racheld
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Posts posted by racheld
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Is there a weight given anywhere?---seems as if such a low price would mean a light pan, ergo: not much bottom between heat and food.
Cast iron is NOT what you want to make tomato sauce in, or pretty much anything you're going to cook in liquid---it gives boiled food a metallic tang, like the scent old coins leave on your hands. And once a pan's been boiled in, the season is gone, and it's another oil-and-bake to fry anything without sticking.
The only time water is used in a black skillet is to make some form of roux-based gravy. All the oil and flour absorb the water into a greasy mass that keeps the surface oiled.
Just one tip for true "black skillet" owners of cast iron: Once a Winter, stick all your skillets right into the coals of your fireplace for a few hours---all the crusty bits on the outside will burn away, and the inside will just need a little seasoning.
Or even into your grill, if you let it run through a whole charcoal-burning with the lid closed.
And NO soap. Salt or soda only, if you need to.
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I especially loved the furry cap with the pocket contents, what Chris calls his "pocket dump"---the coins alone have filled five-gallon bottles over the years.
You can just see the guy, coming in from the cold at the end of a workday, shelling out of his heavy outer garments, putting all his pocket necessities into his heavy cap, ready for another day tomorrow.
And the sewing machine
What's the deal with all that American money?
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Put me on your mailing list so that I can read your memoirs as soon as they appear. I love all this, Rachel
We could have almost gotten into one of those Versailles-mirror quoting things on the beans alone---with a garnish of Rachel, rachel in the lower corners.
And it just so happens that I am working on a little fun thing for the children for Christmas. It's a lot of things I've had thrown in boxes, old e-mails to and from a dear friend whose cheery greetings from Arkansas bright me as I wait for the coffee to perk, and LOTS of cut & paste from my posts on eG and several other kitchen-related sites. So it's mostly about cooking.
There's a lot of ME in these little musings, and I seem to have shared it with e-world more in the last few years than with my family. So they're getting a bit of it as a little Kinko's-type book, if I can get all those hundreds of pages condensed to a manageable handful.
I LOVE the platter of sweets---we go to a wonderful bakery for all shapes and sizes of pastries and sweet things (it's close to the house, and I did a little photo bit on it last year). I also loved the market display, with the little procession through the churchyard, just so matter-of-factly placing the end of life right out there with the food---like Beetlejuice surrounded by donuts. I think that's a lovely way to honor the deceased, tasting the sweetness of their lives, and to keep their memory a part of life, just channeling the generations as one.
And I LOVE Chila---must go---the cereal del dia is oatmeal.
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Brown vacitas (little cows)
Aren't they glorious? Don't you want to stroke them? And red vacitas.
We buy the big brown blanket-sized sheets at a carniceria next to the within-smelling-distance bakery around the block. Southern folks finding fried pork rinds that take two hands to hold---Heaven.
And the vacitas---yes I DO want to touch them. Also memories of my Southern childhood, when dried beans of several colors were a fascination. Relatives had a little grocery store, and just inside the flappy screendoor, a rank of perhaps six or eight half-barrels were bolted to the wall, just hand-height. They each held an immense quantity of beans, and the colors and their cool slippage through my fingers and the slishy sound of them as they rattled back into the pile---I've never forgotten.
Uncle didn't seem to mind our grubby fingers buried in someone's prospective dinner, and he allowed us to man the silver scoops at will, but his first words to children through the door, repeated countless times in that cavernous deep-rumbly voice: "Don't mix the beans."
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Heaven.... I promise.
I BELIEVE it!!!
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the woman was cheap so that after she had buttered her toast and then put on some grape jelly--Oh Hell No, it wasn't Welch's, too expensive
--in order not to "waste" anything she would scrape away any excess jelly along with the solidified margerine and bread crumbs BACK INTO THE JAR OF JELLY. Just imagine the sight: different little piles of used jelly, toast crumbs, and congealed margerine. Been there, done exactly that, on my first-ever sleepover of my life, down the street at a weekend-friend's house, as I was visiting my Mammaw.
Her Mama swept around the kitchen in a can't-forget-it silky robe of some neon yellows and eye-sharp greens, one hand waving a Kool and the other clutching her coffee cup, which held a thick, sugary brew lightened with a goosh of Pet Milk, AFTER she poked a red fingernail through the little dried church-key triangles in the lid.
Coffee was the only drink in the house, and I drank mine with milk, so, dreading the eeew of the Pet, I said my doctor said only hot water for me at breakfast (I was ten and I'd heard my neighbor name a long list of foods her doctor advised against, so I played my flimsy trump card).
So I got it---my yellow Melmac cup lifted with thumb and ring-finger of the Kool-hand, faucet turned on, one finger of her coffee-hand held under to test, then my cup flooded overflowing, a bit dumped into the sink, and the cup thumped down.
My water was delicious with the toast and oleo-crumb jelly.
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Thank you, Carrot Top, for making my Vermont scrapings seem a Lucullan feast!
I think I love you both. Retroactive hugs.
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Just this week on NR, our own dear Bourdain used the word Artisanal twice and porn once (may his sacred words resound).
The porn, I seem to remember, might have been in reference to a geoduck, which emerged from the sandy puddly hole in which our intrepid traveler had been delving, shovel and elbows, for some hour or so. They fought hard for the prize, mudding up their clothes and sinking to the ankles of their big black boots, then waved the prize around like two of the twelve-year-olds in my sixth- grade class, the first few days of school after the Summer they'd discovered all things phallic. They cackled like the same rowdy boys, with references to "pants" and "women" flying into the Northwest wind.
None of the males winced at the slicing of it into sushi, but I heard several gasps in the background as the chef skinned and practically autopsied the thing as he dismembered it, rolling back its covering with disregard to all the sympathetic groans from the bystanders.
And I did smile to see several familiar faces around the dinnertable, may they remain anonymous.
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With only roadside herbs and a pack of tic-tacs for seasoning.
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I've never heard of RM oysters from anything other than a four-legged creature. Turkey ones are lumped under the old Southern term, "Rooster Fries."
I looked it up to see if maybe it was my mistake, and found a very interesting list of names for them---Tendergroin being the punniest.
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Lovely. I'm looking forward to the tour. Will there be more of those mountains?
Another rachel, up where it's coooool. Finally.
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Ling - I'm trying to imagine a foie gras tarte tatin. What did you serve it as - dessert, appetizer...? Is that a big hunk of foie gras in the picture?
It was the dessert at my all-duck dinner. (Previous courses included: Szechuan peppercorn duck prosciutto, duck rillettes, confit of duck gizzards on Puy lentils, Toulouse-style cassoleut.)
Yes, that's a piece of foie gras in the picture. Here's a link to a better picture.
Ling,
I took a look at the link---I always DID say your desserts look like you upended your jewelry box over the plate.
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This is my take on the standard "boil two oranges" recipe; has chocolate in it of course.
CHOCOLATE ORANGE CAKE.
INGREDIENTS
2 oranges
6 eggs, separated
300 gm ground almonds
¼ cup good quality cocoa (Callebaut choc powder is very good)
1 cup castor sugar
150 gm dark chocolate, melted and cooled (70% cocoa is good)
1 and 1/4 teas baking powder
METHOD
Boil the oranges about 1 hour, cool, de-seed (easier to use Navel oranges!) and chop in the blender (not too smooth!) Mix with egg yolks and other ingredients.
Fold in the stiffly beaten egg whites.
Greased and lined springform tin (mine is 26 cm), moderate oven 1 ¼ hours.
I saw Miss Nigella make a cake like this---is there no residual bitterness from using all the pith? I know she LIKES bitter and sour tastes more than I do.
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Since the temperature dropped 44 degrees since yesterday, tonight's warm, comfy dessert is quartered purple plums simmered gently in a little skillet in butter, sugar, a drop of vanilla and a shot of Buttershot. Thickened caramelly sauce, soft sweet plums---over a scoop of vanilla in my beautiful new blue bowls.
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Oh. So THAT'S what this topic's about. I had visions of walruses and bears lined up for the dole.
Carry on.
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Four days of shooting?
What might the salary level be for such a strenuous career?
Do all the FN "stars" do their own shows in such a compressed time frame---comparatively speaking? They could ALL live in France and just zip over from time to time.
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It's good to know that---something about that sweat-sheen on your upper lip makes the ice the more welcome and the syrup all the sweeter. The slant of the light on the counters and the people just seemed to be of a HOT shade. Memory always casts it that way, anyhow. And the screak-open and flap-shut of a screendoor behind you as you enter---that adds the final touch to the whole atmosphere of the experience.
Thanks for the answering---am I to assume you're a local?
And Welcome, Lorin!!!
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Thanks jen, that is good of you. I hope the "troubled thoughts" is not just creative translating in the original book. Seems a strange name for a cookie/biscuit/cake, doesnt it?
I've been wandering for a long time amongst translations, recipes, and all sorts of arcanities about Lebkuchen. If they are the Nurnberg Lebkuchen, there's a recipe for "Punch Icing," made with wine and powdered sugar---THAT should cure any unhappy thoughts.
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Looo-siana Satsumas!!!! Now THERE'S a pleasant memory. It's a remembering that comes often, after perhaps twenty-five years since the actual event, and it should be commemorated with choirs, harps, and a flock of little pink hearts---pale pink ones, fraught with longing.
One day at my workplace, everyone had gone to lunch but me---I'm talking DEEP South here, so colloquialisms apply. A lady came into the office with both arms dragging low like a water-bearer, from the weight of two of those orange-net bags into which fruit is sewn for transport. She gave two mighty swings, and plumped each upon the counter in turn. She said, "I've got Looo-siana Satsumas and Grapefruit---any of y'all wanna buy some?"
I took a look at the fruit, quite plump and heavy with juice, but the moldy-green of the surface was a bit aback-taking, to say the least. It was not the green of unripe; it was a mossy, furry green, of the shade that floated on the FARRRR end of the drainage ditch which served the kitchen plumbing of our very rural home. The grapefruit was not quite so algae-ish, so I hefted the bag, realized it was FAR more than the ten pounds she allowed that it was, and said I'd take that one.
She sighed a regretful sigh and reached for the bridesmaid bag. I can turn down anyone with an eyeroll sigh, an angry sigh, a who-do-you-think-you-are hummmmph, but her sad tote that barge resignation at having to lug that thing BACK out into that Mississippi heat and peddle it elsewhere---that was my undoing.
I said I'd take that one as well. Whole kingdoms and bits of history have hinged on less import than that one sentence. I lugged them out to the car after work, counter-threw them myself when I arrived home. After school, the children came in, took one look, and all gave an EWWWWW-flavored, "What is THAT?"
Fruit, I said, mentioning that I'd give it a good wash before we peeled it. I cut the Satsuma bag, dumped a few into the sink-bowl, ran cold water, brush-scrubbed. No swan emerged from the dirty-ducklings, just a fainter nasty green tingeing the peel, but we took life and ptomaine in hand and peeled one. The rind fell away easily, revealing contents that Faberge would have gladly displayed in any egg. The fruit was spectacular, a glorious golden orange with a luminous quality that I'm sure has been enhanced by time and wishes for more.
The segments were sweet, the orangey orange that all oranges aspire to be, with great clusters of the tiny juice-sacs gleaming after the bite. I cannot describe the texture or the flavor or the color of those bits of happenstance---it was the best fruit we'd ever eaten, and for seconds, we all peeled one of our own, then another. Somehow, the five of us consumed half the bag between then and bedtime, finishing off the bag betwixt night and breakfast.
We still speak of it as the Miracle Satsumas, and will ever wander towards Goblin Market, hoping to find more. I looked up expectantly for YEARS, hoping that dusty, heavy-laden woman would re-appear, bearing that marvelous fruit. All the years since, any Satsumas in any market are greeted with a little lift of hopeful anticipation---wishing to find, hoping to taste just one more time.
I hope yours are as magical---I wonder if ANY could ever be as good.
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The screen-doors give me hope that it is NOT air-conditioned, but I assume just for the sake of the ice, not the humans, it must be.
Extra
if it's sweltery inside---that's what makes that first slurpy bite all the more magical. -
I DO love this piece---with a visceral longing. It brings a quick flash of hot-all-over, the Mississippi sun bearing down as we stood in line for our own taste of the colors and flavors of the Summer Snow that came magically from Miss Effie's ice machine. It was way coarser, in the way of mere Snow Cones, but it had its own merits---the satisfying molar crunch after that first, thirsty face-bury into the cold, flimsy ethercone of the grape or red or green.
It was delicious, it was cool, it was tooth-achingly sweet, with the surge of too-strong KoolAid---like your Mom had added ONE quart of water instead of the required two (and don't believe we didn't TRY that, pouring the violently purple concoction over hammer-cracked ice). It was also magically akin to actually being able to EAT those colors, just like you always want to when you open a new 64 Crayola box for the first time.
This is just wonderful, perfectly suited to the record-breaking temperatures here, despite the drifts of crispy, falling leaves---90's in October, in Indiana? This has been the perfect antidote.
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There is just something so........."klingonesque".about that noodle dish
Klingonesque!?! That is a very special nerd word - you have exposed yourself! Take two Romulan ales and go to bed.
I'd say Prune Juice with that dish---a WARRIOR'S DRINK!!!
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The Wait/Wait/Tension/Tension of the past weeks teleported from the sunny slopes of luxurious Aspen into a high school auditorium, with the four popular kids sitting at the judges' table, ready to pass judgement on the three cheerleader wannabes.
The lighting and sound crew, imported from the school's Video Club, did total justice to the unrehearsed dialogue, the staged pauses, the artificially-enacted tension, and the exuberant leaps of the WINNAH.
The two also-rans, smiling bravely, courteously left the limelight to the victor. They have no idea what a great thing just happened to them and their careers last night. They will succeed; I'd scoot over to Chicago THIS MINUTE, much as I HATE those toll roads, if I thought Dale would be in the kitchen tonight.
And Dallas is PROUD of Casey, even before all this folderol.
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One of my own pet peeves is when a recipe is referred to as "Aunt Sally's Cheesecake".
Now, Daniel, Darlin', we two are gonna have to disagree on this one. There are whole generations and centuries of good Southern women whose lives were lived quietly, unobtrusively, uncelebrated save for their way with a cake, a pie, a recipe for chowchow or preserves or perhaps a sublime custard which, when cranked and iced and stirred in the old wooden ice cream freezer, became the food of gods.
Books and drawers and albums and files are filled with handwritten receipts; little boxes of quaint cards are inscribed with measures and methods of a time far ago, testament to the perseverance of family favorites. And a good half of the pages bear the names of the creators, the copiers, the carriers-on of a tradition older than memory---the naming of a recipe for the hands which created the original.
And for most, that one bit of history is the only claim to lasting remembrance for these women---the homesteaders, the keepers of the gardens and stys and springhouses, of kitchens plank-floored and bare save for a scarred wooden table and a few wall-hooks for utensils. And the years of rationing, of doing without and making-do with what could be had---ingenuity triumphed in those times, and families were fed. Who is to remember and celebrate those cooks, if we do not?
My own great cluttered drawer of clippings and lined paper and curled brown bits of sack and calendar holds myriad recipes named for an aunt, a friend, a church lady whose dishes caused gridlock when she set down her tray. Mrs. Thornton's Watermelon Preserves, Miz Prysock's Hot Water Cake, Mammaw's Pineapple Layer cake---they're all there, along with Maw's Lime Pickle (always referred to in the singular by her, and the name is sacred in the family annals), Aunt Mary's Creamed Corn, Aunt Lucy's Candied Sweet Potatoes (and they WERE---nearly pound-for-pound with sugar in the syrup; they would almost stand in for fudge), and Miss Millie's Karo Pecan Pie.
Perhaps my strong feelings on this subject have come too much to the fore, as I have been working hard on getting a book ready for all the children and grandchildren for Christmas---all the family remembrances and recipes and little wisps of where-we-come-from to pass on to the new families taking up the kitchen torch. I've just been so immersed in all the remembering---it's very important to me to hand down whatever I can to enrich the heritage of all our family.
So, I'll just keep referring to all the old recipes and the old ways by their proper names---the names of the women who originated them, and whose names would now be lost to time, save for their talent in the kitchen.
I will not let their work and their names be lost.
eG Foodbog: Caroline
in Food Traditions & Culture
Posted · Edited by racheld (log)
Finally, a hand shot!
I'm so glad you posted his---I have such a sweet spot for hard-working hands.
And I always get a little tickle of laughter when someone mentions flan. Chris will talk away beautifully in Spanish with the waiters at any Mexican restaurant in town, and then order the "Flay-in."
Don'tcha just LOVE a Bubba?