Photo credit: C. Bertelsen
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems now here to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Ralph Waldo Emerson. The Snow Storm.
As the snow falls outside, I find myself dreaming of Lara and Yurii and the snow-crusted country house, ice coating the furniture as phantoms dance in the mist-filled, almost crystalline, sunlight trickling through the windows, the nightly howling of the starving wolves forgotten.
Ice Palace Scene from the film, "Dr. Zhivago"
After weeks of unrelenting cold, now we have so much snow that we are essentially snowbound for the next few days. A real Dr. Zhivago moment.*
But the conditions also call up uneasy memories of the ill-fated and unprepared Donner party. This infamous group of pioneers heading westward across the United States in 1846 ended up snowbound in what is now called Donner Pass in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Many only survived by turning cannibalistic.
Photo credit: Joey Yen
The people in my town don’t know this feeling much, that of being snowbound, if only temporarily, that is. Because of that innocence, the day before the snow fell hard, like lemmings to the cliff, they congregated at one of four nearby grocery stores. As I pulled into the parking lot, no empty spaces beckoned, except for a few at the very far edge of the lot. And when I walked into the store, no carts stood in the entryway, none at all. When a frazzled employee thrust a cart at me, I saw that shelves normally bulging with boxes and bottles now resembled those of a Third-World dry-goods shop during times of food shortages.
This relative scarcity throws something new at us, making me think about how dependent we are on trucks, clear roads, and people able to get to work to sort through everything and shelve it all.
Cart after cart left the store, laden like small burros edging their way over impassable terrain to isolated outposts.
When my car slipped and safely slid up my driveway — still slick and nasty from last week’s storm — I breathed more deeply, the tightness around my chest deflating. Home!
“Bring it on,” I said out loud, as I put away the large plastic containers of water, cans of beans and tomato sauce, greens for soup, and an extra ration of chocolate.
Two Days Later (Photo credit: C. Bertelsen)
And then it came, barreling out of the heavens like a salt shaker gone berserk. White, white flakes of geometrical perfection. Recall the words of John Greenleaf Whittier, who wrote in his poem, “Snowbound“:
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below, —
A universe of sky and snow!
As I look at the pillowy snow drifts cuddling up against the picnic table and Adirondack chairs huddling on the back porch, I can’t help but reflect on people in the past, many of whom who knew a great deal about being snowbound. In fact, because they more or less devoted their entire lives to stockpiling food for winter, these folks invented dishes that ensured that life would go on until spring, when the first green shoots poked out from their fluffy white blanket.
Nowadays these dishes elicit rapturous sighs from diners in upscale restaurants.
Beans, root vegetables, cured pork of every imaginable type, cheeses, heavy spiced cakes made with dried fruits, and bread — all these formed the core of many meals in the past.
This my mind knows.
Ingredients for Beef Stew (Photo credit: C. Bertelsen)
And as for my stomach?
Somehow the idea of eating of raw green salad in the middle of winter seems like a sacrilege, a thumbing of the nose at the natural cycles of the year.**
Winter food by its nature banishes greens and fresh fruit. Yes, winter food sustains a soul in ways that summer foods do not. Take M. F. K. Fisher’s word for it, from a short piece she wrote, “Savoring Winter” (in A Stew or a Story, published posthumously, 2006):
But in winter one thinks a bit more about where and what and how to eat.
The ease of slipping a fresh fig from the tree is a joy of summer, but never an option on a snowy winter day.
Sitting Ducks? No. A Deer and a Rabbit Snowbound (Photo credit: Phineas Jones)
Madeleine Kamman, in her stellar book, Madeleine Kamman’s Savoie: The Land, People, and Food of the French Alps (1989), says:
In winter the quality of the bread was poor; the loaves became so hard waiting to be used that they had to be rehydrated in wet towels before they could be sliced with the copa pan. The copa pan was a thick wooden board to which was permanently affixed a strong and heavy knife blade, always handmade by the head of the household or the village magnin.
Yet some writers lauded snow for its medicinal properties, as Elizabeth David recounted in Harvest of the Cold Months (1994), in a section titled “Snow for a Fever,” about Sir John Chardin, struck down by a debilitating fever while traveling in Persia. Chardin said, in his account, A Journey to Persia:
Being in the most scorching phase of my fever, I fancied, as one of the greatest delights, having some snow. I sent someone to request the Governor to give me some. He provided me with some at eleven o’clock and as I was then in the greatest possible thirst that could be endured, I drank it with as much pleasure as I have ever drunk. (page 42)
Photo credit: C. Bertelsen
While I have no need of melted snow to quench my thirst, at least not yet, the creeping cabin fever (and possibly innate concern over food in the face of such bad weather and inability to forage or find food) drives me into the kitchen, where I cook up a storm of my own: chocolate chip oatmeal cookies; apple spice cake with cream-cheese frosting [RECIPE BELOW]; chicken breasts stuffed with spinach, pine nuts, raisins, and feta; omelettes plump with ham, Gruyère, and leftover fried potatoes; white bean soup heavy with sausage and spinach; roasted butternut squash; whole-wheat bread bursting with seven different grains … .
Listen to another litany of winter fare, recorded in Roy Andries de Groot’s The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth (1973):
“From morning to night,” said Mademoiselle Ray, “my largest black iron ‘witch’s cauldron’ hangs from the hook above the huge log fire. We ladle the food out of it hour after hour. One day it might be filled with our Spécialité de la Maison, Le Hochepot de Poule du Prince d’Orange, made with chicken, veal, celery, leeks, onions and so on, gently simmering in veal stock and white wine. Or it might be a Mediterranean dish from my home, Les Pieds Paquets Marsellaise, with lambs’ feet and aromatic little packages of tripe bubbling in a bouillon. Or a pot roast of Boeuf à la Mode Marsellaise with blackberry brandy and olives. Or our Grande Spécialité, La Marmite de Lesdiguières, with every kind of meat, chicken and vegetables, and the sauce laced with Cognac.” [Note: This description concerns food fed to skiers staying at the Auberge.]
The sight of all my neatly labeled dishes fortifies me, primes me against the driving winter wind and needle-like sleet hammering on my windows. Hunger shall not darken my door, not now, not this day.
Photo credit: Richard Owens
It’s hard not to feel kinship with all those others who survived brutal winters and created the food that kept the wolf away from the door. Just what does that mean, “to keep the wolf away from the door?” No doubt it stems from the inherent fear of the European forest, replete with wolves. (Recall all those childhood fairy tales!) And especially in winter, when hibernating animals and hunkered-down deer left the wolves — gnawed by hunger — lurking up close to huts perched low, down below the soaring trees. Flimsy doors and cloth-covered windows wouldn’t repel starving wolves smelling weak or dead human bodies. All the more reason to make sure the larder would hold out until spring. Or else.
Photo credit: C. Bertelsen
SPICED-UP APPLE CAKE (adapted from King Arthur Flour Baker’s Companion)
Makes one 9 X 13-inch cake
1 cup whole-wheat flour
1 1/3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup packed light-brown sugar
2 t. baking soda
3/4 t. salt
1 1/2 t. ground cinnamon
3/4 t. freshly ground nutmeg
3/4 t. ground allspice
1 stick unsalted butter, softened (1/2 cup or 8 T.) and cut into chunks
3 T. chopped crystallized ginger
4 cups cored and finely chopped apples, unpeeled
1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts
1/2 cup golden raisins
2 large eggs
2 t. pure vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 325 F.
Grease and flour a 9 X 13-inch baking pan.
In a large mixing bowl, stir together the flours, sugars, baking soda, salt, and spices. Add the butter with ginger, chopped apples, nuts, raisins, eggs, and vanilla. Using a mixer, beat gently until all ingredients blend together. Batter will be thick.
Scrap the batter into the prepared pan; level the top with a spatula. Bake for 45 minutes, or until the top springs back when you touch the center of the cake with your index finger. Remove cake from oven and and place on a rack to cool completely. Do not remove the cake from the pan. When completely cool, frost with Cream Cheese Icing (recipe below).
CREAM CHEESE ICING
Makes 3 cups
3/4 stick salted butter, softened (6 T.)
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
2 t. pure vanilla extract
4 cups confectioner’s (powdered) sugar
2 – 4 T. milk
Beat the butter, cream cheese, and vanilla together in a medium-size bowl until light and fluffy. Slowly beat in the sugar. Thin frosting with milk if necessary to make it more spreadable.
Ice Palace from the film, "Dr. Zhivago"
*Refers to the novel, Dr. Zhivago, by Boris Pasternak (1958). Critics consider the film a classic.
**Apologies to those whose childhood and adulthood memories tend toward more beneficent climes.
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
[A photograph, and nothing more, for silent contemplation.]
A little prickle of recognition, a sense of déjà vu — that’s what happened when I turned to page 86 of A Colonial Plantation Cookbook: The Receipt Book of Harriott Pinckney Horry, 1770 (1984, edited by historian Richard J. Hooker*).
There it was: “Ats Jaar, or Pucholilla.”
My first thought was, “What is an Indian (as in India) pickle recipe doing in a cookbook from colonial South Carolina?”
And then I read this, in a footnote provided by the editor:
The origin or meaning of the words Ats Jaar (Ats Jarr in the table of contents) have not been discovered by this editor.
Such a comment forces a point: culinary historians need to know as much as possible about the world’s diverse cuisines, not only their particular specialty. It just can’t be any other way if they are to interpret both old written recipes and modern ways of cooking dishes.
Piccalilli
Hooker suggests that “pucholilla” is none other than piccalilli and goes on to say that he traced the recipe to a similar one in The Carolina Housewife, by Sarah Rutledge, who called it Atzjar. He also found piccalilli-like recipes in Briggs (The English Art of Cookery, 1788 — the actual title is The English Art of Cookery, According to Present Practice) and Glasse (The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, 1747).**
Harriott Pinckney Horry’s recipe is as follows:
Take Ginger one Pound, let it lie in Salt and Water one night, then scrape it and cut it in thin slices, and put it in a Bottle with dry Salt and let it stand until the Rest of the Ingredients are ready. Take one Pound of Garlick divide it in Cloves and past it. Take small Sticks of about two or three Inches long, and Run them through the Cloves of Garlick. Salt them for three Day’s, then wash them, and salt them again and let them stand three day’s longer then salt them and Put them in the sun to Dry. Take cabbages cut them in Quarters and salt them for three Day’s then press the Water out of them and put them in the Sun to Dry. Take long Pepper [cayenne] Salt it and dry it in the Sun take ½ a pint of Mustard Seed, Wash it very Clean, and lay it to Dry, When it is very Dry bruise half of it in a Mortar take an Ounce of Termarick [turmeric] bruised very Fine, put all these Ingredients into a Stone Jar, and put one Quart of the strongest Vinegar to 3 Qts. of small. Fill the Jar 3 Quarters full, and supply it as often as you see Occasion. After the same Manner you may do Cucumbers, Mellons, Plumbs, apples, Carrots, or any thing of that sort. They are to be put all together, and you need never empty the Jar, but as the Season comes in dry the things and put them in, and fill them up in Vinegar. Be Carefull, no Rain or Damp comes to them for that will make them Rott.
John Martin Taylor discusses Ats Jaar on his blog, Hoppin’ John’s (scroll all the way to the bottom to read the section on Ats Jaar), and attributes the Ats Jaar recipe to the spice and slave trade, particularly noting the influence of the Dutch and Java in the spread of the recipe. (Taylor provides a modern recipe for those interested.) He mentions the link to the Indian word “achar” or “achaar,” but dwells on the Dutch influence as having influenced the use of the double “a.” The fact of the matter is that the Hindi term used for pickles is “achaar.” Hence, the double “a” appears to not be limited to just the Dutch, as Taylor suggests. Neelam Batra, in 1000 Indian Recipes (2002), spells it as “achaar.” Other Indian authors like Madhur Jaffrey and Julie Sahni go with “achar.” A modern cookbook published in Britain uses the spelling “achaar” in the tile. In Indonesia, “acar” also conveys the meaning of pickle, and cookbook author Sri Owen includes a long chapter on “acar” in her Indonesian Regional Food & Cookery (London, 1994).
The importance of fermentation, pickling, preserving, salting, and curing dims these days, as we feast on fresh food, carbon footprint or not, thanks to international trade. But imagine a ship setting out, facing a long voyage. The discovery of a new, tasty way of preserving vegetables caught the attention of slavers and whalers and others, to be sure.
Modern cookbook of achaar recipes
That English cookbooks may well have contributed more than a direct link to the Carolina slave trade occurs to me, because Richard Brigg’s recipe sound almost exactly the same as Harriott’s, down to the very same words. And it looks like Briggs may have “borrowed” the recipe from Hannah Glasse. Verbatim.***
Take a look at Brigg’s recipe:
Indian Pickle, or Picca Lillo.
TAKE a pound of race-ginger, and lay it in water one night; then scrape it, .cut it in thin slices then put to it some salt, and let it stand in the Sun to dry; take two ounces of long pepper, and .prepare it as the ginger, a pound of garlick, cut in thin slices and salted, and let it stand three days ; then wash it well, Salt it again, and let it stand three days longer ; then wash it well, drain it, and put it in the sun to dry; take a quarter of a pound of mustard seeds bruised, and half a quarter of an ounce of turmeric; put there ingredients, when prepared, into a large stone or glass jar, with a gallon of good white wine vinegar, stir it very often for a fortnight, and tie it up close.
In this pickle you may put white cabbage cut in quarters, and put it in a brine of salt and water for three days; then boil fresh salt and water, and just put in the cabbage to scald ; press out the water, and put it in the sun to dry, in the same manner you must do cauliflowers, cucumbers, melons, apples, French beans, plums, or any sort of fruit; but take care they are well dried before you put them into this pickle. You need never empty the jar, but as the pickles are in season; put them in, and supply them with vinegar as often as there is occasion: If you would have your pickle look green, leave out the turmeric, colour [Glasse says “green” instead of “colour”] them as usual, and put them into this pickle cold. In the above you may pickle walnuts in a jar by themselves: put the walnuts in without any preparation, tied close down, and kept some time.
One wonders if perhaps someone read the recipe out loud and Harriott copied it as she heard, because if she copied it directly from a copy of Briggs’s or Glasse’s book, that might account for the spelling and other quirks in her version.
The preserves so often discussed as being a typical part of colonial cooking were not simply adornments to the table, though their colors could dazzle. No, those foods linked people to a frozen or dried-out or sea-swept earth where nothing grew and would not for months.
Pikliz (Photo credit: Trina Sargalski)
Interestingly enough, in Haiti, cooks make pikliz, or pickles quite like Ats Jaar. The spices in question are black peppercorns and cloves, not turmeric and mustard seeds.
*Hooker wrote The Book of Chowder and Food and Drink in America: A History, along with more standard works on American history like The American Revolution: The Search for Meaning.
**Briggs’s and Glasse’s books appeared in many booksellers’ advertisements in The Virginia Gazette (published in Williamsburg from 1736 – 1780), obviously greatly influencing the kitchens of the times.
*** On the plagiarizing of recipes, see Stephen Mennell, “Plagiarism and Originality – Diffusionism in the Study of the History of Cookery,” Petits Propos Culinaires 68: 29-38, 2001; and Jennifer Stead, “Quizzing Glasse: or Hannah Scrutinized,” Petits Propos Culinaires 13: 9-24 and 14: 17-30, 1983. Henry Notaker added his take on the subject in “Comments on the Interpretation of Plagiarism,” Petits Propos Culinaires in the July 2002 issue.
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
Portrait painted by Robert Walker
Omnia explorate; meliora retinete (Explore everything; keep the best.)
~~ Evelyn family motto
Somehow, and how I wish it were so, it would be nice to time-travel, to sit at table with the people I’m meeting through their words, written by long-dead hands with quill pens and India ink.
One of my new “acquaintances,” if such a word be the correct way of putting things, went (goes?) by the name of John Evelyn.
Seventeenth-century English author John Evelyn chronicled upper-class life in his Diary, which eventually ran to 6 volumes when published. Like Samuel Pepys and James Boswell, he’s known primarily for prolific diarying, but his apparent hypergraphia led him to produce a number of other writings, including a cookery manuscript, published by Prospect Press as John Evelyn, Cook: The Manuscript Receipt Book of John Evelyn, edited by Christopher Driver, 1997; a hymn to salads called Acetaria; and a tome about trees and forests — Sylva, or, A Discourse of Forest Trees.
You might say, “Why should I care about a guy who died way back in 1706?” After all he’s a writer whose books ooze with a rather “hobbledehoy prose”* and, in one of his portraits, he resembles the archetypal noble fop, posed with his hand caressing a human skull.
The old saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover” applies here. Born in our times, Evelyn, one of the founders of the Royal Society, would be one of today’s biggest advocates for the Earth. A staunch supporter of afforestation, Evelyn also worked to curtail air pollution in the London of his day. Cooks who love gardening will find a kindred soul in John Evelyn. Of vegetarians, he said they are “more acute, subtil, and of deeper penetration” than those who relish meat. And he considered a meal with meat sorely lacking if no salad rested near his fork at the same time.
Evelyn’s cookery manuscript contains 353 receipts, ranging from Wormwood Ale to French Bread.
For me, a person for whom cheesecake beats out all other desserts (except for chocolate, of course),** John Evelyn’s recipe for cheesecake cinches it for me: cheesecake and chess pie really share a common ancestry. After perusing Evelyn’s recipe and delving into the messiness of rennet-making, I think I see a strong kinship between the cheesecakes and lemon chess pies I love so much.
First of all, let’s look at Evelyn’s recipe for cheesecake. (I wonder who the “wee” is that he refers to? Him? His wife? His cook or cooks? All of them, merrily stirring the pot while the fire belches choking smoke?)
154. An Excellent receipt for Cheesecakes, which wee make
Take 3 quarts of New Milk ren it pretty cold and when it is tender come drayn it from the whay in a strainer then hang it up till all the whay be drained from it, then change it into dry cloaths till it wett the Cloth no longer then straine it through a course haire sive, mingle it with 3 qrs of a pound of fresh Butter, with yr hands, take halfe a pound of Almonds beaten with rose water as fine as Curd, then mingle them with the yolks of tenne Eggs and neere a Pint of creame. A nutmeg grated sugar and a little salt when yr Coffins [pie crusts] are ready and going to sett into the Oven, then mingle them together, the Oven must be as hot for a pigeon pye lett the scorching be over halfe an houre will be them well, the Coffins must be hardned by setting into oven full of branne, prick them with a bodkin [sharp instrument], which brush out with a wing, then put in the cheesecake stuff, you may leave 2 whites in the eggs if you like it best so.
Photo credit: C. Bertelsen
The word “ren” combined with “it” probably refers to “rennet,” which cookbook author John Nott (Cooks and Confectioners Dictionary, 1726, facsimile edited by Elizabeth David, 1980) emphatically mentions in his recipe for cheesecake and Robert May (The Accomplisht Cook, 1660, glossary by Alan Davidson, reprint 1994) writes in a similar passage as “run it pretty cold.” In The Compleat Housewife (1758), Eliza Smith included specific details for extracting rennet:
“Making a Runnet-Bag”
Let the calf suck as much as he will just before he is kill’d, then take the bag out of the calf, and let it lie twelve hours covered over in stinging nettles till it is very red; then take out your curd, wash your bag clean; salt it within-side and without; let it lie sprinkled with salt twenty-four hours; then wash your curd in warm new milk, pick it, and put away all that is yellow and hollow, keep what is white and close; then wash it well, and sprinkle it with salt; when the bag has lain twenty-four hours, put it into the bag again, and put to it three spoonsful of the stroaking of a cow, beat up with the yolk of an egg or two, twelve cloves, and two blades of mace; put a skewer thro’ it, and hang it in a pot; then make the rennet water thus:
Take half a pint of fair water, a little salt, and fix tops of the red buds of black-thorn, as many sprigs of burnet, and two of sweet-marjoram; boil these in the water, and strain it out; when it is cold put one half in the bad, and let the bag lie in the other half, taking it out as you use it, make more runnet, which you may do six or seven times; three spoonsful of this runnet will make a large Cheshire or cheddar-cheese, and half as much to a common cheese.***
The eggs, the milk, and the tartness of the cheese carried over into some of the earliest recipes for pies that traveled to the New World with the British settlers.
Copyright British Library Board
John Evelyn’s epitaph:
Here lies the Body of JOHN EVELYN Esq of this place, second son of RICHARD EVELYN Esq who having served the Publick in several employments of which that Commissioner of the Privy Seal in the reign of King James the 2nd was most Honourable: and perpetuated his fame by far more lasting Monuments than those of Stone, or Brass: his Learned and useful works, fell asleep the 27th day of February 1705/6 being the 86th Year of his age in full hope of a glorious resurrection thro faith in Jesus Christ. Living in an age of extraordinary events, and revolutions he learnt (as himself asserted) this truth which pursuant to his intention is here declared. That all is vanity which is not honest and that there’s no solid Wisdom but in real piety. Of five Sons and three Daughters borne to him from his most vertuous and excellent Wife MARY sole daughter, and heiress of Sir RICHARD BROWNE of Sayes Court near Deptford in Kent onely one Daughter SUSANNA married to WILLIAM DRAPER Esq of Adscomb in this County survived him the two others dying in the flower of their age, and all the sons very young except one nam’d John who deceased 24 March 1698/9 in the 45th year of his age, leaving one son JOHN and one daughter ELIZABETH.
John Evelyn spoke frankly, honestly, and rued those who paraded their food expertise a tad bit untruthfully. Take Receipt #146: A very good cake. (The original annotation.) Then, this, added later, according to the editor: “Mrs. Black[wood?], if it had bin given right which upon triall does not answer.” One senses the sharp tip of the quill pen grinding into paper smudged with a yellow smear (egg yolk?) and the glassy look of a grease stain (butter?) .
Sometimes, frankly, there is nothing new under the sun. Honestly.
* Times Literary Supplement review, 1997, by Helen Simpson.
**Cheesecake literally became mother’s milk when my son was born, as I downed many Sara Lee cheesecakes when 3 a.m. hunger pangs woke both of us up.
***According to Rachel Feild, “ …sorrel, bedstraw, nettles, and many other hedgerow herbs were used to make cheese at almost any time of the year, without the sacrifice of calf, lamb, or piglet.” (Irons in the Fire: A History of Cooking Equipment. Ramsbury, Marlborough, Wiltshire: CrowoodPress, 1984.) And acids like vinegar and lemon juice curdled milk, too, in a pinch. Acid + Milk = curds, thanks to casein.
For more by and about John Evelyn:
John Evelyn, A Study in Bibliophily with a Bibliography of His Writings, by Sir Geoffery Keynes, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968. (A bio-bibliography putting Evelyn in the context of his times.)
The Diary of John Evelyn (selected text).
Descriptions of gardens from the Diary.
The Rusticall and Economical Works of John Evelyn: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, edited by Christopher Driver, with an introduction by Tom Jaine, 1996.
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
Photo credit: Adrian Midgley
[A photograph, and nothing more, for silent contemplation.]
Captain William Bligh
When Captain James Cook entrusted thirty-three-year-old William Bligh (at the time a Commanding Lieutenant) with the HM Armed Vessel Bounty in 1787, breadfruit — not adventure — drove what became an infamous voyage. Bligh and his mutinous men sailed to Tahiti to bring breadfruit trees back to Caribbean in hopes that the fruit would provide adequate food for the slaves working on sugar plantations there. (Bligh later undertook a second voyage as a captain and succeeded in introducing breadfruit to the Caribbean.)
Hearing of the recent devastating earthquake on the Caribbean island of Haiti and in the southern city of Jacmel in particular, for just a moment, strangely enough, I flashed on the breadfruit fritters I ate one night at the hotel in Jacmel, where I stayed while conducting a food consumption study in the nearby village of Haut-Cap Rouge. The stories about Captain Bligh and all his troubles came to me when the waiter laid a gold-rimmed plate covered with steaming-hot golden morsels in front of me. “L’arbre à pain, ” he whispered. Oh. Breadfruit.
Photo credit: C. Bertelsen
Cooked in the form of beignet, or fritter, that breadfruit looked nothing like the fruit hanging from the trees as I hiked to my work site very day along a steep ridge overlooking the most beautiful beach I have ever seen. Light, airy, and slightly sweet, those fritters remain extremely elusive, primarily because there’s no place nearby now where I can buy a breadfruit in any shape, form, or size. (Except, maybe, in a can. Phew!)
So that’s why, when I recently toured the Limahuli Botanical Gardens in Hawaii*, the sight of a breadfruit tree spoke to me so deeply. I’d just heard about the Haiti earthquake and knew that Jacmel suffered a fierce blow.
I offer the following “slideshow” of breadfruit and the fritter recipe as a tribute to the memory of the cooks at the hotel who created such miracles and to the marvelous people who participated in the food consumption survey.
(Other ways of preparing breadfruit include fried slices, polenta-like purées and puddings (sometimes mixed with okra), and vichyssoise.)
Breadfruit Fritters
Makes about 18 fritters
1 ripe breadfruit, peeled, cut in quarters
¼ cup flour
¼ t. baking powder
Pinch of salt
2 egg yolks lightly beaten
½ cup milk
Oil for deep frying
Boil breadfruit quarters in salted water for 20 minutes. Drain. Mash or purée. Let it cool.
Sift dry ingredients together. Mix breadfruit mash with eggs and milk. Add the liquid mixture to the flour mixture. Stir until well blended.
In a heavy deep skillet, heat oil to 375 F. Drop about 1 T. of batter at a time into the oil and cook until golden brown on all sides, about 3 to 4 minutes. Scoop out fritters with a slotted spoon and drain and paper towels. Serve warm.
*Incidentally, the gardens demonstrate the ancient Hawaiian agricultural system of ahupua’a, a sustainable method being studied today.
Breadfruit Seeds
Breadfruit Tree (Hawaii)
Photo credit: C. Bertelsen
Breadfruit Skin
Photo credit: Richard Parker
Breadfruit, Up Close (and Seemingly Untouchable)
Peeling Breadfruit
Breadfruit, Cut Open
Photo credit: Richard Parker
Breadfruit Trees, Napali Coast (Hawaii)
Photo credit: Richard Caldwell
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
Loco Moco (Before) (Photo credit: C. Bertelsen)
For those seeking examples of culinary fusion, Hawaii provides a very deep well to peer into. Rachel Laudan discovered this while teaching at the University of Hawaii and wrote an award-winning book about the subject: The Food of Paradise: Exploring Hawaii’s Culinary Heritage.*
One of those fusion dishes which Laudan mentions, albeit briefly, is a “traditional” concoction called Loco Moco. One of the plate specials so popular in Hawaii, Loco Moco generally features two scoops of white sticky rice topped with a large hamburger patty drenched in brown gravy, topped with a fried egg, and squirted with hot pepper sauce, soy sauce, or ketchup. Canned brown gravy works, too. And sometimes chopped onions, usually green.
Illustration credit: Eli McIntyre & Zak Opaskar
Invented, according to legend, in 1949 in Hilo on the Big Island (Hawaii), by Mr. and Mrs. Richard Inouye in their Lincoln Grill for a group of teenage athletes, the dish now appears on the menu of most local eateries all over the rest of the islands. Some claim that a Mr. Miyashiro, and not the Inouyes, invented the dish in his Café 100 in Hilo. No matter who first plated Loco Moco, a nonsense name supposedly dreamed up by the teenagers, the dish provides some interesting clues about culinary fusion.
Among the influences forming this dish, the first and most obvious one — at least to an American — is tasted in a sudden sense of déjà vu, a reminisce of grade-school cafeteria food: Salisbury Steak in Gravy. Less prominent, at least in the American culinary repertoire, lies in the link to Korea’s bibimap or Indonesia’s Nasi Goreng, both based on rice and topped with a fried egg. And in Spanish cuisine, there’s bife a caballo, steak smothered with a fried egg on top.
In my opinion, two situations point to Salisbury Steak figuring prominently birth of Loco Moco.
Home economists/missionaries arrived in Hawaii and taught school cafeteria managers to cook Salisbury Steak. And Mr. Inouye worked at the famed Royal Hawaiian in Honolulu at a time when Salisbury Steak enjoyed great popularity.
But, no matter what made Mrs. Inouye or Mr. Miyashiro grab the gravy that fateful day, Loco Moco tastes marvelous.
Even though it’s a sure invitation to the Cholesterol Hall of Shame.
Loco Moco (After) (Photo credit: C. Bertelsen)
*Laudan’s book serves as a template for those interested in deconstructing cultural meanderings and culinary borrowings. Although published in 1996, it’s still in print and available in the airport bookstore in Honolulu. During my January 2010 visit to Hawaii, I didn’t see it in either of the Borders Bookstores on Kauai or Oahu. For a brief attempt at examining Loco Moco and culinary fusion in the context of language/pidgin development, see James L. Kelly’s “Loco Moco: A Folk Dish in the Making.” Social Process in Hawaii 30:59 – 64, 1983.
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
[A picture, and nothing more, for silent contemplation.]
Definition: tunny
large sea-fish of the mackerel order, 1530, probably from M.Fr. thon (14c.), from O.Prov. ton, from L. thunnus “a tuna, tunny,” from Gk. thynnos “a tuna, tunny,” possibly in the literal sense of “darter,” from thynein: “dart along.”
Photo credit: Courtney Romann
Aunt Ellen took the green can and pried it open with one of those old-fashioned can-openers that looked more like a chisel than not. Plop went the pinkish tuna, almost salmon colored, into the pot. With our dirty little hands, we helped stir the flaking fish into the overcooked noodles, long and slippery like earthworms. With another twist of her can-opener, my gentle and practical aunt scooped out cream-of-mushroom soup from a sharp-edged red can and said, “Kids, kids, use a wooden spoon to stir. Please.”
We stirred everything together with the requisite spoon and dumped it into an old Pyrex baking dish that looked like the same one my mother used for chocolate cake. When Aunt Ellen turned her back, to crush the potato chips for the top of the casserole, my cousin Joyce and I gave up on the wooden spoon and smoothed out the thick mixture in the pan with our fingers, giggling as we pawed at each other with our messy hands.
Once the potato chips snuggled into the moistened noodles, the dish went into the oven. After the top browned, with a blackened chip here and there poking out like a submariner’s scope, we sat at the Formica table and ate. Our uncles seemed to swallow most of the casserole in a few enormous bites.
And that’s how most Americans ate tuna until fairly recently. Unless they smeared tuna and mayonnaise on a piece of bread and made a “tunafish” sandwich.
Cousin to the mackerel and friend to fishermen, since prehistoric days the tuna has provided food for humans. Apicius, writer of what many consider to be the first Western cookbook, included many recipes and references to tuna in his De Re Coquinaria (Book X deals with fish).
And today, when a fisherman turns up with nothing on a bad- fish day, why, a cook can do wonders with a can of tuna. But there are moral and conservation issues at work with every can of tuna, with every tuna carcass sold in Japan’s Tsukiji Market in Tokyo.
Six different species of tuna, out of many possible species, fill those cans and fishmongers’ stalls. Ranging in size, depending upon the species, from 20 pounds to 1,500 pounds, tuna is fished throughout the world. Bluefin tuna, long unappreciated in U.S. markets, delights the Japanese and people from the Mediterranean, who pickle that strong‑flavored, red‑fleshed fish. Tuna dominate the Tsukiji Market in Tokyo, for example, and the bluefin now heads toward extinction due to the rapacious appetite for it brought about by the sushi and sashimi craze.
Tsukiji Market
On the other hand, Americans prefer yellow-fin tuna and albacore, both of which yield tender white meat. Other tuna species fished commercially include the bonito, skipjack, and bigeye.
Although tuna in America ends up being mostly a canned affair, on the Pacific coast, fish-markets specialize in widely available fresh tuna. Grilled, roasted, and poached, nothing surpasses fresh tuna. At times, fresh tuna steaks appear in fish markets in other parts of the United States. But if fresh tuna is scarce, canned tuna makes a wonderful base for many excellent dishes.
Lists of great tuna dishes DO NOT include “Tuna‑Noodle Casserole,” like Aunt Ellen’s, ubiquitous in the 1950s in the United States. That recipe, more than any other, single-handedly ruined most people’s attitude toward tuna, canned or fresh. Instead of that stodgy, gelatinous mess, try “Tuna and White Beans,” “Tuna Sandwich Supreme,” “Tuna Sauce for Roast Beef,” and most interesting of all, “Ashanti Stewed Greens.”
With canned tuna, culinary wonders will never cease. And with fresh, anything goes. But consumers need to remember that dolphins unwittingly swim into the nets that catch tuna and drown. (In March 2009, at the World Trade Organization, Mexico brought suit against the United States for the U.S.’s “Dolphin-safe tuna” laws.)
NUTRITION NOTES
A 3‑oz. can of oil‑packed tuna contains165 calories, compared to 135 calorie for water‑packed tuna in similar size cans. One cup of standard tuna salad contains about 375 calories (using regular mayonnaise).
Photo credit: Gia D. Parsons
TUNA WITH WHITE BEANS
Serves 4‑6
1½ c. dried white beans (Great Northern or Navy), cooked and drained
5 T. olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped finely
2 cloves garlic, mashed
14‑oz. water‑packed tuna, drained
1½ c. fresh tomatoes, seeded and chopped
¼ t. dried sage
1 T. fresh basil, chopped or 1 t. dried
¼ t. dried hot pepper flakes
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
4 T. chopped parsley (for garnish)
Fry the onions in 3 T. of olive oil until translucent, about 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic and fry for about 30 seconds. Stir in the tuna, breaking it up with a wooden spoon and cook for 1 minute.
Add the beans and the remaining ingredients (except for the parsley). Simmer for 5 minutes.
Top with the parsley and serve immediately with lots of good bread and a tossed salad.
TUNA SANDWICH SUPREME
(Makes 2 sandwiches)
1 7‑oz. can chunk light tuna in spring water, drained
1 small jar pickled artichoke hearts, drained and chopped into quarters
3 T. pitted black olives, sliced
3 T. sliced pimento‑stuffed green olives
2 T. chopped canned pimentos
2 T. capers, drained
¼ c. herbed vinaigrette, homemade or commercial
2 large Kaiser rolls
2 pepperoncini peppers, sliced
Tomato slices and lettuce leaves
Grindings of black pepper
Mix all ingredients except for the vinaigrette and the rolls. Stir in the vinaigrette and mix until all ingredients are moistened. Pile filling onto rolls.
Garnish with the peppers, tomato slices, and lettuce.
TUNA SAUCE FOR ROAST BEEF
Serves 6
1½ lbs. chilled roast beef, thinly sliced
1 c. real mayonnaise, preferably homemade, with 3 T. lemon juice stirred in
7‑oz. can tuna in spring water, drained
5 flat anchovy fillets
1¼ c. extra virgin olive oil
3 T. tiny capers
Salt if necessary
In a blender or food processor, blend the tuna, anchovies, olive oil, and capers into a creamy puree. Stir this mixture into the mayonnaise. Taste for salt.
Spread a thin layer of the sauce on a serving plate and layer the plate with slices of meat. Top the layer of meat with a thick layer of sauce. Repeat until all the meat is layered and covered with the sauce. Refrigerate the meat, tightly covered with plastic wrap, for 24 hours. Before serving, garnish the plate with some capers, lemon slices, and parsley.
Photo credit: Tamara Dunn
ASHANTI STEWED GREENS (From The Art of West African Cooking, by Dinah Ameley Ayensu)
Serves 4 – 6
2 ½ lbs. kale, collard greens, or spinach, cooked until tender, chopped
1 medium onion chopped
½ c. cooking oil (red palm oil, if available)
2 ripe tomatoes, diced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
1 t. paprika
½ t. ground red pepper
1 c. cooked, flaked codfish
½ c. dried or smoked shrimp
¼ c. vegetable stock (or water)
1 6 ½ –oz. can tuna
Heat oil over medium-high heat in heavy-bottomed skillet and fry onions until golden brown. Add tomatoes, salt, black pepper, paprika, and red pepper. Cook 10 minutes, then add codfish and shrimp. When shrimp are tender, stir in vegetable stock and tuna. Add greens, stir, and cook slowly for 15 minutes. Serve hot with rice (plain or with black-eyed peas), ampesi (boiled root vegetables like cassava, plantain, cocoyam, sweet potato, yam, or green bananas), or cornmeal balls (dokon).
For more canned tuna recipse, see Joie Warner’s Take a Tin of Tuna: 65 Inspired Recipes for Every Meal of the Day, by Joie and Drew Warner (2004). The various tuna packaging companies also have published a number of small booklets on cooking with tuna, which you can find on Amazon.com or eBay.
(Due to family obligations for a few weeks, I’m posting some previous posts that I’ve dusted off and updated. )
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
Mackerel Sky
Mackerel scales and mares’ tails
Make lofty ships carry low sails.
‑Old Sailors’ Rain Warning‑
(Due to family obligations for a few weeks, I’m posting some previous posts that I’ve dusted off and updated. )
Alas, the poor mackerel! A sky resembling its scales bodes rains. An unfriendly person is “cold as a mackerel”. “Dead as a mackerel” leaves no doubt in a listener’s mind: so‑and‑so or such‑and‑such has moved on to clearer seas. Protestants called Catholics “mackerel snappers,” a most decidedly derogatory term. And the French word for mackerel – maquereau - is slang for “pimp.” And many other names, too, demean the lowly mackerel.
School of Mackerel (Photo credit: Damon Garrett.)
Called “wolves of the sea,” because they swim fast and in packs or “schools,” mackerel shine with green and blue and black scales. Their silvery bellies flash in the sunlight as they speed through the water. Legends abound about mackerel and their behavior. In her influential and far-reaching book, Book of Household Management (1861), Mrs. Isabella Beeton includes five recipes for mackerel and relates a perhaps apocryphal tale in this vein:
THE VORACITY OF THE MACKEREL.-The voracity of this fish is very great, and, from their immense numbers, they are bold in attacking objects of which they might, otherwise, be expected to have a wholesome dread. Pontoppidan relates an anecdote of a sailor belonging to a ship lying in one of the harbours on the coast of Norway, who, having gone into the sea to bathe, was suddenly missed by his companions; in the course of a few minutes, however, he was seen on the surface, with great numbers of mackerel clinging to him by their mouths. His comrades hastened in a boat to his assistance; but when they had struck the fishes from him and got him up, they found he was so severely bitten, that he shortly afterward expired.
It is no wonder that the mackerel figured in much early folklore, for salted or smoked mackerel was an essential food item in the days before refrigeration.
Romans like Pliny sang the praises of garum, a fermented sauce somewhat related to modern Worcestershire sauce, made from soaking fish carcasses for months in liquid. He may (or may not) have said, according to an epigram by Martial, “Receive this noble sauce made from the first blood of a mackerel, breathing still, an expensive gift.” Medieval cooks used wine, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and sugar in many recipes for mackerel and other fish.
In the same way as their ancient and medieval forebearers, New Englanders reserved an important place at their tables for the mackerel. And some Virginians, too, ate mackerel, prepared as “Caveach,” or in other words, as the Oxford English Dictionary has it, pickled, a sort of “ceviche.” Mary Randolph’s The Virginia Housewife (1824) contains a recipe for this method of preparing mackerel:
Cut the fish in pieces the thickness of your hand, wash it and dry it in a cloth, sprinkle on some pepper and salt, dredge it with flour, and fry it a nice brown ; when it gets cold, put it in a pot with a little chopped onion between the layers, take a smuch vinegar as will cover it, mix it with some oil, pounded mace, and whole black pepper, pour it on and stopt the pot closely. This is a very convenient article, as it makes an excellent and ready addition to a dinner or supper. When served up, it should be garnished with green fennel or parsley.
Before 1870, most of the mackerel eaten in the U.S. came home from the market in salted form. After that, as shipwrights built ships with ice‑box holds, fresh mackerel showed up frequently in food shops. And still does, generally as fillets, cut from fish weighing on average two-to-four pounds. London allowed mackerel sellers to sell or “cry out” their fish on Sundays because of the rapid decay possible with these rich, fatty fish. Law forbade other vendors the equal privilege.
Today, several different mackerel types swim the world’s seas: Atlantic, bullet, cero, chub, king, Pacific jack, Spanish, and wahoo. Spanish and king mackerel – a game fish ranging from 5 to 25 pounds – abound. But the Atlantic mackerel dominates the commercial market.
Some mackerel possess more red flesh, similar to that of their tuna relatives, than others. Spanish mackerel boasts the whitest flesh. All fishermen agree that mackerel appear at their best and fattest just after spawning. In fact, between December and March, mackerel eat very little and resemble emaciated famine victims. After spawning, the fish gorge voraciously. By late summer and early fall, fattened like calves to the slaughter, mackerel reach their prime, a joy to the hungry fisherman.
Eat freshly caught mackerel as soon as possible or freeze them in a block of ice within 6 hours after the catch. Otherwise, the taste of the fish suffers. (See above mention regarding London.) Fresh mackerel are oily fish; because of the high fat content of the fish, around 6-8 percent, deterioration occurs rapidly. And proper storage is essential, no matter the type of mackerel.
Mackerel on ice (Photo credit: Jeremy Keith.)
Proper cooking brings out the mackerel’s best features. Broiling or baking mackerel produces the best results, although other methods can be used. If you have a king mackerel (also known as kingfish), enhance the taste of the fish by marinating it first in a citrus‑spiked marinade. Mullet can be substituted for Spanish mackerel after a bad day of fishing. For the moistest baked fish possible, try the following trick: cut a piece of wax paper to fit the baking pan, butter it lightly, and cover the fish as it bakes with the paper. Use this technique in the recipe for “Mackerel with Mexican Tartar Sauce.” A sort of “en papillote,” no? There’s also Mrs. Beeton’s “Fillets of Mackerel,” with its French touches.
Tonight, after eating your mackerel, go out and search the heavens. Look for the cirrocumulus clouds of the “mackerel sky.” Will it really rain tomorrow? If it does, those old sailors were really on to something, weren’t they?
Nutrition Notes:
A 4‑ounce broiled mackerel fillet contains approximately 248 calories, as well as appreciable amounts of niacin and iron. Fat content is 16.6 grams.
Broiled mackerel (Used by permission of Laurel Fan.)
BAKED MACKEREL WITH TARTAR SAUCE
Serves 4
1 pound Spanish mackerel fillets
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Cayenne
Lemon slices to cover fillets
MEXICAN TARTAR SAUCE
2 cloves garlic, mashed
Salt to taste
1/2 cup mayonnaise (low‑calorie if possible)
1 T. chopped pickled jalapeno peppers or other fresh hot peppers
1 t. lemon or lime juice
1/2 t. ground cumin
1 t. chili powder
2 T. scallions, finely chopped
2 T. chopped cilantro leaf (note: cilantro is the same as coriander leaf)
Lemon wedges and whole cilantro leaves for garnish
1. Preheat the oven to 425. Lightly oil a flat baking dish and lay the fillets skin side down in it. Sprinkle the fillets with the salt, pepper, and cayenne. Top with the lemon slices. Cover the fillets with a piece of buttered wax paper. Bake for 15 minutes in the top third of the oven. Remove from heat.
2. Mix the sauce ingredients together.
3. To serve: Place the fillets on warmed plates and garnish with a large dollop of the mayonnaise. Top each mound of mayonnaise with a few whole cilantro leaves and a lemon wedge. Serve fish with a tomato salad, yellow rice, and green beans.
FILLETS OF MACKEREL
For more about Mrs. Beeton, see “Mrs. Beeton, I Presume?” The following recipe looks just as it does in her book.
282. INGREDIENTS – 2 large mackerel, 1 oz. butter, 1 small bunch of chopped herbs, 3 tablespoonfuls of medium stock, No. 105, 3 tablespoonfuls of béchamel (see Sauces); salt, cayenne, and lemon-juice to taste.
Mode – Clean the fish, and fillet it; scald the herbs, chop them fine, and put them with the butter and stock into a stewpan. Lay in the mackerel, and simmer very gently for 10 minutes; take them out, and put them on a hot dish. Dredge in a little flour, add the other ingredients, give one boil, and pour it over the mackerel.
Time – 20 minutes.
Average cost, for this quantity, 1s. 6d.
Seasonable from April to July.
Sufficient for 4 persons.
Note – Fillets of mackerel may be covered with egg and bread crumbs, and fried to a nice brown color. Serve with maître d’hôtel sauce and plain melted butter.
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
Red Beans (Pwa Rouj)
As in a nightmare wrought by Quentin Tarantino, I watched the horrors unfolding in Haiti after the earthquake. Hands tied, unable to help in any major way, I turned to my pantry, memories of the lovely Haitian women who cooked for us stepping into my mind, smiling, images of hope for Haiti’s future.
Here’s a dish that soothes and nourishes.
To Haiti … in hopes that all will be fed.
Sos Pwa Rouj (Red Beans in Sauce)
Serves 8
2 cups small red beans, cleaned and picked over
½ small white onion
3 T. peanut oil
2 cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
3/4 cup fresh flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped
Salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
Put beans and half onion in a large pot with water to cover the beans by two inches. Bring to a boil. Cover pot, reduce heat to low, and simmer about 1 ½ to 2 hours, or until beans are very tender. Drain, retaining the cooking liquid. There should be about 3 cups of liquid. If there is too much liquid, boil it down. If too little, add water to reach 3 cups of liquid. Take 1 ½ cups of cooked beans, add to blender or food processor along with 1 cup of bean liquid. Purée. Stir the purée in the remaining liquid and remaining whole beans.
Heat the oil in a heavy frying pan. Add the garlic and ½ cup of the parsley and cook briefly, making sure to avoid burning the garlic. Stir in the bean mixture, season with salt and about ½ t. of ground black pepper. Heat the sauce gently, until the raw garlic tastes is no longer apparent and the sauce is like the consistency of thick buttermilk. Stir in the remaining parsley and check for seasoning. Serve over white rice with griyo and hot sauce.
[A picture, and nothing more, for silent contemplation.]
Photo credit: C. Bertelsen)
Surely all of you now know about the latest disaster to hit Haiti — an earthquake of 7.0 hit Haiti at about 4 PM on January 12, 2010, followed by aftershocks of 5.5 and 5.9.
The damage to Port-au-Prince looks like the result of a bombing raid and, indeed, experts say that the devastation resembles that of a nuclear blast. For the poor, traumatized people of Haiti — 80% of whom live at poverty level or below — the situation is dire. At the best of times, most people cannot afford to buy food for more than one day, nor can they store it because of the lack of refrigeration.
Food will be scarce in days to come.
Likewise, water, never very safe, now commands a premium price, dirty or clean, if it can even be found.
Because I lived and worked in Haiti for three years, that country and its resilient, charming people claim a special part of my heart.
I urge you to consider donating some financial help to the aid charity of your choice, to assist these suffering people in the days, weeks, and months ahead
Haiti's Mountainous and Deforested Terrain (Photo credit: C. Bertelsen)
.
Catfish and Hush Puppies (Photo credit: Patrick Woodward.)
(Due to family obligations for a few weeks, I’m posting some previous posts that I’ve dusted off and updated. )
Well, it’s not “National Catfish Month,” not yet. You have to wait for August for that.
But there’s no time like the present for dreaming of summer.
Some people hate the cloying texture of these temperamental and be-whiskered fish. Others, well, they love the crunch, and the hush puppies, that come with well-prepared catfish. This article is for them. You know, these folks will drive miles out of their way seeking some tiny shack in the swamp, dreaming of big platters of fried catfish, golden and glistening.
I know — I used to work in one of those places, frying up catfish and hush puppies all night long, batting at the mosquitoes that swarmed in through the holes in the screens the Health Department never seemed to see.
Catfish Looking at You (Used by permission.)
Now catfish aren’t pretty. Anybody can tell you that. But it’s not a beauty contest, is it? Truth be told, catfish staged a big culinary comeback a few years back. Raised now in ponds on farms, fed protein pellets made from soybeans, wheat, corn, fish meal, and potatoes, these avant garde catfish lead lives in the lap of luxury compared to their wild cousins. Gone is the muddy flavor associated with these bottom dwelling fish. Gone, too, is the fisherman’s joy of fighting one of these devilish fighters onto the boat before the line gives out. Instead, firm, sweet fleshy fillets–relatively boneless and easily cooked–appear in supermarkets all dressed and with someplace to go, ready for the cook with a yen for experimentation. And a cast iron pan.
Traditionally appreciated only in the American South, in 1855 enterprising entrepreneurs exported catfish to France, in an attempt to breed these fish for table consumption. The French did not take to catfish and lived to regret importing them, because the wily catfish escaped from the farming ponds. In doing so, catfish competed with certain native fish, who ended up being wiped out by these scaleless scavenging, omnivorous upstarts.
Of the varieties of catfish available (mud, channel, white, etc.), the best‑flavored catfish is the channel variety or Ictalurus punctatus. Ranging in size from 6 oz. to 5 pounds, these fish sport forked tails and an irregular spotting pattern on their sides. Mississippi produces most of the farm‑raised channel catfish and organizations, such as The Catfish Institute, promote eye‑catching and tongue-tempting recipes for catfish. Try the “Paper Sack Catfish,” from Martha Foose’s Screen Doors and Sweet Tea.
Of course, everyone knows that the REAL way to fix these mean ol’ fish is by rolling them in cornmeal and frying them in hot oil. It’s as simple as that. But there are other ways, too, that allow the catfish lover to eat catfish every day without blowing his or her diet. Try “Mississippi Creole Catfish,” for one.
Can’t get enough about catfish? Check out The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission’s great Web page on catfish.
So pull up a chair and dig in. Just be sure to have plenty of napkins on hand.
Fish Shack (Used by permission.)
NUTRITION NOTES
(Data from The Catfish Institute)
Nutritional values for a 3.5 ounce raw portion of catfish are: 128 calories, 15 grams of protein, 7 grams of fat, and 33 mg sodium.
TRADITIONAL SOUTHERN-FRIED CATFISH
Serves 4
1 cup yellow cornmeal
1/3 cup flour
2 t. salt
1 t. cayenne pepper
1/4 t. garlic powder
1/4 t. freshly ground black pepper
4 catfish fillets (or whole cleaned catfish)
Oil for deep frying (and maybe a little bacon grease, if you’re resenting your doctor’s ban on fat)
1. Mix first six ingredients together. Dredge catfish in the mixture and shake off excess flour. Heat the oil to 350 and add the fish, frying until golden brown (about 5‑6 minutes).
2. Drain fish on paper towels. Serve immediately with french fries, tartar sauce, and hush puppies. And maybe a little coleslaw.
MISSISSIPPI CREOLE CATFISH
Serves 4
Catfish seasoning:
1 t. each garlic and onion powders
1/2 t. each basil and thyme
1 t. salt
1 t. each white and black pepper, ground
1. t. cayenne pepper
3 T. paprika
2‑3 T. vegetable oil
4 catfish fillets
1. Mix seasonings together and coat fillets; set aside. Preheat griddle, oil with some of the vegetable oil and cook the fillets about 1 1/2‑2 minutes on each side. Fish will begin to flake when done. Remove from heat and keep warm.
Sauce:
1 T. butter + 1 T. vegetable oil
2 cups sliced white button mushrooms
1/2 pound shrimp, cleaned, peeled, and deveined
1/4 cup chopped shallots (or chopped onion)
2 garlic cloves, minced
Salt to taste
1/4 t. cayenne pepper
1/4 cup white wine
1. Heat the butter/oil over high heat in a heavy skillet. Throw in the mushrooms, shrimp, shallots, and garlic; cook for about 3 minutes or until mushrooms and shrimp begin to look cooked. Add the spices and cook for one more minute. Pour in the wine and stir constantly until liquid is reduced by half.
2. Serve the sauce over the catfish fillets.
Want more? Try the The Essential Catfish Cookbook, by Janet Cope and Shannon Harper (2001)
© 2010 C. Bertelsen
Thomas Jefferson, rightly or wrongly credited with first bringing pasta to the tables of Americans, drew a picture of pasta-making machine. This drawing, now in the Library of Congress, resulted from a trip to Italy taken by Jefferson in 1787.
Don’t forget that “macaroni” served as a generic name for pasta and doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re talking abut elbow macaroni …
Here’s recipe for Macaroni Pudding from Thomas Jefferson’s Cook Book (the recipe actually comes from Mrs. Horace Mann, Marie Kimball’s version of Jefferson’s cook book)
Cook macaroni is milk until tender; 2 ounces to a pint of milk will make a good-sized pudding. Add 5 eggs, 3/4 cup of sugar, flavor with lemon or rose water and bake one hour.
