This year is already off-kilter for me, threatening to spin even more askew. I missed my pork and sauerkraut on New Year’s Day. I also missed making Hoppin’ John, my two good luck charms for the year. I had been traveling on NYE and NYD down to Frederick, MD, to see the mural my sister-in-law Barbra and brother Geoff installed in their backyard.

On NYE, Geoff and I went to the Common Market in Frederick for pre-made crabcakes, which served us well before we watched the Penn State football game. The next day, I left, planning to catch up on a piece of pork and a bag of kraut between Frederick and State College. But I never did.

By the time I got back, I was too tired to shop, and my visitors who had stayed behind, artist Carolyn and her husband Jeff Kerr, from New York City, were interested but not excited about my quirky Eastern European/Pennsylvania Dutchie/Southern traditions with porcine punch. They would have partaken, but it’s not their thing. They are easy; they had Carolyn’s homemade granola that night, and I had cheese and crackers once I realized I had missed dinner.

But now, the missing sauerkraut is all I can think about.

Sauerkraut is not a mainstay of my diet, but I do enjoy it every January 1^st with Hoppin’ John on the side, cornbread, and mashed potatoes. But maybe it was better to delay the tradition until I get back to Wyoming next week because I saw a post on the Foodies of State College Facebook page where someone was longing for Herwig’s sauerkraut and Bernd Brandstatter generously shared his recipe. The Austrian restaurant in State College that closed in 2018 has many bereft former customers yodeling in the alley like Brandy used to do, who sorely miss their down-home specialties.

Here's the recipe from Bernd. It’s cryptic, but there is enough information to recreate their signature dish. Do not fear saturated fats and remember Herwig’s motto: “where bacon is an herb.”

Bernd Brandstatter’s Recipe for Herwig’s Sauerkraut

Shared on the Facebook site “Foodies of State College”

Pork cracklings in a pot, sweat down onions and garlic. Deglaze with beer (I like pilsners, but any lager will do)

Add juniper berries, bay leaf, granulated garlic, s/p, and caraway seeds

Add well-washed kraut (should not taste sour)

Add pork/beef or chicken stock or veg

Cook for the next couple of hours. Once it gets a lovely golden color, add in a cooked roux (we used bacon fat and flour) just enough to make it creamy.

This original article ran in the Centre Daily Times in 2003 when I was working in the Foods Lab at Penn State. I was always in my office before the semester started, preparing the manual and organizing the lab for the incoming students.

This time of year, it is quiet in Henderson Building, located in the heart of the Penn State campus. The classrooms are dark, and many of the offices are at least dim. But there are some signs of life—like the smell of sauerkraut at lunchtime.

It seems many folks brought in leftovers last week from their New Year’s Day feast of pork and sauerkraut, the meal that ensures luck in the coming year. And those of us who enjoy the tradition help guarantee good health thanks to the many nutritional benefits of this time-honored food.

The word sauerkraut derives from the German term for “sour cabbage.” Its first recorded use dates back to the 7^th century BCE, when Chinese laborers were fed a cabbage dish similar to today’s ‘kraut to maintain their strength while building the Great Wall of China. This Chinese sauerkraut, made by combining shredded cabbage and rice wine, traveled via the Tartars and their emperor Genghis Khan to Eastern Europe and eventually to Germany, Alsace-Lorraine, France, and the Celtic provinces.

The ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans were all big cabbage enthusiasts. Circa 200 BCE, the Roman statesman Cato advised anyone planning to “drink deep” at a banquet to fortify first with cabbage seasoned with vinegar. Egyptians cautioned to start a meal with raw cabbage and cabbage seeds to maintain sobriety. The standard hangover cure for the ancient world was to eat more cabbage. No surprise in this day and age that the one meal of the year where sauerkraut dominates comes after the one officially sanctioned night of revelry—New Year’s Eve.

But sauerkraut need not be limited to occasions of excess. One of the valuable cruciferous vegetables that supply protection in the form of phytochemicals called indoles that inhibit cancerous tumors of the breast, stomach, and colon, sauerkraut can be included in the diet frequently, as long as you are not on a sodium-restricted diet. Nutritionally speaking, it is fat-free and a good source of Vitamin C, iron, and potassium. Because cabbage is 93% water, a cup of sauerkraut contains only 32 calories. Rinsing the sauerkraut in water greatly reduces the sodium content.

Though today we can buy cabbage year-round at the grocery store, it was not always the case. Ways to preserve the vegetable that did not rely on modern methods of refrigeration and transportation included salting and pickling. Dry-salting is the method used to cure cabbage, Brassica oleracea capitata, and turn it into piquant sauerkraut.

Curing or preserving with salt is not limited to vegetables. Small herring that run in the spring and summer are cured with salt to make anchovies. With either fish or cabbage, thin pieces of the food are layered with salt to draw out their juices. In the case of cabbage, the juices rendered from the leaves form a brine that prevents spoilage, while benign microorganisms thrive. Bacteria convert the plant sugar into lactic acid, which adds a tasty, astringent flavor. This miracle of fermentation must be carefully monitored and done in a controlled temperature environment of about 65-70° F. Lower temperatures inhibit the fermentation, and higher temperatures cause the process to go out of control.

In the process of making sauerkraut, finely shredded cabbage is layered with Kosher salt (because it is pure,) in the proportion of 2 teaspoons of salt to one pound of cabbage. The cabbage must stay submerged in the brine, so a weight is placed on top to keep it from floating. As fermentation develops, carbon dioxide appears on the surface as bubbles that need to be skimmed daily for about three weeks. When this frothing has stopped, the sauerkraut can be refrigerated to keep for 6 to 9 months or can be heated and hot processed for longer storage. A recipe for making sauerkraut is the last recipe in the tenth edition of “Joy of Cooking.”

Or here is an easy one to make a small batch yourself. It’s not too late to climb onto the Good-Luck-in-the-New-Year bandwagon!

This amount makes about 2 cups of sauerkraut that should ferment for a couple of weeks at a cool temperature, about 55 degrees. Higher temperatures will cause the fermentation to go more quickly.

A Small and Quick Batch of Sauerkraut

1 pound cabbage, shredded or chopped ( 4 cups, one-quarter of a medium-sized head of cabbage)

1 carrot, cut into slivers or grated

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 teaspoons sea salt

1/4 teaspoon of caraway seed, hot pepper flakes, peppercorns, or other seasonings of your choice

One clean quart-sized Mason jar with a wide mouth

A plastic lid will weigh down the vegetables so they stay submerged in their own liquid and no air can get in. A small plastic bag filled with water works well and fills every crevice of the jar.

Slice the cabbage into fine shreds and prepare the carrots and garlic. Toss all the vegetables in a large bowl and sprinkle on the salt. Vigorously massage the salt into the vegetables. This bruising of the vegetables allows the salt to penetrate the cells and draw out the water which permits the fermentation to begin. Bacteria in the air, on the cabbage and on your clean hands initiate the microbial transformation.

Pack the kraut into the clean jar pressing firmly. You will have about 2 cups, with a layer of liquid on top. The vegetables must stay under the liquid, so fasten a plastic lid that keeps them submerged or fill a plastic bag with water (or brine if your bag may leak) and put a loose-fitting lid on the top. Place somewhere cool for three weeks until the kraut is fully fermented. Refrigerate to stop the action and enjoy as a healthy condiment.

And here is a very easy sauerkraut casserole dish that is sweet and sour and delicious.

Candied Sauerkraut with Bacon and Tomatoes

Makes about 8 cups

1 can (27 ounces) sauerkraut

1 can (28 ounces) chopped tomatoes

1 cup dark brown sugar

8 slices uncooked bacon, diced

Preheat the oven to 325° F. Combine all the ingredients in a large bowl and toss together to combine. Place into an ungreased 3-quart shallow glass or ceramic baking dish (so that the liquids can evaporate out during cooking) and bake uncovered for 2 to 2 and a half hours until the top is browned and the sauerkraut is translucent.

Salad to the rescue!

Most of this post originally ran in the Centre Daily Times in 2015. It’s time to revisit!

There’s no need to stop celebrating, even though Christmas is over. Chanukah is still in full swing, and it’s only day two of the Twelve Days of Christmas, with more socializing on the horizon. Kwanzaa is starting today, a week-long observance of Black heritage, unity and culture. In Ireland, December 26^th is Wren Day, with ties to the Druids who used the birds to predict the coming year. In ancient Rome, the feast of Saturnalia was observed around these dark December days, and gifts of candles were given to provide more light.

December 26^th is known as Boxing Day in the United Kingdom and its affiliates worldwide. Though now primarily a shopping holiday similar to our Black Friday complete with sporting events to entertain stay-at-homes, the holiday was initially observed by “boxing up” seasonal gifts for the poor.

Caring for servants and others less fortunate on the day after Christmas has a long history. The timely carol “Good King Wenceslas” relates to St. Stephen’s Day, December 26^th, and tells the story of the King Wenceslas of Bohemia, who ruled from 924 to 929. Though his reign and his life were short (the good king died when he was 23), his rule was beneficent and earned him enough respect to become the patron saint of Czechoslovakia.

Times were tough in the century preceding the first millennium. There was an ongoing power struggle between the Christians, like his father Ratislav, and the pagans, which included his mother, Drahomira, who secretly maintained her heathenism. Wenceslas was raised primarily by his paternal grandmother, Ludmila, who imparted the Christian faith to the observant boy, who enjoyed outdoor activities and helping with the harvest. The king sired some daughters and another son, Boleslav, with the queen biding her time.

When Wenceslas was thirteen, Ratislav died in battle, and Drahomira ascended to the throne and reverted to her pagan ways. She persecuted Christian priests and proved a most ungrateful daughter-in-law. She had babička Ludmila strangled in her castle in 921. Though Drahomira tried to get Wenceslas to forget about Christianity, the teenager was devoted to his religion. He participated secretly in Christian services and found that the Christian nobles were eager for him to seize the throne from his mother. When he was 18, they made their move and dethroned and exiled Drahomira—though he eventually allowed her to return.

Wenceslas reinstated Christianity and dedicated himself to helping the needy, who he clothed and sheltered. His acts of charity were renowned and even miraculous. A peace activist, he swore fealty to the king of Germany to avoid a conflict, which enraged his nobles, who felt Bohemia should remain sovereign. Meanwhile, the pagan underground, headed by his brother Boleslav, was secretly plotting his demise, which they achieved in 929, on the steps of a chapel.

Today we still sing of the generosity of Wenceslas on this feast of St Stephen, the first Christian martyr, a sad story of another time. But for now, Happy Holidays—whichever you choose to celebrate!

Good King Wenceslas : Lyrics

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath'ring winter fuel

"Hither, page, and stand by me
If thou know'st it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives a good league hence
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear him thither."
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather

"Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, my good page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing

The day after Christmas, and Chanukah, is a fine time to make a big beautiful salad to share. Take a break from the endless snacking on cookies and rich appetizers and rejuvenate with whatever you have on hand to build a special cleansing salad supper.

Boxing Day Rejuvenation Salad

I just made this salad for dinner and I made a lot of substitutions that I will put in italics. The point is that a salad is a great way to use up lots of bits of fruits and veggies that you have on hand—so you can reap the benefits of the rainbow of phytonutrients.

Serves 6-8

Dressing:

1/4 cup pomegranate or cranberry juice I used apple juice

1/4 cup dried cranberries

1/4 cup raspberry vinegar (or Tait Farm Raspberry Shrub) I used Cherry Balsamic vinegar from Michigan—because that is what I had on hand

1 medium shallot, peeled and chopped

1 small garlic clove, peeled and chopped

2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves I used lots of fresh tarragon

2 teaspoons Dijon mustard

1/2 teaspoon each of salt and freshly ground black pepper

3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1/4 cup of pomegranate or cranberry juice or water (to thin the dressing, if needed) I used about a tablespoon of water at the end

Salad:

8 ounces of arugula, frisee, or watercress, washed and torn into bite-sized pieces

8 ounces red leaf lettuce or Romaine, washed and torn into bite-sized pieces

8 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, cut into 1/2-inch cubes I used a few tablespoons of crumbled blue cheese

1 tart apple, cored and sliced thin I used all the fruit I had on hand—raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries, and kiwi

Spiced Pecans (recipe follows)

One small red onion, sliced thin I opted for no raw onion in the salad since the dressing had shallot and garlic

1/4 cup of dried cranberries I used half an avocado and some slivers of yellow pepper

2 cups leftover turkey, ham, roast beef, salmon, or roasted vegetables I used roasted beets

1/2 cup fresh pomegranate seeds

For the dressing: Combine the pomegranate or cranberry juice and dried cranberries in a microwave-safe bowl, top with a plate, and microwave on high power until hot, about 1 minute. Process the hot cranberry mixture, vinegar, shallot, garlic, thyme, mustard, salt, and pepper in a blender until the shallot and garlic are finely chopped, about 15 seconds. With the blender running, add the oil and continue to process until smooth and emulsified, about 15 seconds. Add the additional juice or water to thin the dressing and blend.

For the salad: Toss the greens, cheddar, apple, pecans, onion, and dried cranberries with 3/4 cup of the vinaigrette. Divide the salad among individual plates and top with the pomegranate seeds. Spoon the remaining vinaigrette over the salad or pass on the side. Serve immediately. I kept most of the dressing on the side and just drizzled some on the salad

Sweet and Spicy Pecans

Makes about 1 cup

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

1/8 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon ground black pepper

1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Pinch of ground cloves

Pinch of teaspoon ground allspice

1 cup pecan halves

1 teaspoon sugar

Melt the butter in a 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium-low heat. Stir in the salt, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, and allspice, then stir in the pecans. Toast the nuts, stirring often, until the color of the nuts deepens slightly, 6 to 8 minutes. Transfer to a bowl, toss with the sugar, and cool. I think it is easier to toast the pecans in the oven with the butter and spices and then add the sugar when you take them out.

Between the black macadam of the Panorama Village elementary school hopscotch court and the backyard of a Villa Crest ranch house is a 25 by 50-foot garden plot that provides a portal to the world of farming. The watchkeeper and careful tender of the garden is Betty Jane Mincemoyer, 82, who lives in the house. A gently curving brick path edged with blooming perennials leads from her back door to the edge of the school property.

“We haven’t planted the garden yet this year; it’s been too cold,” explained Mincemoyer.  “What is growing here is rye that we planted at the end of last season.  Once it warms up and dries out, we’ll mow it and rototill it into the soil to act as green manure, a natural fertilizer.” 

Since they moved from a farm in Mifflinburg to the house in 1999, Mincemoyer has been working the garden plot with successive classes of children. Each March, she goes into the classroom and gives an introductory presentation on the uses and forms of plants—seed, leaf, bulb, and root.  She plants seeds with the children, using recycled plastic takeout food containers to create individual greenhouses. She discusses the growing medium, the water and warmth the seeds need, and the importance of light. 

She doesn’t just show the seed packets, she teaches them how to read the back of the packet and open them carefully from the bottom, so they don’t tear off the name of the seeds. She shows them how to place the tiny seeds on top of the soil and push the larger ones in with the tip of a pencil.  She shows them how to wash their hands and clean up after themselves.  Each day, when she walks her granddaughter to school, she checks on the seedlings to ensure that they are moist and that the students turn them so they grow straight and tall.

Such nurturance comes naturally to Mincemoyer.  She taught Family and Consumer Science at the Mifflinburg high school for 23 years, commencing her career at age 43, once her two children, Beth and Tom, were nearly finished elementary school.  Both she and her husband, Don, are from farming families. He taught agricultural education in Mifflinburg before moving to a position at Penn State in the same field.

Agricultural extension is a way of life in the household. Daughter Beth Egan and daughter-in-law Claudia Mincemoyer hold the Boalsburg 4H meetings in the large family room that the Mincemoyers added to the house soon after they moved in. A closet in the room holds props for teaching, including posters, a globe, and fabric for sewing projects.

This year’s unpredictable spring weather has postponed planting, but Mincemoyer is not worried.  “It’s better to plant the garden late anyway.  The children use that outdoor area daily, and balls often land in the garden on the seedlings.  It’s better if we get it in late.  By then, the local bunnies will have plenty to eat, and the insects won’t do as much damage.”

Mincemoyer tends the garden during the summer, harvesting the bounty of cucumbers, beans, carrots, broccoli, kohlrabi, zucchini, peppers, and eggplant and sharing it with neighbors and anyone who happens to be walking by at the moment.  She is masterful at presentation, too; no bag of clay-caked veggies here, but washed and polished produce, arranged lovingly.

Labor Day finds the marigold and zinnia-lined garden at peak production, and the next generation of kindergarten students reaps the benefits planted by the previous class.  “They’re really surprised how things grow,” said Mincemoyer, smiling at the detachment many children have today from real food.  “I want to expose them to fresh vegetables and let them try it.  We plant peanuts, and then in the fall, we harvest them and roast them.  We plant mini pumpkins, and the kids decorate them.  We’re busy in the fall, digging up potatoes and tasting the difference in fresh food from the garden.”

In the spring, the class plants for the next year, perpetuating the garden's continuity and the soil's sanctity, thanks to the dedication of a community volunteer and neighborhood gardening angel. 

One of Bj’s recipes for her deep red rhubarb.

Rhubarb Crisp

4 cups diced rhubarb

1/2 cup brown sugar

1/3 cup flour

1/3 cup quick-cooking oats

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

3 tablespoons butter

Preheat oven to 350° F.  Place rhubarb in an 8-inch square pan.  Combine remaining ingredients and cut in butter until the mixture is crumbly.  Sprinkle over fruit.  Bake

for 30 minutes.

This post is adapted from a column in the Centre Daily Times in 2000. Dandelion season is just about over here in Centre County, though tender leaves can still be found around the perimeter of the mown lawns. But I was very pleased to hear from our daughter Rose that she and baby Iris recently gathered dandelion leaves on a hike in Alpine, Wyoming, and revived our annual tradition. That warmed my heart.

Spring rituals don’t have to be as formal and as much effort as a Passover Seder or an Easter dinner.  Each year, my friend Natalie Thorington and I meet for a meal, and we gather with our daughters.  Natalie and Natasha pick all the dandelions in their yard, and Rose and I pluck all that we can from our yard, wash them, dry them, and toss them with a hot bacon dressing that wilts them slightly.  We garnish the salad with slices of hard-boiled egg and scatter chopped chives and violet blossoms on the top.  Then, we feast on our deck, usually the first outdoor dinner of the season.  It’s a ritual we’ve been doing for years and may be the only time we see each other in months, but the anticipation of it and the happy memory stays with us the whole year.

Those insistent little tufts of wild chives (Allium schoenoprasum) and delicate crowns of tender dandelion leaves (Taraxacum officinale) on our lawns in April are a sure indication of spring. Now is the time to snip the chives into scrambled eggs or salads and use the young dandelion plant in various ways before the roaring legions of neighborhood lawn attendants mow them into anonymity.

Bane of well-groomed lawn-lovers, dandelion is one of nature’s most nutritious spring heralds. It has been eaten for centuries to supply much-needed vitamins to people who subsisted on a diet of meats or beans and dried or salted foods.  As welcome as a fragrant spring breeze, dandelions give the body a powerhouse of vitamins and minerals.  Cooked dandelion greens, in a one-cup or 105-gram portion, provide enormous amounts of vitamin A and substantial amounts of vitamin C.  Also rich in B vitamins and calcium, dandelions are low in calories—about 35 for a cup of cooked vegetable and 25 calories before the dressing for raw.

To use the dandelion for salad, choose tender young leaves from plants that have not bloomed yet.  Once they bloom, they are tougher and not as good for eating.  Dandelions bloom early, so there is some urgency for those who like to take advantage of this eager and innocuous plant.

The first sign of dandelion’s emergence is a reddish tangle of leaves at the top of a very steadfast perennial root.  The roots can be peeled, cooked, and eaten as a vegetable like parsnips, or roasted in a low oven for four hours until they break with a snap.  Ground dandelion roots are a coffee substitute and can be enjoyed as you would your coffee, with or without a sweetener and cream.

On the top of the dandelion root is a crown of whitish leaf stems that reaches the surface.  This tender crown can be eaten raw in a salad or cooked like a vegetable.  The jagged leaves that give the plant its name, “dent de lion,” from the French “tooth of the lion,” are shiny and smooth.  The part that develops into the blossom is found inside the crown as a tightly packed, yellowish mass of embryonic bloom. It can be lightly cooked and seasoned and enjoyed as a vegetable reminiscent of artichokes.  Once the flower blooms, salad days are over, though some folks like to collect the blossoms to make into wine.  The puffy seed masses are not edible but are highly esteemed by children who like to make wishes on them and then see if they can blow them all off.

BIG WARNING:  Do not gather dandelions or any other wild plant to consume from lawns or areas that are or may have been treated with herbicides/pesticides.  Don’t spray those friendly weeds—eat them for a spring tonic. Also, be wary of gathering dandelion leaves in lawns that pets frequent, and you can guess the reason.

Dandelion Salad  

Serves 4

4 quarts dandelion greens

4 strips bacon

1/3 cup sugar

2 tablespoons flour

1 teaspoon salt

½ cup apple cider vinegar

1 ½ cups water

1 egg, beaten

3 hard-boiled eggs, sliced

Violets for garnish

Wash, dry, and cut up tender dandelion greens.  Cook bacon over medium-low heat until crisp.  Remove bacon from the pan, crumble, and reserve.  In a medium bowl, combine sugar, flour, and salt. In liquid measure, combine vinegar, water, and beaten egg.  Pour liquids into dry ingredients and mix until smooth.  Pour this mixture into the bacon drippings and heat, whisking constantly until the mixture thickens.  Pour warm dressing over the dandelion greens and top with crumbled bacon and hard-boiled egg slices.  Toss lightly and serve immediately, garnished with violets if desired.

Note: This recipe makes a lot of dressing. Depending on how many leaves you gather, you may only need to use half of it. But save it and heat it for another round of salad when you find more, or serve it as a spinach salad dressing.

Update!

If dandelions are not available—or you don’t want to bend down to gather them—chicory makes a great substitute. I purchased some from Mike Arthur of Tamarack Farm at last week’s Boalsburg Farmers Market, and today, I’ll go back for more because the dressing made enough for three salads.

As a food writer with a seasonal focus, I am struggling here in Wyoming in April. There are no seasonal foods yet in Alpine; there are no daffodils, crocuses, or flowering trees. It’s still snowing. This afternoon I watched the eclipse as robins skirted the edge of the snow melt, close to the the daffodil buds still tightly wrapped.  I sip my chai and wait.

The following article appeared in the Centre Daily Times in 2006 and covered a Slow Food Central Pa event that took place in the Foods Lab on campus where I worked. It’s still the recipe that I use, though now I use decaf black tea. I make a full batch and keep it in the refrigerator to warm up.

"This is the distinctive smell I wake up to every morning in India," said Anar Pitre, as she sniffed the ginger, cloves, cinnamon, and cardamom simmering in a deep pot. “My parents start their day with chai routinely, and so every morning we have a chai brewing pot and whole milk warming pot on the stove by 7 am.” Though far from Pune, a three-mile drive from Mumbai, Pitre brings a bit of India to her kitchen in State College when she brews her own.

“Each household has their own spice blend, called masala, that is distinctive, yet similar.  The spices also change with the time of year-- lemongrass is used when people start coughing in winter since a ginger-lemongrass combo has a soothing effect on the throat. It is a great herbal remedy.”

Chai is hot these days and making it from scratch is not difficult.  Simmer whole spices like cinnamon, clove, ginger, and cardamom in hot water for a few minutes, and then add milk and a sweetener. Add the tea to the simmering mix and remove from the heat to steep. The combination of spices can include lemongrass, whole peppercorns, star anise, nutmeg—Pitre sometimes adds a sprig of rosemary to her pot.  Chai is infinitely adaptable.

The word chai derives from the simple Chinese word “chà,” the word for tea and pronounced “chah”.  The word chà endures in many nations, including eastern and central Europe; central, south, and southwest Asia; and northern and eastern Africa, where it means tea with milk. 

Tea is the world’s oldest hot beverage, drunk by more people than anything else. A cup of coffee charges you up; a cup of tea comforts you.  A cup of chai means you are taking that comfort to the luxury level by creating your own signature masala and spending a few minutes steeping, brewing, and straining. Though there are increasingly more chai mixes, concentrates, and powders available in the hot beverage aisle and at coffee shops, there is no substitute for brewing your own version.

Chai ingredients deconstructed:

Tea—you can use loose black tea or tea bags.  Green tea is very astringent, so it is best avoided unless you are seeking a special effect.  Tea contains powerful antioxidants that are beneficial to the body.

Ginger—use fresh ginger root to strengthen the digestive and respiratory systems; relieves congestion, soothes sore throats, and prevents motion sickness

Whole cloves—invigorating and restorative; helps colds and flu

Cinnamon sticks—soothes nausea and flatulence

Peppercorns—heat! Adding whole peppercorns will provide an internal warmth

Cardamom—stimulates the mind; considered an aphrodisiac

Lemon Grass—good for colds

Nutmeg—in small amounts, adds rich flavor, aids digestion; large amounts can be toxic

Sweetener—brown sugar, white sugar, honey or your preferred sweetener

Milk—this is one instance where whole milk is beneficial because the fat in the milk provides a smoother vehicle for delivering the many flavors of the spices, but choose your favorite fat level of fresh milk or non-dairy milk.

Chai—Indian Spiced Tea

Choose a few spices from the list above; tasty combinations are ginger, cloves, cinnamon, cardamom or ginger, lemongrass, and clove. Experiment until you find the chai masala that pleases you the most.

Makes three 12-ounce servings

3 cups water

2 slices of fresh ginger root

2 sticks of cinnamon

8 whole cardamom pods, crushed

8 whole cloves

1½  cups whole milk

1-2 tablespoons raw sugar or honey

2 tablespoons loose black tea or three teabags

Put the water into a saucepan.  Add the ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves, and bring to a boil.  Cover, turn the heat to low, and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the milk and sugar or honey and bring back to a simmer. Add the tea, cover, and remove from the heat. After two or three minutes strain the chai into a teapot or heat-proof container and serve.

Spring is here officially but the usual harbinger I’m used to in Pennsylvania is weeks—maybe months— away in Wyoming. Asparagus is not likely to sprout up through the snowbanks here in Alpine. Luckily there’s California asparagus available in the grocery stores now, which keeps me mindful of the season while I throw another log on the fire.

Asparagus officinalis is a member of the lily family, the Liliaceae, which also includes onions and leeks.  It is an interesting plant because it does not have leaves similar to other plants but photosynthetic branches, or phylloclade, that grow in clusters near the top of the stem.  If the stem is unpicked, the phylloclade develop into little branchlets that sprout feathery ferns.

Asparagus originated on the coast of the Mediterranean and the riverbanks of southern Europe, the Crimea, and Siberia.  It has been cultivated since ancient times by the Greeks and Romans and was so much a part of the Roman culture that Emperor Caesar Augustus coaxed his men to hasten, using the metaphor “enough time as it takes to cook asparagus” to inspire speed.

Asparagus devotees often form opposing camps on several key issues:  white or green, fat or thin.  The white asparagus camp has roots in a European preference for an ivory shoot with a faintly earthy texture accomplished by mounding the earth over the growing spears and blocking out the sun’s rays. White asparagus tends to be thicker, and the skin must be peeled before cooking.  The flavor is sweet and subtle and enthusiastically enjoyed by southern Germans, especially at their Spargelfests (asparagus festivals), which feature the vegetable on special asparagus-studded menus.

Another issue, fat or thin, has historically been a cause for debate.  Asparagus cultivated by the Romans near Ravenna in Italy grew so fat that one spear weighed nearly three-fourths of a pound.  Wild asparagus was much thinner and held in high esteem by Pliny the Elder who lamented in 77AD that “Nature ordained that asparagus should grow wild so that everyone may pick it, and now they are farming it!”  Also, about that time, chariots and runners rushed asparagus to the snowline of the Alps so it could be frozen for the Feast of Epicurus six months later, in an early effort that used freezing to extend the highly-esteemed vegetable’s season.  Truly, the matter is no more than a taste preference, since those pencil-thin stems are not an indicator of youth. Stems that are medium-sized or thick are more succulent and juicier than their thin counterparts.  A snazz factor can be added to thick asparagus by peeling the outer skin from the lower half of the stem, though at a loss of some beneficial fiber.

Since you have read this much, I assume you are a true asparagus aficionado and I can safely broach a third delicate issue.  You may have noticed that asparagus acts as a diuretic and has a lingering olfactory effect on the elimination process that is evident even 15 minutes after eating the vegetable.  In the plainer language of French physician Dr. Louis Lemery, in 1702, “They cause a filthy and disagreeable Smell in the Urine, as every Body knows.” Odorous methyl mercaptan is the culprit, though only 22% of the population can detect the sulfurous compounds.

The following recipe is based on one I received from my friend Moira Weldon who clipped it from the Washington Post in 1992.  I have doubled the amount of asparagus from the original recipe and I add it to the pasta in the last few minutes of cooking, much longer here in Alpine, WY than at sea level. It has been a mainstay of asparagus appreciation in our household ever since.

Penne with Asparagus and Walnut Sauce

Serves 6

2 teaspoons salt

1-pound penne

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

6 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

4 garlic cloves, chopped

2 pounds asparagus, cut into one-inch1/2 segments, tips reserved

½ cup of chopped parsley

¼ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

Freshly ground pepper, to taste

½ cup grated Parmesan cheese

Bring five quarts of water to a boil in a deep pot and add the salt and the penne.  Stir to separate the pasta.  Boil according to package directions.  While the pasta is cooking, heat a sauté pan and dry toast the walnuts slightly.  Remove to a pasta bowl when golden brown and fragrant.  Add the olive oil and butter to the saute pan and heat.  Add the garlic and cook briefly.  When the pasta is still not fully cooked, three minutes before the end of its recommended cooking time, add the cut asparagus stems and cook for 2 minutes.  Add the tips and cook for another minute.  Put the parsley and the crushed red pepper into the pasta bowl with the nuts.  Drain the pasta and asparagus and place it in the pasta bowl on top of the walnuts, parsley, and pepper flakes.  Add the garlic mixture, the freshly ground pepper, and the Parmesan cheese.  Toss well to combine.  If desired, serve with additional grated Parmesan.  This dish is good both hot and at room temperature.

Blistered Tomato Bruschetta

Tomato season is not for many months but this simple little dish fills in well. The recipe comes from the Center for Science in the Public Interest’s 2024 Good Foods calendar. If you don’t know the Nutrition Action magazine and you care about good food, your health, and the environment, check their website. There are no ads so the articles are unbiased and cover the latest health research.

1-pint cherry tomatoes

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

¼ teaspoon kosher salt

Pinch of red pepper flakes

Whole grain toast for serving

Rinse and dry the cherry tomatoes. Heat the olive oil in a saute pan over medium-high heat and add the tomatoes. Shake the pan now and then and cook until the tomatoes blister and burst, about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from the heat, add the garlic, salt, and pepper flakes, and mash up the tomatoes with a fork. Serve over toast.

Portions of this column ran previously in the State College Centre Daily Times in 2000. Asparagus is timeless!

All eyes turn this weekend toward the Emerald Isle, toward a blaze first ignited on the Hill of Slane. St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, lit his Paschal Fire there not long after he arrived in 432 AD and challenged High King Laoghaire in his stronghold at Tara.  Persuasive, Patrick is generally credited with converting the entire island, and one of his early converts was the Druid king’s own daughter.

Born Maewyn Succat in Scotland in 387 AD, Patrick was taken captive at 16 by Irish marauders and enslaved in Ireland for 6 years as a shepherd.  A dream encouraged him to walk 200 miles to the sea and escape to Britain then on to a monastery in France where he studied the newly evolving Christianity that promised a gentler life than the warring indigenous tribes knew. Another dream directed him to go back to Ireland and save souls, which he did through his renowned eloquence and familiarity with Irish customs.

But I think something else was at play.  I think he missed the food and the Irish people.  Ireland is a vibrant nation today, with modern cities and a thriving tech industry, but when you get off into the country, life goes on at pretty much the same rhythm that has been beating for millennia.  There are the cows and rich milk from the greenest grass on earth.  There are oysters, mussels, lobsters, and delicate cockles for gathering on all the coasts; rivers filled with salmon and trout. There are sheep, stopping cars on the road and in no hurry to move along.  Bees busy making honey, chickens laying fertile eggs—and hospitable people more eager to spend time talking and laughing than making sure their stone fences are pointed.

Our celebrations in this country are much more raucous than what transpires on the Old Sod, where folks go to church, there are some parades, and it is a school holiday.  Here menus feature corned beef and cabbage, an entirely North American invention, and green beer. Foods that are more commonly enjoyed in Ireland are smoked salmon, Galway oysters, potatoes in any and every fashion, and some rich farmstead cheeses.  One ubiquitous component to the Irish table, though, is soda bread, a simple loaf made with buttermilk or sour milk and baking soda.

Fancy versions of soda bread include raisins or currants and sometimes caraway seeds, but the brown bread found on most tables is a simpler sort, wheaty and dense, and the perfect foil for some rich cheese Irish cheese.

Many years ago we held a Slow Food Central PA Soda Bread workshop in the Foods Lab at Penn State where I taught. Joann Dornich provided her recipe and expertise and I demonstrated the process. We shared some stories, tea, and cheese and a dozen people went home with their own loaf. Make some soda bread and make people happy this St. Patrick’s Day. It’s a fine fine holiday.

Joann Dornich’s Irish Soda Bread

This recipe is from her mother’s mother, Grandma Bridget, and is a flavorful, rich loaf made more enticing with currants and caraway seeds.

Makes 1 round loaf

3 cups sifted flour (use half whole wheat and half white for a heartier loaf)

3 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

1 cup currants or raisins

1 1/3 cup buttermilk

2 teaspoons caraway seeds

Glaze:

2 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons hot water

Preheat oven to 375°. Mix the flour, three tablespoons of sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium-sized bowl with a whisk.  Mix in currants and caraway seeds.  Add buttermilk and mix until well blended (dough will be sticky.) 

Turn out onto a lightly floured board and knead about 10 times.  Shape into an 8-inch round loaf.  Place on a greased (or sprayed or parchment-lined) baking sheet.  Cut a cross (+) into the top of the loaf with a sharp knife.  (Note:  Joann cuts this really deeply, about a third of the way into the dough.)

Bake at 375° for 45 minutes.  Dissolve the sugar for the glaze in the hot water in a cup and brush generously over the hot loaf.  Bake ten minutes longer until richly golden brown.

Tip

Instead of using a sugar-water glaze on the top of the bread at the end, you can soak the currants or raisins in about 1/3 cup of hot water while you prepare the dry ingredients.  When ready to add the fruit to the dough, drain and reserve the liquid and use for the final glaze to impart an even deeper, richer color to the finished loaf.

Portions of an early version of this article first appeared in the Centre Daily Times in 2004.

Salt is essential to our appreciation of seasoning, but pepper is what awakens our taste buds and adds depth of perception.  Pepper is yin to salt’s yang, and the two provide balance through their complementary qualities.

Known as the “King of Spices” or the “master spice,” pepper has been used in Western culture for millennia, with documented references that date to 500 BC.  Its use in the Far East precedes that time since pepper is indigenous there. From a commercial point of view, pepper is premier, accounting for one-fourth of the world’s spice commerce.  This distinction has been maintained throughout recorded time.  In the fifteenth century, the tiny orbs changed the course of history and led to the expansion of the New World. Columbus sought sea routes to the East to find a speedier way to get those esteemed and valuable spices to the European tables that could afford them. 

Piper nigrum is a perennial vine that is native to the equatorial forests of India, the world’s foremost producer, and cultivated in Indonesia, Malaysia, and Brazil.  The plant takes eight years to reach maturity and can produce berry clusters for up to 20 years.  The berries ripen at different times on the vine, depending on the relation to the sun, so harvesting is done by hand, similar to the way grapes are harvested.

Green, black, and white peppercorns all come from the same plant. Green peppercorns are immature, with a fruity, mild flavor, and just a hint of the characteristic spice.  They are both dried green or packed in a brine that should be rinsed before use.  Black peppercorns are green peppercorns that are allowed to ferment in the sun, which allows the enzymes in a fungus, Glomerella cingulata, that is present on the healthy berries to develop a more pungent flavor.  White peppercorns result from allowing the berries to remain on the plant until they are fully ripe and bright red. They are then soaked to remove the outer husks, revealing the white core. 

Pink peppercorns are the berries of a South American tree, Schinus terebinthifolius, cultivated on the French island of Reunion off the coast of Africa.  They are not true peppercorns but add visual interest to a peppercorn blend and have a slightly resinous quality.  Szechwan peppercorns are also not true peppercorns.  They are the dried berries of a Chinese prickly ash tree that have a spicy, woodsy aroma and a tingly sensation after they are dry-roasted before use.

Though it stands on nearly every table in America next to its partner, salt, ground pepper is vastly inferior to that which is freshly ground. The volatile oils present in the dried berries are released during grinding and fade quickly, so it is best to grind just before serving to truly experience the complexities of pepper.  Varieties of whole black peppercorns include Indian Tellicherry and Malabar.  Both of these varieties are from the same harvest on the same plant, but the Tellicherry berries are larger and with a redder color than the more greenish-tinged Malabar simply because they were positioned on the tops of the spikes, or clusters.  Sarawak peppercorns come from Borneo and are carefully hand-harvested in the time-honored tradition, with particularly plump and flavorful berries

Most grocery stores carry an assortment of peppercorns in handy grinders but a source for exotic varieties is Penzey’s Spices.  The Penzey’s catalog is a wealth of information about seasonings in general with beautiful color photographs and facts about different spices. Small minimum orders allow the consumer to try a wide variety and make informed decisions about preferences.

When cooking with pepper, adding the freshly ground pepper near the end of the cooking time allows the flavors to blend and avoids scorching the delicate particles.  In a dish with a lot of liquid, such as a soup, the whole peppercorns can be added to the liquid that will later be strained, or they can be tied into a cheesecloth bag along with other aromatics, so they can be retrieved easily. Season with conviction but always remember that more can always be added at the table—but there is no way to remove too much.

Seasoning adds a dimension to cooking and eating that helps make life worthwhile and should be approached with careful consideration.  For a simple exercise on the importance of seasoning, try this.  Gently scramble an egg or two and divide it on a plate into three portions.  Leave one-third plain, lightly sprinkle one-third with sea salt or crushed Kosher salt, and grind a few turns of pepper on the third portion.  Taste each separately, beginning with the unseasoned sample.  Taste the one with the salt and notice how the flavor of the egg is enhanced and how the taste buds on the tongue are stimulated.  Taste the portion with the pepper and notice how your mouth seems to become a cave, with the volatile oils of the pepper stimulating the olfactory area at the roof of your mouth and the base of your brain.  Now mix them all together and enjoy!

Salt and pepper grace every table in America in an assortment of standard glass shakers, sets of plastic dolphins or cacti, or in complicated grinders.  Salt, especially, is so ubiquitous in our culture that many people dust their food with a fine coating before they even taste it. 

An essential element that regulates the ebb and flow of many of the body’s fluids, salt has always been a highly esteemed commodity whose trade has been governed by kings.  The Latin word for salt, “sal,” formed the root of the word “salarium,” which was a special stipend that Roman soldiers received to buy salt.  Our word “salary” derives from it.  Productive people are deemed “worth their salt” while in Medieval times, those unimportant were seated “below the salt.”

In the Old Testament, salt was prescribed as an offering to God, and at a Polish wedding the bride’s parents present the newlyweds with the gift of bread and salt, two of the essentials of life.

Product of the sea, salt is our link with infinity—the essence of the primordial soup that formed the basis for life itself. Just one taste can satisfy the receptors on our tongue that have evolved to appreciate it; though few of us stop at just one taste.  It is estimated that the average American man consumes about 2 teaspoons (4,000mg) of salt each day while women consume about 1 ½ teaspoons (3000mg) when we should be limiting our salt consumption to 1 teaspoon (1800to 2400mg) or less per day.  A high salt intake increases the risk of high blood pressure, which leads to heart disease and stroke. 

Most salt (sodium chloride) in this country is sold in round cardboard boxes and contains iodine, another essential nutrient, that has been added to table salt since 1924 to prevent goiter.  To live up to its promise that “when it rains, it pours®” table salt also contains calcium silicate and dextrose to prevent caking in the presence of moisture. Another method of keeping salt free flowing is to put a few grains of rice into the shaker to absorb the natural humidity in the air.

Most of the salt sold in this country has been mined from the existing salt deposits of ancient seas.  Sea salt is harvested from living seas through evaporation and has a more interesting, and stronger, flavor than salt that is mined. The United States produces about 42 out of a worldwide production of 294 million metric tons, with about three-fourths of that production coming from underground mines. China, India, and the US are the three top salt-producing countries.

Culinary professionals prefer Kosher salt because it is a purer form of salt with a jagged surface that is processed from evaporated brine under strict conditions according to Jewish dietary law. There is less salt in a teaspoon of Kosher salt than in the more granular table salt because of the irregularity of the crystals but the impact of the flavor is greater.

Pickling salt is a coarse salt that is additive-free because additives tend to make the brine cloudy in a pickled product.  Rock salt is an unrefined variety of salt that is not for human consumption.  It is used to present oysters on a stable bed and in ice-cream making because salt plus ice water is colder than ice water alone.

Vegetable salts, such as garlic salt, or onion or celery salt are made of vegetable powders combined with salt.  When using these products reduce or eliminate the amount of regular salt in a recipe.

Maldon salt is a unique salt harvested in England that has a distinctive pyramid shape and a very salty taste. It is used as a finishing salt, something to sprinkle on your dish as a final touch. Fleur de sel from the Brittany region of France near Guerand is a highly prized finishing salt, as is Himalayan pink salt. These are not the salts to use in your pasta water; Kosher salt is best for that and Diamond Crystal Kosher salt is the top of the line. My current favorite salt is Laese Salt from Denmark, given to me by a Danish visitor. Its chunky nature is great sprinkled on a steak at serving time for maximum snazz factor.

I grew up in Philly and attended St Athanasius Parochial grade school where we had soft pretzels every day for a snack. The boys were in charge of delivering the pretzels in a canvas bag. One of my first gifts from a boy was on my desk one morning in fourth grade, a glistening pyramid of salt that John Cassidy shook out of the bag and left as an offering to me. He knew how to win a girl’s attention.

This New Year pay attention to the basics and appreciate the little things in life. It’s a small indulgence that goes a long way. Just use it judiciously and gift it to win friends and influence people.

This column was originally printed in the Centre Daily Times just before the Millennium. We had a progressive dinner that New Year’s Eve, with friends who closed their restaurants—the Gamble Mill in Bellefonte and the Hummingbird Room in Spring Mills—so we all could spend time with 18 friends on that singular occasion. The food—and the wines—were fabulous as we traversed between three houses, toasting until we reached the hour of midnight around a bonfire. We won’t be popping any Dom this year in Wyoming, rather a Crémant de Bourgogne, but we will be popping corn and banging on pots and pans to ring 2024 in loud and clear.

Champagne season is here and the question of which champagne to serve on New Year’s Eve is under hot debate.  Personal preference is guided by what we have experienced with champagne in the past, associations, and expectations, realized or not.

When we traveled in the Champagne region in 1985 our two sons were 6 and 4.  One toted a small boombox; the other, a case of children’s books on tapes. In the stark chill of early spring, we drove through steep, chalky vineyards, listening to Gulliver’s Travels.  The wooded limestone plain and plateau near the Marne River was austere, the faces of the few villagers that we saw seemed stern and reserved. 

In the village of Epernay, we toured the cellars of Moet et Chandon, the boys happy to be out of the backseat.  On a guided tour of some of the many miles of subterranean chambers, we noted how each bottle was held upside down in wooden racks.  A white dash on the bottoms of the bottles, like a one-handed clock, indicated which way to turn the bottle a quarter turn every three days as the yeasts slowly transformed the sugars in the juice to alcohol and carbon dioxide with 90 pounds pressure per square inch.

John and I found the complexity of the process fascinating.  The remuage, or tilting and twisting of the bottles for 6 to 8 weeks, forces the sediment from the yeast down onto the cork.  The dead yeast cells are then removed by degorgement, when the neck of the bottle is immersed in a freezing solution. The cork is released and the pressure within forces out the frozen sediment, along with a bit of the wine. Sweetened wine, the dosage, is added to replace what has foamed out and the bottle is machine-corked with extra-large corks that must say “Champagne.” 

Though we enjoyed the tour the boys were less interested and contented themselves by playing tag in the tunnels, disturbing the bats. 

Our next stop was the tasting room where I had the champagne-defining moment of my life.  Fully aware of the effort that went into the bottle, I tasted Moet et Chandon’s White Star Extra Dry and, like the celebrated Dom Perignon himself, “drank the stars.”  Each tiny bubble danced over my palate as I savored the mineral quality of the chalky earth tempered with sweetness added by the skilled cellar master’s hand.  I recognized balance and finesse.  Although I had enjoyed good champagne previously, knowing the details added immeasurable depth to the experience.

Meanwhile, the boys were hungry.  We found a bistro, crowded with locals who now looked much less stern to me.  Throughout our European adventure the boys, dressed in bomber jackets and GI Joe caps, made it easy for us to start conversations with any adjacent stranger.  Plus, the best aspect of traveling with my husband is that he is undaunted by not knowing the language.  Soon we were engrossed in conversation with the French couple next to us, though we don’t speak French and they didn’t speak English.  Somehow, brokenly, we communicated in German and were having such a great time with them that they invited us to their home. 

The man worked at Laurent Perrier and he wanted us to stop by and drink some champagne with them.  We tried to decline—the boys have to go to bed, it’s late, we don’t know these people—but how often do you get invited to go to a local’s home in the Champagne region to drink what they make?

Their home in Ay was modest and cozy.  They made us welcome, gave the boys some toys, and situated us around their dining table, while we insisted that we were only there to share one bottle.  One bottle, he agreed heading off to the cellar.  He returned with a very large bottle of champagne, a magnum, and we all laughed and talked far into the night.

We learned much from them about daily life in the region.  Through our mutually broken German we learned about the grapes and the struggle to keep them on the vine long enough to get the sugar level up.  The weather in the region is much colder than any other French wine-growing area and the still wine produced from the grapes is too acidic.  The addition of sugar and the resultant chain reaction of effervescence enable the growers in the region to make the most of what they have.  They have made a virtue out of their necessity and created a demand that will peak on New Year’s Eve, 1999.

People all over the earth will raise glasses to the new century with the signature of celebration—French champagne.  Salute!

Christmas memories are layered year by year and we have an annual opportunity to embellish our holiday. Memories start in childhood and we forge ahead with them, building.  When my now 92-year-old mother was a child in the 1920’s, she remembers that on Christmas all eight children received an orange. That was it. For the big family in the little mining town of Fairpoint, Ohio that was enough.

When my brother and I were very young in the 1950s, we spent Christmas in Fairpoint with my mom’s sister and Baci, my Polish grandmother. There was a big feast on Christmas Eve, Midnight Mass, and then back home to a warm, coal-scented kitchen to open presents. The cousins all received toys and clothes and comic books—and an orange.

By the time my two sisters were born, we didn’t travel to Ohio anymore in the winter but made our own holiday. The anticipation of Christmas started weeks earlier with the arrival of the big Sears, Roebuck, and Co. catalog whose slick, glossy pages we perused endlessly. We hung our stockings with care on the mantel in our row house in Philly, with faith even though there was no flue, and found them filled with goodies down to an orange in the toe.

When you marry, you blend traditions. John’s family didn’t wrap presents; they just woke up Christmas morning to a display of assembled toys. My family’s Christmas morning was a vast heap of crumbled paper, much of it colored comics that my mom saved each week to use for wrapping. I still prefer to wrap; John, not.

How glad we were when we stopped traveling for the holiday, trying to keep both sides of the extended family satisfied! I remember the first year that we just stayed home in State College and made our own Christmas, my mom joining us since dad had died that year.  We cut out and sewed quilted Christmas placemats that we still use every year. We hung homemade Christmas stockings near our woodstove and also hung John’s red felt stocking that he made in kindergarten too skinny to hold much more than a small tangerine and some pens.

Over the years, our family traditions deepened, and our treasure trove of handmade ornaments grew. Then the inevitable happened; the kids grew up and left town. There were some years that they traveled to see us, and more that we traveled to see them. Costa Rica was a fun place to visit Alex in December, even better once his son Santana was born on January 2, 2006. Joe and his wife Neian, also a State College native, settled in Boulder and we all welcomed Lilah to our world on Thanksgiving Day in 2011. Our Christmas that year on the Front Range with the baby was magical. Rose gave the entire family a wonderful gift last Christmas (in 2015) when she arranged for us all to stay in Austria for an Old World holiday.

Rose was working in Salzburg for Red Bull, along with a host of other young people from around the world. Some of her friends on the team were headed home to Portugal and Spain for the holiday and we were all able to stay in their apartments all within walking distance to Rose’s place. 

If your holiday spirit ever needs to be rekindled, Salzburg will fire it up. Over the next week, our family assembled and spread out into the three apartments that formed a triangle in the center of the old city. Joe, Neian, and Lilah’s apartment had a view of the fortress; my apartment with John was near Mirabell Palace. Global vagabonds Al and Santana crashed on Rose’s fold-out couch, in the center of all the action. John brought our Christmas stockings when he arrived on the 23^rd and I purchased oranges from Spain. Finally, we were all together in that fairytale city.

While many aspects were memorable—the Christmas markets on nearly every corner and mountaintop, the Mozart dinner at St. Peter’s baroque hall with opera entertainment, the cobblestoned Getreidegasse with welcoming shops—the most important was that we were all there in that one place. Christmas Eve, I volunteered to take both Santana and Lilah to our apartment so the others could attend midnight mass and listen to the singing of Silent Night not far from where it was first performed in 1818. Having both grandchildren asleep under the same roof was my Christmas gift.

On Christmas Day the festivities started early and went late. In the middle of the day, there was yet another trip to a Christmas market in a nearby village with special activities for children, but I opted to stay back at Rose’s apartment and tend the goose that was roasting in the oven and set the table with the antique plates that she found at a flea market with forest scenes of Bavaria on them. Just knowing that our whole family was going to sit down together and share Christmas dinner was enough for me.

That joy I felt that Christmas was kindled by family and made me realize that nothing else matters. We are in a nomadic grandparenting period of our lives and just want to be available to the youngest of the grandchildren who need help. We enjoy teaching some of what we have learned in life. And we enjoy seeing the Christmas Tree lights reflected in the children’s eyes as they soak it all in, forging their own memories.

None of us need presents. We need presence. And an orange in the stocking.

Merry Christmas!

A version of this article first appeared in the Centre Daily Times in State College Pa in 2016

And here is a good thing to do with those oranges. This dessert is from the very first cookbook that I bought for myself back in 1962, Betty Crocker’s Cooking Calendar. I credit this book, in part, for my credo in eating seasonally and celebrating holidays.

Orange Baked Alaska

6 seedless navel oranges, cut in half with the segments removed of the membrane and then placed back in the orange cup. A grapefruit knife, if anyone has one of those anymore, is a good tool for this.

6 scoops of vanilla ice cream

6 egg whites, at room temperature

one fourth teaspoon cream of tartar

3/4 cup superfine sugar

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Place the orange halves on a baking tray, top each with a scoop of ice cream, and place in the freezer while you make the meringue.  Beat the egg whites until foamy, then add the cream of tartar and continue beating while gradually adding the superfine sugar (superfine sugar is preferred because it dissolves completely in the egg white foam, though regular sugar can be substituted).  Beat until stiff peaks are formed.  Remove the orange halves filled with the ice cream from the freezer and encase each one in a thick coating of the meringue, completely covering the ice cream.  Bake in the very hot oven for about 2-3 minutes until the assembly is delicately brown.  Serve immediately.

When we get home this evening we will plug in the holiday lights to brighten the early darkness. We’ll light icicle lights that drip from the roofline or brightly colored bulbs that reach the treetops, but light we must at this time of year. It is our annual effort to chase away the gloom of the year’s shortest day, December 21.

Alban Arthan, the winter solstice or Yule, has been celebrated since ancient times.  To encourage the sun’s return, virtually every culture in the Northern Hemisphere established customs that bring light to the darkness, much like our own practice of illuminating our houses.

Derived from the Nordic word “geol” (the g is pronounced with a y sound) that means both “wheel” to suggest the passage of the year and “noise and revelry,” the Norseman celebrated a Yule feast that lasted for twelve days.  During this time log fires were burned to hasten the revival of the sun, shrines and homes were decorated with holly, ivy and evergreen boughs and it was an occasion for much feasting and drinking.  Viking invasions of Europe from the 9^th to the 11^th centuries blended Norse traditions with that of the Celts, whose pagan celebrations led by the Druids also honored the natural world.  The Druids regarded the woods as places of divine presence and revered mistletoe, a parasitic plant that they considered the tears of the mighty oak.  On these dark and windy December nights, it is easy to understand the importance of trees and the fuel that they provided for our ancestors. 

Real Yule logs, imbued with meaning both practical and symbolic, have been significant for centuries. It was the custom in France until the late 1800s, especially among the poorer families, to gather extended families under one roof and have each member bring a log to throw on the fire.  Warm and toasty, the family would sing carols and then attend Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. 

Another European tradition involved cutting a huge fresh log for the open fireplace and lighting it with great ceremony from some splinters of the previous year’s Yule log to protect the house and keep the family safe.  The tradition diminished with the size of the fireplaces and eventually was replaced with a symbolic log centerpiece that held three candles.

On a calmer note, Buche de Noel, edible Yule logs, first appeared in France at the end of the 19^th century, as documented in 1890 by Pierre Lacam, a French pastry chef and culinary historian. By 1928, they were a beloved classic included in August Escoffier’s menu for Christmas Eve, Special Reveillon.

Today the bakeries in France are busy selling Buche de Noel and my friend Nathalie Fraisse sent a photo from her favorite patisserie, Émotions Sucrées, in Eybens. We don’t have any proper bakeries here in Alpine, Wyoming but the Whole Foods in Jackson has Buche in the pastry case.

Or you could try making one on your own.

Celebrate the season and chase out the darkness with cheer and light!

Much of this article first appeared in the Centre Daily Times in December 2000 and featured baker Kim Morrison who was justly famous for her Buche de Noel. That year she made 17 of them for parties. Kim retired last July and is resting on her laurels this holiday season and enjoying family time.

One of the things learned in life is not to make an empty promise—especially when it comes to a legendary dessert.  Early last September, while celebrating a friend’s birthday with a surprise party, I mentioned that I’d “probably” make a Baked Alaska.  When the party plans grew complicated, that was the first item crossed off the list.  But when I saw the look of disappointment on one crestfallen teenager, I realized I had made a big mistake.  I pledged to myself to keep my promise.

It took a while, but the end of the school year seemed like the time to make good.  I invited the same guests, this time without the distraction of an occasion.  The Baked Alaska threw me into a frenzy of preparation, primarily because I got it in my mind that I had to make it with homemade ice cream—using the first sweet red strawberries of the season—and homemade sorbet for good measure.

Extrapolating from several recipes, I made the richest strawberry ice cream in creation—using a full quart of local heavy cream.  It whipped up almost instantly and tasted quite simply like strawberries and cream.  The sorbet recipe called for cooking the berries first, then sieving them and mixing the intense juice with sugar (adding a tiny bit of Tait Farm Raspberry Shrub, the perfect topping for strawberries) and then putting it into the ice cream maker.  The result took much longer to freeze than the cream—and tasted phenomenal.  I was sure that I had the perfect combination.

Working from a recipe in a magazine that advised a four-quart bowl lined with saran wrap, I fashioned a hollow of sorbet and filled it with a boulder of the strawberry ice cream. By the time the frozen dome perched on the top of a sponge cake base was covered with a layer of meringue,  I had a white igloo the size of the county.  Into a hot oven it went, to the delight of the onlookers, and out it emerged some 5 minutes later, delicately browned. The trouble started when I tried to cut it-- impenetrable. I resorted to power equipment, not quite a chain saw, but when you work up a sweat cutting through your Baked Alaska with an electric knife, something is wrong.

Take 2:  husband John’s June birthday.  This time I bought the ice cream, which saved me a lot of trouble.  I scaled it way down, packing a saran-wrapped lined two-quart metal bowl with a layer of chocolate, a layer of vanilla, and a red heart center of the surviving strawberry sorbet.  Everything looked like it was going to work just fine until someone thought it would be a good idea to try to flambé it.  So I baked half an eggshell into the top of the dome and filled it with brandy—which dimly flickered blue, hardly the spectacle desired, and then proceeded to spill into the cake which became a brandy sponge.

Take 3: divide and conquer.  What is intriguing about a Baked Alaska is the idea of ice cream going into a hot oven and coming out virtually unscathed.  How to make that happen easily??  This time I purchased a few of the small sponge cake dessert shells available in the supermarket and used store-bought ice cream again.  The meringue part is easy, just be sure to bring the whipped egg white all the way to the bottom of the cake before it goes in the oven or it will shrink and leak.  The ability of the egg white to insulate the frozen center is amazing and will delight the most steadfastly unimpressed person.  

You can make it the hard way—with every component homemade—or you can take shortcuts and have the energy left to enjoy it.  

History of Baked Alaska

The idea of using egg whites to insulate a frozen dessert has been around since the 18^th century when a similar dessert called Omelette Norvegian was popular in Europe.  In 1867, the purchase of Alaska from Russia was celebrated at Delmonico’s restaurant in New York by renaming the already-known meringue-ice cream cake in honor of Seward’s purchase.    

Goldilocks’ Baked Alaska

“This one is just right!’

Serves 6

6 individual sponge cakes

6 scoops of your favorite flavor of ice cream

6 egg whites, at room temperature

one fourth teaspoon cream of tartar

3/4 cup superfine sugar

3/4 teaspoon of vanilla

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Place the sponge cakes on a parchment lined baking tray top each with a scoop of ice cream and place in the freezer while you make the meringue.  Beat the egg whites until foamy, then add the cream of tartar and continue beating while gradually adding the superfine sugar (superfine sugar is preferred because it dissolves completely in the egg white foam, though regular sugar can be substituted).  Beat until stiff peaks are formed and then add the vanilla, mixing it in thoroughly.  Remove the cake and ice cream from the freezer and encase each one in a thick coating of the meringue, completely covering the ice cream.  Bake in the very hot oven for about 3 minutes until the assembly is delicately brown.  You can also use a propane torch to brown the meringue, but the result will not be as uniformly golden.  Serve immediately.

Once upon a time, in a country where potatoes, peas, and carrots reigned supreme, it was easy to never encounter this vegetable that resembles a miniature cabbage. Often, close encounters were overcooked, stodgy, and sulfurous little sponge balls. 

Cool-weather and a touch of frost improve the flavor of sprouts, so they are often used at holiday tables, especially in England and Canada.  One of the last remaining plants in the garden, sprouts can be harvested after frost has killed the tender perennials. The plant is startling to see standing solo, gem-like cabbages spiraling up a thick stalk, topped with a lion’s mane of leaves so heavy that it can force the stalk into a recumbent position.

Brussels sprouts, Brassica oleracea bullata gemmifera, are descendants of the wild cabbage native to the Mediterranean seaboard, where the thick, succulent stalk mutated into a miraculous variety of related plants—broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, kale, kohlrabi, mustard, turnip.  These plants are all cruciferous vegetables, meaning the seedlings that first sprout in the spring and the petals of the flowers that they bear are in the shape of a cross.  This entire family of vegetables fights cancer and has been proven especially beneficial to cancers of the digestive tract.  High in vitamins, especially C and A, sprouts are very low in calories (about 39 for a serving) and high in minerals and fiber.

The first documented drawing of the Brussels sprout variant was dated 1587 and produced in Belgium, though the plant was cultivated in northern Europe in the 5^th century.  After World War I, Brussels sprouts became a popular vegetable in Europe and in the 1920’s they were planted in large quantities in California along the central coast.  The stalk of the plant grows from 2 to 4 feet high and the sprouts are small, numerous lateral buds along the main stem. Each plant yields about 80 to 100 sprouts per stem (about 2 to 2 and a half pounds), with the buds at the bottom maturing first.

Like all cruciferous vegetables, long cooking causes strong-smelling sulfur compounds to develop, so brief cooking is desirable.  Many chefs score the bottom stem of the sprout to even out the cooking time, which especially helps with larger sprouts.  They can be steamed just until tender and then tossed with butter or olive oil and garlic, salt and pepper.  They can also be marinated after steaming and served as a salad or, more typically, tossed with olive oil, salt, and pepper and roasted until the cut surface browns.

But by far the most luxurious way to enjoy Brussels sprouts is to use my friend Joanne Green’s recipe that came from her brother, Jim Balmer, and that originated with Alice Waters.  What is extraordinary about the recipe, aside from the amount of effort that it is to prepare by separating the leaves of each little sprout, is that the texture is as light and fluffy as a bowl of flower petals, which, essentially, it is.

Joanne Green’s Brussels Sprouts Extraordinaire

Serves 6

One pound perfect, loosely woven (if available) Brussels sprouts, rinsed and defoliated 

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 slices bacon, finely minced

1/2 cup finely minced carrot

1/2 cup finely minced celery

1/2 cup finely minced onion

1/3 cup water

Freshly ground black pepper and salt to taste

1-2 teaspoons of white wine vinegar

Prepare the sprouts by coring each one and gently pulling the leaves apart. (Yes, tedious! Enlist helpers for this chore.) Heat the olive oil in a large pot, add the bacon, and sauté until the fat is rendered and the bacon starts to crisp.  Add the minced carrot, celery, and onion, and cook for a couple of minutes.  Add the Brussels sprout leaves and the water and cook, stirring frequently for just a few minutes until the exterior leaves turn bright green and the paler interior leaves are tender.  Season with black pepper, salt, and vinegar, and serve hot.

How happy were those surviving colonists, one year after their arrival at Plymouth Rock, having braved a winter that reduced their number by more than half?  They forged a new life in a new world and made friends with some of the natives there, who showed them how to grow and use indigenous plants to feed themselves.  They fashioned houses from the forest and built palisades around their village with its wide view of the open sea and the life of relative refinement that they had abandoned in England.

They brought their recipes with them, especially for the popular puddings of the day, and adapted the ingredients with what they had on hand. Indian Pudding is a recipe derived from  English cookery that resonates with Native American ingredients and may well have been on the table at the first dinner that gave thanks for the harvest in 1621. 

Our own celebration of Thanksgiving is an adaptation, with roots in the past, but embellished with what we have come to expect since Abraham Lincoln first proclaimed a National Day of Thanksgiving to be celebrated on the last Thursday in November in 1863. 

What is documented to have been on the table at that first Thanksgiving was venison and waterfowl—ducks or geese—though wild turkey is also a possibility.  Squash was plentiful, so pumpkin is likely, though not in the form of a pumpkin pie that is tomorrow’s traditional dessert.  Flour supplies were depleted after a year in America and there was no oven built at that time at the settlement.  Food was cooked over an open fire, roasted on a spit, or boiled in a cauldron.

Puddings provided a taste of home and were a source of nourishment that preceded many meals.  Oats were available in England and were the key component in hasty pudding, a recipe adapted by the Pilgrims to include the hard, flint corn grown in New England. Corn mush, Indian mush, and Indian pudding were some of the names for the hasty pudding of the New World, immortalized in the somewhat querulous but all-American tune, Yankee Doodle:

“Father and I went down to camp

Along with Captain Goodin,

There we saw the men and boys

As thick as hasty pudding” 

The only required ingredient in Indian pudding is dried corn, that quintessentially American grain that adapts as well to empanadas and cornbread as to polenta and grits.  The sweetener can be molasses, honey, or maple syrup.  Eggs and milk provide a creamy custard texture and optional ingredients can be pureed pumpkin, berries, or raisins. 

Here is an American classic that can lend an authentic touch of New England to your Thanksgiving table—and all the ingredients are probably in your pantry.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving feast tomorrow and count your blessings.

Pumpkin Indian Pudding with Crème Fraiche

Serves 8

4 cups milk    

5 tablespoons yellow cornmeal

2 tablespoons melted butter

three-fourths cup maple syrup or a honey and molasses combo

one-half cup canned pumpkin puree (or very well-drained steamed or roasted pumpkin)

1 teaspoon cinnamon

one-half teaspoon of ground ginger

one-half teaspoon of freshly grated nutmeg

one-fourth teaspoon of ground cloves

1 teaspoon salt

2 eggs, beaten

1 cup cold milk

Garnish: 

1 cup heavy cream

one-third cup of sour cream

Make the garnish ahead of time.  Combine heavy cream and sour cream and set aside in a warm place for a couple of hours and then refrigerate.

Preheat the oven to 300°F. Butter a 2-quart baking dish and set aside. Scald the 4 cups of milk in a 2 or 3-quart saucepan (bring it up to just under a boil) and sprinkle in the cornmeal while whisking.  Cook and stir over a low heat until thickened.  Remove from the heat and mix in the melted butter, maple syrup (or sweetener of choice), pumpkin puree, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves, and salt.  Add some of the cornmeal mixture to the beaten eggs to temper them, and then stir the tempered eggs into the saucepan.  Pour the cornmeal mixture into the prepared baking dish and bake for 45 minutes. Remove the pudding from the oven and whisk in the 1 cup of cold milk.  Continue to bake for an additional hour.  The pudding can be served hot, warm, room temperature, or cold, topped with a dollop or drizzle of the crème fraiche.  

This article is adapted from one that ran in the Centre Daily Times in  2006.

The original version of this article appeared in the Centre Daily Times in 2002 and is my true confession about my own confusion about yams and sweet potatoes. I worked it all out eventually, humming this little Popeye song to myself.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

I must confess that I was guilty of disseminating false information during my stint in the foods lab at Penn State teaching Basic Food Preparation.  Believed what I was told by produce managers, I spread misinformation to the furthermost reaches of the commonwealth and beyond.

Holding aloft an orange-skinned and fleshed, elongated, plump underground vegetable, I called it a “yam” and holding a narrower, paler, yellow-fleshed underground vegetable next to it I called it a “sweet potato”.  Actually, they are both sweet potatoes and can grow in temperate climates like the one we live in.

Yams are another matter entirely, one that we must travel to the humid tropics of Central and South America or Africa to encounter.  Tropical yams, the scientific name Diascorea, are related to grasses and lilies and are tubers, short, fleshy stems, that usually grow underground.  The yam was one of the earliest flowering plants and spread across the continents before the big drift. They subsequently evolved independently, a fact that accounts for yams’ distinctive regional characteristics. 

In Africa, where the tropical yam is a staple as familiar as our mashed potatoes, the plant is called “nyami”. Hispanic countries use a tropical tuber that they call cassava, or yucca or manioc, in the same way, as a starch to supply a neutral palette for spreading spicy sauces and stews.  Variations in other tropical realms are labeled malanga, or yautia, or taro, or yamaimo.

Are you confused yet?

The sweet potato that we know has the scientific name Ipomoea batatas and is the true root of a plant that is a part of the Morning Glory family.  Native to Central America, the sweet potato migrated to Europe with Columbus after his first voyage, where it was enthusiastically welcomed and regarded in court as an aphrodisiac.  Henry VIII had sweet potatoes imported from Spain and made into confections.

Sweet potatoes come in two main varieties—moist-fleshed and dry-fleshed.  The moist-fleshed variety has dark skin and bright orange flesh and is known in this country as yam.  African slaves coined the name after one of their favorite foods from Africa, the starchy, tropical nyami, the source of our literal confusion.  The dry-fleshed variety, lighter in color, starchier, and not as sweet as its orange sister, maintained the correct name, sweet potato. 

An interesting fact about yams is that the late Russell Earl Marker, professor emeritus of organic chemistry at Penn State, used the tropical yam that he dug up in Mexico to lay the groundwork for a social revolution when he extracted estrogen from the plant.  Called the “Father of the Birth Control Pill”, Marker was not researching population control or aphrodisiacs—but his findings happened to change the course of history.

Sweet potatoes are primarily a carbohydrate and are a rich source of vitamin A and potassium. When eaten with the skin, they are a good source of fiber.  Though they look rugged, sweet potatoes have thin skin that is easily damaged.  Growers cure them, that is, store them for 10 days at a high temperature and humidity before sending them to market, to help preserve them.  This treatment also enhances their natural sweetness.  Sweet potatoes should never be stored in the refrigerator, where they may develop a hard core and their natural sugars may turn to starch.  They can be stored for about a month at a root cellar temperature of 55°.  If kept at room temperature, they should be used within a week.

So, remember, class:  this is a sweet potato and this, is a sweet potato.  And all those yams are another story.

(I will have a photo of this in a day or two. It’s an easy make-ahead for Thanksgiving dinner and our son Al’s favorite sweet potato recipe. Since he is coming to Wyoming this week with his family, I’ll be sure to have them on this year’s Thanksgiving table.)

Candied Sweet Potatoes and Pineapple

Serves 12

3 pounds of sweet potatoes

one-half cup butter

three-fourths cup brown sugar

one-half cup of orange or pineapple juice

one-half teaspoon salt

Half of a fresh golden pineapple, peeled, quartered, cored, and sliced

 or one 20-ounce can of pineapple chunks or crushed pineapple

Microwave the sweet potatoes in a plastic bag on medium-high power for 15 minutes, or until they test nearly soft with the tip of a knife.  Allow them to cool.  Melt the butter is a sauté pan and whisk in the brown sugar, the juice, and the salt.  Cook until the mixture is smooth and hot.  Peel the cooked sweet potatoes and slice them into rounds.  Arrange slices of the sweet potatoes in a lightly buttered baking dish, alternating them with slices of the pineapple.  Alternatively, you could arrange them in a baking dish and scatter the pineapple chunks over the top.  Pour on the butter-brown sugar mixture and bake in a 350° F oven for 45 minutes until hot and bubbly around the edges.

The following article appeared in the Centre Daily Times in 1999 when the Nouveau release from Beaujolais was restricted to a midnight truck convoy from the producing wineries. Today, the wines are distributed the week before so that the bottles are on the shelves for purchase by the third Thursday in November. When I messaged my friend Nathalie Fraisse this morning she was busy making her onion jam for her party this weekend when she will have 80 guests and will be cooking 160 sausages—16 kilograms or 35 pounds. Bonne chance, Nathalie, and bon appetit!

All eyes are turned to a rural region in France today, to an area that looks similar to the rolling hills of central Pennsylvania except that instead of radiating rows of corn, they have radiating trellises of grapes. The farmers there produce red wine from the Gamay grape—Beaujolais.

Beaujolais is a broad term that includes Beaujolais, Beaujolais-Villages, and Cru Beaujolais.  A wine that is particularly distinctive and highly esteemed is granted a Cru designation, which means that it is from a particular area.  The twelve different Cru or regions depend on the “terroir”, or earth, for flavor differences in the wine—Brouilly has a plum-like, sturdy finish; Fleurie, flowery overtones; Moulin-a-Vent, tannin, and a  robust structure.  But all are overshadowed by the simplest and most widely known variety, the Beaujolais Nouveau.

The third Thursday in November marks the release of the Beaujolais Nouveau, the first sampling of the current year’s vintage.  It is an event widely heralded across the globe thanks to a marketing ploy that originated toward the end of the 1960’s.  Banners throughout Paris proclaim the news “Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé” and many restaurants have special menus that celebrate the simple country-French foods of the region.

In 1992 I had the good fortune to travel to the Beaujolais region with fellow Centre Countians Courtney Confer and Jeanne Murphy for the release.  We stayed with a good friend, Nathalie Longefay Fraisse, at her parents’ ivy-covered farmhouse in the village of St. Lager.  Nearly all of her family makes wine. At that time, both her father and her uncle made Brouilly, their wineries down the road from each other.  Two of her brothers have taken over these operations and continue to do what generations of her family have done.

One cousin, Jean Tete, helped his father run the Louis Tete winery that produced Beaujolais Nouveau.  At a dinner held at the cellar for vineyard workers, fellow winemakers and friends, the new year’s vintage, only two months old, was released with fanfare.

One side of the vaulted cellar held long buffet tables loaded with regional specialties, an array of sausages, pates and cheeses.  Salads and breads were arranged around an enormous display of sliced sausage that spelled out “Tete” in mayonnaise rosettes on top.  The fresh and fruity nouveau flowed from small barrels set on a large bar into unlabeled bottles and into short, sturdy glasses.  A jazz band played lively, New Orleans-style music and couples danced on the earthen floor.

Just before midnight the crowd emptied into the courtyard outside.  There, several trucks, plastered with the winery’s label, waited with their motors running and lights blazing.  At the stroke of midnight the trucks roared off with a police escort while the crowd cheered thunderously.  The Beaujolais nouveau was launched!

Other nouveau events in the Beaujolais region included lots of tastings at the wineries, where the hubbub surrounding the release often gave the local winemakers an opportunity to showcase their lesser-known, but better, wines.  At one cooperative, a wooden-shoed, costumed man stood in the street flagging down passers-by and inviting them to try the wine that he kept in a barrel at the curb.  If this sounds reckless, keep in mind that in France, as in other European countries, there is zero tolerance for drinking and driving--you lose your license at the first offense. There was always a designated driver to transport the increasingly jolly imbibers from one event to another.

The Beaujolais nouveau will arrive in the United States this week. The wine is light and fruity and is a perfect match for Thanksgiving dinner, marrying well with the herbal savoriness of the feast.

November is a perfect time for sausages and this recipe is from my friend Nathalie Fraisse who makes it every year for her Beaujolais Nouveau dinner with friends. Nathalie grew up in Beaujolais, on the vineyard, in a wine-making family and the celebration continues each third Thursday in November. Fresh French saucisson is a combination of pork and beef seasoned with salt, white pepper, and a small amount of fresh garlic. Use any mild sausage that you like. Nathalie serves it with boiled potatoes, onion jam, a green salad, and Beaujolais. Santé!

Sausages and Shallots Cooked in Beaujolais

Serves 4

8 shallots, peeled and sliced

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 sausages (authentic French garlic sausages, saucisson, are available in gourmet shops or substitute a mild bratwurst)

½ cup Beaujolais

Heat oven to 375°F.  Sauté shallots in hot olive oil in sauté pan.  Add wine when shallots are translucent.  Pierce sausages with a fork and place in a baking dish just large enough to hold them.  Top with wine/shallot mixture.  Bake for 20-25 minutes, until heated thoroughly.  Serve with French bread.

Confiture d’Oignon (French Onion Marmalade)

The following recipe is what my friend Nathalie makes every year for her Beaujolais Nouveau release party that she now celebrates in Grenoble, where she lives with her husband, Michel, and three children, Eugenie, Pierre-Adrien, and Amelie. Her menu is always the same — oven-roasted saucisson (fresh pork sausages), boiled potatoes, and this onion jam.

2 tablespoons butter

2 pounds yellow onions, peeled, quartered, and sliced thinly by hand

1 teaspoon salt and a pinch of pepper

1 cup raw or brown sugar

2 apples (yellow delicious, gala, or other firm apple) peeled, quartered, and cubed or grated

1 and  2/3  cups raisins, golden or dark or a mix

2 cups Beaujolais wine

 1/2  cup red wine vinegar

 1/2  cup Grenadine

Melt the butter in a heavy pot over low heat and add the onions, salt, pepper and sugar and cook, covered, for about an hour, stirring occasionally. Add the apples, raisins, and the three liquids. Cook, uncovered until the mixture is thick and syrupy. Serve warm.

French Mustard Vinaigrette

Makes 2-4 servings

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard (Amora or Maille preferred)

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

3 tablespoons olive oil

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Plan on 2 to 3 ounces of greens per person. Make the dressing in the bottom of the salad bowl and add the crisp, washed greens on top, tossing to coat at serving time, which is after the main course.

French Cheese Platter

Chevre (soft, unripened goat’s milk), St Agur (blue, cow’s milk), and St. Andre (triple crème cow’s milk)

Ripe pears, grapes, apples and figs

Baguettes

I think it’s time for another trip to France to check out Herve’s new venture!

The following article ran in the Centre Daily Times in 2007, after I had come back from an interesting trip to Costa Rica. We had a lot of fun experimenting with making the pupusas at home that year and it is a tradition worth honoring—before we start to observe all the other November traditions.

National Pupusa Day, or Dia Nacional de la Pupusa as it is called in El Salvador where it originated, is the second Sunday in November and celebrates a mainstay of the indigenous Pipil tribes that lived in El Salvador three millennia ago.  A thick corn tortilla hand-shaped from masa harina, the hearty snack food can be filled with shredded pork, cheese, chicken, beans—or a combination of fillings.  The pupusa is typically served with pickled cabbage and a spicy tomato sauce—and is a snack worthy of a day of homage.

            My first encounter with a pupusa was in Costa Rica when after a day of touring we headed to Raquel’s Taqueria in Santa Barbara, Heredia, a neighborhood restaurant that was always packed with locals standing in line at the take-out counter. I was happy to have to wait because it gave me time to go and see what the women in the back of the restaurant were doing.

             On a table were three bowls—a big bowl of masa dough, a bowl of shredded chicharrones  (pork), and a bowl of crumbly white cheese. Angelica Guillen Mengar, the owner of the restaurant, stood with cheerful expression and with deft fingers pinched some dough, flattened it expertly in her clapping hands, then grabbed a bit of pork and somehow miraculously enclosed it in one single slapping motion.  A perfectly round disk the size of her hand and about a half-inch thick emerged and hit a flat top griddle with a sizzle.  When it was evenly brown on the bottom, the pupusa was flipped to brown on the other side, then slipped onto a plate, topped with cabbage salad, and drizzled with a spicy sauce for the total package.

            Hispanic America has a seemingly endless repertoire of “things to make with cornmeal.”   In Mexico there are delicious tamales and now common tacos and enchiladas, but also empanadas and gorditas, “little fat ones,” similar to pupusas but open on one end and stuffed after frying. In Venezuela and Colombia, arepas are popular, with different manifestations; in Venezuela, the masa dough is fried then split and stuffed; in Columbia the arepas are eaten without filling, or the filling is put into the dough before cooking. 

            A native Costa Rican, Angelica made the pupusa production look easy and fun. She and other members of her family who work in the business have been doing so for 14 years.  With no pupuseria here in central PA, if you want to celebrate, you have to make them yourself. Masa harina is easy to come by in the ethnic aisles of local groceries, and the choice of filling is personal.  I used some crumbly homemade goat cheese and some hot Italian sausage cooked with minced onions and then thoroughly dusted with ground cumin. November is the kickoff month of the belt-widening holiday season and, for variety’s sake, National Pupusa Day is a fine place to start.

Pupusas (Salvadoran filled flatbreads)

Makes 8 pupusas

2 cups masa harina (a special type of cornmeal available in Spanish groceries or in the ethnic aisle of the supermarket, since there aren’t any Spanish groceries in Centre County—yet)

1 cup warm water

1 cup filling (cooked and crumbled hot sausage with onion and ground cumin made a tasty filling)

Classic filling variations:
Pupusas de Queso: cheese filling. Use grated quesillo, queso fresco,  farmer's cheese, mozzarella, or a combination.

Pupusas de Chicharrones: a filling of fried pork rinds and a little tomato sauce.

Pupusas de Frijoles Refritos:  refried bean filling.

Pupusas Revueltas: a mixture of chicharrones, cheese, and refried beans.

In a large bowl, mix together the masa harina and water and knead well. Knead in more water, one tablespoonful at a time, if needed to make a moist, yet firm dough. (It should not crack at the edges when you press down on it.) Working with one-fourth cup of massa dough at a time, roll the dough with your hands into a ball and press a hole in each ball with your thumb. Put about 1 tablespoon of desired filling into each ball and fold the dough over to completely enclose it. Press the ball out with your palms to form an even disc and flatten the dough from palm to palm, taking care that the filling doesn't spill out. (Easy for Angelica—not so easy for me!)  Heat an ungreased skillet over high heat. Cook each pupusa for about 1-2 minutes on each side till lightly browned and blistered. Remove to a plate and cover till all pupusas are done. Serve with curtido and salsa roja or your favorite pepper sauce.

Curtido (Salvadoran cabbage salad)

Makes 8 servings

one half of a head cabbage, shredded

1 carrot, peeled and grated

one half red onion, slivered

4 cups boiling water

one half cup white vinegar

one fourth cup water

one teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

Place cabbage, carrots, and onion in a large heat-proof bowl. Pour boiling water over the cabbage and carrots and let rest for about 5 minutes. Drain well in a colander, pressing out as much liquid as possible. Return the cabbage to the bowl and mix with the rest of the ingredients. Chill and serve as an accompaniment to pupusas.

Salsa Roja (Salvadoran tomato sauce)

Makes about 2 cups

2 tablespoons olive oil

one-fourth cup chopped onion

1 clove garlic, chopped

One serrano or jalapeno pepper, chopped

2 cups peeled, seeded, and chopped tomatoes

2 teaspoons dried oregano

Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a medium-sized saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, and chile and sauté for 2-3 minutes until the onion is translucent. Stir in the tomatoes and oregano and simmer for about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and allow to cool before putting the mixture in a blender and pulsing it until smooth.  Add a little water if needed. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

The following article ran in the Centre Daily Times in October 2008, my first year attending the oyster festival in southern Maryland. Because it is a perennial event, I will update highlights from this year’s competition. The perfect Indian Summer (thanks Winona) weather made for a spectacular day.

For an oyster lover, the event was a trip to the Holy Land.  Oysters on the half shell, oyster stew, oysters skewered, scalded, fried—oyster shooters lined up in little cups.  Oyster rafts for propagating your own backyard oyster garden, oyster crafts, oyster festival sweatshirts selling as briskly as the breeze from the Chesapeake Bay.  The reigning King Oyster, last year’s Rotary president, official greeter,  dressed in a red cape and crown, with an oyster knife around his neck, chatting and posing with some of this year’s 20,000 + attendees.  

U.S. National Oyster Festival in St. Mary’s County, Maryland at the fairgrounds near Leonardtown is a slice of Americana.  The venue is not unlike the Grange fairgrounds, but smaller, and more intimate.  Sponsored by the Rotary Club of St. Mary’s, the event has been celebrated for 42 years and marks the beginning of the serious oyster season. 

Historically, oysters were not eaten in months that don’t contain the letter “R”, that is, during the summer months when they spawn, but refrigeration has rendered that 15^th-century advice obsolete. Like other harbingers, oysters signal autumn and are at their succulent peak in the fall and winter.

In addition to dozens of food booths staffed by service organizations in the area, the festival also hosts two competitions—the national oyster shucking championship contest and the national oyster cook-off.  Both offer cash prizes, but clearly, the bigger motivation is bragging rights and, with the shucking competition, the chance to represent the U.S. at the international oyster shucking competition in Ireland.  Last year’s winner, William “Chopper” Young of Wellfleet, Massachusetts, took the title of 2008 World “Oyster Opening” Winner last month at the contest in Galway, the first American to ever win the international title in 32 years.

This year’s cook-off featured 12 contestants chosen from 350 entries in three categories--main dish, appetizer, and soup and stew.  The main dish winner, Michaela Rosenthal from Indio, California competed for the fourth year and entered each category, winning honors for her Oyster Pita Sandwiches with Lemon Tahini Sauce.  The grand prize winner, Brendan Cahill, is a local chef who owns the Old Field Inn located in nearby Prince Frederick and who wowed the crowd with a Cajun twist on the classic Angels on Horseback.

Marylanders showed support for their oyster industry at the festival, slurping up the bivalves and washing them down with Guinness served from a refrigerated 18-wheeler that rolled in and parked on the edge of the fairgrounds. 170 bushels, each bushel containing about 200 oysters, were opened by the Rotarians and other volunteers, a small army of helpers, all donating their time to showcase their local delicacy.  At a backyard barbecue at the end of the day held along the Patuxent River, local resident Alan Shick grilled 2 bushels of oysters for friends, several of them volunteers at the festival. Weren’t they tired of oysters? About as tired as we get of sweet corn in season. Never.

For information about the Oyster Cook-Off, check out their very informative website at www.marylandseafood.org. Or write to Oyster Cook-Off, P.O. Box 6553, D.E.C.D., Leonardtown, MD  20650

2008 Cook-Off Winning Recipe: Oysters en Brochette with Remoulade Sauce

By Chef Brendan Cahill

(Used with permission of the US National Oyster Cook-Off)

Makes 6

1 pint Maryland shucked oysters

12 pieces applewood smoked bacon

1 cup Cajun flour (1 cup flour with 3 tablespoons Cajun spice)

6 wooden skewers

For Oysters:

Lightly drain oysters, then dredge in Cajun flour, and set aside.  Cut bacon into equal lengths approximately 3 inches long and wrap one piece around each oyster. Skewer 4-5 oysters on each skewer and sauté in skillet 3 minutes per side.  Drizzle remoulade sauce on plates and top with oysters and garnish with fresh lemon.

Remoulade Sauce:

One half cup mayonnaise

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 pinch of Cajun spice (homemade or store-bought)

1 tablespoon capers

juice of 1 lemon

1 pinch fresh tarragon

For Sauce:

Combine all ingredients and gently mix with a large spoon.

Now for the 2023 Update:

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This is the season for most of us to be up our orange-stained elbows in pumpkins, scooping out large stringy masses of pulp-covered seeds.  Before starting to carve the jack-o-lantern, it’s wise to get your seeds cleaned and roasted, so you can have something to snack on after all the work is done.

                  Pumpkin seeds are valuable additions to diets, especially children’s that will soon be bombarded by an onslaught of empty calories.  Often discarded, the seeds can contribute protein, iron, magnesium, and potassium to systems ravaged by candy bars and too many sweets.

                  I admit to some personal perplexity about pumpkin seeds.  I remember them as a child, in a red box with a picture on the front of a Native American chief in a full headdress.  They were salty.  In fact, a thick white crust of salt on each concealed a barely perceptible seed.  They seemed the exact opposite of candy.  Indian brand pumpkin seeds are still available online today, a full fifty years after they were introduced.  At natural food stores, I’ve purchased what is labeled “pepitas” and used them to make tasty Mexican sauces.  They were green, had no shells, and were not salty at all.  And I’ve peered into and scraped clean many a pumpkin and found that the seeds within are white and somewhat woody.

                  Will the real pumpkin seed please stand up?

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