Can I Cook Collards?

You didn't think I'd tell you right away, did you? The answer comes at the end of this spine-tingling post.

As I mentioned last time, I went gleaning this past weekend. The owner of T & K farms was quite friendly and let us take as many collards we wanted. So I left with about a pound of the dirty, purplish-green greens (but without a random, collard-pickin' toddler).

While searching around the web (unsuccessfully) for a photo of purplish collards, I found this story, which makes me happy to be alive. Also, there's a South Carolina rapper named Collardgreens. But I digress.

My next task was figuring out how to cook collards. As I do with most culinary questions, I turned to my pals from Moosewood. The Moosewood Restaurant Cooks at Home book had a "Spicy Kale" recipe that suggested substituting collards for kale and, more importantly, used ingredients I had. Bingo.

The recipe involved sauteeing the sliced greens with onions in a bit of vinegar and chili pepper flakes. Easy enough. I added a can of butter beans that I'd been trying to find a use for for about two months, served over rice (brown, of course) and called it dinner.

Now I like vegetables with some snap, but these greens were down right muscular. No wonder the prevailing wisdom on collards involves stewing for two to three weeks.

I kind of liked them. The Spoonstress, after politely trying the collards, ate everything but the greens. I can't say I blame her. There's your answer. (Hint: it rhymes with go.)

Collard Gleans

First, an admission: it's been a little while between posts. I've taken a break from food for a bit. Yes, Grandma, I'm still eating, just not thinking about it nonstop.

Picking up the fork again...This weekend I went gleaning, the practice of picking produce that would otherwise go unharvested and distributing it to hungry folks. It's always nice to get outside in a bucolic setting and actually do some good. To volunteer, see the good folks at Society of St. Andrew (SOSA) or use this America's Second Harvest site to find a local group.

OK, hang on, let me get down from my stump.

Anyway, we were gleaning collard greens in a field that looked something like this one. The collards belonged to a farmer who wasn't going to use them because, due to the vagaries of agrarian economics, the amount he'd spend on harvesting the greens would exceed their price.

Kind soul that he is, he called SOSA and that's how the Spoonstress and me found ourselves picking collards on a gray Saturday.

First, the things are huge. I'm not sure if this was a bumper crop or what, but the collards were the size of medicine balls. We peeled off all the yellowed leaves like the bottom one in this picture and then put the plant in giant clear plastic bags like the ones below. And no, I never carried two at once.

The bags were loaded onto a truck, then on to food pantries, homeless shelters and old folks homes in the area.

Here's the simple, astounding arithmetic: eight gleaners, two hours, 2,000 pounds of collards. Hope those hungry people are in the mood for collards.

The Macaroni Elbow

The Spoonstress and I went to Macaroni Grill recently. I'm only now able to stomach a brief recap.

I wanted to see 'how the other half eats.' And like Jacob Riis' poignant, 1890 book on New York slum life--How the Other Half Lives--it wasn't pretty.

Everything's huge. The restaurant's big, the people eating (and working there) are bigger and the portions are biggest. Even the amount of time we waited was large--35 minutes. Ironically, the only thing not oversized are the free mints.

Our waiter was among the worst I've ever had. He was alternately unfriendly and unavailable the entire night. Then, miraculously, he morphed into a quasi-waiter at tip time. He launched into a (not very well) rehearsed routine about how we'd better come back or else we were dead meat, as he jokingly hit his open hand with his fist.

I felt like I was watching some sort of training video example of how not to wait tables. Sadly, it was just a night at the Macaroni Grill. Oh by the way, the food's terrible.

Pie Wrap

You may recall my getting an A minus from the Spoonstress when she read my draft. After much rewriting (what's that expression about the real writing coming during revision?), I've hopefully surpassed that mark.

I've given the story to the Editork and what's left of the pie to the Photographork. Now it's pretty much out of my hands.

It looks like it'll be a long wait, though, before the column hits the press. The Editork, in a wise move, wants to anchor F & S to the first weekend of every month. So there will be no January column. It looks like Feb. 5, but that could change. These things tend to.

Meanwhile, on to the next column...

Ramania!

Note: This column appeared in The Chapel Hill News and is reproduced here for blog readers because the newspaper does not maintain its links.

Low on cash from all that holiday shopping? There’s a one-word culinary cure for gift-weary budgets: Ramen.

Yup, cooking with packages of the pre-cooked Japanese noodles will keep your belly and wallet full this winter.

I know, I know, this is a food column, not a financial advice article. But thanks to a little tome called The Book of Ramen, the two can coexist. Way back when I was an undergrad, the 1995 volume was a flavor packet for my soul. For those not in the know, that’s the sealed sache of spices (and salt) tucked into each Ramen pack.

Author Ron Konzak’s subtitle says it all: “Low cost gourmet meals using instant ramen noodles.” With entries like Ramburgers and Three Minute Stew, the gourmet part might be a stretch, but the book is as good an investment as the six for a buck noodles.

It contains recipes for soups, salads, main courses and desserts and even dispels that age old myth: “It is a common belief that each package of Ramen contains one incredibly long noodle curled and coiled into a solid block. I have found that this is not the case.”

The book is available on Amazon.com, where I noticed a few Johnny-come-latelies masquerading as competition. One such pretender is 2003’s Everybody Loves Ramen. First of all, they’re pronounced RAH-min, so the play on the Ray Romano sit com doesn’t really work. Second, thanks for stealing this column’s title.

To honor Konzak and inspire frugal gourmands throughout the west Triangle, I decided to invite a few friends over for a three-course, Ramen-based feast. The meal would be an exemplar of economy, a beacon of budget. But would it taste good?

Does my last name almost rhyme with spoon? You bet.

Ramania, as I called the meal, kicked off with the Spinach Ramen Salad, which used crumbled, raw Ramen as croutons. Despite my initial skepticism, the hard noodles add a nice crunch. But Konzak’s real masterstroke was mixing a flavor packet into a basic vinaigrette. While the author offers no guidance on which variety of packet to use, Oriental Flavor won a quick smell test and worked well.

Determining which main course to make was not easy. How do you choose between Rambalaya, Maca-Ramen and Cheese, and Ramelets? In the end, I went with the jambalaya adaptation mostly because I laughed every time I mentioned it.

In settling on Rambalaya, I’d forgotten that our friendly neighborhood Cajun, Peter Robichaux, formerly of St. Martinville, Louisiana, would be attending. After accepting that swapping Ramen for rice wouldn’t quite live up to his mom’s specialty, the Chapel Hill resident gave the dish his blessing. “It’s different because it’s not soupy, but it’s the best Ramen I’ve ever had,” said Robichaux.

In addition to the added beef sausage, the real secret to the concoction was a healthy sprinkling of McCormick Cajun Seasoning mix. Hardly authentic, but effective.

For dessert, Noodle Pudding sounded like a better fit than Ramen on a Stick or Nutty Noodles. Based on the available pans, it turned out to be a noodle pie. Ramania sous chef Katherine Rinaldi was pleased with the results. “I’m not one for puddings, but I would serve that to guests,” said Chapel Hill’s Rinaldi.

With the meal an unqualified success, I thought I’d ask the town’s gastronomic guru, Crook’s Corner chef Bill Smith if he’d ever cooked with Ramen. “I can’t honestly say I’ve used those in anything, although I certainly have eaten them at home,” said Smith. “Those little packets are the cheapest thing in the world. I had a roommate who used to live on them.”

Might we see a three-course Ramen banquet at Smith’s vaunted restaurant? “I don’t know, never say never,” said Smith.

Sounds to me like a guy dying to try Ramania.
END

Ramen Salad Dressing
1 flavor packet
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
½ teaspoon garlic powder

This works with all kinds of salads. I’d advise using a little less than a whole flavor packet, though.


Rambalaya

2 packages Ramen noodles
1 large green or red pepper, sliced
½ cup canned pimentos
1 large onion, sliced
2 cups mushrooms, sliced
2 stalks celery, sliced thinly
1 tablespoon oil
½ teaspoon
1 cup sliced beef sausage
1 tablespoon McCormick Cajun Spice mix or paprika and garlic powder
Optional: 1 chili pepper

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.
Break up unopened noodles to medium size.
In a small saucepan, boil 2 cups of water, then cook noodles for 3 minutes. Rinse with cold water and drain.
In a large frying pan, sauté together mushrooms, onions, peppers, and, if brave, chili pepper. Add sausage and pimentos.
Mix ingredients in a greased baking dish and bake covered at 300 for one hour.

Serves 4-5.


Noodle Pudding

2 packages Ramen noodles
1 cup milk
4 tablespoons brown sugar
2 teaspoon butter, soft
2 egg
dash salt
dash nutmeg
dash cinnamon
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon lemon juice

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees.
Knead onopened package of noodles until fine. Beware, the packages sometimes break open—what do you expect for 17 cents?
In a small saucepan, boil 2 cups of water, then cook noodles for 3 minutes. Rinse with cold water and drain.
Mix all the other ingredients with the cooked noodles in a bowl.
Pour mixture into a greased brownie tin or casserole dish.
Bake at 375 degrees for 50 minutes.

Serves 4-5.

Recipes adapted from the Book of Ramen by Ron Konzak.

Prognosis: Positive

Here's the famed Maple Pecan Pie. I'd be lying if I said I only had one slice. Then again, I probably wouldn't write a food column if I just had one slice.

The maple flavor really came through. And with 1 cup of maple syrup, I'd hope it would.

The crowning touch came as a suggestion from the same book--The Perfect Pie--that gave me the original recipe: serving the pie with maple whipped cream. You just whip a cup of cream and then fold in 5 tablespoons of maple syrup.

It's amazing how these two innocuous-looking containers can make such sweet music, but I can see plenty of flavored whipped cream in my future.

Maybe the next step would be adding food coloring to the mix. How cool would green, mint whipped cream look?!

Pecan Pie Update

Well, I'm here to report that the pie was made and it was a reasonable success. There was a bit of a scare when the the pie came out of the oven looking science-fictionish. I would have taken a picture, but I have just implemented a new policy here prohibiting photos of glowing, green baked goods.

But the swelling went down and it looked normal. The maple part really paid off. The pie wasn't too sweet and it sure tasted maply. I'm still trying to decide if it should be maply, mapley, or maplish. Maybe your comments can help me decide. Yeah, we'll put a little democracy into the blogosphere.

The first draft of the column is done. Emily, the Fork & Spoonstress, edited it and gave me an A minus. Now I'm off to try to make it an A plus--we aim high here, folks.

Vermont, er, Carolina's Finest

I guess it was a bit of a no-brainer that I was going to make my first pecan pie with all those found nuts. No shock there. But what has surprised me is that I've completely 'waffled' on the idea of using corn syrup.

As I wrote a few days ago, I had warmed to the idea of using the Karo. No longer. In search of a more natural sweetener, I went to the library to look for a new recipe. Then I found the remedy: Maple Syrup.

I found a recipe for Maple-Pecan Pie, which I like much better because it allows me to forsake corn syrup and it lends itself nicely to a New Englander in the South column. Plus, there's some intrigue involved--how will it taste? On both fronts, stay tuned.

Pecantasy

I've been up to my elbows in pecans, recently. These are the things that prompted me to buy the corn syrup I wrote about earlier.

My wife-to-be found a bunch of 'em in the park and I've spent the last two weeks shelling the oblong nuts.

I've been camped out in front of the TV watching bowl games and trying to ease the pecans out of their Brinks-like shells. Fortunately, I've got a tool up to the task: my big daddy pliers.

I got a good two cups out of the deal. Now all that remains is the easy part--figuring out what to make with them.

What, no home slushy machine?

I saw this thing on a quick stroll through the mall. I'm sure its existence isn't exactly news, but it is to me.

The outstanding question for me is: why? Why would anyone want to replicate their mini mart hot dog experience at home (or in the office!)?

And are people eating thaaat many hot dogs that they need an entire appliance dedicated to them? If so, these folks would be really happy. There has to be another use...I wonder if it can toast a nice marshmallow?

How 'Bout Horchata?

Note: This column appeared in The Chapel Hill News and is reproduced here for blog readers because the newspaper does not maintain its links.

Catch ya later, Corona. Adios, Dos Equis. Ta ta, Tecate.

There’s a new drink in town at Mexican restaurants and its name is horchata.

Pronounced or-CHA-ta, the milky Mexican imbibe tastes like liquefied rice pudding with an extra dash of cinnamon. That’s not surprising, considering it’s made by soaking rice overnight with cinnamon, vanilla and almonds then adding sugar.

If Starbucks ever wrapped their green aprons around horchata, it could be the next chai latte. Then again, let’s keep it somewhat secret.

The drink originated in Spain, where it was made with chufa nuts. According to legend, a little girl gave the King of Catalunya and Aragon some horchata, which he loved. The king told the girl ‘this is ‘Or, Xata.’ It’s gold, cutie

One silent ‘h’ and many years later, the Spanish brought that quaffable gold to the new world. And our Mexican friends in turn brought it to the Triangle.

In Mexico, horchata is often sold by roadside vendors. There are many varieties of the drink and even more opinions on how best to make it. Everyone has their secret, which is why three Chapel Hill restaurants that serve it declined to publicize their recipe.

I have been cleared to report that Los Potrillos, El Rodeo and Fiesta Grill include condensed milk in their horchata for a slightly sweeter taste.

Whether due to its flavor or its ability to counter fiery Mexican dishes, horchata is catching on—slowly. “It’s more popular with the Hispanics,” said Juan Sanchez, Manager at Los Potrillos. “Sometimes the American people are afraid to taste it. They say, ‘rice water?!’”

Horchata used to be an ‘off the menu’ item I could feel cool ordering. But it’s now in print at Los Potrillos and El Rodeo. Down NC 54, however, you can still feel like an insider ordering the off-menu drink at Fiesta Grill.

There, a gurgling container of what looks like coconut milk dances in a bubbler atop the counter. The sheer visibility of the drink likely aids its acceptance. “Sometimes we have to make horchata twice a day on the weekend,” said Jesus Bravo, manager at Fiesta Grill. “It’s very popular in Mexico, but now it’s getting very popular around here. Most people don’t know it, but as soon as they try it they love it.”

Having ordered horchata in restaurants for a few years now, I felt compelled to try making it. That brought me to my first decision: one method calls for cooked rice. Another lets the uncooked rice sit overnight in water. Because most of my favorite foods—barbecue and barbecue come to mind—don’t involve instant gratification, I went with the latter.

The Authentic way to grind the rice is to use the Mexican equivalent of the mortar and pestle, the metate y mano. Forget authenticity, pounding rice on a slab of stone sounds down right therapeutic. For those with manageable stress levels, a blender will do.

Thanks to such wonders of modern technology, horchata is easy to make. The hardest part is staying patient for the six-plus hours (overnight most likely) the rice must sit.

The next morning—if you can contain your excitement that long—the murky, milky mixture brims with mystery. But patience, amigo, is a virtue.

After blending again for three to four minutes, do not, repeat, do not underestimate the importance of the cheesecloth. I’d always viewed cheeseclothes as culinary excess. But one sip of chalky, chunky liquid had me searching for Cheeseclothes ‘R Us. I settled for Kitchenworks at University Mall.

Minus that excess, ahem, texture, the horchata was wonderful.

Pour the liquid into a container you can shake, as the drink tends to settle. If your kitchen lacks that essential culinary tool, a Kool-Aid style bubbler a la Fiesta Grill, go for a Tupperware pitcher.

And hey, if it doesn’t work out, all three restaurants mentioned here serve tall glasses of horchata with free refills.


Horchata

Makes 1 Quart

1 Cup uncooked rice
¼ Cup slivered almonds
2 sticks canela or cinnamon
1 quart water
¼ Cup sugar
½ teaspoon sugar

In a blender, grind up rice for 2 minutes, until it resembles coarse meal. Transfer the rice to a bowl and add the almonds, canela or cinnamon sticks and water. Stir the mixture well. Cover the mixture loosely and let it sit overnight.

Transfer the mixture to the blender in two batches and puree until the grittiness disappears, about 2 to 3 minutes per batch. Strain into a pitcher through several layers of dampened cheesecloth. Don’t skimp on either of these steps or the drink will come out tasting like chalk. Mix in the sugar and vanilla and stir until the sugar dissolves.

To serve, pour the horchata into tall, ice-filled glasses. Leftovers keep, refrigerated, for several days.

From: The Border Cookbook, by Cheryl Alters Jamison and Bill Jamison

Corny

Made my first ever corn syrup purchase last night. I'm not sure how I feel about that one, in light of the 2/3 of our country being overweight...

On the plus side, I got *light* corn syrup.

I bought it to make my first pecan pie. I searched around for cane syrup, but didn't find any. Then again, considering that I was shopping at Target (a rarity), that shouldn't be too surprising. I'm starting to make peace with the idea of using corn syrup. After all, it can't be worse than drinking a Coke.

¡Bienvenidos!

Welcome to Fork & Spoon, sit anywhere you'd like. I'll be back in a minute to take your order, but first let me tell you about this blog.

I'm a freelance journalist who writes a monthly food column by the same name. This blog will provide a glimpse behind the curtain at the process of making Fork & Spoon happen. I'll also discuss the culinary thoughts that cross my food-obsessed mind.

Enjoy!

Angostura and Spice Make a Cake Quite Nice

Note: This column appeared in The Chapel Hill News and is reproduced here for blog readers because the newspaper does not maintain its links.

Thanks for coming to my first column, sit anywhere you’d like.

If I’m doing my job right, Fork & Spoon will have the same relaxed feel of your favorite restaurant or childhood kitchen. I aim to make the column many things—diverse, personal, interesting—but mostly it will be fun. After all, my cooking has never been mistaken for high cuisine.

I love to experiment in the kitchen. I’ll infuse my column with that adventurous spirit, but I probably won’t write about anything garlic-infused. I think you get the drift. On to the food!

With autumn around the corner, it’s almost birthday season. At least in my family it is. And on the Bloom side of things, what separates the special birthdays from the ho-hum ones is an Angostura spice cake.

I know, I know—a what cake? I’ll explain. Angostura is the brand-name of the bitters you’ll find behind any decent bar. Yup, the same stuff that fuels Old Fashioneds and Manhattans makes cakes sing.

Concocted in 1824 by a German scientist in Venezuela, the aromatic blend of herbs and spices found a home in Trinidad. That Caribbean country still packages the bitters in the distinctive white paper-wrapped bottle.

By the 1940’s, Angostura was quite familiar to my grandfather Samuel Bloom, manager of a wholesale liquor company. As part of their promotions, the Trinidadian company sent him something called the Angostura Cookbook. He brought it home and, flipping past recipes like Jellied Angostura Salad and Hamburgers Angostura, pointed out a certain cake that looked interesting.

My grandmother, the esteemed and now 90-years-proud Ethel Bloom, gave it whirl. I’m asking you to do the same.

Today, you can find bottles of Angostura in most supermarket’s adult beverage aisles, usually mingling with the maraschino cherries and sour mix. Alternately, you can ask your favorite bartender for two teaspoons of the reddish liquid.

When you get to baking, a ten-inch cake pan is ideal, but a bundt or rectangular pan will work fine. The recipe calls for pastry flour, but I say if Harris Teeter doesn’t have it, it can’t be that important. All-purpose flour it is, then.

If you have a sifter, dust it off and mix the dry ingredients to create a blend of spices and flour. If not, a mixing bowl and fork will do the trick.

A word of caution: don’t use whole cloves and try to crush them yourself like someone in my family once did. Unlike peanut butter, nobody likes a crunchy cake.

One other minor thing—don’t forget to add the Angostura, as I almost did the last time I made it. It’s kind of important.

When it’s baked to its autumnal perfection, the cake will have a graham cracker tint and taste like a few gingerbread men snuck into a pumpkin pie.

Cool and serve, morning, noon or night. I should mention that my family tends to enjoy an Angostura cake on birthdays and the following breakfast. Now that’s good fun.

My family has been using this recipe for more than 50 years. I’m not sure you’ll be able to perfect the Angostura spice cake like Grandma Bloom has, but it’s never too late to start a new tradition. After all, somebody’s birthday (or half-birthday) must be coming up.



Angostura Spice Cake

Ingredients:
½ cup butter
2 cups brown sugar
3 eggs (separated)
2 cups flour
1 cup sour cream
¼ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon allspice
½ teaspoon cinnamon
2 teaspoons Angostura bitters

Directions:
Separate the eggs, keeping both the yolks and whites. Cream the shortening and sugar until fluffy. Add the beaten egg yolks. Sift the flour with the salt, baking soda, and spices. Add the sour cream and the flour mixture alternately to the creamed shortening. Beat the egg whites until stiff (not liquidy) and add to the batter. Pour the sacred Angostura into the mix and blend until it’s smooth. Pour the batter into a greased and floured ten-inch cake pan.

Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes. It may need five more minutes, depending on preferred level of gooeyness.

Frosting

Ingredients:
2 teaspoons Angostura
½ cup butter
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
dash of salt

Directions:
Blend butter, sugar, Angostura and salt until smooth. Add a touch of milk if desired. Frost away.