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Pucker Up

His name was Clifford. According to my mother, he was the son of my father’s first cousin once removed, but as far as I was concerned, he was a spawn of Satan. Clifford taught me how to roll rabbit tobacco, what a wedgie is, and made me eat my first (and only) Irish plum.

It’s quite possible that the reason most people in my part of the world aren’t accustomed to cooking with persimmons is because they were tricked into eating an unripe persimmon as a child. That’s what Clifford called an Irish plum, and it sure looked like a green plum, which should have clued me in on not eating it in the first place. Anyone who bites into an unripe persimmon will never forget the experience; it’s agonizingly, mouth-puckeringly astringent; the tannins in the green fruit turn spit into chalk.

The most common persimmon you’ll find in markets is the Japanese persimmon (Diospyros kaki)—usually referred to as fuyu—which isn’t totally free of tannins, but have far less and lose them sooner. If the persimmons you buy have even the faintest tinge of green, let them to sit at room temperature in natural light for a couple of days.

For a persimmon pudding, peel, seed, and chop five ripe (fuyu) persimmons until smooth and strain. You should get about two cups of pulp; if you don’t, add another persimmon. Blend pulp with two beaten eggs and two cups sugar until smooth. Stir a teaspoon of baking soda into a cup of buttermilk. Add to persimmon mixture along with 1 ½ cups flour sifted with a tablespoon of baking powder. Stir in a quarter stick melted butter, a teaspoon vanilla, and a dash or so of cinnamon. Pour into a buttered dish and bake at 350 until firm and set, about an hour or so.

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Linda’s Potato Soup

Here’s a recipe from Linda Bolton who for many years ran the Good Food Store when it was on Jackson Avenue in Oxford.

Back when I was writing a food column for The Oxford Times, I published a really basic potato soup recipe, and at happy hour the next day as I was headed for the Rose,  Linda stuck her head out of the store and yelled across the street at me: “Come here and let me tell you what all you left out of your `tater soup recipe, Yancy!” So I damn sure did, and here’s the modified recipe:

For each serving (@ a cup and a half), take two large starchy potatoes and at least one red/waxy potato for texture. Wash, peel and dice, making sure to take out all discolorations. Boil in enough water to cover, adding a vegetable bouillon cube. When almost tender through, reduce heat, sauté for each of two servings one small white onion and two cloves of garlic, both finely minced, in about two tablespoons sweet butter.

To this, add liquid from the potatoes and low boil until onions have broken down. Pour this mixture back on the potatoes, simmer and stir until the soup has a creamy, chunky consistency. Season with crushed dill seed, just a little bit of dried rosemary, and black pepper before salting to taste.

You can add a little heavy cream and another tablespoon of butter to make a more substantial soup, in which case you might also want to add a little grated hard cheese. Good hot or cold.

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Iced Coffee

While taking History of the British Empire under Dean Abadie at Ole Miss, I read Freedom at Midnight, a breezy, somewhat gossipy account of Indian independence.

The book includes a scene in Buckingham Palace in early 1947. Those present included Labor PM Clemet Attlee, Lord Louis Mountbatten, then Viceroy of India, and his cousin, King George VI, then Emperor of India. They were discussing the impending end of the British rule in India.

The King commented that he would have to drop the “I” from his signature—he would now be George R (“Rex”) rather than George RI (“Rex et Imperator”)—and that the iced coffee being served was rather weak. What struck me most wasn’t King George’s superficiality—he was not a noted intellectual—but the iced coffee. Of course I grew up drinking iced tea, but this was the first time I’d ever heard of iced coffee, and it was absolutely mind-boggling.

My provinciality aside, iced coffee isn’t that much of a jump from iced tea, since it’s just brewed coffee chilled and served over ice. You can use your favorite coffee from the supermarket, just make it twice as strong. Cool the brew before pouring over ice.

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Herb Roast Rutabagas

One large rutabaga, peeled and cubed into more or less bite-sized pieces, will serve four people easily. Coat in vegetable oil, sprinkle with salt, pepper and granulated garlic, and bake them at 350 in a well-oiled pan, turning occasionally to brown evenly. When tender, dust with dried herbs—sage, rosemary, marjoram, basil, rosemary, or a combination—spoon in a skillet, and toss with butter.

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Pepper Mushrooms

This recipe is recipe from an old friend of mine who ran a catering business in Oxford. He looked like a red-headed Rick Astley; only person I ever knew who used a cigarette holder, and of course he smoked Salem 100s menthol.

Sauté in olive oil 1 pound of mushrooms, sliced or cut in quarters, with 1 large red pepper, cut into strips, one a large red onion, sliced, and 3 cloves garlic, minced. Cool, add balsamic vinegar, thyme, and fresh ground pepper. Salt to taste. Refrigerate before serving.

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Tio Jesé’s Pickled Avocado

Use firm avocados. Peel and slice as you like, then soak in a bath of cold salted water and lime juice for about an hour. This step draws some of the oil from the avocado, making it more receptive to the pickling liquid (makes them prettier, too). Drain, dust generously with salt and red pepper flakes, and pack into jars. Fill jars with white vinegar, then pour vinegar from jars into a saucepan. For each pint of liquid, add the juice of half a lime, a teaspoon each of whole black peppers, yellow mustard seeds, and diced cilantro. Pour hot liquid back into jars, seal, and allow to sit a day before serving.

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How to Make a Mess

Messes are best made shortly before serving. Garnishes are totally superfluous.

An Eton mess is made with meringue chunks, whipped/ice cream, and (usually marinated) fruit, traditionally strawberries. As the name implies, it’s said to have originated at Eton College, UK. The variation with bananas served at Lancing College is of course called a Lancing mess, which sounds quite bloody but isn’t.

A French meringue isn’t always practical in the humid South, so I often make what is called in culinary spleen Italian meringue. Heat a cup of sugar and a half cup of water to boil and cool to barely steaming. Whip four egg whites with a squirt of lemon juice to soft peaks, then SLOWLY drizzle in the sugar syrup. Keep whipping until quite stiff.

Spoon this meringue on a lightly oiled sheet pan and bake in the oven until dry through, then break into chunks. I splurge and serve it with vanilla Häagen-Dazs when I want to feel like I’m twenty again.

 

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Hector’s Moussaka

“Jess, while my people built the Parthenon, yours were stuffing sheep shit in rock walls to keep the wind out. When Homer first sang of the anger of Achilles, your ancestors were banging on skin drums and grunting like swine. As Praxiteles found Apollo in living stone, yours were whittling dildos from oak knots.”

“Hector,” I said, “You are a strong and beautiful god bringing the fire of civilization to this aspiring ape. Your divine radiance blinds me.”

“Do not mock me, you Cretan. You asked me to teach you how to make moussaka as my great-uncle Nikolaos, so I must make you properly respectful of the gift. They say Uncle Niko made Greek cooking a Frenchified farce, but what he did was throw away the trash the Turks and Slavs put on our plates and brought classic refinement to this beautiful old dish. Now it is ἀμβροσία, ambrosia, food fit for the gods. Here, I’ll show you.”

Trim stalks and bottoms of 2 large eggplants, peel and slice to ½ inch. Soak in salty water for about 20 minutes, and dry on paper towels. Peel 4 potatoes and slice to ¼ inch. Fry potatoes and eggplant in olive oil until just soft. Set both aside on paper towels to drain. Add oil if needed and sauté two diced white onions until translucent. Add about a pound and half of lean ground beef to the onions in the frying pan, mix well to break up the meat, add two cloves minced garlic, and an 8-oz. can of tomato sauce. Mix very well, then lower heat and simmer uncovered, stirring, until liquid is reduced. Set aside.

For Béchamel, melt ½ stick butter, add ¼ cup plain flour, mix well and cook over medium low heat until it stops bubbling. Gradually add four cups whole milk, stirring continually, until quite thick. Cool and incorporate two beaten egg yolks. Set aside.

Grease the sides and bottoms of a large casserole. Cover the bottom with a layer of potato slices, add a layer of eggplant  and drained tomato slices, and half of the meat mixture. Cover the meat layer with remaining potato slices, then more eggplant and tomato, with meat mixture. Top with Béchamel and bake at 350F for 40 minutes or so. Cool before slicing to serve.