Hibernation

It has been a long winter.

I've been to the farmer's market once -- once -- since the December 26th blizzard here in New York. On that day (the 26th, not the day I went to the market, which was in March), it snowed about 20 inches.

Some bike with your snow?

I didn't leave the house for a while. When I finally went to the market, in March, I bought a turnip. Not that it's been a completely uninspired winter; there was, after all, the coq au vin:

Some bird with your bacon?

 Experiments with duck fat:

One of the many, many experiments. One pound of duck fat goes a long way.

Experiments with "New York Fondue" (New York State cheddar, Brooklyn Brewery IPA, and, um, Emmenthaler):

A New York state of rind.

And something I called "Thomas Bittman Mark Keller" chicken, which if you've ever read either Mark Bittman or Thomas Keller's recipes for a foolproof roast chicken, is basically a combination of their two methods:

Ready for her closeup.

The basic method: Preheat your oven, with a cast iron skillet in it, to 450 degrees; pat dry and salt & pepper your chicken heavily, slap it in the pan, and let it roast for 45 min to an hour, without basting. Also disengage your fire alarms, apologize to your pets, and try to open the windows, even if it is 15 degrees outside. I made this a lot this winter. A. Lot.

But our real winter default is pork chops and kale (the version below contained a rare spurt of winter creativity, dasheen fritters). The pork chops in our household are traditionally sauced with a combination of fried shallots and whatever-is-left-in-the-back-of-the-fridge -- usually a spot of jam, some tamarind paste, a splash of day-old beer or wine, juice, hot pepper sauce, or as a last resort, vinegar. The pork chops are also traditionally prepared by the masculine portion of the household, and somehow, they always work. I have never quite mastered the subtle art of back-of-the-fridge Finishing Sauce.

A spot o'green!

Three to four pounds, several work-induced fast food meals at airports and a probable vitamin deficiency later, I finally bought some grapefruit and a few out-of-season eggplants flown in from the Netherlands (who knew?). When is spring really arriving? I'm not sure, but my source tells me that ramps are only 2-3 weeks out (my source: someone who reads more blogs than I do).

In the mean time, I'm cracking this puppy, purchased last week at the gift shop under the St. Louis arch. What was I doing there? Not eating St. Louis pizza, that's for sure.

Blogging without an iPhone is hard.

Shoo-fly pie, here we come!

Thinking About Chicken in Berlin

Because it's cold today, and I'm huddled up inside and grateful for a hot meal, I'm thinking about Berlin. Specifically, chicken in Berlin. It's been nearly a year and a half, but I can still taste it -- the best meal I had in Berlin wasn’t the duck breast with spaetzle and wild cherries at Gugelhof in Prenzlauer Berg, or the schnitzel at Max & Moritz, but something decidedly more down-home.

Still pretty good, though.

We’d come to Berlin on a train from Vienna the day before, winding our way slowly through farms, clouded Czech countryside, fairy tale forests in Moravia, and finally along the Elba where, hanging out of the open window of the train, I took streaked photos of gingerbread houses and the rain-bloated river. We didn’t get out when the train stopped; we'd bought a loaf of bread and some soft cheese at a supermarket before leaving, and made crumbling sandwiches in our seats. At one point, I went to the dining car and had a quiet coffee alone.

It was my first time in Berlin, and I wanted to see the wall. As we walked across the Overbaum bridge it began to rain, first lightly, then gustily. By the time we reached the other side, my umbrella had blown out. Women in clear ponchos hurried past, and the sky turned an ominous red-black color like bruised skin. We were unsurprised to find ourselves practically alone once we reached the exposed wall, and walked slowly along it until the wind became too strong to continue. After insufficiently reflecting on its social and historical importance, I snapped a few pictures of graffiti, then turned tail and ran for cover.

Symbolic.

 

We headed to Kreuzberg for dinner, remembering a restaurant we’d passed by earlier in the day. I’d already become overconfident in my navigation of the city, but in the storm, nothing was familiar. Wandering in circles, lost and shivering on a residential street, I thumbed through my rain-soaked guidebook and finally pinpointed our location one block from an old wirtshaus (and almost directly on top of the wall’s old route). We walked past a newspapered window several times before trying the unmarked door, and then, exhausted, slunk in like wet cats.

Inside was a comforting scene of dark wood, checkered tablecloths, warmth, and a happy bustle far removed from the weather outside. Plates of fried chicken whizzed by; chickens adorned the menus, and the smell of frying oil wafted up from a stairwell. I ordered a pilsner and curled up in a corner. As it turned out, Henne Alt-Berliner Wirtshaus Gaststätten served almost nothing but chicken—free-range, milk-fried chicken that would warm even the coldest of rain-drenched tourist hearts, as it did JFK’s when he stopped by during his infamous Berlin visit in 1963. There were sausages, kraut, and potato salad to start, all eagerly dispatched; then came my half bird, dark brown and extra crispy, tasting like chicken – not paprika, not cayenne, not batter, but chicken, and never has a hen found a more eager patron. Knifeless and manner-free, I gnawed my carcass down to the bone and then licked the crispy bits from my fingertips.

I don't actually have a picture of the chicken because I ate it too quickly, so here is an apple strudel.

We lingered in the restaurant, over chocolate pudding and beer, until the rain began to subside and my clothes were somewhat dry. I had more elegant meals in the city, but that rainy Friday, the best seat in the city was a padded bench, and the most delicious meal was a Milchmasthähnchen. Blame a strong summer rain for my conviction that the best fried chicken isn’t made in Kentucky, but thousands of miles away, in the basement of a cheery Berlin pub. Die Henne ist ein Berliner.

Dasheen through the snow, in a 4WD hard top Jeep...

Through the banana fields we go
Saint Lucia all the way

Soca carols play (on the radio)
Making spirits bright

What fun it is to drive and eat
Before the blizzard strikes!

Full lunch: Curry beef, rice, mac and cheese, "greens", black eyed peas, potato salad.

St. Lucia is a diverse mix of cultures: As a formerly French colony, turned British, populated by African slaves, its cuisine is a mixture of Creole and East Indian, with some British influence (East Indian indentured servants were brought to work in the Caribbean during the 19th century, after the abolition of slavery throughout the British empire). There was much fish; there was much curry. There was a significant amount of dasheen pie, yet never enough.

Dasheen is a form of taro, of which both the leaves and root are used. The starchy root is used to make dasheen pie, something akin to a potato croquette. But better.

Dasheen. Before pie.

On Saturday mornings, the Castries food market in the capital comes alive with produce and spice vendors. It was rainy, but that didn't harm the okra (unfortunately).

Ginger, cabbage and cukes, Oh My.

Soggy market.

Okra! Ugh.

Escaping the rain.

My suitcase smells like curry.

Cocoa tea: boiled with milk, drunk with glee.

Hooked.

Keeping an eye on their eggs.

Several communities on the island throw evening fish fries on the weekends, with music as well as, um, fish. The fry at Anse La Raye, a fishing village on the west coast, is mostly attended by locals. And this guy, my friend, Mr. Boxfish. RIP, my friend.

Blackfish, fishcake, shrimp, mussels, fried cassava bread, and turtle. Yes, turtle.

Fishcakes, curry chicken, and roti: a trio that repeated itself throughout the trip, without complaint.

Lamb roti and a Piton, the local beer.

(The actual Pitons).

Curry chicken plate, with the ubiquitous tuna-potato salad.

One small lunch deviation for callalloo soup and soda bread (there's your British influence):

Mmm, healthy.

St. Lucians make a drink called spice rum, which is white rum soaked in herbs and spices and mixed (sometimes) with grenadine to make a tonic good for curing... well, it seems just about everything.

A little medicinal, but I did have a cold.

We bought a jug of spices to make our own at home. Infusing time: A minimum of 6 months. Included: Cinnamon, bay leaves, star anise, peppercorns, allspice, cloves, and the bark of a tree that I embarrassingly forgot the name of. Jug: An old Carlo Rossi bottle. An excellent example of reuse, I think.

Pre-rum. Check back in 6 months for post-rum.

Banana plantations were vital to the economy of St. Lucia during the 20th century, taking hold after sugarcane was gradually phased out in the 1950s. But in the 90s, the EU stopped preferentially buying bananas from the Windward Islands, and St. Lucia's economy took a hit from which it has not recovered.

Driving through the banana fields.

Their bananas are much, much tastier than ours.

We visited a local organic farm that sells its produce to nearby hotels and restaurants. Cassava, dasheen, carrots, okra, pineapple, squash, corn, and herbs are all planted together.

Sorrel, used to make a traditional Christmas drink.

Okra: now I know what to avoid.

Of course, there was the requisite foreign soft drink to try. I do it so you don't have too.

Unless you're a hummingbird, avoid this.

On a more serious note -- the island was badly hit by Hurricane Tomas this past November. Many people we met were still without running water, houses and roads have been destroyed by landslides, and several people lost their lives. This holiday, consider donating to those in need, wherever they may be.

(Leftover) Cranberry (Sauce) Pie

It's more than a week after Thanksgiving at this point. If you haven't eaten the cranberry sauce by now, you never will.

Sweet, tart, and as visually appealing as bowl of borscht.

Year after year, I make cranberry sauce that no one ever touches -- except me. Despite delicious additions (apples, bourbon, copious amounts of sugar), I'm always left with heaping bowls of it afterwards. Or at the very least, leftover cranberries in the freezer.

There are a number of people in my family who are of the variety who "don't like some things to touch the other things on [their] plate" or who "don't like sweet things with the savory" or who "don't like cranberry sauce." ("I don't like cranberry sauce," they say. "No, I don't need to try it again this year.") Have you never savored a duck a l'Orange? I want to ask. Have you never enjoyed chili with a bit of mac & cheese mixed in?

Here's a more polite way to handle your bog-grown leftovers, if your family is as perversely cranberry averse as mine: Make a pie.

(Also, continue bringing it to the table year after year, in defiance. It's not like your mother ever gave up with her boiled Brussels sprouts; why should you?)

No one ignores you when you're baked into a pie. Just ask around Fleet Street.

(Leftover) Cranberry (Sauce) Pie
 Makes one 9 inch pie

• 3 cups homemade cranberry sauce (I highly recommend this recipe, sans nuts)
• 2 Tablespoons flour
• Sugar, to taste
• 2 Tablespoons butter
• Dough for a 9 inch double crust

Preheat your oven to 425 degrees. Since cranberry sauce recipes vary, add enough sugar to your sauce that it skews more sweet than tart. Stir in the flour.

Roll out your bottom crust and line a 9 inch pie dish. Add the filling and dot with butter. Top with a second full crust, and brush with cream or egg wash if desired.

Sprinkle with sugar and bake for 15 minutes at 425, then lower the heat to 350 for an additional 30-45 minutes, or until crust is golden brown. Serve with whipped cream and a side of I-Told-You-So.

Oh, so NOW you want second helpings...

In the Back of the Cupboard

I'm a bit of a pack rat when it comes to food (see: Hoarders, Kitchen Edition). In the back of my cupboard are a lot of old and odd and odd old things. But living the vagrant life of a city renter, everything gets at least a glance and the potential for junking every year or so. There's really no glory in moving a three-plus-year-old can of smoked salmon around if you're not planning to eat it eventually (I did, last week. It was a bit dry.)

If you don't move, and you're not Martha Stewart, the back of the cupboard might get a glance every five years. If that cupboard happens to be located in your summer home, that frequency might increase to once every ten years. If, by chance, that cupboard is in my grandmother's summer home in the southern Adirondacks, we're talking fifty years. Give or take a decade. Behold, last summer's back-of-the-cupboard loot (don't worry, I put  everything back exactly where I found it).

First, let's explore the drinks cupboard, hidden behind some wood panelling:

Piña colada mix, in situ.
Totally unscientific date estimate: early to mid 1960s.
EDIT: Apparently UPC codes were invented in the early 70s. Updated date estimate: 1975? Thanks, pookypocky.

Totally unscientific date estimate (TUDE) based on drinks mentioned.
Oh, this was unopened (and left thus).

Next, on to the kitchen:

Mm, Herb-Ox. TUDE: 1970s?

They still make this, AND people still drink it.

Not much to see here...

Broiled grapefruit? TUDE says 1970s.

Just odd. TUDE: late 1970s-early 1980s.

In case you need TWO lemon meringue pies.
My-T-Fine defies TUDE due to their continuing penchant for retro design.

Oh those crazy Mexicans. TUDE: 1980s.

And my favorite find:

Betty Brite Baking Cups. TUDE: 1950s-1960s.
People actually collect these.

Anyone want to try them?
Yes, there were still cups inside.

Finally:

Proof that NO ONE uses toothpicks. TUDE: 1980s.

Wayback machine, signing off.