Sweet Corn

I struggle to find good food memories from my early childhood. By which I mean maybe 10 years old and before…

Well, for except one. Blueberry pancakes at Trout Lake. Normally, each year in August, we would go almost camping in real log cabins at this “resort” in the Adirondacks of upstate New York. It was primitive. The cabins were built mostly back in the ’20s and ’30s. Mom would pack the station wagon full of a week or two’s worth of clothes for four kids and two adults, all the cooking utensils we’d need, and food staples, and more. That station wagon would be full to the gills, and the roof rack also heaped with an additional load precariously roped down with a tarp covering all.

But, back to those pancakes. I would spend hours searching a patch picking wild low-bush blueberries near our favorite cabin. And those blueberries were tiny compared to commercial berries today.

Then, one morning, mom would make us blueberry pancakes, served with real butter and real maple syrup, because, why would you use anything else? WHY?

For other memories of good food at home in the early years, I come up blank. Our household was not one that would have created food memories. My mother tried hard to provide meals from a slim budget while caught in the expectations imposed on women in the 1950s-70s.

She learned to cook from her mother who made it clear she was supposed to have staff. Though the Great Depression put an end to that possibility, my grandmother never for a moment felt that she didn’t deserve staff. She didn’t like to cook, didn’t want to cook, so my mother really never learned to cook, and she too didn’t want to cook. And I think, expected to have staff.

But every now and then, a food memory surfaces in spite of my mother, and I remember…

It’s late summer in the mid 1960s, but not so late that we’re back in school. Not yet. We’re still free! Probably late July running into August. And we’re heading home from a day at the pool. We lived in the suburbs of Hartford CT, a town called Glastonbury, and back then it was almost required that every family belonged to THE NEW pool club.

We four starving kids were loaded into the hot station wagon with no AC. But wait, what is this? We pull up to a small farm stand and there he is. This gnarled old guy. Mother asks for a dozen ears, while we kids are jumping all over the place, hungry, bored, but mostly hungry after a day swimming non-stop. We are marginally well behaved. Perhaps less than marginally.

I suspect this guy is not a real farmer. Because, why is there not a pile of picked corn for us to pull from? I’ve seen the miracle of Supermarkets and the Grand Union, after all.

The old guy disappears. For about 10 minutes. He reappears with a bag of 12 ears of corn. Maybe thirteen. He quite literally just pulled them off the stalks and took his sweet time selecting fully ripe ones. The cost is maybe a dollar? This old guy was probably born back in the late 1800s; and he knows his corn.

We also take a “pint” box of tomatoes, still warm from the field, and so large there’s only one or two in each box.

I ask “Why did he go away?” And mom, not a foodie, says matter-of-factly, “He went to pick the corn.” That was what was expected. Not flashy or pretentious, just the way it is done. Some neighbor had told my mom the best corn was to be had at this stand. She listened and was not to be outdone.

Now, that’s fresh corn.

And the corn will be yellow. What I’ve learned over the years is the best sweet corn is yellow. When I first tasted white corn, I was appalled. It was all about sugar, not about corn flavor. I reject white corn. Emphatically. If it’s not yellow, I don’t buy it. Have I made myself clear? OK, when there’s no fresh yellow corn, I will take the “butter and cream” type. Only because I have to. But I will go home empty handed if there is only white corn. Not worth the time of day…

Bag of corn stashed in the station wagon, we head home. Next up? Us kids have to shuck the corn. This is done outside on the backyard picnic table. Always.

And here’s where our personalities come out.

Dick, my older brother, grabs the husks, pulls, shreds, and rips, removing the absolute minimum needed. In about 1 minute, he has technically husked his four ears of corn. There are shreds of husk are everywhere. Parts are still on the ear as is most of the silk.

Dwight, my younger brother, after starting the process of husking an ear, has set it aside and moved it and all his other ears into my pile. And left the premises.

Diane, being 3 or 4 years old, is “too young,” says Mom, and that and because she’s a girl, mom exempts her from the duty.

I am a nerd. I admit it. I hold it as a badge supreme.

I, slowly, peel away the first outermost leaf from the ear, working carefully so as not to tear it. I set it on the picnic table. Then I determine which is the next outermost leaf, work that clear, and set it inside the leaf already on the table. Continuing, outermost leaf after outermost leaf, stacking them up inside the growing stack of leaves… When I get to the inside, all that’s left is the silk. And I take great care to pull off each thread. I’m such a nerd. And it takes a long time. Fortunately, the long time is needed while mother attempts to create “dinner” from boxes of packaged crap and frozen ingredients.

As summer turns to early fall, we still pick up sweet corn at that stand most weekends. But, the increasing number of Yellow Jackets make the task of shucking the corn on our picnic table more and more problematic. And our mother’s insistence in sending us out there to peel the corn regardless of the Yellow Jacket danger never wavered. She could not have corn peeling detritus in her house. It must be outside. I learned to shuck faster, how to swat a Yellow Jacket without getting stung, and then run the fresh ears inside. Reluctantly, that is, to go faster.

And then there’s the eating. How to do it?

There’s my little sister’s method: Pick up the ear, take a bite, put it down. Repeat randomly, never two bites next to each other.

There’s my older brothers way: Cut all the kernels off the cob, and then eat. He had braces; it comes from that and his particular OC disorder.

Then there was my way: Methodically bite off two rows from left to right, large end to the left, as if I were a typewriter. Nom, nom, nom. When reaching the right end, rotate cob top forward so that my incisors can cleanly slice off the next two rows. Repeat. And if I were to put the cob down, it would never be before reaching the end of the row.

I was such a nerd, way before being a nerd was cool.

Grilled Corn

First, let me say, any person or recipe that says “soak the ears in water…” either before or after partly shucking them is full of BS. To get Grilled Corn means taking the temperature way above 212°F, the boiling point of water. Meaning, to get grilled corn, you need to boil off all the water. Adding water means it takes more time to boil it off to get to grilling temperatures. And yes there's the argument about "it steams the corn" but we're not talking about steamed corn, we're talking about grilled corn. This is a question of style. Grilled corn needs to get really hot to caramelize and even get a little charred. Steamed corn is a different product.

So, first choice: To shuck or not to shuck.

I find both approaches, when cooked over a charcoal fired grill, produce wonderful results. The question is: Shorter time and more grilled flavor vs. longer time and less grilled flavor.

That’s your decision.

Shucked corn, over a HOT fire, will cook with almost minute by minute rotation in about 15-20 minutes. And you’ll get nicely charred and caramelized corn.

Un-shucked corn, again over a HOT fire, will cook with almost minute by minute rotation in about 25-30 minutes. The shucks will char, add flavor, fall away, and if the fire is hot enough, the falling shards of husks will flame up… But that is good. Fire good. Flavor good. And, when you get to the shucking part, the silk will come off almost completely with the shucks.

Both will be too hot to handle if processing further (like cutting off the cob for a sauté or a salad, or in the case of the un-shucked type, getting them shucked). They will need to rest a bit.

I like to serve either with soft butter, slathered over all, and then sprinkled with sea salt (or kosher, that works too). And then carefully eat, large end to small end, a pair of rows at a time.

Corn on the built in grilling fireplace in my kitchen. Sweet... Grilling all year round no matter the rain in Seattle! Original equipment in this vintage 1959 house...

1990 Ridge Lytton Springs Zinfandel

I've been excavating the cellar for old wines that need to be enjoyed (if possible) or tossed (if necessary). Most of my posts have been on my Facebook page, but this one (and the last) needs to go here.  There's too much of a good story to waste this on Facebook.

I became a fan of wines from Ridge back in the 1980s, when I was starting to really learn about wines. And I loved Zinfandel quite a bit. It was a time when Zinfandel was finally being recognized as a grape of potentially great wines. But, as the years progressed, Zinfandel makers made ever bigger fruit bombs. The wines got riper, jammier, more alcoholic, and frankly, they lost what had drawn me to them in the first place. A bright, mildly tannic wine that went great with anything from roasted chicken to BBQ to steak. The fruit and alcohol bombs lost this... Sadly.

But let me come back to Ridge. They never went over the top. With any of their wines. Always, balance, sense of place, a subtle touch with richness.

I loved their wines (still do).

Back in the 1980s, they were also a bargain - great price for incredible quality. I don't have data at hand, but I seem to recall the Lytton Springs Zin being on the order of $10-12 a bottle. And, as a grad student, that was what I could barely afford. I skimped elsewhere, but I drank well.

Then, 1990 happened. It was a good year in California for wines, and Ridge excelled beyond anything they'd ever done before. I remember that wine. It was rich, ripe, but also had acidity and tannin, it was everything they'd ever done before, multiplied by ten. It was so freaking good.

Unfortunately, for me, it was recognized as such by the Wine Spectator upon release, and they gave it points in the 90s (somewhere in the basement is the copy, but I'm not about to dig for it). What happened next was horrifying to me. The price went up, as you might expect. Ridge wines that had been $10 went to $30 a bottle.

It was devastating for me, but I was very happy for Ridge.

[Side note: Paul Drapper (PD in the label above) said in 02/92, "Lovely now, it will develop further over the next fiver or six years." It's now, what 24 years later?]

Somehow, I still managed to put away a fair amount of 1990 Zinfandel. Perhaps two cases. And I've enjoyed it occasionally over the years. But, here's the thing.

I've known there were still some lurking in the cellar, but hadn't seen any for some time. Like years. Digging in the cellar tonight, I found a 1990 Zin in a mixed box of all sorts of odd old bottles. And I thought, "OK, why not?"

With trepidation, I removed the foil. Then carefully started the corkscrew. It went into the cork easily, too easily. Uh-oh. Soft cork. After threading the screw into the cork completely, I ever so gently started to extract the cork. It started moving easily. Uh-oh. It was wet to the top. Uh-oh. The cork slid partly out easily, and then, broke. Uh-oh. I got the last piece out, and, frankly, was prepared to taste vinegar.

After pouring out a sample, I sniffed. SKUNK. Uh-oh.

All right, give it some time. Swirl, blow off the top, swirl, give it some air to come back to life...

And it opened up, and was, actually quite nice. Not the great wine that you would have tasted back in, say the mid to late 90s or so, but quite nice. Still great color (not a hint of garnet, which usually comes with age). Definitely on the light side as far as taste and power goes, but delicious. The tannins were pretty much absent (and were clinging to the side of the bottle, I see). I didn't get any prune that so often comes with too old wines, especially those that were made too ripe. Rather, diminished (really, given the age) flavors of black cherries, a touch of cedar, some brambly blackberry. All diminished, but still there. I was floored.

Shows that Ridge really has had it's act together for decades.

And still does.

Bad Chablis, Great Carignane

Tomorrow I'll spend some time excavating all the whites in the cellar. After a nasty oxidized Chablis very recently, I need to find all the others and get them out where I can see them.

A friend shared a site where there is a lot of evidence of recent Chablis not aging as usual, and many recent vintages are prematurely oxidized. [Side note: This friend, I have yet to discover any topic upon which he is not just thoroughly knowledgeable, but an expert. Dang. Here's the link: http://oxidised-burgs.wikispaces.com]

Tonight, moving boxes around, I was looking for a shipment from Ridge Vineyards that I'd not even opened. The one I found first was of the 2010 Carignane from Buchignani Ranch.

2010 was an interesting year for me - that fall, not long after the harvest of this wine was complete, my doctor told me I had cancer. That led to treatments, and much more, and also meant wines from my Ridge Wine Club stacked up, unopened. And even those shipments (6 bottles each) that did get opened, only a single bottle may have been extracted. We just couldn't drink, and especially, enjoy wine. In particular, red wine. It was a bleak time that didn't really end until recently.

So, tonight, a long delayed enjoyment.

Up front, a sweet rose petal and red cherry, mouth filling red fruit (raspberry in particular), tannins just there... Delicious.

Notes from the harvest include these: "A long wet spring disrupted set at Buchignani Ranch and cut yields from the old carignane vines." "We picked all vineyard blocks on September 28." "Enjoyable now, the wine will evolve over the next four to five years." (notes written 09/2011, wine bottled 12/2011).

So, these bottles that have been sitting undisturbed since arriving in Seattle, are in prime time. And I agree. Delicious.

Ham and Bean Soup, with some Greens to make it more Healthy

Not the most regal of dinners, lunches, or even breakfasts (why not!). But tasty.

I love a soup that combines ham and beans. Probably my favorite kind. OK, except for French Onion. Or, OK, I love Cream of Mushroom. Something from my childhood I can't get over. Or, OK, Chicken Noodle. I give. I have too many favorites.

Over the weekend, I roasted a massive bone in ham (with a pear chutney glaze). And ham dinners are one of my favorite dinners. Well, except for Asian marinated flank steak. Or roasted prime rib. And, uh, a roasted chicken. Or a turkey. Or even a baked macaroni and cheese. Or Lasagna. Again, I give. I have many favorites.

Some have asked, when they find out I love to cook "what do you like to cook?"

I cook dinner.

I don't do desserts.

I tried my hand at bread and met with some success with sourdough loaves. But I finally decided it was better if I just bought something from any of the many wonderful bakeries here in Seattle. I still aspire to make great bread, but it's not a calling. So I purchase.

Dinner, on the other hand, is what I do. And I don't hew to any particular cuisine. Well, my go to is Italian - a couple of impeccable ingredients at their seasonal best, prepared simply. Love it. But I also love, I mean LOVE, Korean. So I might make anything.

Back to the roasted ham. I boned out the bone - right? That's what you do, right? And I purposely left it "meaty." Unlike my usual almost obsessive compulsion to bone out something such that the bone is completely clean. I wanted meat on it. And into a large kettle to simmer for hours to get all the goodness out of the bone (and the trimmings I left on).

Now, to the soup. I will admit, when I embark on a new cooking adventure for posting, I probably look at over a dozen or more recipes on line. I put them all into a spreadsheet, normalize for quantity, and then think I'll make an "average" combination. In reality, I do all that computing, but by the time I've finished all the comparisons, I've already made my mind up as to how I'm going to make the dish. And I toss the spreadsheet and just record what I did.

Yes, I do learn some things, sometimes, comparing recipes. A technique. A change in the order of operation. But, at best, it might be an herb or spice or veg I didn't consider before. Like Cardamom. I don't think to use it in places where it might just make the difference. And I love Cardamom. Dorothy makes a Cardamom Ice Cream... Oh my...

But I digress.

I make the ham stock from that bone and trimmings. I taste, add more ham, taste, and season, add more ham, and eventually, I like it as a base for the soup. It has enough of it's own flavor to be good by itself. Then I strain the stock, de-fat it, and bring it back to simmer.

Later, diced ham and beans will go in, but let's talk about the beans first. You could use canned beans and be done quickly (as in, just add them, drained and rinsed, and you're almost done). Or you could use dried beans, meaning you need to cook them to tenderness which of course takes time (and yes, in the strained stock would be fine, even correct). Or you could use what I did, which is frozen fresh Cranberry beans I put up from the Farmer's Market this last summer. Like, everybody has this, right? I can hear you laughing... In this case, the beans go in the strained stock to cook for about 15-20 minutes until almost done.

No matter the bean starting point, when they are almost done, add diced ham. Bring slowly back to a simmer.

Separately, I sweat onion, celery, carrot, and garlic and prep the greens. I love Lacinato Kale. Perfect for this dish. Although other types, even Collards, are wonderful.

About cutting your greens. There's nothing worse than taking a spoonful of soup and having a 5-inch long piece of green hanging off it flinging soup drops onto your new dress shirt. I swear, new shirts have an almost magnetic quality about them for errant drops. Before cutting your greens crosswise (across the stem, which you have removed in the case of Collards and tough kale), cut lengthwise to make sure no piece is more than 1" in length. Then cut crosswise into 3/8" ribbons or so. You could go 2/8" (1/4) inch, or even 4/8 (1/2 inch). But I like the width in between.

Add the sweated veg and greens to the simmering soup pot, let it simmer about 10 minutes, taste for seasoning and correct if needed.

Only thing extra to do is either just toast some delicious bread you bought from a real bakery, or make broiled garlic bread with a dusting of Parmesan cheese - again the bread from one of those incredible local bakeries.

Now that's a wonderful dinner. Or lunch. Or, yes, breakfast.

And in that last case I like to place a poached egg in the bowl of hot soup. And, just because I am who I am, I put crumbled crisp bacon either on top of the soup and egg, or under a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. Or both. Yes. I do that. No, I'm not embarrassed.

Ham and Bean Soup

1 large meaty ham bone
4 quarts of water
1 pound fresh cranberry beans
2 cups diced cooked ham
1/2 onion, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 celery stalks, diced
2 garlic cloves, diced very fine
1 bunch Lacinato kale, chopped
Salt and Pepper to taste

Simmer the bone in the water for several hours. De-fat the stock, and taste. Add more ham scraps if it tastes weak, and simmer some more.

Strain the stock, return to cleaned pot and return to simmer. Add the beans and cook gently until they are almost done. Add the diced ham.

Meanwhile, sweat the chopped onion, carrot, celery, and garlic, and prepare (chop) the kale.

When beans are just done, add the sweated veg to the pot along with the chopped kale, and bring back to a simmer for about 10 minutes. Taste, add salt and pepper as needed.

Serve with toast, or cheesy garlic bread.

Playing with Pesto

Generally, I don't like “stuffed” meats. To get the stuffing cooked, because the stuffing is in the center of the meat, you have to overcook the meat. For example, a stuffed turkey - I don’t do them because I don’t like dry turkey. I do the dressing on the side…

Same with a roast leg of lamb. Putting raw garlic into the leg, be it stuck in a hole poked into the side or a leg roast butterflied and spread with garlic then rolled and tied back up… The garlic stays raw and nasty if you cook to medium rare (as you should). You have to overcook the lamb to well done and then some to get the garlic cooked. Again, nasty.

Is there a way to make a stuffed or rolled and tied piece of meat work? Yes. It’s all about choices.

Here are two efforts using pesto as my stuffing, and pesto has raw garlic, so it’s a good test.

This year at Thanksgiving, I finally got over the notion of needing a whole roasted turkey. Every year, to get the legs done, the breasts get overcooked. So this year I broke the turkey down. Removed the legs, removed the wings (cut off the flats and tips for stock), cut the breast meat off the bones. All that went into my cider brine for 24 hours.

Meanwhile, the carcass, wing tips and flats, neck, and organ meat went into the oven to roast. After roasting and skimming the fat, all that (minus the organ meat) went into a stock pot. Fresh turkey stock for cooking on Thanksgiving at the ready!

So, about that pesto? I butterflied out the breast pieces and smeared them with pesto, then rolled and tied them up. For roasting, I put the legs in the oven first, let them go about a half hour, then added the rolled breasts. Brought everything up to internal temperature of 160°F, then let them rest while all the sides warmed or finished.

I’d say, success. Probably the best turkey I’ve ever cooked! And the pesto/turkey breast was quite a hit at the table and looked fantastic too.

Butterflied breast with pesto

A rolled and tied breast before roasting

The roasted breast pieces, and drumettes too

Slices of the roasted breast. Pretty!

Last night, I did something similar with a pork tenderloin. Butterflied it out, smeared with pesto, rolled and tied, and roasted to an internal temperature of 160°F. Again, a hit.

Why does this work? Both poultry and pork needs to be cooked fully. And hence, lend themselves to “stuffing.” But only if the pieces are small enough in diameter to reach temperature in the center without killing the outside layers of meat. That’s why it works with the cuts I used.

Rolled and tied

Cross section - very pretty!

Alternatively, I know you could use an immersion circulator to cook these and larger cuts without killing the meats. Set at 160°F, no part of the roast will ever get any hotter. All you’d need to do then is pop the done roast in a very hot oven to brown it on the outside, et voilà!

Here’s my post about making pesto