Damon Lee Fowler

16 March 2020: Braised Cabbage

 

The middle of March marks an all-too-brief moment in the year when green cabbage, which gets so little attention the rest of the year, comes into its own and finally gets to share a bit of culinary lime light.

 

After months of being taken for granted slivered up in coleslaw or stewed with salt pork and languishing on the steam table of restaurants offering so-called "country" cooking, green cabbage finally gets to nestle up to that ubiquitous hunk of St. Patrick's Day corned beef and shine, if only for a day or two.

 

That wasn't always the case: Read More 

Though autumn officially began a week ago and won’t really be felt here in Savannah for weeks to come, for me September 29, the Feast of St. Michael and All Angels (commonly called Michaelmas) is the real beginning of the season, which happens to be of my favorite of the entire year.

Aside from roasted goose in parts of England, there’s not a lot of food that’s connected with Michaelmas. But among the flavors that speak of autumn for me are mushrooms: in soup, sauce, over pasta, rolled in an omelette, or just on their own, sautéed in butter or, as the early nineteenth century doyenne of Southern cooking, Mary Randolph, directed, stewed in their own juices: Read More 

For the last two centuries, fried chicken has taken all the attention as the ultimate symbol of Southern cooking. Nothing else, except possibly barbecue, has hogged the limelight nearly so completely—and not without reason. When properly done, it’s one of the loveliest things in any cuisine’s repertory.

But fried chicken is—or, rather, should be—special occasion fare. For me, the simplest, and most satisfying, way of cooking a chicken is roasting, especially at this time of year: the aroma is the very essence of autumn’s kitchen. Read More 

One of the great flavor combinations of a Southern summer is the masterful pairing of okra and tomatoes. This near perfect mating was not discovered down here, nor is it limited to our corner of the globe, but we’ve certainly laid claim to it and made it peculiarly our own.

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Summer squash is in the air (and, where the drought hasn’t struck, overflowing in the garden). When fellow culinary historian Nancy Carter Crump mentioned them in a recent short essay, it inspired a look back to the four doyennes of Southern cookery, and turned up three different ways of getting the similar results from Mary Randolph, Lettice Bryan, and Annabella Hill:

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Under the deep-green shade of the old camellias in my back yard, one of the quiet miracles of spring is unfolding: a thick, luxurious stand of new-green poke shoots. This lovely wild green, once a defining element of spring’s table for country folk all across the South, is a real piece of Southern lore, and has been turned by popular culture into an object of derision, a symbol of ignorance and raw poverty.

It is none of those things to me. Read More 

Among the loveliest and yet most neglected flavors of spring are true spring onions, the first slender, bright sprouts of the new growing season. Loosely — and misleadingly — labeled “green” onions, and today available year round, immature onion sprouts, like asparagus, were once strictly seasonal, available for only a few precious weeks. Read More 

The gift of a quart of Calamondin oranges last weekend was so lovely that they went straight into a blue and white china bowl as a table ornament. After a few days of admiring them, however, it became obvious that they weren’t going to last much longer. As they were entirely too lovely to waste, I started looking for something to do with them other than the obvious marmalade.

If you aren’t familiar with Calamondins, they look like a miniature tangerine or Clementine, and have the same thin, pliable skin that easily detaches from the fruit. But unlike Clementines, the pulp of a Calamondin is tart, with a bitter edge, which is of course why they’re so perfect for marmalade.

Several friends suggested that the juice would be a perfect substitute for that of bitter oranges in marinades for such things as Cuban style pork roast, or hearty roasted fish such as grouper or snapper. But using only the juice meant wasting those beautiful, vibrant skins, and since the day was cool and clear—ideal for making preserves—why quibble with marmalade just because it’s obvious?

When it comes to marmalade, the old-fashioned kind, with a nice bitter bite to cut the sweetness, is best. And for that, we need look no further than Lettice Bryan’s 1839 masterpiece, The Kentucky Housewife:

“Orange Marmalade.

Grate fine the yellow peel from some ripe deep colored oranges, cut up all that are decorticated, saving the juice and removing the seeds and cores; mix with the pulp the grated peel, add an equal weight of powdered loaf sugar and a very little water, simmer the whole together till it becomes thick and quite transparent. When cold put it up in small glass jars, and cover them with brandy papers.”

The delicate skins of Calamondins would not have taken to grating, but Mrs. Bryan’s formula otherwise made better sense than the things that had turned up on the Internet. The pitted fruit was sliced and tossed into the pot without separating the skins. The only addition to her sensible recipe was a tiny pinch of salt to brighten the flavor.

Calamondin Orange Marmalade

Wash the oranges and carefully twist off the stems (don’t pull or their delicate skins will tear). Weigh the fruit, then halve, seed, and thinly slice it, conserving all the juices. Toss the fruit and its juices into a heavy-bottomed stainless steel or enameled pot as it is cut.

Add an equal weight of sugar, a scant cup of water for each pound, and a small pinch of kosher or pickling salt. Stir until the sugar is mostly dissolved, then bring it to a boil over medium heat, stirring often. Maintain a steady boil and cook until the skins are transparent and tender and the syrup is thickened and jellies when dropped from the spoon onto a saucer (210-220 degrees F. on a candy thermometer). It will take about half an hour or a little more.

Let the marmalade cool slightly, then using a perfectly clean stainless or silver ladle and wide-mouthed funnel, transfer it to sterilized half-pint jars. Cover with new canning lids, cool, and refrigerate or, for prolonged storage, process in a water bath for 5 minutes. Read More