Berries of the Heart

Strawberry Scones

I love the season of strawberries. Depending as they do on extended hours of daylight, these delectable red berries have always symbolized early summer to me. Overblown and lush, they resemble a perfect June day. Picking them is an essentially lazy, very summery activity.

Sitting in a strawberry field on a sunny day, my head shaded with a straw hat and my fingers dyed bright pink from the berries, I think if I can just hold myself still enough I can almost feel the sun stop for the solstice. And if I can be quiet enough maybe—just maybe–I can hear the berries grow.

Despite my love of strawberries I only recently learned about the traditions of the Strawberry Moon and the Strawberry Thanksgiving. I stumbled across them last week (if you can stumble on the internet) in an online lesson plan.

The strawberry is the first fruit of the new season and as such holds a special place in Native American life. New England Native American tribes designate 13 moons that mark different points in the year. The June full moon (which took place on June 7 this year) is called the Strawberry Moon. In late June the tribes celebrate the Strawberry Thanksgiving. During this festival they give thanks for the early summer’s harvest.

The Strawberry Thanksgiving has its own legend, which offers a lesson to Native American children and to us all. In this story a young girl and her beloved brother quarrel about which path to take. She strikes out on her own only to realize that she misses him. She cries–and her tears fall on straw, where berries start to grow. She gathers the berries and brings them to share with her brother.

The Strawberry Thanksgiving is therefore a time of reconciliation and forgiveness. Those gathered at the festival ritually eat strawberries and then must forgive those with whom they have quarreled. According to Adrian Jacobs, a Native American Lutheran clergyman in Brantford, Ontario, strawberries are viewed by the Iroquois as a sacred gift from heaven. “When someone almost dies,” writes Jacobs, “they say, ‘I almost ate strawberries.’ Strawberries grow on the path to the Creator’s house.”

I can well believe that any deity worth his or her salt (or maybe sugar?) would plant strawberry flowers and fruit close to home. And I’m sure that most of us feel much more forgiving after eating this succulent fruit.

Next year, I encourage readers to seek out the Strawberry Thanksgiving celebrations in New England, which have unfortunately already ended this year. (I’m sometimes a little slow to pick up on these things!) Plimoth Plantation celebrated its Strawberry Thanksgiving on June 20. The day included singing, dancing, canoe races, a Wampanoag football game, and a traditional clambake (not to mention strawberry shortcake!). The Mashantucket Pequot Museum in Connecticut hailed strawberries on June 12 with music, stories, and games.

Meanwhile, I’ll be posting a few recipes to get you started on your own early summer ritual of forgiveness. All star the wuttahimneash. According to the folks at Plimoth, that’s the Wampanoag word for strawberry. It means “berry of the heart.”

Cutting the Scone Dough

Strawberry Scones

I never met a scone I didn’t like—and these are no exception to that rule! They will brighten any breakfast (or tea).

Ingredients:

2 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) frozen unsalted butter
1/2 cup sour cream
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup hulled and chopped strawberries
extra sugar as needed for top

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper or silicone.

In a medium bowl whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Use a GOOD box grater to grate the frozen butter into the dry ingredients. (The large holes are best.) Quickly mix it in with a fork or your hands.

In a small bowl whisk together the sour cream, egg, and vanilla.

Using a fork stir the sour cream mixture into the dry ingredients. Use your hands to press the dough together into a ball. (This may seem a little bit difficult as the dough will be unevenly damp, but it will work eventually!)

Place the ball of dough on a floured board, and pat it into a circle that measures about 7 inches in diameter. Decisively cut the circle into 8 wedges. Carefully place them on the prepared baking sheet. Sprinkle with additional sugar.

Bake until golden, about 15 to 17 minutes. Let the scones cool on the cookie sheet for 5 minutes; then either eat them or cool them on a wire rack. Makes 8 scones.

Truffle enjoyed a TINY lick of scone dough.

I Land Scapes!

I am frequently on the low end of the chic-food curve; it can take me a while to get out of my usual cooking ruts. So until recently I had never tried the garlic scapes that have been increasingly available in American farmers’ markets and gourmet shops.

Scapes are the stalks that come out of garlic bulbs. They are clipped off in June by farmers who want the plants to send all their nourishment to the bulbs of garlic. Since I have only seen scapes for the last few years I have a feeling many garlic farmers formerly used them for compost. They now sell them, and the curvy stalks are a boon for garlic lovers.

Visiting the Alexandria, Virginia, Farmers’ Market the other day with my mother I found scapes at the stall of Twin Springs Fruit Farm. This Pennsylvania farm travels a couple of hours from home to sell its wares to suburbanites in the D.C. area.

My mother and I were just discussing what the heck we would do if we bought the scapes when we spied a recipe leaflet from Twin Springs devoted to them. Emboldened, we picked up a half pound of scapes and went home to make the first suggested recipe, scape pesto.

Since I can never leave a recipe alone I changed the one I was given slightly: I cut down on the olive oil (Twin Springs suggests a full cup, and you may want to try that) and added a few nuts plus a little butter and salt.

My family members found the scape pesto a little too bold when we tried it on chips and crackers. We are near the end of the season for scapes, which become more garlicky as they ripen. We remembered while watching True Blood later that evening that our breath would easily protect us from vampires, but vampires are scarce in our area so we didn't really need the extra dose of garlic. The pesto was just right used sparingly on pasta, however.

The scapes’ flavor resembles that of garlic but is somehow greener—a little sharp but lovely blended with the cheese. My brother remarked that the pesto reminded him of a fresh Caesar salad.

Twin Springs also suggests using scapes in a stir fry or an omelet—anywhere, in fact, that you might use garlic. The farm tells shoppers to cut the scapes into 1- or 2-inch pieces and parboil them before sautéing them.

What my family liked best about the scape pesto (aside from the flavor) was its color—the true green of early summer, especially a rainy early summer like the one we’ve been enjoying on the East Coast.

Next year I’ll start buying scapes earlier and try other recipes. This year we Weisblats are enjoying our pesto.

Scape Pesto

(Adapted from Twin Springs Fruit Farm)

Ingredients:

1/2 pound rinsed chopped scapes (bulbs removed)—about 2 cups when chopped into 1-inch pieces
2 tablespoons pine nuts or walnuts
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup melted butter
2 cups Parmesan cheese

Instructions:

In a blender or food processor combine the chopped scapes, nuts, salt, and olive oil. Process until the mixture is blended but not completely pulverized.

Pour the mixture into a bowl, and blend in the melted butter and cheese. Taste the pesto and adjust any ingredients you like.

Makes 2 cups (plus!) of pesto.

A Visit to a Gristmill

Sunday was Father’s Day and I was in Virginia so I decided to spend a little time with the Father of Our Country at Mount Vernon. I have always felt a kinship with George Washington. My grandmother kept a statue of Washington in a niche next to her front stairs in Rutland, Vermont. As children we were required to salute “General George” every time we passed it.

I had visited Mount Vernon several times before. I had never been to Washington’s gristmill, a few miles down the George Washington Parkway, before. The sunny day, a little cool for June in Virginia, provided the perfect occasion for my first trip there.

Myriad tour buses were piled up outside the main mansion at ten in the morning, but the gristmill had a smaller crowd. Manager Steve Bashore, interpreter Travis Shaw, and their colleagues had plenty of time to explain the workings of the mill. They also shared a bit of history about the site with visitors.

Steve Bashore (right) and Travis Shaw

In the 1760s Washington showed he was ahead of his time as a southern agriculturalist by changing his main crop from tobacco to wheat. The reasons were threefold. First, as students of American history know, tobacco quickly depletes nutrients in the soil. Washington was a pioneer in composting and crop rotation, but even so he must have had trouble with this difficult crop. Tobacco is also extremely labor intensive; indeed, its cultivation is one of the reasons the American South became so dependent on slavery.

Finally, in the 1760s tobacco from the future United States had to be sold through British tobacco merchants. These traders paid colonial planters in luxury goods rather than cash and could not secure a guaranteed price. Washington was frustrated with this system, in which he generally lost money.

When he changed over to wheat and other diversified crops he was able to sell to more markets, rotate his crops, and increase harvests (wheat could be planted twice a year). In 1771 he added to the profitability of his grains by opening a mill so that he could sell not just the raw agricultural products but also the edible commodities they became.

Visiting the gristmill reminded me what a smart man Washington was. He had a clear vision of an American economy that integrated agriculture and industry. As the interpreters were quick to point out, the gristmill represented not only a brilliant agricultural move on Washington’s part; it also looked ahead to the coming industrial revolution.

In 1791 Washington became the third person to purchase an innovative milling system designed by Oliver Evans, one of our nation’s first patent holders. The water-powered Evans mill enabled Washington to mechanize every part of the process of milling grain—moving the grain into storage, cleaning it, grinding it, cooling it, and sorting it.

Wheat Before Milling

By the mid-19th century the Evans process had been replaced by operations that were bigger in scale, and the mill built by Washington fell into disrepair. It was eventually torn down, and its stones were used for new construction. In 1932 the site was acquired by the Commonwealth of Virginia, which reconstructed the mill and the miller’s house on the original foundations in honor of the 200th anniversary of Washington's birth.

In 1997 the state decided that Mount Vernon could take better care of the structure, which was then restored. The extensive renovations included a reconstruction of the Oliver Evans mill, which I saw in action on my visit. It is apparently the only such mill working in the country today.

Steve Bashore, who runs the mill, is eloquent about both of the passions that brought him to Mount Vernon—history and milling. He spends much of his time trying to make the mill more efficient. He also spends much of it perusing records at Mount Vernon that can illuminate the day-to-day workings of the mill in the late 18th century.

Steve has plans to make and sell new products soon at the mill, including grits and a pancake mix. (He also hopes to sell rye whiskey from Washington’s distillery next door!) I intend to return when those are available.

Kegs at the Distillery

In the meantime I was able to purchase some of the mill’s yellow cornmeal at the gristmill’s gift shop. Yesterday I used it to make one of George Washington’s favorite dishes, hoe cakes.

Hoe cakes are pancakes made of cornmeal mush. They supposedly got their name from the fact that African-American slaves (who were usually allocated a ration of cornmeal as part of their diet) would sometimes prepare them on fires using the flat part of a hoe.

Here is what Mount Vernon’s web site says about Washington and hoe cakes:

General Washington’s typical breakfast has been described by members of his immediate family and several guests. His step-granddaughter, Nelly Custis Lewis, who was raised at Mount Vernon, wrote “He rose before sunrise, always wrote or read until 7 in summer or half past seven in winter. His breakfast was then ready – he ate three small mush cakes (Indian meal) swimming in butter and honey, and drank three cups of tea without cream.” She described the recipe in a letter as:

“The bread business is as follows if you wish to make 2 1/2 quarts of flour up-take at night one quart of flour, five table spoonfuls of yeast & as much lukewoarm water as will make it the consistency of pancake batter, mix it in a large stone pot & set it near a warm hearth (or a moderate fire) make it at candlelight & let it remain until the next morning then add the remaining quart & a half by degrees with a spoon when well mixed let it stand 15 or 20 minutes & then bake it – of this dough in the morning, beat up a white & half of the yilk of an egg – add as much lukewarm water as will make it like pancake batter, drop a spoonful at a time on a hoe or griddle (as we say in the south). When done on one side turn the other – the griddle must be rubbed in the first instance with a piece of beef suet or the fat of cold corned beef…”

The web site goes on to provide a “modern adaptation” of this recipe, which is served at special occasions at Mount Vernon. It didn’t sound terribly appetizing to me, but I thought I would try it—until I read a post on Mount Vernon’s blog, penned by an anonymous member of the Mount Vernon education department. The blogger indicated that Washington probably ate his hoe cakes “swimming in butter and honey” because the darn things were completely unpalatable!

So I did what any self-respecting 21st-century Daughter of Our Country would do and altered the recipe. Actually, I pretty much just threw it out.

My hoe cakes resembled traditional pancakes, incorporating a bit of white flour and using baking powder instead of yeast for leavening. And they were really, really good served with a little ham and vegetables.

I promise I’ll try the traditional Washingtonian version some day when I feel braver. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these hoe cakes. If you have a dietary objection to bacon fat you may of course fry them in a little butter instead. The bacon fat was historically appropriate and sinfully tasty, however.

Daughter of Our Country Hoe Cakes

Ingredients:

3/4 cup cornmeal
1/2 cup flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup buttermilk (plus a little more if you need it)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and then cooled for a few minutes
1 egg
bacon fat as needed for frying

Instructions:

In a medium-sized bowl combine the cornmeal, flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda. Whisk until the mixture is integrated and smooth.

In a small bowl (or measuring cup) whisk together the buttermilk, melted butter, and egg.

Make a well in the middle of the dry ingredients, and pour in the buttermilk mixture. Stir just until the mixture is moistened, adding a little more buttermilk if needed to give the batter the consistency of thick pancakes.

In a heavy frying pan or skillet heat a tablespoon or two of bacon fat. When it is good and hot, add the hoe cake batter in little mounds of 2 tablespoons each. Fry for a couple of minutes on each side, adding more bacon fat if needed. Keep finished cakes in a warm oven while you cook their relatives. Make sure the hoe cakes cook through as the batter is thick.

Serve “swimming in butter and honey.” (Actually, they’re not bad on their own.) Makes about 15 hoe cakes.

Sylvia Delight

Jan Weisblat and Nicole Vaget with Sylvia’s Yearbook Photo (Courtesy of Mary Fanelli/Mount Holyoke College French Department)

I recently accompanied my mother to her seventieth reunion at Mount Holyoke College. Watching the parade of alumnae—beginning with the Class of 1934 and ending with the Class of 2009–was inspiring. From the old ladies remembering their youth to the young girls looking ahead to their prime, these women in white exuded confidence, humor, and joy.

Members of the Class of 1939 at their Seventieth Reunion (Courtesy of Elaine Nelson)

The college made a great fuss over the Classes of 1934 and 1939, who enjoyed their moment in the sun. My mother particularly loved the hour or so we spent at the French department open house. There graduating seniors and returning alums mingled with faculty and staff.

At the open house I met up with one of my Mount Holyoke professors, Nicole Vaget, who still radiates passion for French history and culture. While we were chatting with Madame Vaget (even years after graduation it took me a while to call her Nicole) we noticed two signs of my mother’s time at Mount Holyoke on the wall of the French department library.

One was a plaque dedicated to her beloved professor Paul Saintonge. Paul and his wife Connie took my mother to France for the first time the summer after her freshman year in college, introducing her to the country and the language that would be her favorites. She still speaks of him fondly.

Above the plaque was a black-and-white photograph of a young woman wearing pearls. It bore a striking resemblance to my mother’s own yearbook photo from Mount Holyoke. “My goodness,” I said to my mother, “that’s Sylvia.”

“Oh,” said my mother in the closest tone to a gush she could come up with (she is emphatically not a gusher), “MY SYLVIA!”

Sylvia Delight Sherk in 1939 (Courtesy of Mount Holyoke College)

The subject of the photo was indeed her friend Sylvia Delight Sherk Hubble, who died in 1993. Her family established a memorial fund in her honor, and the college remembers her daily with this picture.

My mother made many close friends in college, but Sylvia may have been the closest. She lived up to her middle name and was a delight all her life. The daughter of missionaries (she led missionary children out of Iran at the onset of World War II), Sylvia wasn’t the smartest or the most ambitious of my mother’s friends. She was without a doubt the most lovable. She had a childlike enthusiasm for life that was infectious.

When she and my mother got together they were transformed into young girls. My mother would announce, “And now Sylvia Sherk will give her famous hog call,” or, “And now Sylvia Sherk will stand on her head.” Sylvia would comply, and they would both giggle. They probably didn’t help each other learn a lot of French in college. But they obviously taught each other a lot about friendship.

Sylvia’s marriage to Harry Hubbell, a physicist, made her friends from college a little suspicious. They were won over by Harry’s gentle demeanor and his devotion to Sylvia, however. The pair enjoyed hiking, camping, and skiing together and hated to be apart. On a visit to my parents’ home in the 1980s, I recall, they ended up sleeping in a single cot in the guestroom when issued separate beds. “I got lonely without Sylvia,” Harry explained the next morning.

When I was in graduate school at the University of Tennessee, Sylvia and Harry often invited me to their small house in Oak Ridge. There they enjoyed community and church life, bird watching, and their garden.

Sylvia wasn’t the world’s best cook, but she brought her sense of fun to everything she created in the kitchen. I recall the company more than the food during those visits in which she and Harry served as my Tennessee “parents.” Nevertheless, one item she baked stands out in my memory because of its vivid color.

One spring afternoon Sylvia brought to the table the most garish cake I had ever seen. It had one green layer and one orange layer. She explained that she had created it with a cake mix and two different flavors of gelatin. It tasted better than it looked although it was very, very, very sweet.

Years later, when I was corresponding with nutritionists at Betty Crocker about something the company advertised on television in the 1950s, I obtained the recipe for “Color Vision Cake.” This must have been more or less the formula Sylvia used.

A 1952 Advertisement for Color Vision Cake (Courtesy of Betty Crocker/General Mills)

In her honor I recreated it last week. I decided that the single flavor of gelatin in the recipe was probably enough. I also modified the icing slightly, adding more butter and less sugar than the folks at Betty Crocker suggested. It came out a perfect 1950s pink, not unlike the hue of my grandmother’s appliances and bathroom tiles.

Despite its hint of artificial flavor the cake was a hit, particularly with the young and with those who were young at heart like the delightful Sylvia.

I hope that you eat it with lots of milk and fresh fruit (to cut the sugar)—and that you think of someone you love as my mother loved her Sylvia. That affection is a tribute to the lasting friendships nurtured in places like Mount Holyoke.

Color Vision Cake
Courtesy of Betty Crocker

Ingredients:

for the cake:

1 package (4-serving size) fruit-flavored gelatin (I used raspberry)
1 package white cake mix
1-1/4 cups water
1/3 cup canola oil
3 egg whites

for the frosting:

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
the reserved gelatin
milk as needed
2 to 3 cups confectioner’s sugar

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and lightly flour the bottoms (only) of 2 8- or 9-inch round pans. (The 8-inch pans work a little better.) Measure out 3 tablespoons of the gelatin for the cake; save the remainder for the frosting.

Mix the cake according to the package directions, adding the 3 tablespoons of gelatin. Pour the batter into the prepared pans.

Bake the cakes until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean; this should be 27 to 32 minutes for 8-inch pans and 25 to 28 minutes for 9-inch pans.

Cool the layers in their pans on a rack for 10 minutes. Run a knife around the sides of the pans, and gently remove the cake layers to a wire rack. Cool them completely (about 1 hour).

To make the frosting, melt the butter. Beat in the gelatin, a splash of milk, and enough confectioner’s sugar (and perhaps additional milk) to make it spreadable. Ice the cake. Serves 10.

(Courtesy of Elaine Nelson)

A Sign of Summer

The solstice is just around the corner, and I had one of my first tastes of the forthcoming season the other day. My sister-in-law Leigh returned from the Farmer’s Market with heavenly fresh peas!

I eat frozen peas in the winter with a fair amount of grace, but I think of them as a completely different vegetable. It’s lovely to savor the real thing once again.

Knowing that mint is a traditional accompaniment to peas we whipped up these buttery minted green pearls. Cooking time may vary slightly depending on the freshness of your peas. With luck they will be super fresh and take very little time.

Happy summer……….

Fresh Peas with Mint

Ingredients:

2 cups shelled peas
several mint leaves, plus more if desired for garnish
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper to taste

Instructions:

Place the peas in salted boiling water, and boil for 2 minutes. Drain the peas on ice cubes so they will cool quickly. (Make sure you drain them thoroughly, however!)

Crush the mint leaves a bit (a mortar and pestle do this best, but a fork in a dish will work) to release their oils.

In an 8-inch frying pan melt the butter. Add the drained peas and the salt and pepper, and cook for 2 minute, shaking or GENTLY stirring. Throw in the bruised mint leaves and cook for another minute, again mixing carefully.

Place the peas in a dish and serve. Garnish with fresh mint if you like. Serves 4.

By the way, we have a winner for this month’s book drawing. Anthony Daniel of East Haven, Connecticut, has won the memoir Never Trust a Thin Cook, courtesy of the University of Minnesota Press. Congratulations, Anthony! A new drawing will be announced in July.

Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb!

It’s getting warm in New England so this will be my last rhubarb post for this year. Sigh………

For my grand finale I thought I’d explore the word “rhubarb” as well as the plant.

A friend recently asked me whether rhubarb didn’t have more than one meaning. I did a little research—and was he ever right! When you’ve said rhubarb, you’ve said a mouthful in more ways than one.

Other foods may enjoy one or two definitions beyond their edible ones. A peach is a pretty girl, and something peachy is just swell. We blow a raspberry to show disrespect. And spinach can mean “humbug” as part of the phrase “gammon and spinach” or all by itself, as in the immortal Irving Berlin lyric, “I say it’s spinach and the hell with it!”

Rhubarb, however, has so much personality that its figurative uses almost rival its culinary ones.

First of all, of course, rhubarb is a reddish, stringy plant that originated in China. People either love or hate its strong, tart flavor. (I’m in the love camp, as you may have guessed!)

The genesis of the word “rhubarb” comes from its presence along the banks of the Volga River in Siberia; it is a combination of “Rha” (the Greek word for the Volga) and the word “barbarum,” or barbarian. (Obviously those who named the plant were less than enthusiastic about it. I don’t find it at all barbaric.)

Beyond its meaning as food, rhubarb is a theatrical phrase used by centuries of actors in crowd scenes. In Shakespeare’s day and beyond, extras onstage would intone “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb” to simulate muttering, particularly angry muttering. I like to think that the peasants coming after the monster with torches in the classic film Frankenstein were using the word, although I have no proof of this.

Perhaps because of its slightly harsh syllables rhubarb also connotes a fight, usually a spirited one. In the mid-20th century the word became attached to baseball. It was used most famously by colorful sportscaster Red Barber to describe an altercation on the field—between teams, between players and umpires, or between players and fans. Barber called Ebbets Field, home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, “the rhubarb patch.” Apparently, the Dodgers had a strong, tart flavor.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, rhubarb is sometimes used to mean “nonsense.” (Perhaps Irving Berlin should have written, “I say it’s RHUBARB and the hell with it!”)

The word also describes low-level aircraft strafing in time of war (at least it did during World War II). And it was used centuries ago as an adjective to mean bitter or tart. The OED also lists related words, including “rhubarber,” which refers to an actor milling around in a crowd scene.

If I haven’t provided enough meanings for the word for you, the Keene Sentinel provided several more in a 2000 article titled “The Hidden Life of Rhubarb.”

I asked its author, columnist John Fladd, where he got so many of his rhubarb uses, and he referred me to Eric Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English. Partridge must have been particularly inspired by rhubarb for he found many meanings for the word.

In the 19th century, Patridge wrote, the word was used vulgarly to refer to the genital region as in the expression (previously unfamiliar to me), “How’s your rhubarb coming up, Bill?”

It has also connoted a loan, a bill for payment, an advance on one’s wages and an area in the country (as a synonym for “the Sticks”). I guess I live in the Rhubarbs.

Finally, Fladd (citing Partridge) notes, “There is a Canadian phrase, ‘hitting the rhubarb,’ that means running one’s car off the road—‘You’d better not have another drink, Stanley, or you’ll hit the rhubarb.’”

Before I hit the rhubarb myself, I guess I should tuck a recipe into this post. It comes from my friend and editor at the West County Independent, Virginia Ray.

Ginny says, “I love the sweet/sourness of this crumble, which reminds me of picking rhubarb at my little farm in Pennsylvania, right from the garden, and transforming the bitterness to yummy-ness!”

Miss Ginny’s Rhubarb Crumble

Ingredients:

2 pounds rhubarb (6 cups) cut into one-inch pieces
1/4 cup white or organic sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
3/4 cup flour
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) salted butter
1/2 cup brown sugar

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Place the rhubarb in a buttered Pyrex pie dish (a stainless or ceramic dish may be substituted, but don’t use aluminum as it will react with the rhubarb’s acidity).

Sprinkle on the white/organic sugar and cinnamon. Sift the flour into a bowl. Add the butter and cut it in with knives or a pastry blender (your hands will do in a pinch). Add the brown sugar and mix again until crumbly.

Sprinkle this mixture evenly over the rhubarb, pressing down lightly. Bake for 30 minutes or until golden brown and crisp. Serves 6 to 8. This crumble freezes well.

Readers: remember that you have until Tuesday evening, June 16, to become eligible for the drawing for an advance copy of the book Never Trust a Thin Cook by signing up for an active email subscription to this blog. Here is the link:

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A Riverfest Cocktail

Tomorrow, Saturday, June 13, will be Riverfest in Shelburne Falls, the closest metropolis (if you can call it that) to my home in Hawley, Massachusetts. ).

Sponsored by the Deerfield River Watershed Association along with local businesses and cultural councils, this yearly occasion honors the Deerfield River and its place in the life of those of us who live and work near it. Its frog and flower parade also pays homage to the natural landscape as a whole.

The late artist Judith Russell was an early supporter of the Frog and Flower Parade (image copyright 2004, the Estate of Judith Russell).

For many years now this community celebration has served as the gateway to summer in these parts. June is in full force. The solstice is right around the corner. And hilltown dwellers are rejoicing in eye-popping rhododendrons; extended hours of sunshine; and early produce such as chives, ramps, and lettuce.

I like to celebrate every occasion (including this one) with food and drink. My editor at the local paper, the West County Independent, suggested that lazy summer hours spent in repose by the river called for a cocktail—a rivertini, so to speak. I searched on the internet for “river cocktails” and stumbled upon Cold River Vodka.

This northern Maine company was founded in 2005 by two brothers who grew up in a potato-producing family and were looking for ways to sustain local agriculture and making a living at the same time.

Donnie and Lee Thibodeau and their business partners now oversee the entire process of producing vodka, from planting potatoes to distilling the liquor. In the brief time they have been in business they have won several national awards and were recently cited as one of the “Top 50 Spirits” in Wine Enthusiast.

I instantly fell in love with the creative flair and spirit behind this New England company, which manages to use local resources to create a high-quality product.

I asked Cold River for a cocktail idea and was rewarded with its Cold River Blueberry Cosmopolitan. In blueberry season I intend to try it with fresh blueberry juice. (It would also be fabulous, it seems to me, made with the base for the Rhubarb Soda Pop below.)

In any form, it will start the summer off with a kick. Feel free to vary the proportions according to your taste; I like a higher blueberry to vodka ratio.

Happy Riverfest!

Cold River Wild Blueberry Cosmo

Ingredients:

2 ounces Cold River vodka
1/2 ounce Cointreau
1 ounce chilled blueberry juice (the folks at Cold River suggest Wyman’s)

Instructions:

Combine the ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice, and pour the blue liquid into a glass. Garnish with a cocktail pick skewered with a dried blueberry and a fat orange twist. Serves 1.

Rhubarb Soda Pop

This drink looks particularly yummy in glasses blown by Bob Dane!

I know I’ve been digressing a bit lately—so here is a rhubarb post in which I go straight to the recipe (well, as straight as my brain ever goes).

The rhubarb flavor comes through loud and clear in this refreshing beverage. I tried the rhubarb base with a lemon-lime drink but found that I preferred it with plain soda.

Ingredients:

4 cups chopped rhubarb
enough water JUST to cover the rhubarb
1/2 cup sugar (or sugar to taste; see how you like it this way the first time you make it)
1 cinnamon stick
1 pinch salt
2 teaspoons lemon juice
soda water or seltzer as needed

Instructions:

In a large non-reactive saucepan combine the rhubarb, water, sugar, and cinnamon stick.

Cook the mixture, partially covered, over medium-low heat until the rhubarb is soft, stirring from time to time to keep the water from boiling much.

Turn off the heat and let the rhubarb mixture cool for a few minutes. Strain it through cheesecloth. Discard the rhubarb pulp (or use it to clean your pots!) and add the salt and lemon juice to the liquid. Chill it for at least 2 hours. Serve it diluted with the soda water or seltzer (I use about a 1 to 1 ratio.)

This much rhubarb makes about 24 ounces of rhubarb liquid or 48 ounces of soda pop at that ratio.

Mother Jan and Neighbor Ken raise their glasses to (and of) rhubarb.

Book Drawing!

In Our Grandmothers’ Kitchens is pleased to announce a drawing for an advance reading copy of the book Never Trust a Thin Cook by Eric Dregni, courtesy of the University of Minnesota Press.

Due out in September, the book chronicles the culinary adventures of an American foodie in Modena, the birthplace of balsamic vinegar.

Anyone who has taken out an e-mail subscription to this blog by Tuesday, June 16, is eligible for the drawing. (This includes current subscribers, but it obviously applies to new ones as well so please tell your friends!)

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Baked Hawley

The birthday boy surveys his dessert.

My friend Peter Beck recently asked me to make Baked Alaska for his birthday. I was thrilled.

Like Cherries Jubilee or Bananas Foster, Baked Alaska is a showy dessert associated with “fancy” 20th century restaurants.

I pictured myself whipping it up casually in a little hostess apron, looking like Barbara Stanwyck and throwing my dinner guests into paroxysms of joy.

By the time I was finished putting all the pieces together I was a little too messy (and a little too me) to resemble Miss Stanwyck. My guests were pretty joyful, however.

A Little History

For readers unfamiliar with Baked Alaska, here is a bit of history. Caveat lector: I found this information on the internet. Some of it comes from Dartmouth College, however, which ought to be a reputable source.

Cooks of many nationalities (including the Chinese, who probably invented ice cream, and the cook in Thomas Jefferson’s kitchen) experimented with insulating ice cream with pastry and then baking it.

It was apparently the American-born chemist Benjamin Thompson who originated the exact formula for Baked Alaska in 1804. Fiercely loyal to the British in the Revolutionary War (he spied for them!), Thompson spent the rest of his life in Europe. He was named a count of the Holy Roman Empire by the elector of Bavaria for his social reform work there. Thompson chose the title Count Rumford because of his fondness for the town of Concord, New Hampshire, originally known as Rumford.

Count Rumford is best known for creating the kitchen range (known as the Rumford Range), which revolutionized cooking by giving home and restaurant cooks an alternative to hard-to-control and wasteful open fires.

In 1804 while experimenting with the insulating power of egg whites he invented what we call Baked Alaska (he called it omelette surprise)–cake topped by ice cream and meringue browned in the oven. The name Baked Alaska came later, many say from Chef Charles Ranhofer at Delmonico’s Restaurant in New York in honor of the 1867 purchase of the Alaska territory.

In his cookbook The Epicurean Ranhofer himself called the dish Alaska, Florida to celebrate its juxtaposition of hot and cold. It was first called Baked Alaska in print by my beloved Fannie Farmer.

A Touch of Rhubarb

With rhubarb on my mind these days I decided that Peter’s Baked Alaska would be no ordinary Alaska but a Baked Hawley, featuring one of my hometown’s most copious crops.

I called Gary Schafer and Barbara Fingold, who own Bart’s and Snow’s Ice Cream in Greenfield, Massachusetts. I figured if anyone could tell me how to make rhubarb ice cream it would be they. Their ice cream is always delicious and tastes homemade.

Barbara and Gary suggested that I wait until the very end of the freezing process to add the rhubarb so its liquid didn’t interfere with the consistency of my ice cream.

Of course, you don’t HAVE to use rhubarb ice cream. You don’t even have to use homemade ice cream. Many Baked Alaska recipes ensure super insulation of the ice cream by refreezing it, along with the cake below, for several hours before putting the meringue on top and baking the dish. If you want to try that method, you’ll be better off with commercial ice cream since homemade ice cream is best eaten fresh.

You may also vary this recipe. It can easily be made bigger or given a change of flavors. A brownie base with peppermint stick ice cream could be Baked Noel. Peach ice cream could be Baked Georgia. Apple Cake in autumn could be Baked Back to School (Baked Teacher just doesn’t sound friendly). And so on.

We all loved the rhubarb version, however—and I plan to make it (and the rhubarb ice cream it used) again.

I know this seems like a VERY long recipe. It’s not hard, however; it just has quite a few steps.



The Long But Not Hard Recipe

Ingredients:

for the rhubarb ice cream:

2 cups finely chopped rhubarb
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar (for rhubarb)
1 pinch salt (for rhubarb)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3/4 cup milk
2 egg yolks (save the whites for the meringue!)
1/3 cup sugar (for custard)
3/4 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 pinch salt (for custard)

for the cake:

1/4 cup (1/2 stick) sweet butter at room temperature
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg, separated
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 pinch salt
3/4 cup flour
1/4 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

for the meringue:

2 egg whites
1 pinch cream of tartar
1/4 cup sugar

Instructions:

It’s easiest to begin this recipe the day before you want to make the final product: the rhubarb and ice-cream custard will need time to cool. (So will the cake, although it will need to cool for less time so you may make it a couple of hours before you need it if you like.)

First, make the rhubarb puree. Combine the rhubarb, its sugar, its salt, and the lemon juice in a small non-reactive saucepan. Let them sit for a few hours until the rhubarb juices up.

When it has juiced up, stir the mixture and bring it to a boil. Simmer it, stirring frequently, until the rhubarb is soft, and most (but not all) of the liquid has boiled off. Set it aside to cool; then refrigerate it until you need to add it to the ice cream.

Next, make the ice-cream custard. In a small-to-medium saucepan, heat the milk until it steams but does not boil. Meanwhile, in a separate bowl whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until they thicken and turn a light yellow (about 4 minutes). As noted above, the egg whites should be kept—in the refrigerator—until the next day for the meringue.

Whisk a little of the hot milk into the sweet egg yolks; then whisk a little more. Repeat this process; then whisk the egg yolk mixture into the hot milk. Heat over medium heat, whisking constantly, until the custard begins to thicken but does not boil (about 2 to 3 minutes on my gas stove).

Strain the custard into a heatproof bowl. Cool it to room temperature; then refrigerate it until it is cool (several hours or preferably overnight). Just before making the ice cream, you will whisk in the cream, vanilla, and salt.

The next day (or later that same day) make the cake. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and grease and flour a small cake pan. (I used my 7-inch springform pan.)

Cream the butter, and beat in the sugar until fluffy. Beat in the egg yolk, reserving the white. Stir in the baking powder and salt. Gently add the flour and milk alternately, beginning and ending with the flour.

In a clean bowl with a clean beater, whip the egg white until it forms stiff (but not dry) peaks. Fold it into the cake batter, and gently spoon the batter into the prepared pan. Bake until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. (Using my gas oven and my springform pan this took about 30 minutes, but it may vary.)

Let the cake rest for 10 minutes before removing it from the pan. Let it cool.

About 1/2 hour before you are ready to make the Baked Hawley, preheat the oven to 450 degrees, and get out the custard. Add the cream, vanilla, and salt to the custard, and pour it into a 1-quart electric ice-cream maker. Start the ice-cream maker. Take the egg whites out of the refrigerator so they can come to room temperature.

When the ice cream is done, add the rhubarb puree. Let it mix in for a minute or two more. Try to make your ice cream as hard as you can but still removable from the ice-cream maker.

Rinse a wooden board on both sides with cold water, and shake it dry. Cut out a piece of brown paper (I used a grocery bag) large enough to hold the cake with a bit of extra room. Place it on the wooden board while you prepare the meringue.

Using an electric mixer beat the egg whites and cream of tartar until they begin to stiffen. Slowly add the sugar, and continue beating until the whites form stiff peaks. Set aside for just a minute.

Quickly place most of the ice cream onto the top of the cake (you will have a little extra to eat just as ice cream). Leave at least an inch of cake around the top edge so that the ice cream doesn’t slide down to the sides. If your ice cream is stiff enough try to pile it up in the middle to make an igloo shape. (Mine was more of a pillbox hat!)

Using a spatula spread the meringue on top of and around the ice cream and cake, making sure no cake or ice cream is visible.

Quickly pop the wooden board into the oven, and leave it there just until the meringue browns lightly, for about 4 to 5 minutes. Remove it from the oven, and serve the Baked Hawley at once.

Serves 4 to 6 rhubarb fans.

Tomato Soup Out of Season

In the midst of spring’s bounty it seems ungrateful to complain, but I’m going to anyway. I WANT FRESH TOMATOES! Knowing that they are coming soon just makes me more impatient.

Luckily, my neighbor Alice Parker returned from a trip to Georgia with this warming canned-tomato recipe courtesy of her hostesses down there. Roasting the canned tomatoes gives them a lovely flavor. I didn’t actually quite manage to caramelize mine (they started to burn so I turned the oven off in a hurry), but they were pretty tasty.

Ingredients:

1 32-ounce can whole Italian tomatoes (I only found 28- or 35-ounce cans so I used the latter)
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil (or as needed)
salt and pepper to taste
1 sweet onion, diced (I used a large Vidalia onion)
2 to 4 cloves of garlic, minced
chopped celery and/or carrot to taste (optional; I used 1 stalk celery)
3 cups chicken broth
4 medium bay leaves
2 tablespoons butter (plus more if you like at the very end!)
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil leaves
1/2 cup half and half (Sarah says do not omit this—or the butter!)
grated cheese as needed for garnish (optional)

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Strain the tomatoes, reserving the juice. Using scissors cut the tomatoes into quarters. Spread the tomato chunks on a foil-covered baking sheet. Drizzle them with some of the olive oil, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and roast them until caramelized (20 to 30 minutes).

Sarah notes that every oven is different and suggests that cooks test their own by watching the caramelizing process very carefully the first time. As I noted, I didn’t actually quite get there—but my tomatoes were still yummy.

Meanwhile, in a saucepan large enough to hold all of the soup, warm more olive oil over low to medium heat. Add the onion and garlic, plus the celery and/or carrot if you want them. Cook until the vegetables soften (about 10 minutes). Add the roasted tomatoes, the reserved tomato juice, the chicken broth, the bay leaves, and the butter. Bring to a boil, and simmer, covered, for 15 minutes.

Remove the bay leaves, add the basil, and process the soup in a blender or food processor until smooth. Do this in batches as the soup will be hot!Return the soup to the pan and bring it to a boil. Add the half and half (plus a little more butter if you like), and cook just until the soup heats through. Serve with or without grated cheese. Serves 4 to 6.

Notes from Sarah: DO NOT leave anything out! In fact, as noted above, the butter may be increased for last-minute flavor if your arteries don’t mind.

Don’t worry about the tomato seeds; they have a neat way of disappearing.

This is a super easy and fast recipe. It is best not made in a larger batch than you can eat in a few days.