Search the Community

Yesterday I bought a small pouch of Deep Foods' Dry Garlic Chutney. It is hot and garlicky and kind of dry and crumbly in texture. I would like to try this on my own. Anyone out there care to share a reciepe?

James Villas: Extracts from Between Bites James Villas’ memoir recounts his experiences of life, love, and libations beginning with 1961 cross-Atlantic trip to France and spanning over the next 40 years. The author offers vignettes of his intimate relationships with the famous personalities who have impacted his admittedly unconventional views of the evolution of cuisine. With his southern storyteller’s warmth and humor, he chronicles his own hedonistic adventures, including these three extracts. "Between Bites - Memoirs of a Hungry Hedonist" was published by Wiley in May, 2003. Editor's note: "Craig" mentioned in the extract below, is the late Craig Claiborne, Food Columnist for the New York Times and author of numerous books. He was a good friend of the author and they used to cook together in the Hamptons. "Don" is Don Erickson, who was the executive editor at Esquire. He mentored James as a young food writer. "Pierre" is Pierre Franey, a French chef who became famous as the chef of Le Pavillon restaurant in New York City from 1945 to 1960. While I'm the first to credit Craig as being one of the most brilliant, exacting, and dedicated journalists I've ever known, it's also true that this legend who taught America so much about cooking was himself not a very accomplished cook and would never have attained such heights of success had Pierre (and other professional chefs) not been at the stove. Not that Craig couldn't turn out a perfect breakfast omelette or, so long as he followed a recipe to the letter and was given plenty of time, produce delicious moules marinieres, a correct osso buco, and genuine chili con carne. What he lacked was Pierre's natural instincts for the mechanics of cooking, the ability to conceptualize a dish and bring about its execution deftly, comfortably, and with a sense of total control. From vast exposure to good food, Craig generally knew whether a dish was right or wrong-and he could explain in detail the reasons why-but when it came to actually reproducing a brandade de morue, chicken Pojarski, or even Brunswick stew, the amount of time he would spend analyzing the recipe, his nervous assemblage of components' and his awkward cooking gestures betrayed an insecurity in the kitchen that could have translated into serious problems without the help of the experts who usually surrounded him. Nor was Craig's interpretation of certain dishes always as valid as implied in some of the recipes he published, as when he once decided to reproduce authentic North Carolina chopped pork barbecue after a trip to Goldsboro and stubbornly insisted on using two loins instead of fatty shoulders and on cooking the meat in the oven. "But Craig, you can't use loin," I protested when he called to tell me his plans for a dish I was weaned on. "The flavor and texture will be all wrong, and the meat's got to be slowly roasted somewhere over hickory or oak coals and mopped with sauce-even if it's an ordinary kettle grill. " No amount of argument could convince him. Shoulder had too much fat for health-conscious readers, he insisted, and there'd be too much waste. He wasn't about to dig a pit outdoors, nobody wanted to go to all the trouble. of searching for wood chips, and besides, he had figured out exactly how he could barbecue lean pork loins in the oven for five hours at 250° degrees, then simulate a smoky flavor by placing the roast for a while on a charcoal grill. Suffice it that, in utter frustration and near anger, I finally capitulated and left him to pursue his fantasy. In late afternoon on the day of the big feast, scheduled at 8:00 P.M. and attended mainly by non-Southerners, he called to say that the barbecue looked and smelled "fantastic" and asked if I'd mind driving over with my hatchet so he could chop it properly. When I arrived at the back door, Craig, smiling proudly, offered a piece of meat he'd pulled off for me to taste. "That's delicious roast pork, some of the best I've eaten," I declared truthfully, "but it's not Carolina barbecue." "Oh, you're just a prejudiced Tarheel from the western part of the state," he mumbled, slightly wounded by my candid verdict. "My version is like the eastern -style barbecue they do in Goldsboro." Since the damage has been done, I determined not to pursue the matter, nor to ask why traditional Brunswick stew and hush puppies were not on his menu along with what turned out to be a credible barbecue sauce, delectable cole slaw and potato salad, and exemplary pecan pie. Then came the ultimate shock after all the excited guests were seated. To wash down all this earthy Southern food was not standard iced tea, or beer, or even water, but. . . French champagne! I truly thought this man from Mississippi had lost his mind. Still, I held my tongue as Craig and the others relished the food and bubbly with imperceptive glee, just as I bit the bullet of professional friendship when Craig ended the feature he soon published with a little more than poetic license: "It so happens that James Villas, food editor of Town & Country, is a good friend and neighbor, a native North Carolinian, and, if you will pardon the expression, a barbecue freak. I invited him over for a sample, and he pronounced my barbecue the best home-cooked version he had ever sampled. That is high praise." To point out a few of Craig's salient limitations might seem scabby and disrespectful, the only justification being that his flawed example taught me that an eminent food journalist need no more necessarily be a master chef than an acclaimed connoisseur of Bach is expected to perform the composer’s preludes and fugues with immaculate precision. Even after some formal training, I knew at an early stage in my career that I would never become—nor aspire to be—a gifted chef, a realization that might well have affected my ambitions and abilities as a food writer had I not witnessed how Craig Claiborne dealt so naturally and sensibly with the issue. My Authentic Carolina Chopped Pork Barbeque (Serves at least 8) The Barbecue One small bag hickory-chips (available at nurseries and hardware stores) One 10-pound bag charcoal briquets One 6- to 7-pound boneless pork shoulder (butt or picnic cut), securely tied with butcher's string The Sauce 1 quart cider vinegar 1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce 1 cup catsup 2 tablespoons prepared mustard 3 tablespoons light brown sugar 2 tablespoons salt Freshly ground pepper to taste 1 tablespoon hot red pepper flakes Soak 6 handfuls of hickory chips in water for 30 minutes. Open one bottom and one top vent on a kettle grill. Place a small drip pan in the bottom of the grill, stack charcoal briquets evenly around the pan, and ignite. When the coals are gray on one side (after about 30 minutes), turn them over and sprinkle 2 handfuls of soaked chips evenly over the hot coals. Situate the pork shoulder skin-side up in the center of the grill about 6 inches directly over the drip pan (not over the hot coals), lower the lid, and cook slowly for 4 hours, replenishing the coals and soaked chips as they burn up but never allowing coals to get too hot. Turn the pork, lower the lid, and cook 2 hours longer. Meanwhile, prepare the sauce by combining all the ingredients in a large, nonreactive saucepan. Stir well, bring to the simmer, and cook for 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and let stand for 2 hours. Transfer the pork to a working surface, make deep gashes in the meat with a sharp knife, and baste liberally with the sauce. Replenish the coals and chips as needed (maintaining a low heat). Replace the pork skin-side-down on the grill, and cook for 3 hours longer, basting with the sauce from time to time. Transfer the pork to a chopping board and remove the string. Remove and discard most (but not all) of the skin and excess fat and chop the meat coarsely with an impeccably clean hatchet, Chinese cleaver, or large, heavy chef's knife. Add just enough sauce to moisten the meat further, toss till well blended, and either serve the barbecue immediately with the remaining sauce on the side or refrigerate and reheat in the top of a double boiler over simmering water when ready to serve. (The barbecue freezes well up to 3 months.) Serve the barbecue (plain or on a hamburger roll) with Brunswick stew, cole slaw, and hush puppies. When it came to his writers, Don took everything personally, even to the point of criticizing work of mine he happened to notice in other magazines. "Your Jovan piece is a knock-out, and it's good to see you so deft in conveying character," he once began a letter on a profile I'd done on a famous Chicago restaurateur. "I have to be honest and say that you've written the best words of your descriptive career for someone else and not for me. They are, of course, 'cushioned tirades.' I wonder if you know how good that is. But you don't get away unscathed. Your editor should have seen that 'individual (kitchen) duties strictly defined' and 'working as a team' are not, as you would have it, two different things necessarily. And I think' nefarious' is the wrong word for the place you've put it." Such frank, unsolicited memos from Don arriving out of the blue became routine, pithy commentaries that he simply felt compelled to write and that, perhaps more than anything else, taught me what a truly dedicated editor and friend are all about. Although Don was as obsessed as Alexandre Dumaine with classic French cuisine and revered every recipe Julia Child ever composed or demonstrated on TV, this hardly meant that he was not interested in and receptive to any gastronomic topic that might make a substantial impact in the magazine. As a result, over the next few years I produced a slew of articles that were as disparate in subject as they were often controversial in nature. Under Don's weighty influence and guidance, I wrote about making my own wine, working undercover at a fancy French restaurant, the joys of eating raw meat, menu ripoffs in restaurants, college cafeteria slop, the horrors of yogurt, Carolina pig versus Texas beef barbecue, how stupid government regulations were destroying great country hams, and the evils of the martini. "Fried chicken!" I remember hearing someone yell in the distance. Looking across all the roaring traffic to the other side of a busy midtown street in Manhattan, I spotted Don rushing somewhere with Nora Ephron, his hands cupped at his mouth. "Fried chicken!" he repeated loudly. "Do fried chicken! We'll talk later." And that's how I was assigned an article that almost brought on a second Civil War and, thanks to Don, was so unorthodox in style that it was eventually anthologized in a number of college textbooks. Obviously, the subject of fried chicken had been mulling in his brain for weeks. I’m bored to death with dull, formulaic food writing," he exploded when we sat down to discuss what he wanted. "Let's really break some balls in this piece, take a definitive stand, and present it in a way that keeps the reader guessing what in hell is going on." This, he explained, would mean first setting myself up daringly as the world authority on fried chicken, followed immediately by the in-depth, perfect recipe itself, followed by an intricate analysis of the recipe details, followed finally by a scathing attack on what's wrong with all other fried chicken. In other words, everything in reverse. This also meant demonstrating for Don himself the entire cooking procedure, from actually cutting up the chicken to seasoning and battering to frying and draining on paper bags-all before I committed one word to the page. And to pass this initial test, which would prove to him without any doubt that I really knew what I was writing about, nothing would do but for me to show up in his small, nondescript apartment in Greenwich Village at the crack of dawn with three whole chickens, the right heavy cast-iron skillet, the right styles of shortening and flour, the right seasonings and buttermilk, and of course, the exact right paper bags for shaking and draining the chicken. Suffice it that by eight o'clock A.M. in that tiny, unventilated kitchen, I had cooked up some twenty-four pieces of golden, moist, crisp-skinned chicken, three of which Don devoured with approval for breakfast before heading for the office. As for myself, I couldn't face eating fried chicken again for months. The Quintessential Southern Fried Chicken (Shortened Version) (Serves 4) One 3-pound fryer chicken, preferably freshly killed 3 teaspoons salt Freshly ground pepper to taste 3 cups buttermilk 1/2 lemon, seeds removed 3 cups (1 1/2 pounds) Crisco shortening 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1/4 cup bacon grease Cut the chicken into 8 serving pieces, rinse the pieces under cold running water, dry thoroughly with paper towels, and season with 1 teaspoon of the salt plus pepper. Pour the buttermilk into a large bowl and squeeze the lemon into it. Add the chicken pieces to the bowl to soak, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 2 hours. Remove the chicken from the refrigerator and allow to return to room temperature. While melting the shortening over high heat to measure 1/2 inch in a large cast-iron skillet (add more shortening if necessary), combine the flour, remaining salt, and more pepper in a heavy brown paper bag. Remove the dark pieces of chicken from the milk, drain each momentarily over the bowl, drop into the bag, and shake vigorously to coat. Add the bacon grease to the skillet and when small bubbles appear on the surface, reduce the heat slightly. Remove the chicken pieces from the bag one by one, shaking off excess flour, and using tongs, lower them gently into the hot fat. Arrange the pieces of dark chicken in the skillet so they cook evenly, reduce the heat to moderate, and cook for exactly 17 minutes. Reduce the heat slightly, turn the pieces with the tongs, and fry for 17 minutes longer. Quickly repeat all procedures with the white pieces of chicken, adjusting the heat as necessary and frying exactly 15 minutes on each side. Drain the chicken on a second brown paper bag for at least 5 minutes, transfer to a serving platter without reheating in the oven, and serve hot or at room temperature. By ten o'clock, the Long Island sun is blazing. Our buckets overflowing with exquisite berries, Mother and I return to the rough country road to pay the farmer for our bounty, then drive to my home on the south fork so she can begin immediately to make the preserves that will last us through the year and help fill all her holiday gift packages. For years at home in North Carolina, Mother was never at a loss for relatives to participate in this annual summer ritual. But time passes, people disappear for one reason or another, and today there's only Mother and me left to carry on a tradition that is as sacred to her as making fruitcakes for Christmas. Of course every June when she comes to visit me on Long Island, she complains about her stiff knees and. weak hands and threatens not to go strawberry picking. Then, after she rages about the poor quality and outrageous prices of market berries, prompting me to suggest that we just ride over and check the northfork field, she inevitably forgets her ailments and off we go. "I need a drink," she announces in the kitchen, reaching for the Bloody Mary mix while I begin rinsing some ten quarts of strawberries and placing them on paper towels spread out over every inch of counter space. "Now, sort them carefully, honey, and make sure the ones for preserves are firm and the same size," she instructs as if I hadn't been through the procedure a hundred times over the years. She then opens a new package of pectin, measures cups of sugar, and takes a big slug of her restorative libation. Cooking strawberries for preserves is a very serious and private affair for Mother, and nobody, not even my neighbor Craig Claiborne when he was alive, would ever risk distracting her. Once the hulled berries are in a big kettle and the first measurement of sugar is added, I step away as she brings the mixture very slowly to a boil and begins stirring attentively with a large wooden spoon. More sugar, a little lemon juice, a slight heat adjustment, then further careful stirring as she quietly watches the berries gradually yield their juices, blend with the melted sugar, and almost magically turn a deep, glistening red. Her concentration is intense. "Quick, help me move this pot off the heat," she suddenly directs, lifting one side of the large vessel up before I can grab the other side. "I thought you said you had no strength left in your hands," I jest. "Hush. I don't have time to think about that now," she huffs, stirring pectin into the mixture. "Have you got those bowls ready?" Together we slowly pour the hot berries into two large mixing bowls, after which Mother begins the tedious but important task of skimming foam off the tops so that the preserves will not be cloudy. "Here," she says, handing me the spoon, "stir them steadily till they cool slightly and begin to thicken. I'm dead." She wipes her hands on her apron and reaches for her drink. Quite often, the cooled strawberries must stand overnight so that they will jell and plump enough to remain in suspension when preserved. After we've had lunch and taken well-deserved naps, however, Mother determines by early evening that the texture and consistency of the berries are already ideal, rousing her to begin sterilizing half-pint canning jars and lids in a steaming water bath while I melt paraffin in a saucepan. At one point, she drops a lid on the floor and asks me to pick it up, complaining about how she can't bend down that far. "Sometime I'd like to drop a hundred dollar bill on the ground and watch you scramble for that!" I jeer. "Smart aleck," she mumbles, popping me on the rear. As I ladle luxurious preserves into the jars, Mother, with her experienced and expert touch, pours hot paraffin over the tops, slowly tilts each jar back and forth till the waxy substance begins to set and seal every edge, and caps each with a lid and ring band as a precaution against any improbable but always possible seepage. We then take each jar and apply a label that reads "From Martha's Kitchen." "Pretty, aren't they?" Mother comments quietly, standing back with her tired hands on her hips and surveying the twenty-odd jars lined up across the counter. "But Lord, that's a lot of work and . . . well, honey, I really do think my strawberry-picking days are over." Playfully I put my arm around her broad waist, tell her not to be so ridiculous, and suggest that she go change clothes so I can take her for a good dinner. Outside, the warm setting summer sun now filters gently through the towering oak trees, and as I gaze wistfully at this season's fresh, brilliantly red preserves that will bring such happiness to so many, I'm once again seized by all sorts of confused childhood, adolescent, and even recent nostalgia pertaining to the lady known to family as Martha Pearl, to friends simply as Martha, and to me as Mother, Missy, Big Mama, and, when she gets particularly overbearing, Brunhilde. Although this piece refers to strawberries, you can use the same technique to make peach preserves, which are now in season Peach Preserves Frankly stated, most people familiar with Mother’s pickle and preserves agree that there are no peach preserves on earth that can touch the ones she makes with Southern Elbertas each and every summer. They are undoubtedly my favorite of all her preserves, and there’s never a time when my basemetn shelves in East Hampton are not loaded with jars aging up to nine months. As I have learned by making the preserves repeatedly with her, the secret is impeccably fresh, firm, sweet peaches that are allowed to cook very slowly in syrup that must be watched carefully for just the right thickness. Martha Pearl Says: To test the thickness of the syrup in these preserves, I spoon about a tablespoon of the hot liquid onto a saucer and place it in the freezer for about 5 minutes. If the syrup is not ready, it will be thin and runny. Ingredients: 3 pounds fresh, firm peaches, peeled pitted and sliced ¼” thick 6 cups sugar Procedure: In a large pot, combine the peaches and sugar, cover, and let stand overnight to allow the peaches to leach out and moisten the sugar. The next day, bring the mixture slowly to a boil, stirring frequently, then reduce the heat slightly and cook till the fruit is clear and the syrup is thick, about 40 minutes. Spoon the peaches into hot, sterilized jars, seal, and store in a cool area. Refrigerate after opening. Post your questions here -- >> Q&A

Please post questions to James Villas here.

I heard a rumor that Iberico ham would soon be available for export. Anyone know when and who in the U.S. might carry it?

I've posted this is "General" instead of "Cooking", because at least at first I'd like to talk about Mustard as a commercial product instead of as a spice or cooking additive. I hated Mustard as a kid. My mom's a wonderful woman, but was far from sophisticated in this department. I eventually figured out that my hatred of mustard stemmed from exposure to nothing but French's, and occasionally Gulden's Mustard. As a legacy of this, to this day, I STILL put only Ketchup onto my hot dogs. Am I the only middle-class trasher who was almost ruined on mustard by consumption of bad examples of this fine condiment? In my dottage I've learned to love the stuff--especially the more exotic varieties. Grey Poupon is the first mustard I ever tasted that I liked, but this many years later I consider it very pedestrian. Here are a few current favorites: Honeycup - much immitated, rarely surpassed... eat it with a spoon, eat it with a fork, eat it on bread... just eat it already. Westbrae Asian-Style Mustard (with Wasabi) - not shown, but some of the other fine Westbrae Mustards are. I haven't even tried the other Westbraes, but its mostly because any time I see the Asian-Style I just pick up another of that type... :) Bone Suckin' Mustard - the name says it all, and nothing at the same time. Maybe this quote from their website says it better: "Brown sugar, molasses, paprika & jalapenos make Bone Suckin' Sweet Hot Mustard so good you'll want to eat it with a spoon" So what are some of your faves? If the thread slows down we can always switch to talking about what you make with your lovely mustard...

I'm a jam aficionado. I buy new jams all the time and sample them. I had a Polish friend over for lunch today, and we chatted about Polish jams. She mentioned a rose preserve I need to try. Not rose hips, rose petals. Apparently it's a special type of rose that has a bitter pithy "white" on the petals which must be removed before putting the jam by. She spreads a thin layer on her homemade cheesecakes. I told her about the Aronia jam I'd picked up recently at the Polish deli in the next burb over. (Here's a thread about the deli: http://forums.egullet.org/ibf/index.php?ac...4bda8f21e659963 ) I purchased some ginger preserves at a "gourmet" market some time ago and we cracked it open on Thursday when I broke in my new waffle maker. Heaven is a hot crisp waffle slathered with ginger preserves. These were made by Wilkin & Sons. The cubes of ginger were gorgeously yellow-gold-translucent on top of the brown waffle. My favorite jam of all time is the black raspberry from Ferry Landing Farm in Virginia. The farm owner sells at my local farm market. It's dark and sour and just sweet enough and really thick with crushed fruit. The season is kicking in and he says his wife will start cranking it out soon. I can hardly wait. What are your favorite jams? Why? Where do you get them?

The James Beard Foundation is hosting a 2002 Chef and Champagne Event on Saturday, July 27, 5-8 pm. The venue is the Wolffer Estate Winery at Sagaponack, NY. The cost is $150/person for JB Foundation members, and $200 for guests. The honored chef is Boulud. I am uncertain what champagne or food, if any, will be available. If eGulleteers are interested in attending and are sure about their attendance, I could consider purchasing guest tickets on their behalf. I will post additional information as it becomes available.

One of my favorite dinner party dishes is a wonderful, robust chicken curry. I like to display an array of condiments. It's really fun and rather impressive to go along the line, picking a little of this and choosing a little of that. What condiments do you usually offer?

I was there yesterday.. they were packed. Does anyone know of them? What do you think?

I found this interesting: http://www.ryerson.ca/rrj....to.html

My friend Pearl, who loves peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, recommends bread and butter pickles, not sweet pickles. She sez there's a difference, but she doesn't know what. The sandwiches are terrific. Anyone out there know?

Michael Anthony, formerly sous-chef at March, won the First Annual Bertolli Sous Chef Awards. As reported by the spring issue of Art Culinaire . . . One of Anthony's creations photographed was the Smoked Salmon Belly with Avocado-Yogurt Puree an Pickled Watermelon. Note the utilization of pickled eggplant in the dish described by Food & Wine. I wonder what other uses pickling has at BH. Dan & Mike -- If you find pickling interesting, could you consider discussing the role of pickled vegetables and pickled fruits in your cuisine? Are certain of your pickling processes different from what one might expect?

any ideas on how to make it? fresh coconut? what is it ususally served along with? what purpose to chutney's serve? calm down spicy foods? mike

What's your favorite spice/herb/salsa/sauce/dressing/oil/prepared bottled sauce/flavoring agent that you automatically reach for, if you're in a pinch? Is it homemade or jarred or bottled? Fresh and natural or artificial and full of fake flavors (but good)? Mrs. Dash or Emeril's Essence? Newman's Own or Wishbone dressing? Sesame, peanut, grapeseed or EVOO? Mirin or balsamic vinegar? What are your spending habits when it comes to condiments? Do you make your own in preference to commercially made or store produced ones? Would you consider a giftbasket of sauces and oils for a Christmas gift to someone? Discuss. Soba

Recently I had my first sampling of Rosie's lime marmalade, which goes surprisingly well with peanut butter in a PB&J sandwich. And now I have an orange and ginger marmalade, and a peach and pineapple jam to look forward to. And there is the remains of a jar of pumpkin and pecan butter from earlier last year -- I had picked it up from a Food Emporium and used it quite a bit for a while, but eventually forgot about it, so now it sits all forlorn in the middle of the first shelf of my refrigerator. What are your favorite jams/jellies/preserves/conserves/fruit butters and pastes, and what uses do you use them for besides sandwiches, ice cream sauce and glazes for ham? Has anyone ever had a lemon marmalade? A tomato and jalapeno jam? Plum preserves? Anything out of the ordinary beyond the usual? SA

Always look forward to a bi-monthly trek into the lower east side in NYC to stock up on old fashioned barrel pickles, tomatoes, and sauerkraut. I just discovered while driving in Bergen County a real NY pickle store, called "Picklelicious" in Teaneck, NJ!! That wonderful smell makes you feel dreamy as you enter the store, and then, ohhh-- the pickles!! I prefer the new, but they have half sour and sour as well. I got the sour tomatoes and sauerkraut as well, and they were wonderful. At $5/Quart, the price was a little less than in New York, and well worth it. They have lots of samples on the side, so that you can taste what you like and what you don't. They have a small selection of Eli's Bread from New York, but they didn't have the square raisin-pecan rolls that we love. They also have a small selection of olives and olive pastes, even some exotics like pickled celery and red peppers. The address is Picklelicious, 763 River Road, Teaneck, just off the Southeast corner of Cedar Lane, in a small house/converted to a store. They are closed Mondays in the winter, but she said the hours will change in the warmer weather. Now we can get our pickle fix every week!!

I seem to have an excess of garlic at the moment (8 heads) which means that a lot of it will sprout before I get a chance to cook with it. So I was thinking of pickling it for another day. Anyone do this before? Oh yes, I will be roasting some of it too.

I purchased this soy sauce, along with a liter of the standard Japanese-origin Kikkoman from a local Japanese supermarket (mitsuwa, in edgewater NJ). This stuff was pretty expensive, six bucks a bottle if I remember. So far, I've used it only as a condiment for making a dipping sauce for chinese dumplings (this shoyu + black rice wine vinegar + scallion/garlic). Very powerful stuff. Anyone know more about what to do with it? The store also has "whole bean" organic soys that are wheatless, but that stuff was pretty pricey.

I've recently started making pickles and am interested in trying my hand at fermented pickles. The trouble is, I've never lived in an area with good delis or other shops with pickle barrels, and so I have no first hand experience with them. I don't even (gasp) really know the difference between sours and half-sours. Can someone give me a crash course, or point me in the direction of a good site?

This thread was inspired by a current similar one on the India board, thanks to Mongo Jones. Ketchup is generally associated with hamburgers, fast food, and as a camouflage for other culinary atrocities. The highest per capita use of ketchup (as well as Jell-o) in the US is in Salt lake City, and I won't further elaborate on the relevance of that. Like Mongo Jones' aunt in New Delhi, my wife had an honored place for ketchup in her pantry long before she left Shanghai. I think she considers jumbo bottles of Heinz ketchup as much a "find" as the 50-lb. bags of Calrose rice at Costco. She uses it some obvious ways, such as a base for the peculiar Shanghainese "Russian" (luosang) soup, and for the sauce that accompanies her version of "squirrel" fish. It's also used to give color while toning down the heat of some Sichuan style chili-based dishes for the Shanghainese palate, and I'm sure she sneaks it into some other sauces and bastes that are not obviously tomato-ey. The touch of sweetness (a hallmark of Shanghai cuisine generally) in ketchup seems to make it a good fit for her cooking. Does any one else want to 'fess up on their use of ketchup in Chinese food or their knowledge on the use of the noble condiment in other regional Chinese cuisines?

In America, we think of pickles as a kind of a relish, or side dish – a cured vegetable that adds a sour or tart note to the meal. We pickle a variety of different vegetables but, for whatever the differences, pickles all have a recognizably “pickled” taste. Indian pickles use many of the same ingredients – salt, vinegar, coriander, mustard seeds, turmeric, cinnamon, cloves and ginger – but they present some of the most diverse and exotic tastes and textures imaginable. They are fiery hot, sour, pungent, fragrant, sweet- and- sour, and tart. They are crisp, silky and chewy. Flavors may be fresh, the taste of each spice distinct, or married and intensified by months or even years of aging as the textures of the ingredients melt and soften. While Indians eat some pickles (such as the Mixed Vegetable Pickle, below) in relatively large quantities, the pickles are often too intensely flavored to be eaten that way; they’re used in tiny amounts as a spice or condiment to enliven a dish. Indians also use pickles in a way that Americans never do, that is, medicinally, to cure an ailment. Indians love to taste food; they live to taste food. Indians want many layers and many contrasting tastes. No one food can satisfy that hunger except a variety of pickles. I have jars and jars of multi-colored pickles sitting on the kitchen table. One is a tiny onion pickle, picked young and fresh and pickled in rice vinegar, that is common to almost all north Indian homes. Several are pickled chilies: one is made of whole green chilies and is dangerously hot while another, made from habaneros stuffed with spices, is more savory than hot, and a third is made from chopped green chilies soured with lemon. There is a crunchy sweet- and- hot cauliflower, turnip and carrot pickle, a ginger-lime pickle and a gooseberry pickle. These pickles are made from recipes that have been handed down by the women of my family for two to three hundred years. Some of these jars have been maturing for just a few days, others for much longer than that. A jar of lemon pickles made by his family chef at home in India, a jar that has been maturing for 60 years. In India, food is understood to be intimately related to health and medicine. The Ayurveda, the ancient Hindu text that defines the relationship of food, spices, exercise and meditation for the health of the human body, gives recipes for various medicinal foods and elixirs, of which pickles play an important role. I use lemon pickle as it is traditionally used in my native country: to cure queasiness and tummy aches. In my New York household I use pickles the way that wealthier households do in India, as a condiment guaranteed to give plain foods taste. In fact, in India it’s considered rude to ask for pickles if they are not on the table; it suggests that the food isn’t savory enough. Indian homes make several signature pickles, recipes that have been passed down through generations of women. Pickles made the season before are served daily. Aged, well-loved pickles are brought out when someone is sick or when the household is hosting a special meal. With the exception of some pickles that are made with winter produce such as cauliflower, radishes, turnips and carrots, pickles are made in Indian homes in the heat of the summer. Fruits and vegetables are bought from local vendors who sell door to door. Women spend several weeks preparing pickles. The fruits are laid out on terraces on sheets of muslin for several days in the summer sun to dry, or “ripen” and concentrate their flavors. The produce is brought inside every night to protect against dew and laid out again in the morning. The pickles are put up in very large ceramic jars, each about 20 inches tall and 8 inches wide. Once jarred, the pickles are ripened again for several more days in the sun. If you ask an Indian where the best pickles are made, they will name three centers: the Marwari and Baniya trading communities in northern India, the state of Gujerat in western India, and the state of Andhra Bradesh, in southern India. The Marwari and Baniya communities are completely vegetarian and they subsist on pickles and bread. The people of these communities make pickles everyday and their meals include several different types. Pickles that are spiced with fenugreek and fennel and pickled in mustard oil, are likely to be from northern India, as are pickled cauliflower, carrots, turnips and radishes, the so called “winter vegetables” that are grown on the northern plains. Pickles represent a ritual world of food and community in India. Pickling is an ancient art and a part of Hindu spiritual practice: according to the laws of Hindu religion, pickling, or “cooking” foods with sun and air is one of the three acceptable ways to make raw foods palatable. The rituals of pickle making define a certain period of the summer in India when entire households are given over to the task of their making. Traditionally, in small towns, the women join together, spending days outside in the shade of tamarind trees cutting, preparing, and drying the fruits and vegetables. The kids play above in the dense greenery of the trees, eating the green fruit of the tamarind and tossing the seeds onto the ground below. (Stomach aches and tiny tamarind seedlings are evidence of their gluttony.) Play, food, music and storytelling combine to give the season a celebratory mood. Even in urban centers in India today, the time of pickling still invites ritual community and celebration. Women call each other on the phone to organize the making of the pickles or to ask for the gift of a jar of a favorite kind. Life slows a bit, personal connections are made, and thousands of years of ritual is repeated. --Suvir Saran and Stephanie Lyness

Mustard oil keeps showing up all over the India board. Is it a flavored oil, or, as I suspect, oil pressed from mustard seeds? Does it have a mustard flavor? I am intrigued. I like to spread fish with prepared Dijon mustard before broiling it. I remember seeing a post (by Simon?) about frying fish in mustard oil, but I haven't been able to locate it. Can someone fill me in, please? What other uses are there for mustard oil? As Waverly Root pointed out in The Food of France, much of the character of an area's cuisine is determined by the type of cooking oil used. I believe this is true in India, as well. You mentioned that mustard oil is used in the north, for example. Does "ghee" properly ever refer to anything but clarified butter? (I have seen labels, saying "vegetable ghee." What other oils are regularly used? Are certain oils preferred in certain regions? Are certain oils used for certain foods?

Chutneys are to Indian food what Salsas are to Mexican. Made from vegetables, fruits, dairy, grains and pulses, these are as diverse as the country itself. Each home has a favorite few and their own versions of those classics that are known throughout India. When making chutneys in a food processor, make sure to use as little water as you possibly can. This makes the chutney taste more potent and rich in flavor. Often adding some sev, chivda or papri to the chutney is a good addition. These absorb the extra moisture and are also a great added flavor.

Oscar Madison called it "tomato wine." I love it. I love it on everything. I splosh it on my burgers. I plosh it on my vindaloo. I mosh it into my ice cream. I splorge it on my morning cereal. I squeeze it over corn, under towers of steak tartare, around store-bought pastry-puffs of mushroom and crab, and into doughnuts because what's jelly anyway but a misguided attempt at fruit-ketchup. I drench it on broccoli and quench my thirst with it. I've done away with Crest in favor of Heinzing my teeth every morning. 57 varieties for 30 teeth. I've filled my jacuzzi with a delightfully sweet tomotao froth. Some people think ketchup should be banned. That's crazy talk if you ask me. What say we petition the government to declare Ketchup the truly American food (hamburger and frankfurter sound too tuetonic for such an honor).

Tomato Chutney I have missed this chutney for the longest of time. Growing up in Delhi, my sisters best friend in school was from the South. (Andhra Pradesh to be precise. Andhra is most famous for their pickles and chutneys). Her mother would make the best tomato chutney. A couple of years ago, experimenting with some really ripe tomatoes and relying on my memory, I came up with the recipe. It really tastes like Durgas mothers recipe. I now make it all the time. And in fact, when tomatoes are in season and ripe and bursting with flavor and juice, I make a lot of this chutney, can it and give it out as gifts to friends when visiting them. It is a fiery chutney for most palates. But those that are familiar with Andhra pickles and chutneys will find it just average. I love the chutney with fenugreek seeds, they add a slight bitterness to the chutney that I love. If you are not a fan of bitter tastes, avoid using it. 8 pounds very ripe beefsteak tomatoes, chopped finely 1 1/2 cup canola oil 40 fresh curry leaves 16 whole dried red chiles 2 tablespoon mustard seeds 1 tablespoon cumin seeds 1/4 teaspoon fenugreek seeds, optional 1/3 cup sugar 2 tablespoon cayenne (half if you want a milder chutney) 2 tablespoon coriander seed powder 1 tablespoon paprika 1 tablespoon sambhaar powder 2 teaspoon turmeric 1/2 teaspoon asafetida 1 6 oz. can of tomato paste 3 tablespoon salt, or more to taste 1. Pour the oil in a large sauce pot, enough to hold the tomatoes and then some. It is important that the pot be deep, as the chutney will simmer a long while and will splatter otherwise all over your stove and counter. 2. Measure out all the dried spices other than the asafetida into a bowl and set aside. 3. In the oil add the curry leaves, whole red chiles, mustard seeds, cumin seeds and fenugreek seeds if using. Fry over a medium high flame for 3 minutes or until the chiles are a nice dark color and the cumin are a nice golden brown. 4. Now add the asafetida and fry for half a minute. Add the dried spices and fry for barely half a minute and add the chopped tomatoes. Add the salt and sugar. Stir well and cook on this medium high flame for an hour and a half or until the oil has separated and the chutney begins to stick to the bottom of the pan. 5. Fill the chutney into 10 sterilized half-pint jars and process as per manufacturers instructions for 20 minutes. 6. Cool, check for seal, label and store.