, then stick back in the fridge for an hour or so. Lift the wax paper out of the pan, break off giant hunks, and curl up on the couch to eat a plateful.

*This is by FAR the most enjoyable part of the process! Put the canes in a big ziploc bag, cover with a dish towel, then hunker down on the garage floor with a hammer and go to town. Pieces should range from dust-particle-size to pea-size.

family secret #2

2008-12-16T16:25:00.000-08:00

Here's the best dadgum (and prettiest) cranberry sauce you ever had, and from a girl who doesn't much like cranberry sauce. Thanks, Uncle Perry!

Perry's Cranberry Sauce

2 cans whole cranberry sauce
1 cup celery
1 green apple
1 small package sliced almonds

Thinly slice the celery and apple and mix thoroughly with the cranberry sauce. Spread in a small dish and top with a thick layer of sliced almonds.

family secret #1

2008-12-05T20:55:00.000-08:00

First, the best cornbread dressin’ you've ever had, with faux-giblet gravy, straight from my Nanny’s mouth.

Dressin’:

3 cups white corn meal
3/4 cup tablespoons flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons salt
4 cups buttermilk

1 1/2 cups celery

1 1/2 cups onion

4 chicken breasts

8 boiled eggs

Stir together first five ingredients. Cut up about 1-1/2 cups of celery and 1-1 1/2 cups of onion. Add to the cornbread mixture. (from Nanny, “This is my idea---I do not know anyone that cooks their celery and onion in the cornbread for dressing but it is fully cooked this way.”) Heat an iron skillet on top of stove with a little oil -- sprinkle a small amount of cornmeal in skillet, pour in cornbread mixture and cook in oven about 20 minutes at 400 degrees. Turn bread out of pan and let cool. Can be cooked the day before.

Crumble cornbread.....add 3-4 crumbled bread heels OR slices as well. Cook chicken in water to make broth, remove the chicken, then pour in just enough broth to moisten the cornbread mixture. Add 3 torn-up chicken breasts to the cornbread mix. Cut up and add eggs.

**NEVER pack dressing into pan to cook, and don’t stir too much!

"Giblet" Gravy

Use the rest of the chicken broth for the gravy. Don’t use giblets -- instead use the remaining chicken breast. Also, use broth from a box to have enough. In a saucepan over medium-high heat, stir the broth with 2-3 chopped, boiled eggs and the torn-up chicken breast. Get broth to boiling. Meanwhile, put 2-3 tablespoons of flour in a glass, and add hot or warm water to make a thin paste. As the broth boils, add the flour mixture to thicken it. Season with salt and pepper, heat thoroughly, and the “giblet” gravy is done!

t-day

2008-12-02T19:36:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I’m a little late in writing about Thanksgiving, seeing as every store is fully festooned with Christmas bows and fake greenery and December has officially begun. But hey, it was late this year, and I’m still recuperating from the delicious glut of home-cooked goodies. (Bathroom scale, thou art my current and most loathed enemy!)

I’ll keep it simple in homage to the place we celebrated, because Noonday is a wonderfully simple sort of place, a place where lots of flowery adjectives just don’t seem right. So I’ll let the food speak for itself, and, in a couple days, I'll share two family recipes that are none of my doing but still publication-worthy. The following was our stupendous menu:

* Greenberg Turkey
* Cornbread Dressin’
* Giblet Gravy
* Baked Macaroni and Cheese
* Sautéed Brussels Sprouts
* Artichoke Casserole
* Green Beans
* Cranberry Sauce (both tart and sweet)
* Sweet Potatoes, au naturel

P.S. Doesn't my Daddy Tom have great hands?? (see above)

luscious leeks

2008-11-22T13:52:00.000-08:00

If leeks cost a nickel per bunch, I swear I’d add them to every salty dish I make. That subtly piquant taste, the delicate bite of an onion, the rich freshness they retain even when cooked… I just love those dadgum things. And they even look lovely, reclining among the cabbage and radishes at the supermarket in long, lean, lime-green stalks, as if to say, “Yes, we are the supermodels of vegetables.”

And yet, Tom Thumb has squashed my leek-a-day dream by charging three bucks for a pair. So outraged have I been by that price, I have not purchased leeks in months. But when Mom called and said they were coming to our neck of the woods for lunch and a movie, my resolve crumbled.

One of the stalks is waiting patiently in the fridge like the jewel that it is, but the other was chopped into rings, sautéed in butter and generously heaped on chicken-provolone sandwiches. And that is why I am so heartily dedicated to the worldwide spread of this fabulous vegetable! It’s not just for quiche and soup, it’s a sandwich topper. A pasta enhancer. A cheese’s richest dream. Risotto’s most cherished mixer.

I have no distinct recipe for leeks, but here’s the best method I’ve found for coaxing out their fullest flavor.

Sautéed Leeks

One tablespoon butter
Dash of kosher salt
One leek

Melt butter in a sauté pan. Cut off the rooty end of the leek and the rather tough dark-green torso. You should have about 5-6 inches of usable leek. Cut into thin discs, and (this is SO enjoyable), using your thumb, push out the rings into the pan. Toss every 2-3 minutes. They’re done when you see hints of caramel brown on the edges, about 15 minutes.

the real cookie monster

2008-11-16T16:16:00.000-08:00

Tom Brown is a lawyer back home in East Texas. And a runner, a bear-hugger, and father to a perpetually dirty kid who made fun of me every day in the third grade. But most importantly, Tom Brown is the creator of the (eponymous) greatest cookies ever.

And for the past decade or so, he has generously bestowed these oh-so-mouth-watering cookies upon our family, which has the good fortune of his friendship and, by extension, his cookie-receiving circle. In fact, I’m so darn special I got a batch of ‘em sent to me while at art school in Paris — a gift even more delicious considering the lack of peanut butter in grocery aisles of the “culinary capital of the world.”

At their gooey hearts, these are simply peanut-butter-chocolate-chip cookies. But if you have a handful of similar recipes, even a drawerful, I demand you toss them aside like the rubbish they are. Because even though no one can make a Tom Brown cookie quite as well as Tom Brown, any copies are more than worth the effort.

Tom Brown Cookies

2 eggs
2 sticks melted butter
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup white sugar
2 1/2 cups flour
3/4 cup peanut butter
1 bag chocolate chips

Preheat over to 350 degrees. Mix together the first seven ingredients, then add the flour. Stir in the peanut butter and chocolate chips, and bake for 7-9 minutes.

a savory marriage...

2008-11-12T17:43:00.000-08:00

…of artichokes and crab, that is.

As a rule, I am not a mayonnaise fan. The word itself, even the sight of it, causes my uvula to tense up a bit, in preparation for the inevitable gag.

But as any Southern cook knows, mayonnaise is a necessary evil for truly creamy texture. Dips, salads, dressings, even tomato pies… all require the addition of a glutinous dollop (and Miracle Whip just doesn’t cut it, either.) The French use crème fraîche; we use raw eggs and oil. Nuff said.

And in the gloriously salty relationship of artichokes, crab, and a healthy dusting of parmesan, it is the glue that makes this marvelous mixture so very miraculous. (There’s enough alliteration for you to last till Christmas.)

This particular recipe is passed down from my mom, who snatched it from a lady named LuAnn Schoppe (I know this solely because her name is written on the recipe), and it’s perfect as a culinary launchpad for the holiday season. It’s a quick, easy, scrumptious appetizer to accompany the requisite mixed nuts and champagne punch bowl.

Artichoke Dip

1 can artichokes, drained and chopped

1 can white crabmeat, drained
1/3 cup mayonnaise
1/2 cup parmesan
2 minced garlic cloves

Mix all ingredients; chill and serve.

sweetmilk

2008-10-22T20:48:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, dear wee dad!

The odd, yet enticing, photo above stands as a tantalizing preview of the chocolate dulce-de-leche bars you will receive in a scant two days. Take this as an early birthday card.

Yes, father, I have crafted my very own dulce de leche. You should have seen it… simmering and frothing in a sweet, milky puddle in my Calphalon pan which was a wedding present from your own wallet (though somehow I doubt you remember). It was a rich, fragrant, swirling whirlpool of goodness -- more delicate, more fragile, more dairy than its petty American counterpart.

Sigh.

I think it’s pretty obvious by now who should be getting the fattest inheritance.

Dulce de Leche

2 cups milk
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
A splash of vanilla

Scald milk in a heavy pan by stirring occasionally over low heat until steam breathes gently from its surface. Add the sugar, soda and vanilla, slowly, and stir till it dissolves. Cook over medium heat for an hour, stirring every 5 minutes or so. Be sure to remove it from heat the instant it thickens into a gorgeous, tawny syrup.

one step closer

2008-10-03T15:21:00.001-07:00

Just look at that crust.

No, really. Take a good, long, lustful look at that crust. The glistening, caramel pool of maple custard lapping at its flaky borders. The seductive lack of a single slice of perfect, all-homemade pie.

At last, I have surpassed one more obstacle on the oft-treacherous road to becoming a Great Southern Cook. Not chef. No self-respecting Texas-bred woman would call herself a chef. That’s a word for Yankees and Europeans. But the Great Southern Cook… now that is an elusive title reserved almost exclusively for those with at least five grandchildren. I’m hoping to get there by the time I find my first gray hair. (Overachiever is my middle name.)

And this decadent disc of dessert, a.k.a. maple pie, brought me one step closer. The filling is rich, eggy, and tooth-cracking sweet, the result of a recipe from a tiny yellow book I picked up at a syrup stand during our honeymoon in Vermont. The crust hits much closer to home… my precious Nanny passed along the recipe after my most recent disastrous attempt at an all-homemade pie. Your eyebrows may greet your hairline when you read about mixing milk with Crisco, but the whole thing is just plain tasty and easy as… pie. (Forgive me.)

Maple Pie

2 eggs
2 yolks
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup whipping cream
1/2 cup real maple syrup
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Lightly beat all the eggs in a medium bowl. Whisk in the brown sugar, cream, maple syrup and vanilla. Beat long enough to dissolve the sugar. Pour filling into a pre-baked crust. Bake at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes, until center is almost firm.

Never-Fail Pie Crust

Stir together 7 tablespoons shortening and 1 teaspoon milk. Boil a bit of water and measure 3 tablespoons, adding to mixture. Add 1 1/4 cup flour, 1/2 teaspoon of salt, and roll that baby out on a floured surface. Bake at 375 for about 10 minutes.

maplemoon

2008-09-22T18:50:00.000-07:00

On Saturday morning, my husband and I slept till noon, snuggled under mounds of blankets, and feasted on maple-infused French toast… basically, we relived our Vermont honeymoon on a cool Texas morning.

Almost two years ago, we spent a drowsy week in Stowe, a rolling, picturesque dot of a town dressed in mist and fog. And because we happened to choose a wonderful, tiny bed-and-breakfast called the Timberholm Inn, the highlight of our day was often breakfast. With a daily cookie-and-tea hour, roaring fire, and no other inhabitants, we had the place (and the breakfast table) all to ourselves. Which meant a regular, mid-morning spread of epic proportions.

Despite the mushroom-white cheddar scramble and maple-soaked sausage, our favorite dish was a simple one — maple-infused French toast — and a decadent one to boot. Two pieces of this and you’re irresistibly drawn back to bed for another hour. Our hosts were delicious enough to actually send me the recipe, and though it takes some preparation (the stale bakery bread and real maple syrup are required), the payoff is beyond sweet.

It’s thick, soft and creamy on the inside, the lightest bit of crunch on the outside, redolent with butter and maple syrup and crowned with a dusting of powdered sugar. And I’ve decided to re-dub this breakfast/dessert “Soporific French Toast,” because the combination of half-and-half, eggs, butter, bread, and syrup is about as strong as a full dose of Nyquil.

And what the heck, I’m feeling generous today. I’ll actually give you the recipe.

Soporific French Toast
(with many thanks to Rich & Darrick)

1/2 loaf good bread, thickly sliced
1/2 stick of butter
5 eggs
3/4 cup half-and-half
1/2 cup pure Vermont maple syrup
1 tablespoon pure vanilla
Pinch of ground nutmeg

Slice the bread by hand the night before and leave out to dry. The next morning, melt butter and set aside. In a bowl, mix the eggs, half-and-half, syrup, vanilla, and nutmeg. Add the butter and blend well with a whisk. Pour the egg mixture over the bread (best to lay them in a casserole dish) and let the bread soak for a full hour. Griddle with plentiful butter to a golden brown. Top with powdered sugar and more maple syrup.

autumn omen

2008-09-14T09:56:00.000-07:00

There is no one in the world as devoted to sweets as my mom. She inhales vanilla ice cream and gulps down peanut-butter chocolate chip cookies (a future post, if you’re lucky), yet somehow retains her slim little French figure. So unfair.

But she has perfected the simplest recipe for the most luscious, spice-replete cake you can imagine. For we autumn aficionados (that’s basically all Texans, since late September is our first taste of relief from the blistering summer), it is the perfect prequel to whet our appetites for all things fall. *And just WAIT for the warm, thick, sumptuous dishes I’ll be fixing in the coming months!

This cake is most mouth-watering when packed with very ripe, fresh pears, and even better when those pears were picked up in the horse pasture of your parents’ ranch-estate in Noonday. They’re ugly little buggers when harvested, lumpy in shape and freckled with black pinpoints, but a quick peel unveils the sweet, pearly flesh beneath. And that flesh is just waiting to dive into a Bundt pan. Trust me.

Pear Cake

4 very ripe pears
2 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable or canola oil
1 teaspoon nutmeg (feel free to add more!)
1 teaspoon cinnamon (feel free to add more!)
3 eggs
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons vanilla

Mix all ingredients in a large bowl by hand, adding one at a time and stirring thoroughly after each addition. Lightly spray a Bundt pan and pour batter in. Bake for 1 hour and 10-15 minutes in a 300-degree oven.

ode to the noonday onion

2008-08-31T21:16:00.001-07:00

O little, bulbous vegetable of Noonday,
How desperately I love thee!
How satisfying your papery sheath,
How perfect your promise to me!

Deep in the summer you are bestowed upon me
By grandparents lovely and generous,
And rich is the flavor that awaits my mouth
It makes the Vidalia, well, onerous.

Your layers offer sweet temptation,
Your flesh with its crunchiest bite.
Your diminutive size is a true treasure,
Your scent a piquant delight.

Never shall I forsake your pearly skin!
Never your luscious taste!
For whether on burgers or straight off the grill,
But for you, my mouth shall be chaste.

not quite there

2008-08-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

I like pie.

I’m a custard pie fiend. A brown sugar pie master. And the forerunner of maple pie in the Randall-Boone culinary lineage. But fruit pies… thou hast thrown the gauntlet down.

A clump of strawberries and rhubarb, already chopped, has been tucked in my freezer door since the Great Jam Day of ’08, especially reserved for my first attempt at crafting a wholly-from-scratch, kick-butt fruit pie. And for once, my fierce independence in the kitchen (i.e., my refusal to stick to a recipe) served me wrongly.

The one recipe I followed, from the latest issue of Better Homes & Gardens, produced a crust that was passable but flavorless. Thus, I will not reveal that recipe here but vow to continue a dedicated search for the perfect homemade crust, because I simply cannot believe that Marie Callender has upstaged me so easily.

My method for the filling was pulled from a bunch of different recipes, and while the flavor was lovely and rich, the texture was two steps away from gluey. So the recipe I’m providing now is much improved from what I originally followed, and it should produce lovely, rich, juicy results.

Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie Filling

3 cups chopped strawberry and rhubarb
2 tablespoons flour
1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar

Stir it all together and, what the heck, just pour it in the boxed M.C. crust from the supermarket.

melon goodness

2008-08-17T16:34:00.000-07:00

Watermelon itself is sweet, cool, summery, and totally cliché; watermelon pudding is sweet, cool, summery, and totally bizarre. I don’t know about you, but I’m the type to consistently choose unusual over normal. When I spotted the recipe for Sicilian watermelon pudding in the August issue of Saveur, I knew it was a dessert destined for my mouth.

Beware: the recipe sounds très simple, but it will ruin your entire kitchen. I mean, fat, pink, sticky globs everywhere. You can fix this problem by cleaning as you cook, but that just sucks all the joy out of creating a big, beautiful mess. Don’t even try this without a large, fine sieve and a lot of time. As with most pudding, you’ll be hunched over a big pot, forced to watch and stir til it boils, for about 40-45 minutes.

But I’m giving you the pessimism before optimism. Truth be told, once the pudding has attained a lovely coolness in the refrigerator and is topped by a quivering dollop of whipped cream, it bursts in your mouth with its gorgeous, forceful watermelon flavor. The texture is certainly odd at first, but the taste is unbeatable.

Gelo di Melone

6 cups watermelon, seeded and in chunks
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 cup cornstarch
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract
Whipped cream, for garnish

Purée watermelon in a blender until liquefied, and set aside. Whisk together sugar and cornstarch in a big pot or saucepan. While whisking, drizzle in liquid fruit. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat, stirring constantly and scraping bottom with a spoon. (Easier method: stir very regularly, occasionally cover pot with top to speed boiling.)

Boil, stirring constantly to prevent scorching, for five minutes or until it thickens slightly. Remove from heat and whisk in the vanilla. Using a rubber spatula, push and scrape the pudding through a fine sieve into a bowl. Cover bowl tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 4-6 hours.

To serve, spoon pudding in small bowls and top with a hearty amount of whipped cream.

BBKing

2008-08-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

My husband is incredible for a million reasons. He lets me order stuffed-crust pizza on a regular basis, inhales everything I cook with true appreciation, and cleans the dishes every night since I’m the chef. Rarely does he venture into the kitchen, unless it’s to microwave salsa or brew iced tea.

But he had a hankering to try making his own barbecue sauce, and spent hours pilfering through recipes before he settled on a favorite. (Many tweaks were made, so it’s his recipe now.) I swear I didn’t say a word, look over a shoulder or pick up a spoon while he cooked it up, and it turned out to be a masterpiece. Rich and salty (none of that sweet, molasses-y barbecue in my house), it gets a considerable boost from fresh garlic and a big splash of beer.

We debuted the stuff smeared all over shredded chicken for a party a few nights ago, and he got rave reviews. In fact, we’ve decided our last name deserves to be in the very title of the sauce. Therefore, here is the world premiere of… Bar-Boone-Que Sauce!

BBQ sauce

2 tbsp. vegetable oil
Small onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tbsp. chili powder
20 oz. bottle of ketchup
1/2 cup Shinerbock
3 tbsp. apple cider vinegar
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 tbsp. coarse-ground Dijon mustard
4 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
S&P

In a saucepan, cook onions in oil over medium heat til tender. Stir in garlic, cayenne, and chili powder and cook for one minute. Add ketchup, beer, vinegar, water, brown sugar, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, S&P. Partially cover and simmer until slightly thickened, about 15-20 minutes. Taste and adjust seasoning, if you like, with Tabasco.

blender salsa

2008-08-07T20:23:00.000-07:00

Any true Texan will tell you that close behind (or sometimes in front of) a love of home cookin’ falls the brilliant, gut-stuffing adoration of Tex-mex. We hold that the best Mexican food is not just found in our state, it’s got a heavy dose of Texan in it, too. Hence the abundance of orange cheese and salty, salty chips.

Like most good Texans, I cherish a good, bracing salsa. My husband is a bit more devoted… he consumes at least one gallon of salsa every two weeks. It’s an addiction which I feed gratefully. (Hey, at least no empty bottles or video games are involved.)

So when Nanny and Daddy Tom loaded me down with a Wal-mart bag full of tomatoes from their garden, my gut reaction was to try something new and something for him — homemade salsa. Typically I don’t use a recipe when I make something simple, and this time was no exception, so forgive me if the measurements are a bit loose. Salsa should cater to your tastebuds anyway. This variety (cleverly fixed in a blender) has a robust tomato taste with a subtle cilantro and onion aftertaste and a final kiss of jalapeño.

Salsa

8-9 ripe, fresh tomatoes
3 jalapeños
2 small Noonday onions
2 cloves garlic
7-8 sprigs of cilantro
Generous amount of salt
Big sprinkle of garlic powder

Cut tomatoes in wedges and pulverize in a blender. Set aside. Trim and halve the peppers, removing the seeds of two of them. Finely dice the onions, garlic and peppers (a food processor works wonders here). Trim and roughly chop the cilantro leaves. Add all ingredients to the tomato mixture, give it a good stir, and season to your liking with salt and garlic.

Eat up!

Sidenote: I apologize in advance if you don’t have Noonday onions, which are the greatest in the world, but market varieties will suffice. I suppose.

noonday delights

2008-08-04T21:51:00.001-07:00

Admittedly, my husband and I are not the richest people in the world. So the weekends we spend at Tulgey Wood, my parents’ sprawling, gorgeous ranch-estate in Noonday (population: 512), are like precious little getaways. And they’re always chock-full of delicious food, because I’m fortunate enough to count my veggie-loving, French mama and my casserole-touting, Texan Nanny as part of my culinary heritage.

Friday night’s meal was fresh, homegrown butternut and acorn squash, sliced tomatoes, and bread-and-butter, which cancelled out the ample spread Nanny prepared after church on Sunday. Devilled eggs, tuna salad, chips and dip, more tomatoes, peach cobbler and another… more interesting… dessert.

Tomato cobbler.

I’ll give you a few seconds to let that one sink in.

Apparently Nanny’s love of the sweet flesh of summer tomatoes prompted a years-long desire to try her famous cobbler recipe, just with cut-up tomatoes instead of fruit. The result got mixed reviews, but you have to appreciate an adventurous spirit in the kitchen. (As long as there’s a tried-and-true alternative for your guests… peach cobbler never fails!)

golden chicken

2008-07-30T14:14:00.001-07:00

There are few things that genuinely terrify me in the kitchen. One of them is whole chicken. The first time I bought one, I didn’t let it thaw properly, then found the necessity of poking and prodding the poor chicken’s… hole… completely disgusting. As in, I danced around the kitchen shrieking until my husband came in and had a go at it. Even he joined me in (manly) shrieking after a couple seconds.

So until I screw up the courage, I’ll settle for cleaned, separated chicken parts that come in a neat little package at the supermarket. My favorite are drumsticks, which are about two bucks for five and highly appealing when roasted.

I can’t take full credit for this method; the basics come from the quirky French mind of Clothilde Dusolier, blogging doyenne of Chocolate & Zucchini, the best food blog… well, ever. The best part is, it’s easy to customize and mold to your own tastebuds.

Easy Oven Chicken

Drumsticks
S&P

Prepare meat by rubbing it with S&P, or any other spice you darn well want. Or cloak it in barbecue sauce. Or Italian dressing. Or drizzle some olive oil and tuck in a few sprigs of fresh herb and garlic cloves around it. The possibilities are endless.

Lay the meat in a glass or metal baking pan (lightly grease the bottom if you’re not using oil on the chicken). Stick in a 360-degree oven, leave it in there for an hour, and presto! Perfect, juicy, crunchy-skinned chicken.

cucumber babies

2008-07-26T15:34:00.001-07:00

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I was surely an… odd child. I preferred reading to sweating, styled my own hair, wrote plays and forced my brothers into the boring princess roles, and generally attempted to wear as many colors as humanly possible on any given day. And though I had a couple Barbies and stuffed animals, in the summertime, my doll of choice was a cucumber.

My grandparents had a lovely, sprawling vegetable garden that produced an abundance of lovely, sprawling cucumbers. I mean, cucumbers as long as your arm and thick as a saxophone. They weren’t much good for eating or pickling, and somehow my Nanny and I decided they’d be best for playing. Cradled in the crook of my arm and wrapped with a couple of banana leaves for blankets, the cucumber took on the life of a doll after Nanny gave it a cartoonish, Sharpie face.

See? Odd, and yet, so cool.

I still love the sweet, crisp crunch of a cucumber, whether in pickle or fresh form. (I haven’t tried the former yet; that will be a future, autumnal post.) Always best when gleaned by the bag-ful from someone’s garden, these babies are delicious in a million different ways. Here are a few of my favorites:

* Chopped and tossed with fresh tomatoes, olive oil, feta cheese and garlic.
* Sliced up like chips and eaten with a coating of S&P.
* Diced and substituted for relish in tuna salad.
* Julienned and stuffed into falafel.
* Thinly sliced, on any sandwich.
* The French way: chopped and mixed with fresh mint, sea salt and a bit of plain yogurt.

Sidenote: The modern version of my cucumber baby, dubbed “Little Boonie” by my delightful Nanny, currently resides on my windowsill. It’s a comforting piece of décor.

guffaw-scrawls

2008-07-23T14:37:00.001-07:00

Oftentimes the greatest recipes are the simplest. And there’s nothing like a warm snickerdoodle to convince you of that. That soft, pillowy texture, that creamy, buttery taste and all dusted with crystals of cinnamon and sugar… bet your mouth is watering right now.

These are my husband’s favorite cookies, and the recipe happens to be the very first cookie concoction I ever tried. Of course, chocolate chip is the classic starter for a preteen baker, but after my eyes locked on the word “snickerdoodle” in the cookbook index, there was no going back. Little did I know the recipe produced, oh, about six dozen cookies. My sugar-lovin’ dad was delighted, but I was hot and sweaty by the time I’d shoveled all the cookies off the pan.

So here is your fair warning: you’ll have cookies coming out your fridge, pantry, freezer and ears with this recipe. Totally worth it.

Snickerdoodles

3 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar
2 sticks butter at room temperature
2 cups sugar
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk
2 teaspoons vanilla
1/2 cup cinnamon sugar

Stir together the first three ingredients and set aside. Cream the butter and sugar, then add the eggs, milk and vanilla and beat well. Gradually add flour mixture and beat til combined. Chill the dough for about an hour (or 20 minutes or so in the freezer). Roll dough into one-inch balls, roll around in a bunch of cinnamon and sugar, then place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375 for 7-8 minutes.

pearls of wisdom

2008-07-19T18:35:00.001-07:00

Today I was heartbroken to learn that Mississippi leads the nation in obesity. Closely followed by Tennessee and Alabama. Sigh. Texas, oh Texas, where is your fire? Until now, you always made good on your promise that everything would be bigger (and so much better) within your hallowed borders. I’m disappointed, mother land, truly disappointed.

One food item sure to tip those scales in our favor is the infamous corn-on-the-cob at our state fair. For four dollars, you can pile on all the calories you walked off among the bright lights and whirling machines with a giant ear of corn quite literally dunked in a vat of butter. (Let us all pause in reverence of the very concept: a vat of butter.) I’d imagine that baby has as many calories as five candy bars. But who’s counting?

However, lest our population dwindle because of that ever-pesky heart disease, today I proffer a beautiful, flavorful, simple way to make corn-on-the-cob that will make your mouth water and your waistband gape. I guess health really is more important than winning at everything.

And hey, we were once a full-fledged republic. Try to top that, ol’ Miss!

Perfect Corn-on-the-Cob

A couple ears of corn
Two teaspoons olive oil
S&P

Husk and clean corn. Brush each ear lightly with olive oil, sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper (or other spices - chili powder’s a good one), and wrap each ear loosely in foil, twisting the ends to seal each “packet.” Stick them in a 350-degree oven for 25 minutes, unwrap, inhale that delicious steam and immediately devour.

on love, and tomatoes

2008-07-15T09:21:00.000-07:00

On a long, yawning Saturday, when you’ve nothing better to do than go for a swim or crack open a new book, the delicious and almighty Cheesewich stakes its culinary claim. A rather simple affair with bread, cheddar, garlic and butter, the Cheesewich exists wholly in dedication to my all-time favorite summer produce (see how deftly I avoided the fruit-vegetable argument?)… tomato.

There are a few tests to ensure that you have the right tomato for a Cheesewich. If your tomato does not fulfill all of these requirements, I say drop it into a homemade marinara and leave my precious Cheesewich be. It cannot abide a lesser specimen.

First, the tomato must utterly overtake your palm when you pick it up. If it is the size of a tangerine, laugh in its face and toss it aside. Second, the tomato must be so richly crimson that when the first slice falls off its shiny face you helplessly gasp in delight. Third, the tomato must have been gathered from your own garden or bought from a roadside stand or farmer’s market.

Once you have the crucial item in hand, nothing will make better, more immediate use of it than a Cheesewich. I don’t know what your family calls it, but we Randalls (and now Boones) dubbed this sucker a Cheesewich, and since my dad is the number-one Cheesewich chef in the world, I’m taking his word for it.

Cheesewich
(makes two)

4 slices of good bread
1 tablespoon of butter
Garlic salt
2 handfuls of cheddar
A Perfect Tomato

Brush 2 slices of bread with the melted butter and generously sprinkle garlic salt on top. Then generously sprinkle cheddar cheese on the two naked slices. Bake the bread, topping-side up, on a foil-lined baking sheet in a 375-degree oven (or broil) for about 5 minutes, until cheese is fully melted and bubbling in a mouth-watering fashion. Remove, slide onto two plates, and mound slices of fresh tomato on the cheesy side. Top with the buttery side, and eat immediately.

Sidenote: Keep a pile of napkins on hand for this one.

cobblin' genius

2008-07-12T19:29:00.000-07:00

I trust that I’ve already convinced you of my die-hard love for Texas peaches. Now, allow me to convince you of the utter necessity of falling in love with my Nanny’s recipe for cobbler. Sure, there are hundreds, even thousands maybe, of sweet little grandmas championing their cobbler methods above all else, but to them I say, “Prepare to meet your doom.”

Those classic, crusty strips criss-crossing fruit in a Pyrex dish? My Nanny tosses her hair at them. (She might stick out her tongue, too; she was a pre-kindergarten teacher after all…) Instead, she has concocted an easy-as-pie, even-more-delicious way to fix cobbler that results in pools of buttery juice, mountains of caramelized dough and valleys of sugar-soaked fruit — and all that after about five minutes of kitchen time.

And on an occasional summer afternoon, after Daddy Tom (her husband, my grandfather) wanders out toward the four stalwart peach trees bordering the driveway in their front yard and comes back with a couple jewels in hand, she’ll whip up one of these babies with fresh peaches from their very own land, and nothing tastes sweeter.

Believe me, you don’t know how darn lucky you are that I’m sharing her recipe with you.

Nanny’s Cobbler

1 stick (1/2 cup) butter or oleo
1 cup flour
Pinch salt
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 cup milk
3 cups fruit (peaches!!)

Melt butter in 1 1/2-quart dish for oven. Combine flour, salt, baking powder and 1 cup sugar. Stir in milk. Pour into middle of melted butter. Place fruit in the middle of the dough. Pour 1 cup sugar on top of the fruit. DO. NOT. STIR.

Stick the whole thing into a 325-degreee oven for 50 minutes to an hour. In my immortal Nanny’s words, you’ll get a “crazy crust great tasting cobbler.”

Sidenote: Every time Nanny invites us up for dinner we hope and pray cobbler will be waiting in the wings. It usually is, and it tends to be even better with a hunk of vanilla ice cream on top.

jam session

2008-07-10T09:27:00.000-07:00

The expanse of time after noon til suppertime in the South is usually so blistering hot it feels like a wet electric blanket has been tossed over the whole world. It’s a time best reserved for naps, mint juleps and porch swinging. Unfortunately, many corporations in our great nation do not understand this.

As a teacher, however, I thumb my nose at them and enjoy long bouts of reading and cooking in air-conditioned comfort, though gin gimlets tend to be my favorite alcoholic company.

Last week, in an effort to buck up my status as Southern housewife, I strapped on my apron and headed for the kitchen, bravely entering the realm of a cooking pastime I just knew would result in sticky, messy disaster: jam-making. I was armed only with gritted teeth, high hopes and a simple recipe I’d found on the Internet.

And while the jar sterilizing, strawberry and rhubarb chopping and bubble watching were more time-consuming than I’d figured, the whole thing ended up being a smashing success. Especially considering I’d imagined ending up with gallons and gallons of ruby-hued jam and no where to put it but Tupperware. The recipe below is tweaked a bit for clarity, but best of all, it’s manageable. You’ll end up with about 2-3 cups of homemade jam — not 87.

Berry Jam

2 1/4 cups cane sugar
2 1/2 cups crushed berries (feel free to add those deliciously tart crimson stalks, too)
A squirt of lemon juice

Start by thoroughly cleaning your jam jars by sticking them in a boiling pot of water. Remove the pot from heat, and let the jars sit in there until you’re ready to pour the jam. Clean the lids by dunking them quickly in the boiling water. The hot jam mixture works better with warm jars and lids.

Mix up the sugar, berries and lemon juice in a good-sized pot on high heat, stirring regularly until the mixture comes to a boil (this will happen faster than you think). Reduce heat to medium, and continue cooking at a slow boil (20-30 bubbles on the surface is ideal) for about 15 minutes. Mixture will still be thin but pretty as a jewel.

Fill jars immediately (funnels are a good idea here) and cap. Line them up on the windowsill so you can admire them as they cool. Once they’re about room temperature, put them in the fridge and enjoy within the hour!

Sidenote: My husband can’t stand preserves and jam, and he thought this stuff was to-die-for. There’s the true measure of success.

peachy keen

2008-07-08T10:23:00.000-07:00

Georgia may be known across the country as a land flowing with milk and peaches, but we all know the sun shines brightest (and most hellishly) in Texas. And that means fuzzy-skinned fruit just as sweet and succulent as the ones produced by our Southern neighbors.

As soon as mid-June comes around, the skinny roads meandering through the Texan countryside play host to scores of itty bitty fruit-and-veggie stands, most of them run by overall-clad, dusty farmer’s wives or retirees with a piece of straw in their mouths. They stick signs by the side of the road with squished, painted letters promising “Shelled Peas! Melon! Jacksonville Tomatoes!” and, if you’re very lucky, one of those signs will hold the seven juiciest letters in the summer alphabet: p-e-a-c-h-e-s.

I don’t care if your wife is in labor or you’re already late for a funeral — when you see one of those signs, you pull over just as fast as you can. Take the two minutes to hand over a couple crumpled bills for that precious mound of homegrown peaches, almost always balanced in a little basket, then carefully dumped in a plastic Wal-mart bag for your enjoyment. At least when you get back in the car and time rushes you on, you can dampen its obnoxious ticking with your first bite of that gorgeous, peachy flesh.