If you are of a certain age, you remember it simmering for hours on the back of the stove, thick with tomatoes, redolent of garlic, oregano, and sometimes an adventurous splash of wine, filling the house with its rich aroma. It came to the table ladled thickly over a bed of fat, slightly overcooked spaghetti, dusted generously with grated cheese that came straight from a green can. Read More
25 August 2012: Annabella Hill’s Grilled Pork Tenderloin Medallions
While working on a story for a Labor Day backyard party, I kept coming across articles that were reaching (or should we say, stretching) for something new and different—and with very little real success. What they generally ended up with was the same old things with a different sauce slathered onto it.
I, on the other hand, did what I probably do too often: Read More
When the weather turns lethally hot in August, it will surprise no one who has ever been near Savannah to learn that a popular local prescription for relief is both old fashioned and alcoholic: the champagne cocktail. Though the popularity of these concoctions peaked in the 1940s and 50s, their roots go back at least to the late eighteenth century, when champagne punches were popularized by the likes of England’s Prince Regent George IV. 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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Without a doubt, Shrimp Creole is one of the most neglected classics in the entire repertory of modern Southern cooking. Though a version of it can be found in almost every comprehensive anthology, and it still turns up on the menu of many Louisiana restaurants, it no longer has the respect that it deserves, and is treated as a hackneyed cliché, indeed, almost as an anachronism. Read More
One of the great delicacies of the garden in late spring and early summer are edible blossoms, picked early in the morning and mixed into salads, minced and folded into compound butters, or, perhaps best of all, dipped in batter and fried.
Here in Savannah and over in Italy, one of the best of these blooms is, pardon the expression, presently in full flower: the butter-yellow blooms of summer squash Read More
Here in Southeast Georgia, the early blueberries from Florida and the southernmost end of our state are already coming to the market. Though blueberries are one of my favorite fruits, I can usually resist the earliest ones: picked a bit unripe and shipped in from South America or even South Florida, they’re almost always a disappointment. Read More
With Derby Day upon us, it seems appropriate to revisit one of the South’s most venerable and, in some ways, notorious drinks—the Mint Julep.
It is popularly supposed to have originated in Kentucky, where true bourbon is made, and perhaps the classic version was—Lord knows, it ought to have been, since tomorrow at Derby time mint juleps will be flowing across Kentucky like rainwater after a spring thunderstorm. Read More
Last year, a cache of fresh fava beans inspired a dip into Mary Randolph’s lucid recipe for these ancient legumes in her iconic book, The Virginia House-wife (see 10 May 2011: Fava alla Randolph):
“Mazagan Beans.
This is the smallest and most delicate species of the Windsor bean. Gather them in the morning, when they are full-grown, but quite young, and do not shell them till you are going to dress them. Put them into boiling water, have a small bit of middling, (flitch,) of bacon, well boiled, take the skin off, cover it with bread crumbs, and toast it; lay this in the middle of the dish, drain all the water from the beans, put a little butter on them, and pour them round the bacon.” Read More
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
One never knows what will catch the imagination and send one down the rabbit hole of history. Over the last few months, it has been my privilege to edit a lovely little cookbook called A Long Way on a Little, written by friend and colleague Shannon Hayes, a farming food writer from upstate New York whose family farm specializes in all natural, pasture-raised animals. Read More
Pondering green-sprouting spring onions last week sparked memories of a nearly lost pleasure of the Southern gardens of my childhood: tender, spring shallot sprouts. They’re a luxury born of necessity: sprouting shallot beds have to be culled so that they don’t crowd one another, giving the bulbs room to grow fat and multiply. Since they’re too beautiful to just toss away, they’ve long been used as other green onions might be. 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
One of the benefits of observing a Lenten discipline at the table is the discipline it imposes on us as cooks in the kitchen. A Lenten table isn’t just about doing without: simpler food is not merely an exercise in restraint; it actually commands more from the cook, asking us to pay closer attention, to think more carefully about what we’re doing.
Simpler food, stripped of artifice and flavor-enriching fats, is more exposed, its flavors more direct. Simpler, understated preparations likewise leave the cook more exposed, with very little margin for error. The simpler the cooking is, the less the cook can afford to let his attention waver.
Nothing more fittingly illustrates the point than that old mainstay of the French kitchen, Potage Parmentier—or, as we know it, leek and potato soup. It’s the perfect dish for a Lenten table, and once was very popular during the season; unhappily, it is nowadays sadly overlooked and neglected.
The classic soup is nothing more than its English name implies: fresh, young leeks and potatoes thinly sliced and simmered together—and that’s about all. There’s no broth and its only seasonings are a little onion and salt. The finished soup can be enhanced with a splash of cream, a handful of crisp croutons, a sprinkling of bright, freshly snipped chives, and sometimes a whisper of white pepper, but even those garnishes become superfluous when the soup has been well made from first rate ingredients. And if it hasn’t been, well, there’s not a garnish in the world that will make it palatable.
The leeks must be vibrant, fresh, and carefully handled—well cleaned without that misguided technique of slicing and then soaking it in ice water (which may take away the sand, but unhappily will take a good deal of the flavor along with it), thin-sliced, and slowly sweated in a little butter to draw out its flavors without caramelizing it.
The potatoes should likewise be selected with care—mature, but still firm, snapping crisp, and fresh tasting, then thinly sliced so that they cook quickly and evenly without taking on that heavy, almost sour aftertaste that overcooking can bring to them.
The onion, salt, and (if they’re even used) the garnishes play only a supporting role.
In short, Potage Parmentier is not a complicated dish nor do the techniques involved require any particular skill from the cook. But to be done well, it does require a good deal of thoughtfulness and finesse, and it never hurts to be reminded of that.
Potage Parmentier, or Leek and Potato Soup
Though not classic, one of my own favorite variations for this soup is to save a couple of cups of the tender leek greens, stir them into the pureed soup, and gently simmer until they are barely tender. They lend both texture and a bright, fresh flavor.
Serves 6-8
1 pound leeks
1 medium yellow onion, trimmed, split, peeled and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 pound Russet or mature Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced
6 cups water
Kosher or sea salt
¼-to-½ cup heavy cream, optional
Croutons (recipe follows)
3 tablespoons minced chives or tender leek greens
Whole white pepper in a mill
1. To clean and prepare the leeks, lay them flat on a cutting board, slice off the root tendrils without removing the root base altogether, then, with the knife parallel to the board, carefully cut them in half lengthwise. Holding each half root-end-up under running water, fold back the leaves and wash away the sand and dirt that is caught between the leaves. Drain and thinly slice both the white and pale tender greens. You should have about 3 cups. Lay aside the other greens for the stock pot.
2. Warm the butter in a heavy-bottomed 3½-to-4-quart saucepan or Dutch oven over low heat. Add the leek and onion and let them sweat until softened and translucent, about 8-to-10 minutes. Add the potatoes, toss well, and let them heat through.
2. Add the water and raise the heat to medium high. Bring to a boil, adjust the heat to a simmer, and season with salt. Cook gently until the potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes. Puree in batches with a food mill, blender or food processor. (It can be made several days ahead up to this point: let cool, cover, and refrigerate.)
3. Return the soup to the pot and reheat it slowly over medium low heat, stirring often. Stir in cream to taste (if using), taste and adjust the seasonings, and heat for a minute to let the flavors meld. Serve garnished with a few croutons on each bowl, a sprinkling of chives or leek greens and, if liked, a light grinding of white pepper. You may also add another spoonful of cream to each bowl, or opt to use the cream only as a garnish.
Croutons
Preheat the oven to 300 F. Put 2-3 tablespoons of butter (or olive oil) on a rimmed baking sheet and heat until it is just melted (or in the case of the oil, fragrant). Cut 2 cups of stale home-style bread into small cubes. Put them on the baking sheet and quickly toss to evenly coat them with fat. Bake, stirring occasionally, until the croutons are evenly golden and crisp, about 20 to 30 minutes. For soups, I prefer to use butter, but olive oil is better for salad croutons. Read More
It hardly seems possible that Lent, the Christian season of penitence, is already upon us. Though the character of this season is marked by abstinence and reflection, it’s actually my favorite season for cooking, because the cooking—and eating—is more thoughtful. The simpler, less luxurious dishes that grace the Lenten table make one more conscious of the natural flavors of the food, and perhaps a little more thoughtful about what we put into our mouths.
But before Lent begins, we have one last whisper of the Winter Solstice holidays in Shrove, or “Fat”, Tuesday—or as it is known down in old Creole New Orleans, Mardi Gras. Designed as a way of using up the household stores of fat before Lent, Mardi Gras is the last burst of exuberant consumption (or in many cases, over-consumption) before settling in to the fast.
One could have the traditional pancake supper, I suppose, but to honor Mardi Gras, my mouth is stuck out for the centerpiece of every party ever given by friend and fellow food writer Julia Reed: a silver punch bowl mounded with Crabmeat Maison made as it is at the New Orleans landmark, Galatoire’s. That silver bowl of crabmeat landed her the job as food editor at Newsweek, and made her something of a legend among New York partygoers.
Crabmeat Maison a la Galatoire’s
Serves 12 to 18 as a cocktail hors d’oeuvres, or 8 to 12 as a cold main dish
1½ cups mayonnaise, preferably homemade with lemon juice (recipe follows)
½ cup (more or less, to taste) nonpareil capers, well drained
½ cup (more or less, to taste) thinly sliced scallions (about 4 small ones)
2 generous tablespoons chopped parsley
Salt and whole white pepper in a peppermill
2 pounds jumbo lump crabmeat
Crisp toast points
1. Put the mayonnaise in a large mixing bowl. Gently fold in the capers, scallions, parsley, and a large pinch of salt and liberal grinding of white pepper, both to taste. Cover and chill for at least 2 hours.
2. Gently fold in the crabmeat. Mound it into a large serving bowl, surround it with toast points, and stand back for the stampede.
Homemade Mayonnaise
Makes about 1½ cups
1 whole egg or 2 large egg yolks
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 generous tablespoon Dijon or Creole style mustard
1 teaspoon kosher or fine sea salt
1¼ cups vegetable oil
1. To make the mayonnaise in a food processor, put the whole egg, lemon juice, vinegar, mustard, and salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Process 1 minute.
2. With the machine running, slowly drizzle in the oil in a very thin, steady stream until it is incorporated and emulsified.
To make it using a whisk or hand-held mixer: use the two egg yolks and whisk them together with the lemon juice, vinegar, and salt in a ceramic mixing bowl. Whisking constantly, slowly drizzle in the oil a little at a time. Read More
Regardless of what one thinks of confining the celebration of romance to one day in the year, there’s something to be said for a holiday so deeply associated with chocolate that the connection is almost taken for granted.
That has not always been the case: until the middle of the nineteenth century, chocolate was rare and expensive, and the lavish bonbons, cakes, mousses, and pots de crème that tempt lovers nowadays didn’t exist. Chocolate was almost exclusively used as a beverage and, moreover, was a luxury that few could afford. In short, only the most elite lovers could conjure with chocolate, and they had to do so with a cup.
They could have done worse. Drinking chocolate goes back at least to the ancient Mayans, who used it in religious rituals and may well have believed it to have had aphrodisiacal powers. The Europeans, upon discovering it, certainly did. But then, they thought almost everything from the New World was an aphrodisiac.
Never mind. Silky rich drinking chocolate has a power all its own—and isn’t the biggest part of romance in our heads anyway?
By the days of the early Republic, drinking chocolate was still a luxury, but had become affordable enough to be well established in America. It was made in some variation of the method put down by Lettice Bryan in 1839.
Chocolate.
Chocolate cakes are carved in little squares on one side, to each of which, if the chocolate is good, allow about three jills* of water. Scrape it very fine with a knife, mix it with just enough boiling water to dissolve it, mashing it with a spoon till smooth, and then put it in a block-tin boiler, mix in the remaining water, which must also be boiling, cover it, set it on a trivet over a bed of coals, and boil it gently till reduce to about two thirds its original, giving it a light stirring two or three times: then replenish it with cream or rich sweet milk, making the boiler as full as it first was with water; watch it closely, stirring it a little till it boils up; then take it instantly from the fire, or it will boil over the top and a good part of it will be lost. Whirl round in it, near the top, a chocolate mill, (or a small bunch of bended wires will answer) till you raise a rich froth on the top, and send it to table hot, accompanied with chocolate cakes**, dry toasts, or hard rusks.
— Lettice Bryan, The Kentucky Housewife, 1839.
* Mrs. Bryan meant “gill,” an archaic name for ¼ pint, or ½ cup in modern liquid measurements.
** These were crisp sugar cookies designed for eating with the beverage. They didn’t contain chocolate.
With all respect to Mrs. Bryan, Miss Eliza Acton, one of the finest cookery writers of nineteenth century England (or, for that matter, anywhere else) provided a more refined recipe in her 1845 masterpiece that set a new standard for cookbooks.
To Make Chocolate.
An ounce of chocolate, if good, will be sufficient for one person. Rasp, and then boil it from five to ten minutes with about four tablespoonfuls* of water; when it is extremely smooth add nearly a pint of new milk, give it another boil, stir it well, or mill it, and serve it directly. For water-chocolate use three-quarters of a pint of water instead of milk, and send rich hot cream to table with it. The taste must decide whether it shall be made thicker or thinner.
Chocolate, 2 oz.; water, quarter-pint, or rather more; milk 1 pint: ½ minute.
— Eliza Acton, Modern Cookery for Private Families, 1845.
* Miss Acton means a common table or kitchen spoon roughly double the size of the standard modern measuring spoon. The closer equivalent to our tablespoon was a dessertspoon. Notice that while she says an ounce of chocolate will be sufficient for one person, the amounts given in the ingredient list and within the recipe are for two servings.
Very little of Miss Acton’s method needs further illumination for modern cooks. By milling she meant to whip it with a chocolate mill, a round whip on a long handle that was spun by rubbing it between the hands. Her recipe was accompanied by a drawing of a chocolate pot that came equipped with such a mill.
To Make Chocolate for Two.
Finely grate two ounces of best quality unsweetened dark chocolate. Bring a scant half-cup of water to a simmer over medium low heat, stir in the chocolate, and keep stirring until it dissolves. Let it simmer slowly while you bring one-and-three-quarters cups of light cream (or a blend of whole milk and cream) almost to a boil in a separate pot. If liked, add a cinnamon stick or half a vanilla bean to the milk before heating it, and let it simmer for five minutes. Slowly whisk the hot milk into the chocolate, sweeten it to taste with sugar, and if you’ve not used cinnamon or whole bean vanilla, flavor it with a little homemade Bourbon Vanilla (see 26 October 2011). A tiny pinch of cayenne is considered good for increasing one’s romantic inclinations. Whisk or mill until there is a thick froth on top and serve immediately.
You will not have to wait long for results. 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
One of the biggest challenges for food historians is battling the arrogant notion that cooks of the past were more ignorant and naïve than we are today.
Perhaps it seems logical that the natural progression of knowledge in the kitchen is upward, with each succeeding generation learning from and expanding on the wisdom of the previous one. This would seem particularly true given the technological innovations that revolutionized kitchens in the last century and a half.
Sadly, the progression of knowledge has not always been vertical, and those innovations have done little to improve wisdom; in fact, there are many instances in which they’ve had the opposite impact and left us more ignorant and naïve than ever.
Worse yet, our present generation has had an unfortunate tendency to by-pass the knowledge of the past as a quaint inhibition to creativity. What this usually leads to is not true creativity, but a lot of time wasted either re-inventing something that already existed, or a kind of wanton culinary vandalism in which a perfectly good dish is spoiled by doing things to it that are just plain incompatible.
Modern cooking equipment will not improve such a cook’s knowledge or skill; it only takes away some of the time and effort that might have forced that cook to pay attention and actually think about what he is doing to the food.
While a food processor will make a passable mirepoix in a fraction of the time and effort required of a skilled hand and sharp knife, that mirepoix will never be as even nor react to heat in the same way as one that has been carefully diced by hand.
And while a blender will make an adequate Hollandaise without the cook turning a hand to a whisk or using any real judgment, it can never equal the fluffy, silken texture lent by a whisk in the skilled hand of a cook who is thinking and paying attention.
The least improved equipment of all is the oven of a modern range. A woman once bounced up to me at a book signing and, citing the range with its “reliable ovens,” said she thought cooking had just come into its own in the last fifty years. Sadly, she could not have been further from the truth.
To begin with, few modern range ovens can be called truly reliable. They’re more convenient, yes; we no longer have to constantly stoke the fire or know what kind of wood to feed it for the lively heat required for bread or the gentle one needed for custard.
When it comes to performance, however, a range oven is decidedly inferior to the brick and cast iron ovens of the past. To begin with, its thin steel walls almost guarantee uneven heat distribution because they simply can’t hold and radiate heat as brick and iron will. And while convection baking partly amends that problem, it still can’t match the perfectly even radiant heat from brick or iron.
To compound the problem, oven thermostats, which are only as reliable as their calibration, have made us all lazy: we’ve lost the ability to feel the heat and know when the oven is at the right temperature. When the calibration is off (and more often than not, it is), we’re left scratching our heads and scrambling for an oven thermometer.
The range’s only real improvement is the cooktop, which no longer needs the careful stoking and constant supervision of an open fire or wood stove. But while the range makes the job easier, we still need our ancestor’s knowledge of how to do it well if we want the results to be more than passable.
Obviously, I’m not suggesting that we abandon modern equipment, but we do need to be aware that we’re not smarter than our ancestors, and don’t in fact know more than a cook who could turn out the same meals that we do under conditions that were a lot more taxing. If we really want the progression of knowledge in our kitchens to be vertical, we have to go back and learn the lessons that they took for granted.
Sauce Hollandaise
Though the prototypes of this sauce are Medieval, Hollandaise as we know it evolved in the early nineteenth century. Properly made, its base is a Sabayon (Zabaglione in Italian), which is really more of a technique than a fixed recipe. Early Hollandaise (also known as Dutch Sauce) was often flavored with a vinegar reduction rather than lemon juice, and in the English and American kitchens, where whisks were not as common, the Sabayon technique wasn’t used.
This recipe owes much to James Peterson, a modern cook who is very wise indeed.
Makes about 1½ cups
6 ounces (¾ cup or 12 tablespoons) unsalted butter
3 large egg yolks
3 tablespoons water
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
Salt
Ground cayenne or whole white peppercorns in a peppermill
1. Melt the butter over medium low heat, then turn off the heat but keep it warm.
2. Off the heat, whisk the eggs and water in a heavy-bottomed saucepan until frothy, then put the pan over medium heat. Whisk until it has tripled in volume and thickened, about 2 minutes. Remove it from the heat and continue whisking for about half a minute.
3. Gently whisk in the warm butter a little at a time, then gradually whisk in the lemon juice, tasting as you go: you may not need all of it; the lemon flavor should be subtle. Season to taste with salt and cayenne or white pepper and serve as soon as possible. Read More
One of the most characteristic spices of eighteenth and nineteenth century English and American cookery is mace; ironically, it’s also one the most neglected in our kitchens today. Many Americans have never even heard of it, or think it’s something to spray in the face of a mugger or misbehaving date.
Originating in Indonesia, mace comes from the fruit of myristica fragrans or, more commonly, the nutmeg tree. Though the fruit itself is bitter and inedible, its kernel contains two of the most intoxicatingly powerful spices in the world. The fat, oval nut at its center is nutmeg, and mace is the leathery, bright orange-red netting that covers its hard shell.
The flavor and aroma of mace is more pungent and pronounced than that of nutmeg. Bitter and often peppery hot, it’s one of the essential spices for garam masala and can be found in many curry blends. But when judiciously mated with other things, it adds a surprisingly mellow richness that no other spice can match.
Though whole blades don’t hold their pungency as well as whole nutmegs, they still keep their oomph longer than ground mace. Unfortunately, the latter is just about all you’re likely to find unless are lucky enough to have an Indian market in the neighborhood. Whole mace is well worth seeking out, even if you have to mail order it.
Store mace in an airtight jar away from heat and light. When a recipe calls for a blade, use a whole shard about three-quarters of an inch long. When the ground spice is wanted, pulverize it as needed with a pestle (ideally of wood) in a stone or unglazed ceramic mortar.
Historically, whole blades were used much like a bay leaf in cream and milk based sauces, soups, stews, and fricassees. Ground mace could be found in both savory and sweet dishes and was once the characterizing spice for pound cake.
Mace adds a subtle richness to bechamel and old-fashioned cream-based sauces such as bread, onion, and oyster, and is a lovely mate for shellfish, veal, and poultry.
One handsome historical use for mace was in Turtle Bean Soup (see the recipe from 16 January). Another especially masterful one is this old fashioned conserve.
Potted Shrimps.
Drop one-and-a-half pounds of small shrimp into two quarts of rapidly boiling water. Cover, and count 1 minute. Uncover, and as soon as the shrimp are curled and pink, drain, rinse under cold running water, and let them cool enough to handle. Meanwhile, pulverize a blade or two of mace in a mortar and pestle. In a small saucepan over medium low heat, simmer two heaped tablespoons of minced shallots in an ounce of butter until softened. Turn off the heat.
Peel and roughly chop the shrimp. Put them in a stone or unglazed ceramic mortar or the bowl of a food processor. Add the mace, shallots, a large pinch of salt, and ground cayenne to taste. Some traditional recipes add a grating of nutmeg, too. Beat with a wooden pestle or process until finely ground then gradually beat in 4 ounces of softened butter. Taste and adjust the seasonings and mix them in.
Pack it into a crock leaving half an inch of headroom and cover it with a quarter of an inch of melted clarified butter. Cool, cover, and refrigerate until needed but let it soften to room temperature before serving. It should keep for up to two weeks until the butter seal is broken. Serve it with crisp toast points or plain crackers. Read More
Across the lane from my office window (in Savannah, we do not have “alleys”), there are orange and gold turning leaves right next to a magnificent tulip magnolia in full bloom. In mid-January. Such rare mornings as have commanded a topcoat and scarf have more often than not dissolved into afternoons that are downright balmy, barely demanding a sweater. This is almost unheard of, even in our little seaside corner of Georgia.
Fortunately, despite such daytime extremes our evenings have been cool enough to stir a seasonal longing for warming, comfortable bowls of soup. And when comfort is required, is there anything that fills the bill quite so well as bean soup?
All bean soups, from the thick, pasta-studded zuppas of Tuscany to the fragrantly spicy mélanges of the Caribbean, speak of the region from whence they came, and Savannah’s own, made with black, or as they were colloquially known, “turtle” beans, was no exception.
Where most bean soups are robust and provincial, and eaten from coarse everyday pottery, this one was a subtly seasoned, velvet-smooth puree served in the best company china. Ranking second only to Turtle Soup for refined elegance (it even had the same garnish of wafer-thin sliced lemon, sieved egg, and minced parsley) it was the culinary answer to the graceful architecture that surrounds our celebrated squares.
Unhappily, modern Savannahians rarely encounter this lovely soup at all, let alone served in that gracious way. The black bean soup to be found in local cafés and on far too many family supper tables is a Cuban or Southwestern inspired concoction spiced up with chilies, cilantro, cumin, and enough garlic to ward off an entire family of vampires.
Now, there’s a lot to be said for a spicy dose of Caribbean or Southwestern sunshine on a cold, drizzly winter day. But when the soul needs both warmth and refinement, Old Savannah had the better medicine.
Savannah Turtle Bean Soup
Sometimes the eggs were merely sliced and laid on the bottom of the tureen or soup plate before the soup was ladled in, imitating the way the turtle’s eggs were used in that soup, but for state occasions, they were forced through a wire mesh sieve and sprinkled over the top of each serving.
Serves 8 as a first course at dinner, or 6 as a main course at lunch or supper
1 pound dried black beans
½ pound lean salt-cured pork, in one piece, or ¼ pound if pre-sliced
6 cups meat broth
1 large or 2 medium white onions, trimmed, split lengthwise, peeled and chopped
1 large or 2 small cloves garlic, lightly crushed, peeled and minced
1 large carrot, peeled and diced small
1 small turnip, scrubbed, peeled and diced small
2 ribs celery, washed, strung and diced small
3 tablespoons tomato paste (or, in season, 2 medium ripe tomatoes scalded, peeled, seeded and chopped)
1 bay leaf
2 large sprigs of parsley
3 whole cloves, beaten to a powder with a mortar and pestle
1 blade mace, beaten to a powder with a mortar and pestle
Salt and whole black pepper in a peppermill
Ground cayenne
1 tablespoon mushroom catsup or Worcestershire sauce
2 large hard-cooked eggs, peeled
6-8 tablespoons sherry (1 tablespoon per serving)
1 lemon, thinly sliced
2-3 tablespoons minced parsley
Pepper Sherry, optional
1. Rinse the beans under cold running water, sort through and discard any damaged or discolored ones, and put them in a large, heavy bottomed pot. Add enough water to cover them by 2 inches. Beans cook better in soft water: if your water, like Savannah’s, is hard, use bottled or filtered water. Bring the beans slowly to a boil point over medium heat. Turn off the heat and soak until the beans have doubled in volume, about an hour.
2. Replenish the water with enough to cover the beans by 1 inch. Put the pot back over medium heat and bring it to a simmer again, skimming away any scum that rises. Reduce the heat to a slow simmer and cook until the beans are tender, about an hour.
3. Drain, reserving the cooking liquid, and return the beans to the pot with 2 cups of cooking liquid, the salt pork, and meat broth. Raise the heat to medium, and bring it back to a boil. Add the onion, garlic, carrot, turnip, celery, and tomato paste, let it return to a boil, skimming off any scum that rises, then put in the bay leaf and parsley, powdered cloves, a pinch or so of salt (going easy; you can correct it later), a liberal grinding of pepper, a small pinch of cayenne, and the catsup or Worcestershire. Reduce the heat to a slow simmer, cover, and cook until the vegetables are very tender, about 2 hours.
4. Puree the soup through a food mill or with a hand blender, regular blender, or food processor. If it’s too thick, thin it with some of the reserved bean cooking liquid. Return it to the pot and bring it back to a simmer over medium heat, stirring often to prevent scorching. Taste and adjust the seasonings, and let it heat 2 to 3 minutes longer.
5. Meanwhile, force the eggs through a coarse wire sieve. To serve, add a tablespoon of sherry to each bowl and ladle in the soup. Float a slice of lemon on top of each and sprinkle with egg and parsley. Serve at once, passing Pepper Sherry separately, if liked. Read More