A Mean Mess of Greens

Posted on January 19, 2012 by Carol

Collard greens are one of those foods I learned to appreciate only after I got grown. I’m not sure why I didn’t like them as a child, although I suspect it had something to do with their odor, which I still don’t care for. In fact, I think I’ll start setting up the camp stove in the backyard whenever I decide to cook up a mess of collards so it doesn’t stenchify the house. (Funny thing about Southern expressions–they only work with our indigenous foods. Have you ever heard a Southerner talk about whippin’ up a mess of escargot or sushi?)

collards cooking with hamhocks

As with so many Southern dishes, this one is cooked more by instinct and personal taste than with a recipe. I use two bunches of collard greens to make about four servings. Greens are deceptive–you think you have way too many when you start out, but they always cook down to nearly nothing. So put on your biggest pot and throw in as many greens as you can.

As with any type of green, rinse them well, so you don’t get those dastardly gritty bits caught in your teeth. I start with a generous dollop of bacon drippings melted over medium high heat, to wilt the greens before adding about three cups of water, a little salt and some red pepper flakes and tossing in some hog jowl, hamhocks, ham bits, bacon or whatever pork you have lying around. The pork additions are salty, so add salt judiciously. Simmer for about 40 minutes, or longer if necessary, until the chewiness is gone. While spinach cooks up quickly, collards are thicker and more leathery, and they take considerably longer to cook. Sprinkle on some pepper vinegar if they seem a little gamey and set the bottle on the table so everyone can fine tune their own serving.

collards & hard boiled eggs

I put on some eggs to hard boil while the collards simmer. One of the classic Southern presentations (now there’s a prissy expression you don’t often hear at the Southern table!) is to serve them topped with slices of hard boiled egg. If your only source of protein for the meal is just a few bits of ham or bacon in the greens, it’s good to get a little extra from the eggs. And it looks pretty, don’t you think?

pot likker

What’s left behind after you get all the greens out of the pot is healthier than the greens themselves. This is the pot likker, and it’s where all the Vitamin A go during cooking. Well, I say it’s healthier, but there’s a fair amount of pork fat in there. That’s okay if you’re about to go plow the back forty. Some people like the pot likker best of all, spooned over cornbread or biscuits. Never throw this stuff away! You can at least keep it and use it as a soup base.

I’ve had really good collards in Ethiopian restaurants, where they’re steamed and served sprinkled with olive oil, garlic and spices, but for me, preparing them in a pork fat spa is still the way to go. As they say, you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.

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The Delights of Orphaned Glassware

Posted on January 11, 2012 by Carol

the few, the treasured, the orphan glasses

I love scoping out mismatched glasses in thrift stores. It’s fun rummaging through and looking for odd pieces that have their own, unknown histories of lives I never knew. I always wonder how they got there, whether they were impulse purchases or unwanted gifts, or perhaps the flotsam cleared out after a death in someone’s family. I like to envision them in their previous lives and, at least with the goblets and fancier stemmed pieces, I like to imagine what occasions they were used to toast. Engagements and weddings? Births and adoptions? New jobs and promotions? Retirements? Publications? This last one would certainly get them used in our household!

In addition to those I get because they catch my eye, lately I’m picking them up here and there for Himself, who loves to make, photograph and write about cocktails (which you’ll find at The Booze Nerd and Dr(Ink)Gorilla). They add to his trove of glassware for photography, so it’s not just the same one or two glasses shown in every drink photo.

At times I curse the sameness of the regiment of glasses in my cabinet bought by the box at Target or Macy’s or Pier I. I’ve sighed more heavily over breaking one of my odd, one-of-a-kind glasses than over a Waterford goblet received as a wedding gift. It makes me want to stuff the cabinet with odd glasses and send the matching sets to a thrift store where I can ignore them in favor of mongrel bits and pieces to include in my orphanage of glassware.

Maybe I just need to toast more momentous occasions with those Waterford glasses. Then they’ll be as special to me as the odd pieces. It’s certainly worth a try.

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Whose Birthday Is This?!

Posted on January 10, 2012 by Carol

Still wearing our Christmas clothes, Joe & I celebrate with a shared birthday cake, eight candles on his side and three on mine. (No, that's not my coffee!)

Today’s my birthday. Never mind which one. I’m past the age of wanting to count them–certainly past the age of adding “and-a-half” long about mid-summer.

I’ve always felt ambivalent about birthdays. While I enjoy celebrating those of others, when it comes to my own, I’ve grown accustomed to being lost in the holiday shuffle. For starters, my birthday comes close on the heels of Christmas, so I grew up being handed a red-and-green wrapped gift with the words, “This is for both Christmas and birthday.” No kid–or adult–wants to hear that. Add to this the fact that my brother’s birthday is three days after mine. Our family always celebrated both on the Sunday falling closest to both, with Joe’s candles on one side of the cake and mine on the other. We grew up modestly on a Tennessee farm amongst hardworking, practical people who didn’t make a fuss over such things as birthdays. It’s no wonder there were no parties and family legends of blowouts fit for the society column of the local newspaper. And it’s no wonder that nowadays if someone does make a fuss over my birthday, I get self conscious, turn red and want to hide.

When I was a kid I envied those whose birthdays were in July, who had parties at the local swimming pool. That seemed like the coolest thing ever–I couldn’t imagine anything more glamorous. But quite often my birthday was on a snow day, which was even better. “Wow! We’re out of school on my birthday! Let’s sleep late and then build a snow fort!” And make snow cream, which no July birthday kid ever got.

Celebrating with Himself--I don't mind sharing!

Now I often celebrate my birthday with Himself, whose birthday falls a week before mine. He got caught in the Christmas-and-birthday snag, too, so he understands those conflicted feelings of disappointment in being overlooked and then not knowing what to do when people pay attention. Some years we celebrate jointly. Some we don’t. This year he got his own celebration.

And today I get mine. People keep asking what restaurant we’re going to, the assumption being that with my culinary background and being a professional food writer, we’ll be splashing out at one of the poshest places in Los Angeles. But that’s seldom what I go for. I’ve had great birthday meals at Palate, Osteria Mozza and Bashan, but last year I wanted to stay in. Himself and our friend John made a huge batch of pot stickers and we feasted on a basic meal prepared with love and served from the heart. It was a fantastic evening.

Sometimes I feel like my friends are disappointed if I don’t come up with some grand scheme for celebrating my birthday. Which makes me wonder if I’m planning the birthday I really want or the birthday others seem to want for me. This year I think I want nothing more complicated than a trove of really good ice cream and a couple of spoons. Perhaps Himself and I can eat ice cream in front of the television and watch DVDs of something we love but haven’t seen in ages. And laugh and enjoy being together.

Who needs a limo, a budget-smashing restaurant charge and a three-alarm hangover? Ice cream with Himself is celebration enough for me.

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A Quiet Non-Resolution

Posted on January 5, 2012 by Carol

On the list of Christmas gifts I was hoping to receive–and which I DID receive–this past Christmas was a copy of Maria Speck‘s Ancient Grains For Modern Meals. Her book is jam packed with a wealth of dishes using an array of what I’d call “Old World” grains*, dishes that are really, really good. That they are also healthy is a delightful side note.

There's also the need to unload the pantry--I counted almost two dozen open bags! More on this embarrassment later...

I want to cook every dish in this book. This is my non-resolution resolution. No grand proclamations of any sort (beyond this blog entry). Just a desire to eat a little healthier and to expand our repertoire of go-to recipes. Seeing as how I also plan to make and enjoy one of my Southern favorites each week, this is a good way to balance out some of those bacon dripping-laced culinary transgressions. I easily envision every recipe in this book becoming a favorite. I’m making notes in it as I cook, recording tweaks and ideas for variations on some fine themes.

Sometimes we need to proclaim our resolutions loudly, as a way of indirectly asking those around us to hold our feet to the fire and hold us accountable for the things we say we’re going to do when we’re in the throes of optimism (or we’ve had a little too much bubbly on New Year’s Eve). But sometimes it’s nice to simply say to ourselves, “Hey, why not try this? It’ll be fun/tasty/good for me.” No megaphoned announcements from the rooftop or on Facebook or Twitter or Google+. Just a quiet taking on of a new challenge we’re sure to enjoy and perhaps benefit from.

Lemon Quinoa with Currants, Dill & Zucchini

We started with Lemon Quinoa with Currants, Dill and Zucchini, a summery dish that was welcome on an 82-degree winter’s day in Southern California. It was marvelous, replete with a blending of flavors and textures that made Himself and me smack our chops and make yummy sounds as we enjoyed firsts and seconds. And it makes good leftovers. In fact, I’m going to go polish off the rest of it right now. Bon appetit to me!

*The list includes amaranth, quinoa, spelt, millet, farro, barley and kamut, along with the more recognizable wild rice, couscous, buckwheat, oats, grits/polenta and rye.

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Good Luck for the New Year: Pass the Black-Eyed Peas!

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Carol

black-eyed peas for luck in the coming year

I’m not sure where this thinking comes from, but Southerners have long held that chowing down on a serving of black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day is essential to the coming year’s good luck. I had a college roommate who, in spite of celebrating the incoming year a little too freely, still managed to choke down a single black-eyed pea one New Year’s Day. And with that, she was convinced she’d gotten the year off to a proper start. I didn’t say anything, but I figured she needed all the good luck she could get in light of the wealth of trouble she’d stirred up the night before.

Oh well. Say what you will, but I do think that with all the culinary sinning going on during the holidays, it’s nice to have something as basic as a bowl of black-eyed peas to see you into the new year. And they’re cheap, which is a welcome relief after all the expenditures of the preceding weeks. Black-eyed peas are a great resolutions food. You know: I resolve to eat healthier next year. I resolve not to spend as much next year…

I come from a farm family where every dinner and supper (we didn’t have anything called “lunch” there) was of the meat-and-three variety. There was always a serving of meat–a hunk of meat, not just little bits of it stirred into rice or pasta–three vegetables (seasoned with bacon drippings), bread and dessert. In spite of this, I’m perfectly happy with a one-dish meal, and Himself usually prefers this, too. But if we’re going to sit down to a meal made up almost entirely of legumes and rice, it better be a dang good dish of food.

For New Year’s Day this year, it’s black-eyed peas on a bed of brown rice. There’s really not much of a recipe here. You rinse the dried black-eyed peas and sift through, looking for any small rocks that might have gotten in during the harvest. Bring them to a boil in a large pot of water, then kill the heat, slap on the lid and let them sit for an hour. Then pour out the water, add some fresh and simmer for an hour or so, until the peas are cooked to your liking. Where the creativity and personal preference come in is in how you season them. A chunk of fat back or hog jowl tossed into the pot during cooking is good. I was out of both, but I did have a nice piece of country ham with a bone in it, so I cut it into several hunks and threw those in, along with a red jalapeno pepper, quartered. The ham had enough salt that we didn’t need to add any more.

We sprinkled our black-eyed peas with some pepper vinegar and accompanied them with some home-canned watermelon rind pickles we’d bought at a recent church bake sale. It was a simple but satisfying meal–and our annual black-eyed pea immunization against all things diabolical for the coming year.

To be truthful, this isn't just black-eyed peas and rice. I was pretty generous with the "flavoring agent." In my opinion, the more pork the better!

p.s. As I was proofreading this entry aloud, when I got to the word “rinse,” I said, “rench,” which is what my dad always said. I have a feeling a lot more Southern words and pronunciations are going to come creeping in this year.

Well, thunderation! Daddy used to say that, too.

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