Fleisch's Axiom

My friend Fleisch (who had a supporting role in another blog post) is not much of a cook.  Unlike me, she does not enjoy cooking (a character trait which she inherited from her mother), unless one considers making a sandwich to be cooking.  However, she is very enthusiastic about food prepared by others, and does not hesitate to make pronouncements about food.  I have dubbed one of these pronouncements "Fleisch's Axiom," and it states:

All foods can be divided into two categories:  Foods which are improved by adding garlic, and foods which are improved by adding whipped cream.

It is difficult to find exceptions to Fleisch's Axiom.

So today's blog post is a tribute to Fleisch's axiom, with three recipes.  There is one recipe, Garlic Mashed Potatoes (adapted from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1) which uses massive amounts of garlic.  The next, Chocolate Mousse with Rum (adapted from The 1997 Joy of Cooking) uses a lot of whipped cream.  And the third, Raw Vegetable Dip with Horseradish and Garlic, uses both.  (Of course, one thinks of raw vegetables as a healthy snack.  This dip completely negates the health aspect of the veggies, but it is very tasty!)

If you should happen to have any garlic mashed potatoes left over, they are delicious the next morning for breakfast.  Simply drop a serving of them into hot butter in a skillet, and cook over medium heat until they develop a golden crust.  Flip, and do the same thing on the other side.  Serve with scrambled eggs for a delightful breakfast.


Garlic Mashed Potatoes

5 lbs. potatoes (Idaho-type potatoes work best for this recipe)
4 heads of garlic (Yes, you read that correctly.  Do not attempt this recipe with any less than that.)
1/2 cup (1/4 lb.) butter
4 T flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
2 cups milk
A few tablespoons cream (optional)

Peel and dice the potatoes.  Cover with salted water, and boil until tender.

Separate the garlic into cloves (depending on the garlic, there will probably be 50 to 60 cloves).  Bring a small saucepan of water to the boil, and drop the cloves of garlic into the boiling water.  Boil for 2 minutes, and drain.  Rinse the garlic with cold water so they are easier to handle, and peel.

In a medium saucepan, melt 1/4 lb. butter.  Cook the garlic in the melted butter on very low heat for about 20 minutes, or until the garlic is very tender but not browned.

When the garlic is very soft, increase the heat slightly, and add the flour.  Let the flour froth in the butter for 2 minutes, but do not let it brown.

While the butter and flour are frothing, heat the 2 cups of milk to nearly boiling.  Off the heat, pour all the boiling milk into the butter, flour, and garlic at once, add the salt and pepper, and beat vigorously.  Return to the heat, and boil for 1 minute, stirring constantly.

Drain the potatoes, and return to the pot.  Add the garlic sauce, and whip with a hand mixer until the potatoes are smooth.  If necessary for a smooth consistency, you may add a few tablespoons of cream or milk to the potatoes.

Serve piping hot.  This recipe makes a lot of mashed potatoes, at least enough for 10-12 servings.  But people also tend to eat more of these than they do normal mashed potatoes.


Chocolate Mousse with Rum

1/4 cup sugar
4 T rum
1/4 lb. semisweet chocolate
500 ml (1 pint) whipping cream
2 egg whites

Cook the sugar and rum together over very low heat until dissolved, but do not let it brown.

In a double boiler, melt the chocolate.  When the chocolate has melted, beat in 3 T. of the whipping cream.  Add the syrup to the melted chocolate, and stir until smooth.  Set the chocolate mixture aside to cool.

Whip the egg whites until they form stiff peaks.  When the chocolate mixture has cooled (but not chilled), fold the egg whites into it.

Whip the rest of the cream until stiff.  Fold the chocolate and egg white mixture gently into the whipped cream.

Spoon the mousse into champagne flutes or sherbet glasses, and chill.  Makes 8-10 servings.




Raw Vegetable Dip with Horseradish and Garlic

1 cup mayonnaise
1/2 cup ketchup
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 or 2 cloves garlic
2 T prepared horseradish
500 ml (1 pint) whipping cream

Mince the garlic very finely, or put it through a garlic press.  Combine the mayonnaise, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, and horseradish.  Whip the cream (unsweetened, of course), and fold it into the mayonnaise and ketchup mixture.

Let chill until firm.  Serve with plates of raw vegetables.

Merry Christmas to all!

It's Christmas Eve, and I've had a busy day.

For the first time in many years, I am not going to be able to go to Maryland for Christmas.  So I decided to cook a little Christmas dinner for a few friends who also do not have much family in Montreal.  I've spent most of today cooking.  I've made rosemary-roasted nuts, cream of peanut soup, cornbread stuffing, apple pie, and cranberry sauce.  Tomorrow I have to roast the turkey, cook the stuffing, make garlic mashed potatoes, and roast the vegetables.  None of those tasks are very onerous, so tomorrow should be a great deal of fun.

Tonight we had our Christmas Eve service at church (with lots of lovely Christmas carols), and then we went to Kit's house for drinks and snacks afterward.  I made egg nog, and brought some of the rosemary-roasted nuts.

Let me tell you about how I came to make the rosemary-roasted nuts.

On Wednesday night, I was on may way home from work on the Metro.  The train had just left Charlevoix station and was on its way to Lasalle station, when suddenly, it lost power and came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the tunnel.  We could overhear the two drivers on the intercom, saying that there was a fire at Lasalle station.  Then we began to smell smoke, and there was an announcement that service on the Green Line was interrupted due to smoke in the tunnel.  Well, the smell of the smoke wasn't that strong, but they clearly weren't going to start the train again any time soon.  Eventually they came on the intercom and told us that we would have to evacuate the train, and walk back through the tunnel to Charlevoix station.  The walk was arduous, on a narrow ledge on the side of the tunnel above the track, with only a grimy handrail to hold onto.  By the time I got back to the station, I was exhausted.

Of course there were no buses at the station to pick up all the stranded commuters.  Fortunately, I used to live near Charlevoix station, and my friends Rebecca and John live near there.  So I phoned their house, and Rebecca answered.  "Rebecca, would you like to do a Good Samaritan deed for the day?" I asked.  I explained my predicament, and asked if she could drive me the rest of the way home.  "I'll be there in five minutes," Rebecca replied.

It took her slightly more than five minutes, but I didn't mind.  When I sat in the car, she handed me a parchment paper envelope filled with warm nuts.  "I was just making these when you called," she said, "and I took a little longer because I wanted to bring you some."

I tasted them.  They were wonderful.  They were sweet, salty, and spicy, all at the same time, and still slightly warm.  It made the whole ordeal seem not so bad.

Afterward, I decided that the nuts would make a marvelous accompaniment to my cranberry and gin punch that I plan on serving to my dinner guests when they arrive.  So I asked Rebecca for the recipe, and made some myself.

Thank you, Rebecca, for rescuing me, and for the gift of those delicious nuts!


Rosemary-roasted nuts

1 lb. unsalted mixed nuts
1/3 cup butter
2 T. fresh rosemary leaves, finely chopped
3 T. brown sugar
1 T. white sugar
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper (a whole teaspoon if you enjoy things spicy)
a pinch freshly-ground black pepper
2 tsp. kosher salt or sea salt

Heat oven to 375°.

Spread the nuts onto a baking sheet, and roast them in a 375° oven for about ten minutes, or just until they begin to be fragrant and change color slightly.  Remove from oven.

In a saucepan large enough to accommodate all the nuts, melt the better, and add the chopped rosemary leaves, brown and white sugar, cayenne pepper, black pepper, and salt.  Bring to a boil, and cook 2 minutes, stirring constantly.  Add the nuts, and stir well to ensure all the nuts are evenly coated.

Spread coated nuts on the baking sheet again to cool.  They are wonderful if eaten warm, or if left to cool completely.


Cranberry and gin punch

1 liter cranberry juice cocktail
1 liter club soda
375 ml (about a cup and a half) dry gin
a little splash of Grand Marnier or other orange liqueur

Serve over ice.

Serendipity - Updated with Margaret's recipe

**Update** - Margaret got back into town, and she shared her recipe with me.  It turns out that my memory, as often happens, was faulty.  It was not Cayenne Zucchini Bread that she made, but Cayenne Pumpkin bread.  Jump ahead for the recipe.

Necessity is the mother of invention, the saying goes.  And dumb luck never hurts, either. Often a cook will have to substitute what's available for what's called for in the recipe, and discover that the substitution works better.   But sometimes the best cooking inventions come about totally by accident.  That's what I call serendipity.

Just today, as the gang from church was having a post-church brunch in the restaurant across the street, Pat (who starred in another one of my posts, with her name poorly disguised) was telling me about a baby shower she was hosting at her house.  She was baking a cake for the guests, and had poured the cake batter into a springform pan instead of a tube pan.  The time for the guests to arrive was swiftly approaching, but the cake was far from done.  While the edges were cooked, the center was still soft and gooey.  So she took the cake from the oven, scooped out the soft center, and returned it to the oven.  Meanwhile, she whipped some cream with a little sugar and some lemon zest.  She had already prepared some lemon custard with sweetened condensed milk.  Once the center batter had been scooped out, the rest of the cake was ready in short order.  Of course, it didn't look very pretty.  So Pat removed it from the springform pan, let it cool a bit, filled the center with the lemon custard, and slathered the whole thing with the whipped cream.  The dessert was a huge success, and Pat got lots of compliments.

I also remember some zucchini  pumpkin bread that my friend Margaret made one time.  She passed it around during a church meeting, but apologized for it in advance, saying she didn't know what it was going to taste like.  While making it, she had reached into her spice cabinet for what she thought was cinnamon - and dumped in a couple of teaspoons of cayenne pepper instead.  It was already stirred into the batter before she realized her mistake.  So she baked it anyway, and we all tried a piece.  It was delicious!  The cayenne pepper gave it just a bit of a bite, and stimulated the taste buds.  Now, Margaret makes her zucchini pumpkin bread that way on purpose!  (Unfortunately, she's out of town right now - as soon as she gets back, I'm going to get her recipe and publish it.  Keep checking this post for the recipe.)

But my favorite serendipitous cooking discovery belongs to my Grandma Sauder.  Grandma was a baker par excellence.  When she was a young woman, she and her sisters owned and operated a bake shop in Newport News, Virginia.  Grandma's specialty was pies.

Grandma's pie crusts were a thing of beauty.  They were invariably light and flaky, and always picture-perfect.  Once, when I was in my early twenties, I asked her to show me her technique, so I could learn it too.  Grandma's preferred shortening was pure lard, and she made pie crusts by feel.  Although she used rough measurements, she would always reserve a half cup of the flour when combining it with the lard, and add the rest of the flour only if it felt like it needed it.  She did not use a fork or a pastry blender; she always worked the lard in with her hands.  I remember she told me that the flour and lard had been properly combined when it felt like coarse cornmeal and small peas.  Grandma also said that pure lard took less flour than vegetable shortening.  Then, she would add ice cold water, a little at a time, just until the dough held together when pressed between the fingers.  She was able to roll her dough out in a way I've never managed.

Try as I might, I've never been able to duplicate Grandma's pie crusts.  (My Uncle Don, on the other hand, made pie crusts with her several times, and his are awfully good.)  So nowadays, I often just buy pie crust.  I'm just never quite satisfied with the ones I make - mostly because I'm comparing them to Grandma's perfection.

Grandma made all kinds of pies.  Grandpa was something of a scavenger - he would buy fruits that were about to go bad (or that were already half-bad) for next to nothing, and Grandma would turn them into pies.  They would also stop by the side of the road to pick wild fruit.  I remember Grandma's elderberry pies.  They were one of my favorites.  She also made other berry pies, peach pies, mincemeat pies, and shoo fly pies.  But Grandma's best pies were her apple pies.  They were wonderful.  And I'm about to share her secret with you.

Grandma said that she discovered the secret to apple pie because she had five children.  She would peel and slice her apples, combine them with the sugar, flour, and spices, and then set them aside while she went and attended to the children's needs.  When she got back around to baking the pies, she discovered that the apples, while sitting around, had become a bit soupy.  The sugar and the spices had penetrated the apples, and created a sauce.  When baked in Grandma's perfect pie crusts, they became the most marvelous apple pies in the world.

Grandma went on to her reward in 1989.  But her apple pies live on, as her serendipitous secret has been passed down to succeeding generations.  And now you know it, too!

Alice and J. Paul Sauder, 1964

Cayenne Zucchini Pumpkin Bread

1 3/4 cup flour
1/4 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cayenne pepper
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1 1/3 cups sugar
1/3 cup shortening
2 eggs
1 cup pumpkin (cooked or canned)
1/3 cup water
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup chopped pecans
1/3 cup dried cranberries or dried apricots (or a combination of both)

Preheat oven to 350°.

Combine the dry ingredients, along with the chopped pecans and dried fruit, in a mixing bowl.  In a separate bowl, beat the sugar and shortening together until light and fluffy.  Add the eggs and beat until smooth.  Add the pumpkin, and then the milk and the vanilla, and beat until smooth.

Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients.  Stir just until all the dry ingredients have been moistened.  The batter will still be lumpy.

Pour batter into a greased loaf pan and bake about 1 hour or until a knife inserted into the center comes out clean.

Cool, slice and serve. 

Pie crust (for a 2-crust 9-inch pie)

2 1/4 cups flour

2/3 cup pure lard

1/2 tsp salt

1/3 cup cold water

In a mixing bowl, combine the flour and salt (reserving 1/2 cup of the flour).  Cut lard into flour with a pastry blender or two knives.  (Grandma would have done it with her hands.)  Add reserved flour as necessary, but do not overmix; it should feel like a mixture of coarse cornmeal and small peas. 

Add water gradually, sprinkling 1 tablespoon of water at a time over the mixture.  Combine lightly with a fork until all particles of flour have been dampened.  Use only enough water to hold the pastry together when it is pressed between the fingers.  It should not feel wet.

Roll dough into a round ball, handling as little as possible.  Wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate for an hour.  Then divide into two balls.  Roll out on a lightly floured board.  Dough should be about 1/4 inch thick, and 1 inch larger than the diameter of the top of the pie plate.

The second (top) crust does not need to be quite so wide.

Grandma's Serendipitous Apple Pie (one 9-inch pie)

3 cups sliced apples

2/3 cup sugar

1 tablespoon flour

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon or nutmeg (or 1/4 tsp of each - I prefer nutmeg)

2 tablespoons milk or cream

2 tablespoons butter (optional)

1/4 cup chopped nuts (optional)

Pastry for two 9-inch crusts (see above)

Note - I have 10-inch deep-dish pie plates.  Although the amount of pie dough necessary is about the same (the above recipe will always leave you with leftovers), that extra inch means I need to double the amount of filling.

Combine apples, sugar, flour, spices, and milk or cream in a mixing bowl.  Mix together well, and cover with plastic wrap.  Set aside (unrefrigerated) for at least 45 minutes; 2 hours is better.  Apples will develop a liquid.

Roll out the pie dough, place it in the pie plate, and fill with the apples.  Add dots of butter over the top, if desired, and sprinkle on the optional nuts if you are using them.  (I don't remember Grandma putting nuts into her apple pies, but I like to do so if I have some on hand.)

Roll out the top crust and place it on the pie, and fasten the top and bottom crust together securely at the edges (dipping your fingers in water helps make this easier).  You can also make a lattice crust for the top, if you desire.

Bake in a 400° oven for 50 minutes.

Egg Nog Update

After my last post, my friend Betsy searched through her recipe files, and found her mother's original recipe (which was actually Mrs. Becker's mother-in-law's recipe), written in her own hand! 

(Click on the recipe to see a bigger version of it.)

It turns out that my recollection of the proportions and the technique were pretty accurate; the only thing that I had not remembered correctly was that her recipe called for either rum or brandy in addition to the bourbon.  However, I've always made it with just bourbon, and it is excellent that way, too.

Mrs. Becker's Egg Nog - Updated

A quick note to my readers - I recently started a new job.  That's why my posts have become much less frequent.  But I do plan on continuing the blog!

Well, with the holidays coming up, I thought I'd talk a little bit about egg nog.  When I was a youngster, the only egg nog I ever knew was this commercial non-alcoholic stuff that my father used to buy.  It was overly sweet, overly thick, overly spiced, and I couldn't take much more than a few sips of it.  I had also had non-alcoholic homemade egg nog, at the Shanks' house.  The Shanks were our dear family friends, and they would host a New Year's Eve party nearly ever year, and Ann Shank would serve homemade egg nog. It was considerably better than the store-bought stuff.  But of course, being raised in a teetotaling household, I had never tasted egg nog the way most people drink it, which is an alcoholic treat.

When I was a little older, I was served egg nog with alcohol a few times at some friends' houses, and I was nonplussed.  The alcohol usually tasted too strong, and it just didn't have a pleasant flavor.  It was made with rum, and the flavor of the rum overpowered the subtle flavors of the eggs and the milk.  So I figured egg nog was just one of those things I didn't like.

And then, one holiday season, I was visiting my friend Betsy Becker's house.  I can't even remember why I was there; usually when I was at the Beckers, it was with the whole gang from high school, but this time I don't recall the rest of the gang being there.  But some other friends of the Beckers were there, and Mrs. Becker offered everyone some egg nog.  Well, I didn't have any high hopes, but I didn't want to appear rude, so I took a glass.

I lifted it to my lips and tasted.  It was an altogether marvelous elixir.  It was just sweet enough, just creamy enough, just alcoholic enough, and whatever liquor was in it complemented, rather than overpowered, the other flavors.  "Mrs. Becker," I exclaimed, "This is wonderful!  What is your secret?"

Her secret, it turned out, was bourbon.  That was what all the other egg nogs I had been served had been getting wrong.  She also used confectioner's sugar to sweeten it.  I asked her for her recipe, and she gave it to me.

So I've been making egg nog ever since, and I always call it Mrs. Becker's egg nog.  I've long since lost the actual recipe Mrs. Becker gave me, and I just make it from memory.  But here is how I do it.  If you try to make it, be sure to give Mrs. Becker the credit!

A word of caution:  This recipe calls for raw eggs.  Raw eggs always carry the risk of salmonella.  If that's a concern for you, you probably shouldn't try this.  But you'll be missing out.  And remember, if you ever stick your finger in the raw cookie dough, or eat your eggs over-easy, you're already taking the risk.


Mrs. Becker's Egg Nog

6 extra-large eggs
1 cup confectioner's (icing) sugar
Bourbon
2 liters milk
1 cup whipping cream
Freshly grated nutmeg

Separate the eggs, and reserve the whites.

In a large punch bowl, beat the egg yolks with a wire whisk until they are lemony yellow.  Gradually beat in the confectioner's sugar until the egg yolks and sugar are fluffy.  Gradually beat in the bourbon.  (How much bourbon, you ask?  It depends on how drunk you want your guests to get.  I'd start with about a cup or a cup and a half.  You can always add more later.  You could also omit the bourbon altogether, if you don't want to serve alcohol.)

Now beat in the two liters of milk.  This is where you can taste it and add more bourbon if you'd like.

In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until they are fluffy but still somewhat soft.  Float the beaten egg whites on top of the egg nog.

In the same bowl as you beat the egg whites, whip the cream to about the same consistency as you did the egg whites.  Float the whipped cream on top of the egg nog with the egg whites.

Please note - you can whip both the egg whites and the cream in the same bowl, but you must whip the egg whites first.  If you whip the cream first, the egg whites will never stiffen.

Grate fresh nutmeg over the top and serve.  Be sure to refrigerate any leftovers immediately.

This makes quite a bit of egg nog, easily enough for 10 or 15 people.

Update:  Betsy Becker tells me that her Mom would sometimes use both bourbon and rum, or bourbon and brandy - but always bourbon.  I stick to the bourbon.

Mildred and the Sand Tarts

Mildred was a beagle.  She was our family pet in the late 70's and early 80's.

Mildred was a great dog.  She was smart, and loyal, and the only one of our beagles who managed to not get herself run over and killed by a car.  She loved all of us, but especially my mother - she refused to sleep anywhere else except under Mom's bed.

Mildred was not aware that she was not human.  She fully thought of herself as one of the family.

She also had a sweet tooth.  Mildred dearly loved candy.  At Christmas time, Mom would always have little dishes of hard candies on coffee tables and other places around the house.  If you were sitting in a chair next to a dish of candy, Mildred would sit in front of you, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, and whimper softly.  She was entirely irresistible, and she would pester you until you gave in and fed her a piece of candy.  However, we could leave the house with her alone in it, and she would not steal the candy while we were away.  She only ever once tried to steal candy, and that was when there was a dish of candy sitting on top of the piano.  We were all in the kitchen when suddenly we heard a loud note from the piano.  We went into the living room, and there was Mildred.  Her hind legs were on the piano bench, her left leg was poised motionless in mid-air, and her right leg was on the piano key which had told on her.  She was looking in our direction, and had an expression on her face that said, "Uh-oh.  I got caught."  Of course, we all laughed hysterically.

Every year at Christmas, Mom would let us help make sand tarts.  Sand tarts are the absolutely tastiest sugar cookies in the entire world.  Mom got the recipe from my paternal grandmother, and I'm sure it has been handed down for many generations.  I don't know why they are called sand tarts.  I suspect it's a bastardization of some German word, but I don't really know.  All I know is that they're simple and crisp and buttery and my favorite cookies ever.

So every year, Mom would mix up a batch of sand tarts, roll them out, cut them with cookie cutters, and place them on cookie sheets (or on sheets of aluminum foil, which would later go on the cookie sheets).  Then it was our job to brush them with an egg wash and sprinkle them with colored sugar.  Then she would bake them, and remove them to a rack to cool.  Often, she would make sand tarts (and other Christmas cookies) ahead of time, and put them in the freezer.  I got pretty adept at opening the freezer noiselessly and stealing cookies!  (Actually, I was a little too good at it - once, I did it so often that Mom ended up not having enough cookies, and I got in trouble.)

So one year, when we were making sand tarts, we thought they would make lovely decorations for the Christmas tree.  So we poked little holes in the cookie dough before they were baked, and then when they were cooled, we put ornament hangers in the holes, and decorated the Christmas tree with sand tarts.  The tree looked very pretty.

And then, one day, we noticed that there were only sand tarts on the top half of the tree!  Mildred had been unable to resist the temptation of the low-hanging cookies, and had eaten them all up.

Here's the recipe for sand tarts.  I'm a little hesitant to give it.  It seems so easy, but one year I made a batch and took them into the office.  Everyone wanted the recipe, and two women actually tried to make them.  One of them had cookies that looked perfect, but had absolutely no taste.  She vowed that she had used real butter and pure vanilla extract, but I suspect she substituted something somewhere.  The other one made cookies that tasted good, but which she had not rolled out very thin, and they were as hard as hockey pucks.  So just remember this:  use only real butter (I always use salted butter) and pure vanilla extract.  And roll them as thinly as you can, less than 1/8 of an inch.

Sand tarts

1 lb. confectioner's (icing) sugar (about 3 3/4 cups, or a little less than 1/2 kg.)
1/2 lb. butter (I use salted butter.  If using unsalted butter, you would need to add a little salt to the dough.)
2 eggs
1 lb. flour (3-4 cups)
2 tsp. vanilla
1 egg, beaten with 1 T. water
Colored sugar for decoration (you can buy colored sugar, or just add some food coloring to granulated sugar)

If you have a stand mixer, it is perfect for making sand tarts.  Otherwise, you can make the dough by hand, but it will take a little longer.

Cream the butter and sugar together until they are light and fluffy.  Add the eggs and vanilla, and mix until they are well incorporated.  Add the flour a cup at a time, and mix until the dough has a consistency similar to pie dough, and can be easily rolled out.

Roll out the dough paper-thin - less than 1/8 of an inch thick.  Cut them out with cookie cutters or with a glass turned upside-down, and transfer them to cookie sheets.  (Because I only have two cookie sheets, I cut all the cookies out and put them onto aluminum foil.  I then just transfer the foil to the cookie sheets as each batch comes out of the oven.)

Brush each cookie with the egg wash, and sprinkle with colored sugar.  You can also use other decorations such as colored sprinkles or cinnamon hearts.

Bake at 400° for about 8 minutes, or until golden brown.  Because they are so thin, sand tarts burn easily, so don't wait for 8 minutes before checking on them.  You should check on them at 6 minutes, to ensure they don't burn.

Remove them to a cooling rack.  Cookies will crisp up as they cool.

This recipe makes A LOT of cookies - probably 12 dozen or so.  I've developed my own tradition living alone - one December Saturday, I put my recording of The Messiah on the CD player, and make sand tarts.  By the time The Messiah is finished, so are the sand tarts.

A Clash of Cultures

Warning:  This blog post contains coarse language.  Reader discretion is advised.

Ever since I first had it as a boy, I have loved Chinese food - that is, once I learned that chicken chow mein wasn't really Chinese, and tasted more authentic Chinese food in a restaurant.  As I matured, I learned to love even the more exotic (to a Western palate, anyway) elements of Chinese foods, and learned that saying "Chinese food" is a little akin to saying "European food," because regional Chinese cuisines are as different from one another as Spanish cooking is from German food. 

I've never been shy about trying out unusual items on Chinese menus.  I love going for dim sum, and the opportunity it provides to sample some of the exotic fare without having to commit to a whole plateful of it.  So I've tried chicken's feet (tasty), duck's feet (nasty), tripe (chewy), beef tendons (odd texture), and cuttlefish (yummy if a bit rubbery), among others.  It's been said that if it moves, the Chinese will eat it.

In fact, there have been persistent rumors about Chinese restaurants in North America surreptitiously serving up animals we keep as pets to unsuspecting diners as food.  Although this rumor has been largely debunked, people still believe that Chinese restaurants serve cat.  And that leads me to today's story.

Unlike most of my stories, I can put the exact date on this one.  It was October 16, 1979.  That was the fall that my beloved Baltimore Orioles were in the World Series against the Pittsburgh Pirates.  I had managed to get two tickets to Game 6, and had gone to the game with my best friend from high school, Fleisch.  (Fleisch's real name is Suzanne, but we always called her by a shortened version of her last name.)  Sadly, the Orioles lost, 4-0.  Now, those of us who remember Memorial Stadium in Baltimore remember that the least attractive aspect of that ballpark was the parking.  There weren't enough parking spots for a regular-season game, and finding parking for the World Series was next to impossible.  Fleisch and I had eventually found parking some distance away, and we were walking back to our car.

As we walked back, we passed a small Chinese carry-out shop.  I don't think you could even call it a restaurant, technically, as there were no tables, and not even a chair to sit while your food was being prepared.  But we decided we were hungry, and  went into the shop.  We looked at the menu on the wall, made our selection, ordered, and began waiting for our food.

I can no longer remember what we had to eat.  But I can tell you what the two young African-American women who had ordered before us and were waiting for their food had ordered.  That is because we overheard their conversation.  And it went something like this (and the conversation took place in full ebonics, which somehow made the whole thing funnier, and which I'll attempt to reproduce here):

"I ordered the shrimp.  What you order?"

"I ordered the pork."

"Girl, what wrong wit' you?  What you doin' orderin' pork in a Chinese restaurant?  You ain't never seen no CAT runnin' 'round in back of no Chinese restaurant!  You don't order no pork in a Chinese restaurant!  You order pork in a Chinese restaurant, you ain't know what you get!  That's why I ordered the shrimp.  You cain't fool* wit' no shrimp!"

* "Fool" is not the word she actually used.  She used a word which begins with the same letter, but which is considerably more vulgar, and would offend many of my readers.

It was all Fleisch and I could do to not break out into guffaws.  But we did manage to wait until they had left to laugh out loud.  And we've carried that incident with us ever since.  Even today, when she and I go out for Chinese food, we'll look at each other and say, "Let's order the shrimp!"


I've never been particularly good at creating Chinese food myself.  However, a few years ago, there was a Chinese restaurant in the food court near where I worked that made a dish called "Noodles with Spicy Meat Sauce" which I really liked.  I asked what kind of meat was used in it, and they told me pork.  It also had lots of seasonings and a peanut-based sauce.  I thought that I could probably recreate that one, so I bought some ground pork, and it turned out surprisingly well.  As a matter of fact, I think it turned out better than the original.  Here's my recipe for it:


Chinese Noodles with Spicy Meat Sauce


1 lb. ground cat pork
3 T. vegetable oil
4 or 5 scallions (green onions), chopped
2 T. freshly grated (or finely chopped) ginger
5 or 6 small chilis, finely chopped (depends on how hot you like it, and how hot the chilis are. You could also use a jalopeno, or dried red pepper flakes, to taste.)
3 large cloves garlic, finely minced
1/2 cup unsalted peanuts
1 cup smooth peanut butter
1 tsp. salt
1 lb. lo mein noodles (You can get these in a Chinese market. You could also just use spaghetti, if you can't find the Chinese noodles.)

Saute scallions, ginger, and chilis in the oil until soft. Add minced garlic, and saute until golden. Add ground cat pork, sprinkle on the salt, and saute until the meat has lost all its red color. Then add the peanuts and peanut butter.

Serve over lo mein noodles. You may need to add some of the water from the noodles to get the proper consistency for the sauce.

Mom Commits a Faux Pas

When we made our trip to Kenya in December 1987 and January 1988, there was a man named Kibugi who attended my sister's church and who came from a rural area in Kenya not far from the town where my brother and sister-in-law were living.  Kibugi prevailed upon Carol to carry some Christmas gifts to his mother and family, and she of course obliged.

Let me tell you about the role of mothers in Kenya.  Although Kenyan culture remains very patriarchal, motherhood is a state of very high honor.  Once a Kenyan woman has borne a child, she is often no longer referred to by her own name, but rather by the honorific "Mama" and the name of her child, usually the firstborn.  So I really don't know the name of one of the main characters in this story.  We just called her Mama Kibugi, and she was, of course, the mother of my sister's friend.

Once we had arrived in Kenya, my brother contacted Kibugi's family, and told them that we had gifts for them from their son in America, and they arranged to come to Jerry and Donna's house to collect the gifts.  They arrived, and were very happy to meet all of us, and thrilled with the presents, which included a fancy dress that Kibugi had sent his mother.  And then, as is the Kenyan custom, they insisted that we come to visit them at their home for a meal.

Kenyans are very hospitable people.  Even the poorest will invite you into their home, and serve you something, even if it is just tea.  (The Kenyans brew their tea very strong, and serve it with equal amounts of hot milk, and very sweet.)  It's quite humbling.  These people who have even less than North Americans who rely on welfare are always willing to share what little they have.  Those who have a little more will, of course, offer their guests more.

I had learned in my earlier trip to Kenya that the highest honor a Kenyan could bestow upon a dinner guest was to serve chicken.  It is not budget food there.  It is special occasion food.  If a rural Kenyan serves chicken, it is not something she bought at the local supermarket or butcher.  It is livestock from her back yard that she has slaughtered.  It's the African equivalent of killing the fatted calf.

So on the appointed day, we were off to Mama Kibugi's house.  There were quite a few of them living in that small house (something that is not all all unusual there).  There were several other sons, a daughter-in-law, and some grandchildren, as well as two of Mama Kibugi's sisters.  Mama Kibugi was a teacher in a school not far from their house.  She had taken the day off work to receive us, but we walked to the school to see where she taught and to meet the schoolchildren.  I believe it was the first time some of those children had ever met someone of European descent.

Then we went back to the house for the meal.  The Kibugi family is from the Kikuyu tribe.  Most traditional Kikuyu food is rather bland, but quite heavy.  They make a dish called githeri, which is beans and dried corn cooked together, and they also make something called irio, which is a Kikuyu version of mashed potatoes and peas.  Irio is what Mama Kibugi served us that day, along with some fresh fruit, and of course, tea.  We ate our fill, and those potatoes and peas were feeling rather heavy in our stomach.

It was only when we were already stuffed with the irio that Mama Kibugi produced a blue-green plastic bowl of chicken.  In my mother's defense (and you will soon see why she needs defending), the chicken didn't look very appetizing.  It looked like it had just been boiled, and there didn't appear to be any spices or seasoning of any kind on it.  The bowl containing the chicken had been covered by a plate, but as soon as the plate was removed, flies started buzzing about it.  Mama Kibugi took this plastic bowl of chicken, proffered it to my mother, and said, "Have some chicken."  Mom, unaware of the honor that was being bestowed upon her, looked at that rather unappetizing plastic bowl of plain boiled chicken and said, "Oh, my, I've eaten so much today that I don't think I could possibly eat anything else!"

Stunned silence fell over the room.  Mama Kibugi looked at my mother with an uncomprehending stare.  "But it's chicken!" she said, giving the bowl a little shake.

Mom looked like a deer caught in the headlights.  I was just a little too far from her to be able to kick her under the table.  So I looked at her with a deadly serious expression on my face, and said quietly but firmly through clenched teeth, "Mother, eat chicken."

Mom got the message.  She said, "Well, I'll just have a small piece, then!" and helped herself to a chicken wing.  Everyone smiled, the rest of us each took a piece of chicken, and pleasant conversation resumed.  An international incident had been averted.

A few years later, Mama Kibugi and one of her sisters came to the U.S. to visit her son.  My mother invited them to their house for dinner.  And of course, she served chicken!

Here are two pictures of the Kibugi family.  The first one is of Mama Kibugi (wearing the dress that her son had sent her), with her sons, daughter-in-law, and grandson.  The second is of her two sisters.

Here are some recipes for Kenyan tea, irio, and githeri.


Kenyan Tea

A pot of freshly-brewed black tea, brewed very strong  (If you can find tea grown in Kenya, use it.)
Milk which has been brought to the boiling point
Sugar

Pour equal amounts of strong tea and hot milk into a teacup.  Add lots of sugar.


Irio

1/2 cup dried green split peas
1 lb. potatoes
1 medium onion, chopped
1 cup canned, frozen, or fresh corn (optional)
2 T. vegetable oil
2 T. butter
1 tsp. salt

A note about the corn - Kenyans do not eat sweet corn.  They refer to what they eat as maize, and it is what we would call field corn.  For this dish, they would use fresh (not dried) field corn.

Put the dried peas into about 4 cups of water with the salt.  Bring to a boil, and reduce the heat.  Let simmer for about 20 or 30 minutes, until the peas are beginning to soften.

Peel and dice the potatoes.  When the peas have begun to soften, add the potatoes to the peas.  Continue cooking until the potatoes and peas are both quite soft.

In a small skillet, saute the onion in the vegetable oil and butter until they are soft.  Drain the potatoes and peas (leaving enough liquid to mash them), add the sauteed onions, and mash with a potato masher until they have a smooth consistency.  Stir in the optional corn.

Add salt and pepper to taste.  You may want to add a little butter for flavor, although the Kenyans would probably not use butter at all.  My sister seems to recall Mama Kibugi adding large globs of Crisco to the irio as she mashed it.


Githeri

1 cup dried red kidney beans
1 cup dried corn (see above note on corn - you could use hominy if you can't find dried corn)
1 medium onion, chopped
2 T. vegetable oil
1 tsp. salt

Soak the beans overnight in a large quantity of water.  Add the dried corn and salt, and cook together for about 2 hours, or until both the beans and the corn are soft.  By the time the beans and corn are done cooking, most of the water should have cooked off.

Saute the onion in the vegetable oil, and add it to the githeri.  Stir and add salt and pepper to taste.

The Best Fish I Never Ate

In 1987 and 1988, my brother Jerry and his wife Donna were working as missionaries in Kenya.  In October of 1987, their first son, Jonathan, was born there.  Since Jonathan was my parents' first grandchild, we were all anxious to meet this new addition to the family.  So we decided to have our family Christmas in Africa that year, and all but my brother Jeff flew to Kenya for the holidays.

We had a grand time.  I got to visit with some old friends (this was my second trip to Kenya; my first trip had been four years earlier) and meet new ones.  We all experienced the warm welcome and generosity of the Kenyan people and of course saw some spectacular sights and amazing wildlife.

While there, we took a real tourist vacation to the ocean.  About 30 km. south of Mombasa there's a lovely beach called Diani Beach.  We rented a villa there for three days.  It was a wonderfully relaxing time.  We were right on the beach at the Indian Ocean.  There was a coral reef a few hundred feet out, and we took a small wooden boat out there to look at the sea creatures on the reef. 

We were informed that local people could be hired to cook and clean for us while we were there.  So we hired a local man by the name of Sam who worked for us for the princely sum of 50 shillings (about $4-$5 U.S.) for the entire time we were there.  Sam was terrific.  He would show up early in the morning.  If we were not up yet, he would wash the car or do the laundry and hang it up to dry.  And then he would cook three meals a day for us.  We loved the delicious tropical fruits, and had made a visit to a local market to buy some - mangoes, papayas, passion fruit, bananas, pineapples - and we asked Sam to make us a big bowl of fruit salad for breakfast.  Well, we ate the entire bowl.  And we asked for more fruit salad for lunch.  I believe we ended up eating a big bowl of fruit salad at every meal he fixed for us!  Sam seemed a little amused at our love for his fruit salad.  But it was really delicious.  At the end of our time, we gave him 75 shillings instead of the 50 he has asked for.  He seemed overwhelmed by our generosity, but we felt a little cheap.

When we had been to town to pick up the fresh fruit, we had to, of course, bargain in the market for the fruit.  Jerry told us that we got cheated, and we had paid far too much.  It didn't seem like much to us, but Jerry and Donna had long since gotten over the charm of the bargaining system, and of the fact that prices were higher for them than they were for the locals, simply because of the color of their skin.  They had become ruthless bargainers.

And so, one morning, a local boy came to our door, peddling his wares.  And what he had that morning was a single, huge, spectacularly beautiful, deep blue parrot fish. 

If my recollection is correct, the fish he had was even bluer than the one in this photograph.  It was beautiful.  It was obviously very fresh - the eyes were bright, and it looked as thought it had been caught only minutes before.  It was huge - at least a foot long, thick and meaty, and more than enough to feed all of us.  I wanted that fish for my supper.  And Donna came out, and began bargaining with the boy.  He gave her his starting price, and she gave him one much lower.  He came down a little, and she went up a little.  On they went, until the boy reached his limit.  He refused to come down any farther.  And Donna refused to go up any farther.  At this point, they were only three shillings apart.  But Donna said, "No!" and shooed the boy away with a dismissive wave of the hand.  He left on his bicycle, with that gorgeous fish still in his basket.  I was too stunned to call him back and tell him that I'd be happy to pay the 3 shillings.

"But Donna!"  I exclaimed, "You were only 3 shillings apart!  That's A QUARTER!!!" 

"It doesn't matter," she snapped, "It's the principle of the thing."

"But I wanted that fish," I whimpered to myself.

I never did find out how parrot fish tasted.  It was the best fish I never ate.

If I had a fish like that today, I'd probably debone it and stuff it.  As a matter of fact, I prepared a red snapper much this way for the rehearsal dinner for Jerry and Donna's wedding.

Baked fish stuffed with seafood

1 large 3-5 lb. whole striped bass (called "rock fish" in Maryland), red snapper, or parrot fish (if your sister-in-law hasn't driven too hard a bargain)
6 medium or 12 small shrimp
6 scallops (or 1/4 lb. small bay scallops)
1 cup crab meat
2 T chopped parsley
2 T chopped onion
1/4 cup chopped celery
2 cups soft bread crumbs
1/2 cup melted butter
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp Old Bay seasoning (if you can't get Old Bay where you live, use another seafood seasoning, or a combination of cayenne pepper, black pepper, celery salt, and thyme)
Salt and pepper


Debone the fish.  It's not as hard as it sounds, and it makes for easier serving and eating.  Here's how to do it.

The fish will have a slit in its belly where it was cleaned.  Extend that slit all the way from the head to the tail.  Doing so exposes the backbone.  On the front half of the backbone, rib bones extend down the sides of the fish.  Using your fingers and a small, sharp knife, pry those rib bones away from the flesh of the fish, all the way up to the backbone.  Once all the rib bones are loose, use the same technique to loosen the backbone, and pry it away from the flesh of the fish.  Now, grab the fish's head at the gills, and gently snap it backwards so that it separates from the backbone, and do the same thing with the tail.  Now you should be able to lift away the entire backbone and rib bones in one piece.  Carefully feel the fish to ensure all the bones have been removed.  If you find any, pull them out with a pair of tweezers.  The fish is now ready to be stuffed.

Preheat oven to 400°, or fire up the grill.

Peel and devein the shrimp.  If using the 6 large scallops, cut them into halves.  Pick through the crab meat to ensure any pieces of shell have been removed.

In a small skillet, saute the onion and celery in about 1/4 cup of melted butter.  When the vegetables are soft, add them to the soft bread crumbs, parsley and seasonings, and toss until well distributed.  Now, add the seafood and mix carefully so as not to bruise the shellfish.

Spread a double thickness of aluminum foil on the bottom of a long, shallow baking dish, big enough to accommodate the entire fish.  Be sure to use enough foil to be able to wrap the entire fish.  Pour about half the remaining melted butter onto the aluminum foil, and smear it around (this is to prevent the fish from sticking to the foil).

Open the fish and sprinkle the insides with salt and pepper.  Lay the fish in the baking dish and loosely pack the stuffing into the fish.  Fold the fish over the stuffing.  There's no need to tie it, because the foil will hold it together.  Pour the remaining melted butter over the top of the fish.  Now, fold the foil over the fish, and seal it with a double lengthwise fold.  Tuck the ends of the foil under the fish.

Place the fish in the middle of the preheated oven, or carefully lift it onto the grill, and close the grill cover.  Bake for 45 minutes.

Take the fish out of the oven and let it rest for 10 minutes, still sealed in the foil.  (If you are cooking on the grill, be careful to use two lifters to remove the fish to a serving platter.  Remember, it's boneless, and will fall apart easily.)

Remove the fish to a serving platter.  Carefully open the foil, and use scissors to trim the foil down to the edge of the platter.  Do not attempt to lift the fish out of the foil - it will fall apart.

Cut the fish into slices, and serve.  Serves 6.

Here's a picture of my wonderful sister-in-law Donna serving her famous turkey soup on the day after Thanksgiving.  I've long since forgiven her for the fish incident.

Slime Soup

I spent the first six months of 1977 in Israel.  The first three weeks were on a kibbutz in Galilee, and the rest of the time was spent studying at Tel Aviv University (with lots of traveling about within the country).  At Tel Aviv University, I stayed in the student dormitories, where I had three other flatmates.  Each bedroom slept two people, and the two bedrooms shared a common room.

My roommate was an Israeli, but I did not get along with him particularly well.  The two guys in the other room were Israeli Palestinians, from the Nazareth area, and I got along with them much better.

Khaled and Afu would return home most weekends, and would come back to the university laden down with food that their mothers had prepared for them.  This food always included huge homemade pitas, each one about a foot in diameter, as well as lots of other dishes.  The food always looked very tasty.  Usually they ate by tearing off a piece of bread, and using that to pick up the other food and eat it.

One weekend, Khaled and Afu invited me to come to visit them in their homes.  First I went to Khaled's house.  He lived in a small village on the east side of Nazareth.  Khaled was the eldest of 13 children, and his mother seemed quite young. The Palestinians are very hospitable people, and so his mother served me a lot of food.  It was a little disconcerting to me that she would serve the men, and then leave, and she herself would only eat later, after the men had finished.  But this seemed to be the way they did things.  Most of the food was quite tasty, although a little different than what I was used to.  The Palestinians tend to use spices in their savory dishes that I normally see in sweet dishes, such as cinnamon and allspice.  To my taste buds, it made these dishes seem sweet to me, even though they weren't, really.  But it was all very nice, nonetheless, and I was grateful for their hospitality.

Khaled took me around his village to see various aunts and uncles.  They were all happy to receive this visitor from afar, and they all tried to give me more food, even though I had already eaten.  Clearly, food paid an important part in their communal life.

Now it was time to go visit Afu.  He lived closer to the center of town.  When I arrived at his house, I was introduced to his mother, as well as some of his brothers and cousins.  Now, Afu was the youngest of 11, so his mother was quite elderly.  Nonetheless, she had prepared a table filled with impressive amounts of a variety of different foods.  Again, she served the men, and left.

So we sat down to eat.  Although the table was loaded with many platters of food, we were each served an individual bowl of something that I did not recognize.  It looked like, and smelled like, some sort of green vegetable, like spinach, in a clear broth.  The others at the table were raving about this dish, and called it something that I had never heard of.  (Communication was not the easiest, because the only common language we spoke was Hebrew.)  At any rate, it seemed I was being served a Palestinian specialty.  And so I dipped in my spoon, and put it to my mouth.

As I lifted the spoon from the bowl, I noticed that the broth formed something of a string as I brought it to my mouth.  And then I put it in my mouth.  The flavor was not unpleasant; it did indeed have a taste akin to spinach.  But the broth was a mucilaginous lump of slime.  Imagine, if you will, a mouthful of raw egg white.  That's the consistency that this stuff had.

It was all I could do to swallow.  And I simply couldn't say, "No, thank you; I don't like it." because their feelings would have been hurt.  No, I had to force this stuff down.  And then I had to eat the rest of it.  On more than one occasion, I nearly gagged, but I determined that it was a case of mind over matter, and I soldiered on.  Eventually, I managed to down an entire bowl of this slime soup.

And then they offered me seconds.  Mercifully, the table was piled high with other things, so I was able to point to the rest of the food as tell them that, no thanks, I couldn't possibly, because there were so many other delicious things to try.

Many years later, a colleague of mine who is of Egyptian extraction was eating a rice dish in the cafeteria at lunchtime, and she offered me a taste, telling me it was an Egyptian specialty.  I tasted it, and instantly recognized the taste.  It was this same vegetable, cooked with rice.  This time, however, the rice had absorbed the sliminess in the cooking process, so the texture wasn't offensive.  It turns out that this vegetable is called  molokhia, and it creates a slimy broth when it is cooked, much as okra does.  It is a specialty of several countries in the Middle East, but it is one I can do without.

Don't worry; I'm not going to give you a recipe for molokhia.  Instead, I'm going to give you my recipe for homemade pita bread.  Pita is surprisingly easy to make, and the pocket is formed naturally.  Just be sure the oven is quite hot, and the bread dough is rolled out very thin.

Pita bread

1 cup water
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 1/2 tsp salt
2 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp (or one package) dry yeast

Mix and knead as you would any bread dough. I do mine in the bread machine, but if you have a stand mixer with a dough hook, that will work, too, or just do it by hand.

Let the dough rise for about an hour and a half until double in size, and punch it down.  Separate it into small balls (this recipe makes about 10 small pitas), cover them, and let them rest for 20 minutes.  Meanwhile, put pizza stones or cookie sheets in the oven and preheat it to 475°. 

After the dough balls have rested for 20 minutes, sprinkle a little flour on a board, and roll them out with a rolling pin until they are very thin.  Put them a few at a time (how many depends on the size of your oven) onto the pizza stone or cookie sheets, and bake for 3-4 minutes.  No need to turn them.  They will puff up like little pillows.  Take them out of the oven with tongs, and put them on a rack to cool.  Repeat until they are all baked.  After they have cooled, you will have to gently press the air out of them, and then you can store them in plastic bags.


It is fun to make pitas with children, because they like watching the bread dough puff up into miniature pillows.

Food for the journey

I probably won't be blogging much for the rest of this week.  That's because tomorrow morning I'm leaving on Amtrak out of Central Station in Montreal to head down to my brother and sister-in-law's house in Patterson, NY for Thanksgiving.  The train goes straight to Poughkeepsie, and then someone will have to pick me up from there for the half-hour drive to my brother's place.

I love train travel.  And this voyage is exceptionally beautiful.  For most of the way, we hug the shore of Lake Champlain.  On two occasions, while taking this train, I have seen bald eagles soaring above the lake.

The one thing I dislike about train travel (well, travel on Amtrak, at any rate) is the food.  It's not very good.  My solution, of course, is to bring my own!  So this evening I've been preparing my breakfast and lunch for the train.  I'm not one for getting up any earlier than I have to, so I will just make a big thermos of coffee tomorrow morning, and have it after the train leaves the station, along with my Craisin® Scones.  Then, in the afternoon, after we're across the border, I'll have my rice and beans and cauliflower salad.  Here is the recipe for the scones.

Craisin® Scones

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 cup shortening or butter
1/4 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 cup Craisins® (dried cranberries)
grated rind of one orange
1 egg, beaten
1/2 cup milk

Preheat oven to 425°.

In a mixing bowl, combine the flour, salt, sugar, and baking powder.  Cut in the shortening until it has the consistency of coarse cornmeal.  Add the walnuts, Craisins®, and orange zest, and make sure they are well distributed.

In a separate bowl, combine the egg and milk.  Add to the dry ingredients, and mix.  Turn out onto a floured board and knead a few times.  Shape the dough into a rough rectangular shape, and cut into triangular pieces.  (You could also cut them into rounds using a juice glass.)

Bake on an ungreased cookie sheet for 12 minutes.  Delicious hot or cold, and even better if spread with butter and jam.

A Trifle of a Wedding

I was unemployed in the spring of 1992.  Much like the current recession, jobs were hard to come by.  So I was trying to supplement my unemployment income by doing some catering.

It so happened that two friends of mine from church, Tap and Semaj (the names have been loosely disguised to protect the guilty), were getting married in May.  And they asked me if I would consider catering their wedding, and of course I agreed.

Now, catering a wedding for 125 people was going to be a lot of work, and I wasn't going to be able to do it all myself.  However, Tap had a solution for me - she would provide me with friends and family as helping hands, so I would not have to hire helpers, and could give her a better price.  I agreed to that solution.

Tap and Semaj wanted the food at their reception to celebrate the multi-ethnic culture of Montreal.  There were some ethnic foods that they wanted me to simply buy from the places that make them best - knishes from the Brown Derby (which is now, sadly, defunct), samosas from Tap's favorite Indian place in Park Ex where she had lived - and others that she wanted me to make.  The menu for the reception (which was held in the lovely home and garden of a friend of theirs) was as follows:

Served upon arrival at the reception:
Cheese platter with homemade baguettes (white, whole wheat, and rye)

Served at the meal:
Fiddlehead salad (fiddleheads, cauliflower, and carrots, cooked and cooled, with an olive oil and wine vinegar dressing)
Knishes (Jewish turnover with a savory filling)
Italian meatballs with tomato sauce
Spanakopita (Greek spinach pie)
Samosas (Indian stuffed fried pastry)

Punch:
Cranberry cocktail and club soda with raspberry sherbet  (this was the only thing we ran out of, because it ended up being quite hot for May, and people drank more than I had expected)

Dessert:
English trifle

So although we bought knishes and samosas, I had to bake bread for 125 people, make the salad (and I will have you know that I drove up to Mascouche to the Reesors' farm, and picked the fiddleheads on the banks of their river), as well as the meatballs, spanakopita, and trifle.  And as most of these were quite complicated,  Tap provided me with family members who were in town for the wedding, as per our arrangement.

And so, the day before the wedding, we were making the trifle.  If I recall correctly, I had rented five enormous bowls to make the trifle in.  Now trifle, as you know, begins with plain sponge cake that is split in two, spread with jam, and then sprinkled with sherry or some other liqueur.  (Tap had a bottle of Frangelico, which is hazelnut liqueur, that someone had given her and she wanted to use.)  You then put fruit on top of the cake, cover everything with a layer of vanilla custard and a layer of whipped cream, and then do the same thing all over again, alternating layers until the bowl is filled.

There was just one teensy problem with assembling the trifle that day.  And that problem was that two of the people who were there that day to help us were Tap's mother and sister.  Now, Momma Tap and her sister were Mennonites from the Prairies, and they were both teetotalers.  They would have been horrified to see any amount of booze, no matter how small and insignificant, going into the trifle.  So Tap and I had to come up with a plan to douse the cake with the Frangelico without her mother and sister seeing.

The trifles were being assembled in the dining room, which was down a short hallway from the kitchen - just far enough so that, if you were in the kitchen, you couldn't see everything going on in the dining room.  And also in the dining room was a linen closet, which was not visible from the kitchen.  And there was a shelf in the dining room tall enough for the bottle of Frangelico.  So that is where we hid it.

And now, of course, we had to find a pretext to send Tap's mother and sister out of the dining room.  The fruit we were using for the trifle was bananas and canned peaches, and there were quite a few cans of peaches and a lot of bananas.  So I gave them the task of opening, draining, and slicing the canned peaches, and of slicing the bananas.  I may have given them other tasks, too, like whipping the cream.

And now is when Operation Trifle kicked into high gear.  Tap and I split the cake lengthwise and spread it with raspberry jam, and then cut it into squares, and lined the bottom of the big bowls with it.  Then we called out to Mom and Sister, "How are you two doing in there?" and they replied, "Oh, just fine!"  Satisfied that they were sufficiently occupied, we hurriedly opened the closet door, pulled out the bottle of liqueur, sprinkled it all over the first layer of cake, and then quickly hid the Frangelico back in the linen closet. The whole thing was very frantic, and it was all we could do to keep from bursting into peals of laughter.  As more layers were added to the trifle, the same thing was repeated.  I think the bowls were big enough for three or four total layers.  I'm not sure how we kept Tap's mother and sister busy that whole time, but whenever we were ready to douse the cake with the liqueur, they managed to be out of the room, and we repeated our antics.

At the wedding, people simply raved about the trifle, and applauded Tap and Semaj's decision to forgo traditional wedding cake.  And many of them said, "Your trifle is so good!  What makes is so special?"  I, of course, demurred, and pretended it was a professional secret.  But Tap and I exchanged knowing glances, and a wink or two.  The trifle was perfect, and her relatives never knew why.

English trifle

Yellow Sponge cake, baked in a sheet pan
Raspberry or strawberry jam
Sherry or some other liqueur (such as Frangelico or Amaretto)
Sliced peaches (canned or fresh)
Sliced bananas
Fresh berries, if desired (raspberries, strawberries, or blueberries)
Vanilla custard
Sweetened whipped cream
Slivered nuts (hazelnuts or almonds)

Now, it's hard to give exact proportions for trifle, and it doesn't really matter, anyway.  It mostly depends on the size of the bowl you'll be making it in. You'll want a large, straight-sided glass bowl for your trifle.

Split the cake into two layers, spread the bottom layer with jam, and replace the top layer.  Cut the cake into two-inch cubes.

Arrange the cake cubes in the bottom of the trifle bowl.  Sprinkle the cake with the sherry or liqueur.  (It's better to err on the side of too much than too little - sponge cake can be a bit dry by itself.)  Now, cover the cake with the fruit.  (By all means, feel free to substitute other fruits if you so desire.  Pineapple, kiwi, pears, or mangoes would all be good.) 

Now, cover the fruit and cake with vanilla custard.  For the vanilla custard, if you are feeling ambitious, you can make a crème anglaise, which is a cooked custard with egg yolks that is very delicious.  It's also a pain to make, in my opinion, and I'm just as happy to use instant vanilla pudding, or Bird's Custard.  (I'm not sure how available Bird's Custard is in the U.S.A.  It's an instant custard mix, widely available in England and Canada, that is quite an acceptable - and foolproof - alternative to crème anglaise.)  If you're doing it right, the custard should cover the fruit, and drip down in between the cracks between the pieces of cake.

Sprinkle the custard with chopped or slivered nuts.  Cover the whole thing with a layer of sweetened whipped cream.

And now, repeat the entire process until your bowl is filled.  The bowl I use holds about three layers of trifle.  At the end, you can decorate the top with some fresh berries and a few slivered nuts.

When you serve the trifle, be sure to dip the spoon in deep, in order to get some of everything.

Oh, and Tap and Semaj are still dear friends, after all these years, and have two lovely children.  Tap's mother has gone on to her reward.  But Tap and I still have the occasional giggle about making trifle.

Little Davy and the Giant Jar of Peaches

My mother has always been the frugal sort.  She had to be, what with raising four children on just my Dad's non-union construction worker salary.  But we never felt deprived, and we certainly never went hungry.  Part of Mom's frugality was a flurry of food preservation during the summer and early autumn.  Grandmother always planted a big garden, and local orchards offered lots of inexpensive fruit in season.  By the time winter was upon us, the freezer was full of corn, green beans, and lima beans, and the shelves of the cellar were lined with row upon row of Mason jars of home-canned tomatoes, tomato juice, pickles, applesauce, and peaches.  This story involves one of those jars of peaches.

I was about two years old when this story took place.  Mom and Dad had to go out for the evening, and they took me to the Shanks' home, where their daughter Mary Beth was going to babysit.  The Shanks are dear family friends, and Mary is about 11 years older than me.  She is one of the sweetest people in the world.  However, she did not always demonstrate a great deal of common sense, and had not had a lot of experience dealing with children.  Nevertheless, everyone has to start somewhere, and I was left in Mary Beth's care for the evening.  Mom also gave Mary Beth a quart jar of her home-canned peaches, so she could give me a snack.  "Give him two or three peach halves," Mom said, "but if he wants more, he can have more."  And off she went.

Several hours later, Mom and Dad came back to collect me.  The jar of peaches was completely empty.  "What happened to the peaches?" Mom inquired.  "Davy ate them all!" was Mary Beth's answer.  "You said he could have more if he wanted, and he kept asking for more until he ate them all!"  And so I had.  Little two-year-old Davy Sauder had eaten an entire quart jar of peaches all by himself.

I still love peaches, and still have the unfortunate habit of overeating.

This recipe is adapted from Mastering the Art of French Cooking

Ginger Peach Clafouti

3 cups sliced peaches (can be fresh or canned)
1/4 cup peach brandy, peach schnapps, or cognac (optional)
1 cup milk (1 1/4 cup if not using the peach brandy)
2/3 cup granulated sugar
3 eggs
1 T. vanilla extract
2 tsp. fresh ginger, finely grated
1/8 tsp salt
2/3 cup flour

Preheat oven to 350°.

Let the sliced peaches stand for an hour in the peach liqueur or cognac, along with 1/3 cup sugar.  Drain the peaches and reserve the liquid.

Put the drained liquid into an electric blender, along with the milk and the rest of the ingredients.  (If you have not used the peach liqueur, you should reserve 1/3 cup sugar.)  Cover and blend at the highest speed for one minute.

Lightly butter (or spray with cooking spray) either a 7-8 cup baking dish or a pyrex pie plate about 1 1/2 inches deep.  Pour about 1/4 of the batter in the baking dish, and put in the oven for a few minutes until a film of batter has set in the bottom of the dish.  Take the dish out of the oven, and arrange the peach slices over the batter.  (If you have not used the peach liqueur, sprinkle the reserved 1/3 cup of sugar over the peaches.)  Cover the peaches with the rest of the batter.

Put the dish back in the oven, and bake for about an hour.  It is done when it is puffed and brown, and a knife or toothpick comes out clean.

Let the clafouti cool down a bit, but serve while still warm.  Serve with a dollop of sweetened whipped cream.  If desired, you can also add a bit of grated fresh ginger when whipping the cream.

The next recipe is adapted from More with Less

Peach Melba Cobbler

Preheat oven to 350°.

Combine:
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt

Cut in:
2 T. butter

To flour and butter mixture, add:
1/2 cup plain yogurt

Spray a baking dish with cooking spray (or butter the dish lightly), and pour batter into dish. Top with:
1/2 cup raspberries (fresh or frozen)
1 1/2 cups sliced peaches (fresh, frozen, or canned)

Bake for 40 minutes.

Here's a picture of Mary Beth along with her two sisters, taken at my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party 10 years ago.  Mary's the one in the middle with the big hat.

The Muffin Story

In my family (as in most families, I suspect), some stories get told and retold so often that it is no longer necessary to recount the story to one another.  All that needs saying is "The Margarine Story" and everyone knows about the hobo in Tampa back during the Depression who thought that a tub of margarine sitting on my grandmother's counter was a bowl of pudding, and tried to eat it.  (Of course, details of this story vary, depending on which of my father's siblings is retelling it.)  And so it is with The Muffin Story.  The main characters of this one are my sister and me.

Back when I was a boy (probably 8 or 9), my sister Carol, who is three years older than I am, was learning to cook in her 4-H club.  Now, I adored my big sister (still do, as a matter of fact), and I was always wanting to do exactly what she did.  Naturally, this behavior drove her crazy, and so she would try to boss me around, as big sisters are wont to do.

Well, since Carol was learning to cook, I wanted to learn to cook, too.  And one day Mom said she was going to make some muffins, and I pestered her until she agreed to let me make them (with her supervision, of course).

Carol was livid.  "But MOOOOMMMM," she wailed, "Boys aren't supposed to cook, girls are supposed to cook."  And to me, she said, "You can't cook!  You don't know how!  Boys can't cook!"

But Mom let me make the muffins anyway.  We used the stand mixer, put in all the ingredients, filled the muffin tins, and popped them into the oven.  And then Mom sent me outside to do my regular boy's chore, which was mowing the lawn.

Twenty minutes later, Carol came marching out of the house to where I was mowing, with a hot muffin in hand, broken in two.  She showed me the muffin.  "You see?" she said triumphantly.  "I told you you couldn't cook!  Your muffins have air tunnels!"  And she turned on her heel, and flounced back into the house, vindicated.

Nowadays, of course, my muffins never have air tunnels.  That is because, despite Carol's objections, I continued to learn to cook, and now I know that the secret to a tender muffin without air tunnels is to never use a mixer, but instead to mix the wet and dry ingredients together separately at first, and then to combine them by hand just until all the dry ingredients are moistened.  Smooth batter is the enemy of good muffins.

Here is my recipe for apple-carrot-oatmeal muffins.

Apple-CarrotCarol-Oatmeal Muffins

3/4 cup all-purpose flour (you could use part whole-wheat flour as a healthier alternative)
1/4 cup quick oats
1/8 cup kasha*
1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp spices (either cinnamon, nutmeg, or allspice, or a combination)
1/4 cup raisins (optional)
1 medium apple, peeled, cored, and diced
1 medium carrot, grated
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 egg
1/2 cup milk

*Kasha is toasted buckwheat groats.  I buy it in bulk at the local health food store.  It adds a delicious nuttiness to the muffins.  If you can't find kasha, you could always use wheat germ.

Preheat the oven to 425°.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the flour, oatmeal, kasha, baking powder, salt, and spices (and raisins, if you are using them).  Mix together until well blended.

In another smaller mixing bowl, beat the egg, and then add the vegetable oil, milk, apple, and carrots.  Mix together until well blended.

Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients all at once.  With a large spoon or rubber scraper, mix the wet and dry ingredients together just until all the dry ingredients are moistened.  Do not overmix, or you will get air tunnels, and your big sister will yell at you.

Pour into greased muffin tins (or muffin papers) and bake for 20 minutes.  They're best served piping hot, but they're awfully good left over, too.

Makes 6 large muffins.

Here's a picture of Carol and me, all grown up, taken 5 years ago in Alaska.

A Tale of Two Thanksgivings

I've always loved Thanksgiving. It's one of my favorite holidays. What's not to like? Family, friends, food, football, and just stopping everything for a day in the middle of the week to take stock of all the blessings in our lives, and to be thankful. It's one of the U.S.A.'s best traditions.

But in 1980, I moved to Canada. Now, Canada has a Thanksgiving, too, but it's on the second Monday in October, not the fourth Thursday in November. And when did I move? In the last week of October. So I was too late for Canadian Thanksgiving, and I moved away from the U.S. before American Thanksgiving. Missing Thanksgiving that year was very sad, especially when it was Thanksgiving back home and it was just another workday here in Canada.

So when Canadian Thanksgiving 1981 rolled around, I felt overdue for a good Thanksgiving feast. But to my amazement, no one invited me to their home for Thanksgiving dinner. I was a little hurt. No one at my church even thought to invite me over!

And then, a week or two before the day, our pastor announced that we would have a potluck after church on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. But it just seemed like it was going to be just like any old potluck - there didn't seem to be any indication that there would be turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and the normal Thanksgiving meal. So I marched up to Debbie and announced to her that I would accept nothing less. And she said, "Well, then, you're going to have to arrange it, because I'm not going to," to which I answered, "If that's what it takes!" (And that, boys and girls, is how the Social Committee at the Mennonite Fellowship of Montreal was created.) So I arranged for a full turkey dinner after church, and at least I had my Thanksgiving meal that year.

But it still wasn't the same as Thanksgiving back home. And as I stayed in Canada over the years, I came to realize that Thanksgiving is simply a different kind of holiday here. It's not necessarily worse - just different. Now, Canadians (unless they've spent a Thanksgiving in the U.S.A.) don't really understand what the differences are. So let me try to explain it.

First, there's all the hype. Thanksgiving in the U.S. is accompanied by stories of the cooperation between Pilgrims and Indians. There are lessons and pageants in schools. There are displays in stores. Thanksgiving is part of the national story.

In the U.S., it is unthinkable for anyone to spend Thanksgiving Day alone. It is a day meant to be spent with family, preferably, but if one does not have family around, with good friends. I cannot count the number of guests who we had in our home for Thanksgiving when I was growing up, especially single people whose families lived far away, and who were not able to go home. If I had been a single person new to a church in the U.S., I would easily have had a half dozen invitations to Thanksgiving dinner that first year.

But in Canada, Thanksgiving is much less of a family holiday than it is in the U.S. Of course, if family is all in the same general area, they will get together - a turkey feeds a lot of people! And sometimes, someone will even have a big meal and invite a large group of unrelated people. But it's not considered that much of a tragedy for someone to spend the day alone. As a matter of fact, since Thanksgiving is on a Monday, a turkey dinner at any point over the long weekend is perfectly acceptable, whereas Americans know that Thanksgiving is on Thursday. And then there's the travel. It would not occur to a Canadian to drive from, say, Montreal to Toronto for Thanksgiving dinner, much less to fly from Vancouver to Halifax. But such voyages are routine in the U.S., and part of the holiday.

But I think the biggest difference is simply that Americans take a little more time during that day to reflect on how fortunate they are to live in a land of plenty and freedom. Now, you can say what you want about American jingoism, and the inflated opinion that Americans have of themselves and their way of doing things, but this is one area where Canadians could learn from Americans. Because Canada, too, is a land of incredible plenty and freedom. But very often I think we fail to appreciate it.

It was at least 20 years before anyone invited me to Thanksgiving dinner in Canada. For the last few years, I've been going to my friends Sandy and Jim's place for Thanksgiving, and we've been cooperating on the meal. It has been lovely. But I've also been trying, as much as possible, to travel to the U.S. for Thanksgiving down there. My brother and sister-in-law have made that easier, by moving to New York, halfway between Montreal and my parents' home, and buying a huge house where they can accommodate everyone for the weekend. And so I'm heading there (on the train - yea Amtrak!) next Wednesday, for a time of food, family, games, and fun.

And now, the recipes. Last year, at our Thanksgiving potluck at church (that tradition continues), I was going to make a pumpkin pie. But I hate making pie crust (and my pie crusts aren't very good, because I always compare them to my late Grandma Sauder's pie crusts, which were the best I've ever had), so I decided to double my pumpkin muffin recipe, bake it in a tube pan, and call it a cake. People raved about it, and now I get specific requests to bring my pumpkin cake for potlucks. (I could also have baked it in loaf pans, and called it pumpkin bread, and so can you!) Here is the recipe (plus a bonus recipe for cranberry sauce):

Pumpkin Cake
4 cups flour
1 cup sugar
4 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 1/2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. nutmeg
1/4 tsp. cloves
1 tsp. ginger
1 tsp. allspice
2 cups pumpkin puree
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 cup vegetable oil (I use canola oil)
1 1/2 cups milk

A note about the pumpkin puree - Hallowe'en pumpkins look pretty, but don't make the best pumpkin for pumpkin pie. The small pumpkins (the ones that look like miniature versions of the big Hallowe'en pumpkins) are good, but the best is a good squash, such as a buttercup or butternut. Just bake the squash until soft, and mash it up with a potato masher.

Preheat oven to 350°.

Combine all the dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl.

In another mixing bowl, combine the pumpkin puree, eggs, vanilla extract, vegetable oil, and milk. Beat together until smooth.

Pour the wet ingredients all at once into the dry ingredients. Stir just until all the dry ingredients have been moistened. The batter will be lumpy. If you continue stirring until the batter is smooth, your cake have an unpleasant tough texture.

Pour into a greased tube pan (or two greased loaf pans). Bake for 50 minutes or until a toothpick inserted comes out clean. (It will probably take a little less for the loaf pans.)

Let cool and serve. This cake is very moist, so an icing is not really necessary. But if you want to ice it, a cream cheese or a maple frosting would be good.

Cranberry sauce

1 12-oz. bag fresh cranberries
1 medium orange
1/2 cup sugar
1 oz. Grand Marnier or other orange-flavored liqueur (Cointreau, Triple Sec, Curaçao)

Grate the orange rind (just the orange part; the white part is bitter), and then juice the orange. Put the cranberries, orange zest and juice, and sugar into a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. (Caution - when you put the orange juice into the saucepan, it will not look like enough liquid for the cranberries. Do not be tempted to add additional water or orange juice. The juice of one orange is plenty. Otherwise your cranberry sauce will be too runny.)

Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until all the cranberries have popped and the sauce has thickened. Take off the heat, and stir in the orange liqueur. (Do this while hot. The heat will make most of the alcohol cook off.)

Serve with the Thanksgiving turkey. If you have any leftover, it's really good spread on toast.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, everyone!