October 2011

Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Do without.Eleanor Roosevelt said that, probably during the Depression or some wartime crunch. But I love its sentiment: the idea that what we have is enough. "Making do" is not really something you see advertised alongside Big Gulps and $35,000 handbags. Last weekend in the Times' opinion section, I saw this piece about a divorced Brooklyn mother of two who fell on hard times and resorted to starting a victory garden and baking her own bread to get by. (A former Bergdorf Goodman shopper and unwilling to give up perfume, she now makes her own from fragrant herbs!) It was very inspiring, and it gave me serious pause when I went to write "mint tea" on the grocery list that's posted on the door of our fridge. Instead, I went out to the garden and harvested huge armfuls of fresh mint. I had cut the unruly plants back a month ago—and frozen and preserved some leaves then—but they had grown in more vigorously than ever. While I was out there, I also snipped lots of other things to dry and use over the coming winter months.
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Pretty soon there won't be much fresh fruit to rave about. I'm looking forward to quinces, Bosc and Bartlett pears and of course apples all winter long, but while they're still available, I'm eating plums. The late-season varieties have an intensity of color and sweetness that is like the farewell kiss of a summer romance. There's no better way to showcase them than in a simple crumble. The fruit is the star, and you can accentuate its flavor by imbuing the crunchy topping with some subtle complements. For plums, I like to add a little almond and cardamom. (I know, I put cardamom in everything, but it really does go so well with plums!)
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Mark Bittman posted one of his great roundups of recipes in the Times Magazine this weekend, featuring less-expected ways to eat apples. I'm particularly taken with the cheesy apple fritters and that apple tempura! I'm prone to tossing diced apple into lots of salads—with oil-cured tuna, with walnuts and blue cheese, with all kinds of herbs. And when I make oatmeal, I always grate an apple into the pot. This really supports good digestion. We have a big old apple tree on our property at the lake, and it's covered with mottled green fruit that looks dubious but tastes great. Our friend Julia up the road has an orchard of craggy old trees that produce a lot of fruit, including some of the most flavorful red apples ever and a few pears, too. I've already eaten some super-crunchy and juicy Honey Crisps this year, and I'm a big fan of the Pink Lady with its wonderfully tangy sweetness. There are so many things to be made with all these apples, from pies, crumbles, betties and cakes to butter, fritters, cider...and, pedestrian as it may sound, applesauce.
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In the summer of 1976, I was allowed to fly out to New York by myself to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins in Long Island. It was the bicentennial year, and I vividly recall the red-&-white-striped pantsuit my mother made me for this occasion, embroidered with navy blue stars. I was taken into the city to have lunch at Maxwell's Plum, and we drove through the caverns of Wall Street where the skyscrapers soared dizzyingly up into the wild blue yonder. It was at Bloomingdale's, though, where I was most intoxicated by the glamour, the excitement, the sheer abundance. For a thirteen-year old girl with a head full of frizzy curls and a mouthful of metal, the enormous caramel apple they sold there—a kitschy symbol of the Big Apple—was unattainably enticing. As volputuous as a Botero sculpture, one glistening end dipped in chopped nuts, it's remained forever a fantasy.
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Discussions of chili often lead to fisticuffs. (OK, I just wanted to say fisticuffs.) But it really is a very polarizing dish. The purists can go on and on about ground chuck versus cubed, beans or no beans, and the presence of tomatoes. Texans seems to feel very strongly that beans don't belong anywhere near "real" chili—actually an anglicization of chile con carne—but some of them include tomatoes and way too many seem to think it's OK to use chile powder rather than starting with whole dried chiles. I ain't afeared of dried chiles, having more than a little New Mexico in my blood, so that was an easy call for me. And the fact that my friend Michael hates beans pretty much tipped me over into the all-beef category. After researching recipes online (here are just a few options) I opted for authentic Texas chili as interpreted by blogger homesicktexan. For one thing, she spells the dried pepper as "chile," and the dish as "chili," just like I do, so I gravitated to her immediately. Plus she adds beer, coffee and Mexican chocolate to her incredibly dense and musky stew. I'd never made chili this serious before, and I'll never make any other kind again.
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The plan was to invite a bunch of friends to our new property by the reservoir in Forestburgh on peak leaf weekend to gather around a big bonfire, eat chili, sip mulled wine and make s'mores. Wrong. Each morning during the week leading up to our party, G would tell me the weather forecast, and each day it would go up several degrees. By the time the actual day dawned, we were preparing for a scorcher, and the leaves had only just begun to display their showy colors. But what a glorious day it was! Perfectly clear and without a trace of humidity. I had been threatening to change the menu if the mercury rose above 70º, but in the end—despite it hitting 77º—we stuck with the chili and just swapped out the mulled wine for rosé and cocktails on the rocks. Later this week I'll post the recipe for the thick, brick-red Texas-style chili, made with plenty of beef and no beans; and also for the caramel apples that were dessert, a great easy treat for this time of year. But for now, some photos to inspire you to get together with friends wherever/whenever/however (preferably outdoors while you still can), and a recipe for the perfect bourbon cocktail.
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Indian summer. We bandy that phrase around quite a bit at this time of year, hoping to conjure up those crisp, sunny days. The expression has been used for more than three centuries, first described in 1778 by John Hector St. John de Crevecoeur, a French-American writer in rural New York: "A severe frost prepares it to receive the voluminous coat of snow which is soon to follow; though it is often preceded by a short interval of smoke and mildness, called the Indian Summer." Its etymology is debated. In Colonial New England, Indian Summer referred only to a January thaw, when Native American raiding parties could be expected in the western and northern areas; the ground had briefly lost its snow cover so tracking the raiders back to their winter camps was much more difficult for the Colonials. Or perhaps it's because this was the traditional period during which early Native Americans harvested their crops of squash and corn. The modern use of the term refers to a period when the weather is sunny, clear and above 70º, after there has been a sharp frost; a period normally associated with late-October to mid-November. It's also used metaphorically to refer to a late blooming of something, often unexpectedly, or after it has lost relevance. (See "middle-aged women.") We haven't actually had the first frost yet—though the temperatures veered awfully close just this morning—but, after a week or two of brisker day, we're expecting a veritable heatwave—77º this weekend. I'm not sure how I feel about that, though it may mean we get to pull a few more tomatoes off the vine. For those of you still reaping summer's bounty, cook it down to the essence of sunshine: a brilliant yellow, sharp and fruity Sunshine Sauce.
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It's nearly impossible to take advantage of everything New York City has to offer: Central Park, the Frick, Smorgasburg, the Highline, Barney Greengrass, Eataly, the Apollo, Broadway, Chelsea Market, the gallery openings, the cocktail bars, the amazing boutiques—I get overwhelmed just thinking of it all. Despite weekly visits, now that we no longer live in the city, I feel as though I have fallen woefully behind. There is so much I simply can't see and do; maybe I have time to read about it, maybe not. So when G surprised me with tickets to New York City Ballet, I was absolutely thrilled. I wanted to start the evening with an early dinner at Boulud Sud (Daniel's latest), but it was fully booked and we were downtown anyway, so we had a quick (delicious) bite at Otto. (Mario was there—in his orange clogs, natch.) And then it was up to Lincoln Center, to the David A. Koch Theater (yet another robber baron buying respectability), and Jewels, a work in three parts choreographed by the legendary George Balanchine, seen above.
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The Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, tied it up, helped awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the picnic basket. The Mole begged to be allowed to unpack it all by himself. He took out all the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their contents, gasping Oh my! Oh my! at each fresh surprise. from "The Wind in the Willows" by Kenneth GrahameWould it shock you to know that the word "picnic" actually derives from the French word "pique-nique"? It dates all the way back to 1692, although I imagine this was a tradition that first began with Joe Caveman gnawing on a wooly mammoth bone while perched in some bucolic spot far from the reach of the saber-tooth tiger. Whether pique-nique is actually based on the verb piquer (to pick or peck), with the rhyming nique meaning "thing of little importance," is in doubt; the Oxford English Dictionary says the word is of unknown provenance. This fresh-air practice reached a new height of popularity after the French Revolution, when royal parks opened to the public for the first time and the newly enfranchised citizens chowed down on hallowed ground. As much as I love to spread a blanket in a meadow, there's also something to be said for staging a picnic at home—on your own lawn, on the living room floor, or even (gasp) in your bed! All you need are a big, beautiful cloth, extraordinary fixings and the right companion.
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photos by gluttonforlifeAlthough this looks a bit like some exotic fruit, it's actually a seed cluster of the Jack-in-the-Pulpit, variously known as Arisaema triphyllum, bog onion and Indian turnip. This herbaceous perennial grows from a type of corm, not totally dissimilar to crocus and freesia. A highly variable species—some can grow up to 5 feet in height—it's native to eastern North America, found in wet woodlands and thickets, and generally flowers between April and June. Using heat and smell, it attracts the flies responsible for its pollination. The Jack-in-the-Pulpit has a charming, fairy-tale look characterized by its arcing and curving "hood," often with dramatic burgundy stripes on the inside. Its fruit are clusters of smooth, shiny green berries which ripen to a brilliant red in late summer before the plants go dormant. Each berry typically produces between one and five pale-colored rounded seeds. My friend Michael was kind enough to bring me a few scarlet clusters from his plants this season, with instructions to pop each berry "like a zit" to extract the seeds. They need to be planted in a damp, mossy area before the first frost.
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