Smoked Corn

If you're committing to the four-hour process that is smoker cooking, you may as well maximize your returns. That thinking led me to do some experimenting yesterday.

In addition to the whole chicken I was smoking, I figured I'd throw in something else. But what?

I contemplated tomatoes, but I only had tiny cherry variety and feared they'd fall through the grill's bars. I like a good smoky cheese, but I was pretty sure that putting a block of cheddar in a 225 degree-chamber wasn't a great idea.

Then it hit me--I'd smoke those two beautiful ears of corn sitting in the fridge. A quick web search revealed that I needed to peel the husks back to soak the corn for an hour. Then butter and season the kernels to your desire, recover the ears with their husks and smoke away. I used some string to tie the husks shut.

An hour later, the Spoonstress and I were enjoying a corn on the cob/cobb salad combo. Best of all, you can smoke corn on a regular gas grill--just keep it away from the direct heat.

Stick a Fork in it...

...this column's done.

Thanks to the wonders of the Interweb, you can read my BLT column here. If you've already done so, please take a look around the site. Kick off your shoes, make yourself at home.

If you'd like to be on the mailing list for new column alerts, e-mail me at the address on the bottom of the sidebar.

Alrighty, I'm off to go get a celebratory BLT. That's right, a plain old BLT. Imagine that...

BLT Bonuses

I just finished and submitted my column on BLTs today (it should run Wednesday). It was so fun to research this topic that I ended up with more material than I could use. I thought I'd share a few of the outtakes with you folks.

First, why is it that lettuce and tomato share top billing in a BLT, but no other sandwich. In almost all other sandwiches, that duo is an assumed accompaniment. Anyway, the Spoonstress raised the question and I thought I'd throw it out there. Any ideas on why?

Second, cheese isn't a great BLT add-on. This is what I wrote, but edited out on the topic:

Edam cheese rounded out the creation and I now know why the original sandwich is not a BLTC. The Edam made it heavier, like a typical deli creation.

Third, doesn't it sometimes seem like you need an engineering degree to build a BLT that doesn't collapse? While eating a particularly messy creation during the BLT Jubilee (possibly this one), our Fork friend Peter noted that “The lettuce and tomato combo is like a Slip ‘n Slide.”

I sought professional help. After posing the arrangement question to Hich Elbetri, the chef/owner at Chapel Hill's SANDWHICH (hence the spelling of the eatery), I wrote this 'graph on the topic:

The arrangement of ingredients can mean the difference between collapse and success. Hich recommends lettuce on the bottom, then tomato and bacon, and slicing with a really sharp serrated knife. Still, structural integrity can be a challenge—hence the toothpicks.

But what I didn't write, because I don't really get it, is that Hich kept saying the most important thing is to avoid putting "vertical pressure" on the sandwich. Short of suspending gravity, I can't think of a way to cut horizontally.

Anyway, Hich said it was hard to explain (yup) and takes some practice (likely), but he'd be happy to show me. I suppose I'll have to drop by SANDWHICH sometime. It'd be a real shame if I had to have another of his BLTs. A real shame.

BLT in progress

The past two nights I've been writing the BLT column. In considering improvements to the classic sandwich, I've been struck by just how similar the ingredients are to a salad. This fact is not lost on KFC or Wendy's.

The Spoonstress first raised this topic during the BLT Jubilee. Then I read this article about SANDWHICH, in which co-owner Hich (hence the restaurant's name) Elbetri discusses how he created his sandwiches:

"I did a lot of research on my own. I'd go to Jean-Georges' place [Jean-Georges Vongerichten's four-star gem in the Trump International Hotel] and have a salad, and that salad seemed a great idea to be a sandwich. A lot of my sandwiches are derived from cool salads."

Elbetri pegged that idea to BLTs when I spoke with him by phone today. SANDWHICH is now serving an Italian BLT (pancetta, tomato, arugula, dry ricotta, pesto, mayo) as a special, and, Elbetri said, "I’m gonna keep it around because it’s time for a nice salady, BLT."

Crook's Corner chef Bill Smith echoed the sentiment in a recent conversation. "We have a recipe here for cornbread salad that reminds you of a BLT," Smith said. "It has bacon, mayo, and tomato in it. There’s no lettuce, but it has celery."

All the combinations we tried during the BLT Jubilee--the options included lettuce, tomato, bacon, olives, avocado, mushrooms, cheese and onion--could be salads. But then again, what couldn't you say that about these days?

Fakin' It

Last night, the Forkquarters hosted a BLT Jubilee. In preparation for my upcoming column (May 30), The Spoonstress, two friends and I tested a bunch of variations on the classic BLT sandwich.

Following the same format as the Mix-in Mixer, we all tried some of the same creation and discussed its merits. Fortunately, there was no melting ice cream to deal with this time.

I won't spoil the details, but I can say that kalamata olives were popular. Also, the added ingredients were chosen partly for their acronym potential.

While we mostly used regular bacon, we also tried Morningstar Farms Bacon Strips out of curiosity. The vegetarian bacon substitute isn't bad, but don't worry, I'm no convert. If I made bacon more than once every Presidential election, I might consider fakin' bacon more often.

Curiously, the bacon substitute replicates the white bits of fat, which I find to be an odd choice. As someone who likes lean bacon, I'd be OK with something less realistic (i.e. the Lightlife brand).

On the plus side, the fake version doesn't shrink nearly as much as real bacon (see photo). And the fake bacon has its health benefits, which we mitigated by cooking it in real bacon grease. In hindsight, preparing vegetarian bacon in what can only be described as a vegetarian-hostile manner was an odd choice, but it certainly aided the flavor.

Now THAT'S Living

I've had dessert of lunch and even a rare breakfast dessert, but I'd never had a dessert of dessert until tonight.

I feel like I'm living what kids imagine adult life to be. And I don't regret it for a second.

Earlier tonight, the Spoonstress and I went out to Crooks Corner, our favorite splurge, with our friendly neighbork. We went there mostly because I'd heard that chef Bill Smith'slegendary honeysuckle sorbet was on the menu, a treat hinted at by the morning aroma in our neighborhood.

After both a first and second course, we decided we each needed our own bowl of the honeysuckle sorbet. It was flowery and light, and it tasted like spring. And it should, given that it comes from the flower of what amounts to a pretty weed.

Yet, as we eyed the brownies, cakes, and puddings going past, we all came to the sad realization that the sorbet wasn't really rich enough to quench our dessert thirst. It was more a palate cleanser.

When our neighbork inquired about a particular cake layered with custard, we all knew. We'd have our second dessert.

The cake in question was a Mississippi Vanity Cake and it was outstanding. The menu has it as a "buttermilk layer cake w/ apple custard & whipped cream." It wasn't the best cake I've ever had, but the sheer thrill of double desserting pushed it pretty close.

The whole thing left me feeling really alive (You mean I can have two desserts?!). It also made me feel really American. I wasn't sure whether to pen the Double Dessert Manifesto or slip onto the couch, turn on the tube and loosen the belt.

Because I couldn't decide, I split the difference and wrote this post.

Merritting Five Stars

Well, nobody said they didn't care what I had for lunch today. And since some even said they did care, here's the report:

People around these parts rave about the BLT at Merritt's Store and Grill. 'It's the best ever,' 'you've gotta try it,' on and on.

You know what? They're right.

I visited the little breakfast/lunch grill housed inside a convenience store today to do some BLT reconnaissance for my upcoming column. I left wondering whether to rank it number one or two in my personal top 10 (with Atlanta's Buckhead Diner occupying the other spot).

When you order the sandwich, there are a couple of choices. Answering my question on what kind of bread she recommended, the counter woman chuckled, "Sourdough, but we're all out, so white or wheat?" Potato bread is also an option, but I stuck with the traditional white.

Choosing the size of the BLT was a first for me. But instead of small, medium or large, you decide how many layers you want: one, two or three. I took the middle road, and as you can see below I basically got a BLTBLT. The three stacker weighs almost a pound and all I can imagine is a cartoon sandwich where the character needs a jack to open their mouth wide enough. "It's a real artery clogger," the cashier said.

It's hard to say what makes Merritt's sandwich so tasty, but if I had to guess, I'd say it's the combination of juicy tomatoes and a liberal dose of salt and pepper. The woman making my BLT jiggled that pepper shaker onto the sandwich for a good five-Mississippi count.

As at SANDWHICH, this BLT has no weak links. The lettuce is crunchy and voluminous and the bacon is firm and fairly lean. I would have preferred that the bread be toasted more to prevent sogginess. I ate it on the spot and the bread was already getting moist. Otherwise, it was BLT brilliance.

During my last few bites, I actually got a little sad that the sandwich was nearing its end. With the BLT devoured, all that remained was a puddle of tomato and bacon drippings on the tin foil wrapper.

I wish I can say I didn't slurp up that puddle.

Now that's a good sandwich!

Do You Care?

I'm not the most plugged-in blogger. There, I've said it.

For instance, while many of you have long known about the popular Mighty Goods blog and its creator Mighty Girl (Margaret Mason), I just came across this whole thing yesterday. I was bopping through Mason's site when I saw that she has a book called No One Cares What You Had For Lunch.

That whimpering sound you hear is me.

As someone who often writes about what I had for lunch, this book title momentarily knocked me down a peg. I'm pretty sure she's not talking to food bloggers and the subtitle--100 Ideas for your Blog--is a little soothing, but I'm still a little shook.

So I'm putting this question to all of you, including lurkers: Do you care what I had for lunch?

If you do, I can tell Mighty Girl to shove it. If you don't, I'm gonna have to read her book. (Full disclosure: I'll probably read it anyway, I'm sure some of her ideas are useful.) Either way, I'll try to resist posting a vindictive review of her book on Amazon like this one from Hilton Head, SC: "No one cares about the contents of this book."

Not to influence your vote, but tomorrow's lunch is looking prih-tee good.

Brute Fruit

Occasionally, I work for a catering company. One perk of the job is that you often come home with leftovers. You also get to say, with a straight face, "It's a shooter of cucumber-basil soup with lotus root."

Last night, I returned from work with a giant grapefruit. I'm not sure this is the 'nom de commerce,' as I didn't buy it, but it's huge. These pictures were not doctored in any way--scout's honor.

This fits with today's trend of fruit that *may* be on steroids. Today's bananas are like wiffleball bats and apples are entire meals. On the other hand, this robust produce counters another food fashion--baby produce.

These two trends may end the use of fruit for making size comparisons. If you said you had a grapefruit-sized bunion, I may think your life was in danger. Or that it was pretty manageable.

Anyway, I'm staring at a grapefruit with a 15-inch circumference and I'm not sure whether to eat it or build a solar system model around it.

Midnight Madness

What does any self-respecting food writer do with a leftover cup of rhubarb? Experiment.

But what to make? At first I thought of baking a mini pie. Then I realized I didn't feel like preparing a mini crust. Soon thereafter, I remembered that Mama Fork had just given me these cool silicone cupcake/muffin cups. After that, the answer was obvious: strawberry rhubarb muffins.

But with my nocturnal habits, these muffin thoughts came at about 10:30 p.m. By the time they were popping fresh, we had midnight muffins.

And pop they did--right out of the silicone baking cups without any greasing beforehand. I'd have to say these beauties make muffining easy. Plus, they're pretty photogenic.

I'll pass along the recipe, but the Spoonstress and I both agreed that the dough tasted too plain. Those of you with more muffin experience will probably be able to adjust accordingly.

For you fellow novices, the Spoonstress had an excellent idea we've yet to put to the test: adding chocolate chips to the next batch. Can't imagine how that could go wrong.

Rhubarb, Rhubarb

It must be spring, because I had strawberry rhubarb pie this weekend. Homemade strawberry rhubarb pie.

When I saw native strawberries at the store, I figured it was time for this springtime rite of passage. When I heard that Mama Fork was coming for an impromptu visit, I knew we'd make it together. Even better, she needed something for a potluck dinner, so we'd make two.

I sliced three pounds of strawberry and rhubarb stalks--think red celery--the night before her arrival. All that remained was a little mixing and baking. For the first one, we used the traditional half and half rhubarb-to-strawberry ratio. Mine was more like 2.5 cups rhubarb and 1.5 cups strawberry.

I haven't heard how the first pie was received at the potluck, but the second one was a hit at my friends' house. Served heated in the microwave and topped with vanilla ice cream, the pie was worth the effort.

Based on the pictures, I'm either an obsessive crust crimper or a store-bought crust user. It's the latter. While that ain't old timey, this is: I ran out of butter on the second pie and had to borrow some from our neighbor. (Thanks Adele!)

Saucy or Sauce-free?

The Spoonstress and I were in Western North Carolina, close to the South Carolina border, this weekend before heading back east. Having fit all four directions into one sentence, I can retire happy.

Anyway, during this brief B.L.T. hiatus, we visited the Carolina Smokehouse in Cashiers, N.C. I previously wrote about about the East vs. West divide with Carolina barbecue, but I soon learned that this place was far enough west to surpass classification.

At the Smokehouse, the Spoonstress and I were asked what kind of sauce we wanted on our respective chopped beef and pork sandwiches--mild or spicy. I was imagining a thin, tomato-based "dip," as it's called here, and had no idea they were really asking what variety of store-bought sauce I wanted.

The thick, sweetener-laced topping converted the sandwich into a near Sloppy Joe, pretty much ruining it. The worst part was that the meat not covered in sauce was delicious.

There are certainly barbecue styles that do sauce well (Kansas City comes to mind), but Carolina isn't one of them. And unless you have an excellent sauce, why douse your hard-won, smoky flavor with anything?

The views of the folks running the supposed birthplace of burgers, Louis Lunch in New Haven have fortified my no sauce stance. Their ban on ketchup parallels my feelings about BBQ sauce. Furthermore, those in the South will note that the basic chicken sandwich at Chick-Fil-A is topped only with pickles.

Finally, this sauce-free spree continued closer to home. Last night, the Forkquarters hosted a spur-of-the-moment cookout. The Spoonstress and I were surprised to find that we didn't have any ketchup. With locally-grown tomatoes, grilled onions and melted cheddar, it wasn't really missed. Why would it be?