July 2010

There comes a time every summer when I fetishize plums. When I lived in Los Angeles, I got to know many different varieties: Santa Rosa, Greengage (Reine Claude), Damson, pluots and more. And somewhere tucked away, I still have a recipe for a lightly sweet and dry cake studded with juicy Italian plums I got from the Times more than 2 decades ago. I'll share it with you a bit later in the summer, when those plums are at their peak. I prefer plums when they are ice cold and rather firm, juicy but still a little tart. Still, I'm not opposed to popping a yielding little sugarplum into my mouth and licking its sweet syrup from my fingers. But before I go all Nigella on you, I want to tell you about a quick and easy way to make spicy plum pickles. Sometimes you buy a few too many, or you just can't eat one more right now and they're about to pass their prime, and that's when you might consider this recipe.

Bear with me as I learn to use G's camera. I prefer to do things I'm already good at (I know that's so wimpy), so this means going beyond my comfort zone. That said, I'm having fun with it and it may ultimately mean more photos of dishes in progress, which might be helpful for you. Now, to artichoke hearts. I love the rich, buttery goodness that lies nestled within all those leathery leaves, the secret heart buried in this armored flower. But I'm not the hugest fan of the canned variety, finding them a bit slimy and strangely acidic, nor of the marinated kind in a jar that often swim in insipid oil. So what's a glutton to do but try to make them from scratch? Believe it or not, I couldn't find a recipe that didn't start with either big globe artichokes or a bag of frozen hearts. And what I had were these little beauties...
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We made fried chicken this weekend but we were too busy to take any pictures of it, so all I can offer you is this shot of my nephew who said it was the best dinner he'd ever had. That's some endorsement. The recipe came from Edna Lewis and Scott Peacock. If you don't know about these two cooks—a delightfully odd couple—let me just give you a little background. Edna, who passed away in 2006 at the age of 89, was the granddaughter of a former slave who had helped found Freetown, a Virginia farming community. She grew up on the fresh food at hand, then moved to New York City where she cooked for and rubbed shoulders with artists, musicians, writers and Communists. She had an elegant style and a gift for simple, classic flavors. Late in life, Edna encountered Scott Peacock, a gay man half her age, a kindred spirit and chef whom she mentored and befriended. In fact, the two wound up sharing an apartment, and Scott cared for her until her death. (A situation that was evidently problematic for her family.) They collaborated on a cookbook, The Gift of Southern Cooking, that is full of wonderful traditional American Southern recipes, including the one I used for fried chicken.
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There's scarcely a better way to combat a heat wave than with a cold soup. The recent rise in mercury has prompted a spate of dinners at home consisting of nothing more than salads, so the occasional soup is a nice substitute or supplement. They keep fairly well and can be easily transported to work in a glass jar or thermos. (Try to wean yourself from phthalate-ridden plastic containers; invest in a set of these.) Food52's cucumber challenge several weeks ago prompted a number of cold soups but most of them contained dairy, which we're currently avoiding because of G's latest protocol. Fellow blogger and extremely talented chef Pork to Purslane (currently residing in Amsterdam) submitted one that is rendered supremely creamy with the use of avocado. I adapted it according to my what I had on hand and my craving for a bit of spice.
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It's hot. And evidently it's hot everywhere. A record-setting year. 113 degrees in Baghdad. 122 in Kuwait. Tempers must be running high. Even the most verbose turn laconic. So I'll just say one word: Popsicles. And maybe I'll just add: Easy. Cooling. Refreshing. Light. (My cat looks like a mink throw tossed onto the windowsill.) Take these recipes and run with them. (Or walk very slowly, fanning yourself with a large palm leaf.) Substitute whatever fruits you have on hand; use a little sugar, honey or agave; try a bit of cream instead of the yogurt, or no dairy at all. G is about to try an herbal protocol from the multi-talented Bryan Thomson, and he can't have dairy for a minimum of 6 weeks, but I can't promise I'll be that restrained. (I'm quite addicted to my morning chai made with raw milk. I even had it today, and promptly almost passed out from the heat! Surely not an Ayurvedically-approved choice...) Anyway, basta with the chit-chat. Whiz up these popsicles in no time flat and you can lie prostrate on your hardwood floor, covered with a wet towel, and eat several while watching the entire season of Dexter which you've wisely downloaded from iTunes. I used these molds which I recommend with reservation. They make a nice shape but getting the stick in at the right height was challenging. (I really wanted these but they are expensive and weren't available right away. Plus they come from a site called The Tickle Trunk. WTF?) Even though Jake Godby, the wizard behind the Bay Area's Humphrey Slocombe, wouldn't deign to offer you such a pedestrian combo as strawberry-rhubarb, I do it with pride. For you flavor snobs out there (and I know none of you is actually reading this blog), there's always the esoteric tang of wild lime to the rescue.
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Meet lovage (Levisticum officinale), known to the French as céleri bâtarde, or fake celery. It really is like celery but without the stalk; its lush leaves have a very similar green, herby, slightly salty flavor. Since it's considered a "magic bullet" companion plant—one that improves the health of all surrounding plants—it always has pride of place in our vegetable garden. It's second only to capers in its concentration of quercetin, a plant-derived flavonoid that has anti-infammatory and antioxidant properties. The Greeks and Romans chewed lovage seeds to aid digestion and, perhaps because of its name, lovage has been used in tonics and potions to conjure up true love. An infusion of the seeds is said to to erase freckles, although it may also cause photosensitivity. The plant grows easily and quickly; pinch it back to make it bushier and to deter the flower spikes. Once they start showing, the flavor becomes quite strong. Use the leaves to make a compound butter, in soups and stocks or, our favorite way, in a simple syrup. This is ideal for cocktails or simply mixed in with sparkling water for a refreshing summer drink.
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Low and slow, that's how we cook it. Our two 12-pound Boston butts from Dickson's, rubbed with a heady mix of chile powder, cumin, brown sugar, salt and cayenne, were on the smoker by 10am the morning of the 4th. G actually prefers smoking on the Weber, because it retains the heat much better, but ours is just not big enough to accommodate all that pig. Several hours of smoking over hickory and apple wood chips, a couple in the oven, an hour to rest and then G and Philip were up to their elbows chopping barbecue. I almost fell flat on my face in the kitchen, the floor was so slippery.

After they pulled and chopped the smoky, fatty pork, I doused it with an Eastern North Carolina hot sauce made from vinegar, Tabasco and red pepper flakes. It's an irresistible combination: salty, tangy, spicy, smoky richness. Then this gets piled on a cheap, soft potato roll, smothered in pickles (dill or bread-&-butter, your choice), with perhaps an extra dash of hot sauce, and you've got some authentic barbecue. A high-falutin' roll is not welcome; you need something that breaks down easily and sops up all that juice. And though we don't generally do white flour in our house, this is a worthy exception.
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The drinks were devoured at an alarming rate, G's barbecue was delicious, and the freezer went on the fritz endangering the ice cream sandwiches and liquefying the popsicles. All in all, our July 4th festivities were a great success, but I can't really attribute that to the menu. It was all about old friends (and new) coming together to enjoy each other's company, the haven of a cool porch in the summer heat, the lush green of the yard. There were excited dogs and kids underfoot, tours of the garden and lolling in the hammock. Laughter, loud music and the lingering smell of applewood smoke filled the air. A core group followed the last rays of the sun out to the front patio and somehow the bugs stayed away as we lit sparklers and celebrated our freedom. So, yes, the gin cocktails and "special" brownies certainly didn't hurt, but it was love and friendship that made the day.
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As promised, here is the recipe for lacto-fermented dill pickles. In case you've forgotten, that means they are preserved with salt and bacteria—there's no boiling of the brine or anything. It really couldn't be easier. With some cucumbers, some dill, a few cloves of garlic, salt and water, the magic of pickling takes place. They sit out on the counter for about 3 days while the lactobacillus does its thing. I made both spears and chips, and I think I'm going to like them even better after they've been refrigerated. I like that cold, crisp snap. Today I'm making ice cream and popsicles, so I probably won't post again until Monday, when you'll get a chance to see how the Pulled Pork Fest turned out. I hope you have a wonderful holiday weekend, full of sunshine and friends and treats and relaxation. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness: it's what we're all still entitled to, from sea to shining sea.
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This week, a friend asked me to post a recipe for hummus. This is a somewhat controversial issue: just ask someone from Jerusalem or Beirut. People in the Middle East are totally obsessed with this creamy stuff, as you can see by the gigantic vat above (weighing 23,520 pounds) prepared by Lebanese chefs who set the latest Guinness world record—beating Israel, which had previously beat Lebanon. So there’s the Galilee hummus or the Jerusalem kind, with or without fava beans, topped with warm chickpeas or served without. I suppose it’s like masala or gumbo, with every good chef developing his own version. Mine was inspired by a horseradish-laced hummus I once bought at Whole Foods. I was never able to find it again and, after hankering for it for months, I finally concocted the version which I humbly offer you here.
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