The fall goodness challenge

A co-worker asked for ideas in combining his favorite foods from his favorite season, fall. He listed the things he'd love to eat together in the same dish, and then he bounced off on me a couple of ideas he had. Another co-worker chimed in, and I had an idea for something fun: an Iron-Chef-style challenge. Four of us will think about the combo of ingredients for a short time and then we'll appoint a date when we all bring in a sample of our best recipes to test out on our co-workers, asking them to choose a winning dish.

The list of ingredients that are must-haves: pork, pumpkin, apples and chai spices or chai tea. Additional stipulations to fit his current diet: no added sweeteners, no grains or corn, use dairy products with full fat and no filler ingredients. All types of pork products are allowed as are all forms of apple including juice and cider.

My first ideas lean in two directions: 1) pork tenderloin in an orange, spicy stew w/hard apple cider and 2) bacon in a thick, spiced sour-creamy pumpkin soup with zucchini and chunks of apple and pumpkin. As I think about it a little further, I wonder I might be able to turn prosciutto or bacon into a piecrust, like a top crust on a pot pie or a casing for little tarts. Apple-pork sausage meatballs in pumpkin-chai sauce? Savory custards baked in pumpkins or apples? The possibilities are numerous.

More updates here when I test recipes.

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Weird ideas with watermelon

I have a watermelon in the refrigerator right now, but I don't think I'll repeat this experimental dish from earlier in the season: broiled/grilled watermelon.

Mark Bittman warned me that this dish would be little more than a memorable gimmick, but I had half a watermelon handy, plenty of time, easy access to fresh herbs on the back porch, an audience that was game (my husband and mother-in-law) and a hankerin' for novelty, so I tried his suggestion of brushing slices of watermelon with olive oil and sprinkling with salt, pepper and minced fresh rosemary, then placing the pieces in the broiler of the oven (or on the grill, if I had decided to fire up the grill at my in-laws'), and blasting them with heat until they gave up a lot of liquid and turned chewier. This took about 20 minutes.

They were called watermelon steaks in the recipe, but they reminded all of us more of a cooked summer squash in their texture and flavor. Of course, they retained some of the sweetness of watermelon along with that squash-like flavor, which struck us as an odd combination. We declared them not bad, but not worth repeating as plain-old fresh watermelon is far and away more satisfying.

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Yup, I'm definitely not from around here

(repost from my other blog, http://hbevert.livejournal.com/)

This week's example: until this week, I didn't know what a Texas sheetcake is. I also don't know how it's different from a sheetcake when I'm talking to a customer at work who wants to make a special order of salads and cake for a party. My locally-raised co-worker insists that all sheetcakes are Texas sheetcakes, but I know that the sheetcakes on our price list are the kind I'm used to and not what the customer is describing. I tell the customer that I'll ask the baker to call her back the next day.

When I ask the baker, "so what's a Texas sheetcake anyway?" the next day, other co-workers filtering in and out of the kitchen during the conversation all indicate that for them, the Texas sheetcake is a family-gathering staple. I get this feeling everyone in Illinois and Indiana knows what this thing is except me, and they can't wait for the next time they'll eat it after this conversation. Clearly this is yet another Southern dish that didn't make it across the Cheddar Curtain (the border between Illinois and Wisconsin).

Here's a description for any of you readers who have never heard of Texas sheetcake either:
1. Texas sheetcake is very flat because it is made with a pretty runny cake batter.
2. This cake is usually a chocolate cake made with cocoa.
3. The frosting is a cooked frosting a la Red Velvet cake, but once again it is chocolate. (Yeah, I had no idea what Red Velvet cake tasted like or how to make it before I got here either, but I'd at least read about it.)
4. There are actually baking pans sold as "Texas sheetcake" pans. They are basically just a larger-surface-area jelly roll pan, perhaps slightly deeper.
5. Very important for a proper Texas sheetcake: spread on the frosting when the cake is straight out of the oven. It will melt all over and make the cake fudgey.

Illinois is a place where the northern smelt fry meets the southern cheesy grits, where the local tastes may vary in the same town on whether hockey puck-style or fluffy biscuits are the vehicle for the sausage gravy, where you have to ask whether the tea is "sweet" or "unsweet" because it could be either. Where we are just far enough south to grow peaches but just a little too far north to see many black-eyed peas. It's a place of regional food fence-sitting, where the sheetcake is from Texas, and the fried cheese curd is from Wisconsin.

I don't have to always feel like an out-of-sorts northern transplant who likes weird "foreign" foods. My Canadian-American co-worker and I can wax poetic about the joys of the Nanaimo bar or poutine. One of the owners grew up in Minnesota, so she knows what I mean when I talk about hotdish, krumkake and lefse. She brought me back some smoked trout from her trip to the North Shore of Lake Superior this summer. It's divine on an English muffin for breakfast. Reminds me of Fischbrötchen Andrew and I ate on the Baltic Sea shore on our honeymoon.

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Magenta-colored love in a bowl

The simplest summer soup, made with new beets that arrived in our CSA box. Lotsa beets, not much else going on. Andrew and I make certain soups for each other that end up being code for "I love you," such as his curried squash winter stew, because I told him the first time he made it that it made me fall in love with him all over again. If reading that last sentence hasn't made you ill, try making this soup for someone you adore.

Be sure to keep the beet greens. They are edible, too, and they taste just like beets.

Beets, borscht-ish
serves 3-4

About 1 pound beets with greens
chicken stock (or water w/chicken broth powder)
a handful of fresh dill
sour cream (soy sour cream is what I used)
salt and pepper to taste

After washing the beets and their greens, cut off and keep the greens. Then slice the tops and the root ends off the beets and peel. Cut beets into bite-sized chunks and place in a pot. Chop the greens finely and add to the pot. Pour over enough chicken stock to cover the beets and greens and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat and simmer until the greens are softening and the roots are becoming tender. Chop up the dill finely and cook it in the soup until it wilts and the rest of the veggies are done. Season with salt and pepper. Serve with a generous dollop of sour cream as garnish for each bowl.

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Feeding ourselves with weeds

"I've been working hard this week to clear out the pigweed from my garden," my Grandpa Possehl told me last week. "Friends tell me the restaurants in Chicago will charge top dollar to let you eat it, but they use a different name for it. Starts with a P -- purl-something, pers-something, sounds kinda like parsley, but that's not it."

"Purslane?" I asked, thinking of recipes I'd read from the 1500s using that name in the ingredient lists. It appears in spring salad greens recipes, among a long list of garden herbs and members of the allium family. Lettuce is there, too, but it takes a back seat in importance.

"Yeah, that's it. A chef uses the fancy name and will pay a lot for it as a delicacy, but down on the farm we just called it pigweed, and I just pull it out in bunches and throw it out."

I jumped at the chance to taste something I'd only read about before. I wasn't even sure which weed it was until Grandpa described it. Here's a picture taken at the University of Illinois. He gamely volunteered to pull some and send it home with me along with some fresh mixed lettuces from the garden. He chuckled as he put it into a plastic bag and told Grandma, "I'm giving Heather some of that pigweed out of the garden to eat. Heck, if she likes it well enough, I'll give her a whole big garbage bag next time." As I left for home with the bag, both of them grinned conspiratorially as if they'd just gotten away with a practical joke. "Hope you like the pigweed."

My husband and I mixed together the lettuce leaves and the purslane leaves stripped from the vines and ate them with homemade dressing yesterday for dinner and today for lunch. Turns out Andrew's instincts for making salad dressing correspond with 15th Century English tastes. He mixed a dressing of about half white wine vinegar and half olive oil and salt.

The verdict? Grandpa, you should start exporting your pigweed to fancy restaurants. It's delicious! Next time purslane comes up on its own in a part of the yard or the garden box where I could afford to let it grow bigger, I'm keeping it. It is a tender green (comes from being a succulent plant that stores moisture in its leaves to use in dry times), and its tangy flavor is very similar to clover leaves, which I occasionally enjoy eating freshly plucked from the lawn.

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