Let's Lunch: Orange curd tarts fit for Alice

“In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--`I wish they'd get the trial done,' she thought, `and hand round the refreshments!' But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time.”

--Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll (1865)

This past weekend, we welcomed friends at an open house to meet our almost-daughter-in-law, Angel Barnes, and her relentlessly endearing pup, Pilot. We also had the good fortune to show off Tim’s mother, Dotty, who flew here for the occasion from Ohio.  

We started planning the menu weeks ago and spent the days before the party in a mad dash of housecleaning and cooking. One could not help thinking at the time, “I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date!” -- which made a particular sweet seem the perfect selection for this month's Let's Lunch topic of "literary food."

I had decided early on to make a batch of sunny orange curd to fill scalloped phyllo tart shells. The oranges were from a package of spectacular Honeybells, a heavenly blend of sweet Dancy tangerines and tangy grapefruit, that we’d received as a gift from my brother.  

The tarts were one of four bite-sized nibbles we made for the dessert table, including strawberry balsamic meringues, mini double-chocolate cupcakes and shot-glass portions of Bill Smith’s justifiably famous butterscotch pudding. The latter required the most frequent refilling to cure briefly heartbroken guests who thought they missed their luscious window of opportunity.

The tarts, however, were so damn good that Tim personally invited everyone to grab a few before they were gone, which happened faster than I imagined. And while I still had plenty of curd, I had no extra shells.

Had I done my homework in advance, I would have better understood the literary implications of offering, and then denying, this potent elixir. According to Scribd. – an online source surely cited by countless college freshmen – orange’s symbolism in literature references “the point of balance between the spirit and the libido; it may be the emblem of divine love or extreme lust.”  

Lesson learned. Make this lovely curd with the best seasonal oranges available – and buy more than two packages of tart shells.

Honeybell Orange Curd Tarts
Adapted from Rose Levy Berenbaum’s As Orange as It Gets.

4 tablespoons *Honeybell orange zest (or other seasonal variety)
4 large egg yolks, room temperature
¾ cup sugar
6½ tablespoons freshly squeezed Honeybell orange juice
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces and softened
pinch of kosher salt
3-4 packages of phyllo tart shells (such as Athens, from freezer case)

Zest two large Honeybell oranges into a small bowl; set aside.

Juice the oranges. Pour through a mesh sieve to remove any fiber. If you have more than 6½ tablespoons of juice, swig the bonus.

In a heavy saucepan, beat the yolks and sugar until well blended. Stir in the orange juice, butter and salt. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly. Be careful to never let the mixture boil – it will curdle, breaking your heart and forcing you to start over. Scrape sides of pan now and then to ensure thorough blending.

The curd will take on a rich orange color as it thickens to a consistency similar to hollandaise. It should thickly coat a wooden spoon when done, allowing you to swipe a clean stripe and – strictly for scientific purposes – taste its excellent flavor.

Press the curd through a fine sieve if you are concerned about residue, but I never bother. Fold in zest and allow curd to cool. Transfer to an airtight container, lightly pressing a layer of plastic wrap against the curd.

About an hour before your guests arrive, bake the phyllo tart shells according to directions on the package. When cooled, fill each with a generous teaspoon of curd and arrange on a platter. Remember to take a photo prove how pretty they were before they rapidly vanish.

* My favorite source for Honeybells is Cushman's, which operates the easy-to-remember website www.honeybells.com. This year we received a disappointing shipment, which was somewhat understandable given Florida's unseasonably cold winter. A call to customer service yielded a sincere apology and a replacement box that was nothing short spectacular. 

NOTE: Let’s Lunch (#LetsLunch) is a Twitter-based virtual lunch club where anyone interested can join this monthly "lunch date." A topic is posted at least a month in advance, and all posts are made on the same d ay -- typically the first Friday of the month -- by a group of bloggers who range from amateurs to best-selling cookbook writers. Anyone can join at any time. Search for #LetsLunch on Twitter or Let's Lunch on Facebook.

Coming out of the closet and into the garden

In early March, Joe Yonan felt a need for confession. The season was turning from winter to spring. He wanted to face the greening season with a clean conscience.

He had something to say and he knew it wouldn’t be easy. The long-time food editor of The Washington Post had a reputation to uphold – a brand, even – that might be at risk if he were to be entirely honest.

After all, what would people think if one of the nation’s top food writers was to step out of the closet and admit that he had wholeheartedly embraced a vegetarian lifestyle?

“For a variety of reasons, I felt the pull to change the way I eat, and to tell people about it,” says Yonan, who declared his vegetarianism in a much-lauded column. “There was so much going on. We were going through some budget cuts at the Post. Then my dog died very suddenly. And the community garden I had been growing food in was closing down. All three things drove me to want a change of scenery and pace.”

Yonan took leave from the Post and spent a year living with his sister and brother-in-law at their Maine homestead. The term is not quaint code for a fashionable farm house. They worked the land and ate almost exclusively from it. The result was Eat Your Vegetables: Bold Recipes for the Single Cook. The book is the featured topic for this month's posting from #LetsLunch, a global food community of which Yonan is a member.

“After all the nose-to-tail, bacon-stuffed foie gras I’d been eating, I found that I was being more drawn to the vegetable dishes in restaurants,” he says. “The more I learned about growing vegetables, the more I became enamored of them. And I felt better, too.”

Like those before him, who not only managed to eat beets and Brussel sprouts but happily admitted they like them, Yonan wanted to share his message. Eat Your Vegetables became his second book patterned after his popular Cooking for One column, which he retired this year. The first was Serve Yourself: Nightly Adventures in Cooking for One (2011).

Yonan was amused when told of Twitter chatter that mocked the concept as sad or depressing. While a new study finds that most solo restaurant diners bring their social network-loaded smartphone along for company, Yonan says that the single cook – whether alone by choice or circumstance – need not feel that they are not worth the pleasure of a great meal.

“I get tired of people saying, why should I got to all that trouble if it’s just me? Because you’re worth it,” he says. “Your standards should not change if you’re not cooking for a crowd. The idea that it’s sad or depressing reflects our society’s insistence that the only way to be happy is to be in a relationship.”

Yonan says the Cooking for One column originally was planned to feature different voices each month. The first post was written in 2008 by food editor Judith Jones, who was learning to cook for one again after the death of her husband. She published The Pleasures of Cooking for One in 2009.

“She wrote about setting a proper place setting, lighting a candle, having a glass of wine,” says Yonan, who replaced Cooking for One with the weekly Weeknight Vegetarian. “That’s the way to look at this. I think it you can think of nothing sadder than being along and cooking yourself a nice dinner, you have deeper problems than what’s in your fridge.”

Yonan says he often demonstrates his recipe for Fusilli with Corn Sauce at book events to prove how quick and simple it can be to prepare a delicious meal for one. It scales well, too. I actually made it as a side dish for three.

Fusilli with Corn Sauce

Reprinted by permission of Joe Yonan from “Eat Your Vegetables” (© Ten Speed Press, 2013).

3 ounces whole wheat fusilli, farfalle, or other curly pasta
2 ears fresh corn
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
½ large onion, chopped (about ¾ cup)
1 clove garlic, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese
Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
4 fresh basil leaves, stacked, rolled and thinly sliced

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta until it is al dente.

While the pasta is cooking, shuck the corn and rinse it under running water, removing as many of the silks as you can with your hands. Rub one of the ears of corn over a coarse grater set over a bowl to catch the milk and pulp. Cut the kernels off the other cob with a knife; keep the whole kernels separate from the milk and pulp.

Pour the oil into a large skillet over medium heat. When the oil starts to shimmer, add the onion and garlic and sauté until tender. And the corn kernels and sauté for just a few minutes, until the corn softens slightly and brightens in color. Stir in the corn milk and pulp and turn off the heat. Cover to keep warm.

When the pasta is al dente, drain it (reserving ½ cup of the pasta water) and add it to the skillet with the corn sauce. Toss to combine, adding a little pasta water if the sauce needs loosening. Stir in the cheese, then taste and add salt as needed and grind in plenty of fresh black pepper. Stir in the basil, scoop everything into a bowl, and eat.

 

Joe Yonan's Fusilli with Corn Sauce
from "Eat Your Vegetables"

Stone Fruit Salad

We’ve all been a bit off schedule since the recent loss of a beloved family member, so my #LetsLunch munchie entry is perhaps understandably late. This salad was created to use up available produce and soothe grief but had the curious effect of eliciting comments that sounded, well, a tad stoned.

“This is weird, but really good,” said one consumer. “I know,” enthused another. “I don’t know why I’m eating this, but I can’t stop.”

Whether sad or artificially happy, I dare you to try this and not feel better.

Stone Fruit Salad

3 large ripe peaches, peeled and cut into chunks
1 “personal” size seedless watermelon, trimmed and cut into chunks
2 large tomatoes (preferably Cherokee Purple), cored, lightly seeded and cut into chunks
1 large or 2 small cucumbers, peeled, seeded and sliced
¼-½ cup fresh mint leaves, sliced thin
I teaspoon sea salt, or more to taste

Gather all fruit and cucumber slices in a large sealable container, stir to combine.

Sprinkle with at least ¼ cup sliced mint and salt, stir again, then refrigerate for at least an hour – or until you just have to have some.

Check for seasoning, adding more mint or salt to taste. Use a slotted spoon to serve, leaving accumulated juice behind.

Celebrate spring with a sip of New Orleans: Susan Spicer's basil-infused Cotillion cocktail

One evening several years ago, a neighbor’s daughter stopped by our house and rang the bell. I went to the kitchen door and saw her standing, well dressed and seemingly murmuring to herself, out on our front porch. This struck me as curious on several levels, but mostly because no one uses our front door.

When I unlocked it and teased her for ringing the bell, I saw her take a deep breath and extend her hand.

“Good evening,” she said with a polite brio that made me think she could probably make a better impression at a job interview than some of my co-workers. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Okay, so ... nice, but weird. This sort of thing never happened where I grew up in New Jersey. When I rang a neighbor’s doorbell they’d pretend they weren’t home to avoid buying chocolate bars or oranges or whatever we were selling that year to finance a band exchange trip.

After getting the low-down from her mother, I learned that this was an essential phase of cotillion training, a sort of pre-coming out grooming that also included knowing the difference between a salad fork and one used to poke at – but probably not really eat – a calorie-laden dessert.

For me, cotillion brings to mind something else entirely.  I think of the cocktail, a satisfying sip infused with fresh muddled basil. It’s a drink that reminds you just nice it is that winter is over and spring has finally arrived – even if your car is covered with sticky yellow pine pollen.

While typically made with bourbon and rum, we prefer the tequila variation Susan Spicer includes in her fabulous book, Crescent City Cooking. Published on the same date as our 24^th anniversary in 2007, it was a gift from my husband as a remembrance of our 20^th anniversary trip to New Orleans, where we were so dazzled by Spicer’s Bayona restaurant that we made a second reservation before we paid our first bill.

Spicer’s recipe is posted on the Amazon link to her book – you must also try her amazing Jalapeno Pork Pork Roast, which makes great sandwiches – so I feel safe including it here in an effort to spread some seasonal cheer among friends who participate in #LetsLunch, a global food community that posts themed recipes each month. This month’s choice is “spring break.”

If you don’t have basil growing in your garden yet, get some from the market or a garden center. Instead of buying a bunch of limp, packaged basil for $2.19, I bought a hearty plant for $2.99, which will keep us in basil through summer – despite the fact that we pinched off a nice sprig to make cocktails tonight.

Cotillion
Susan Spicer, Crescent City Cooking

Makes one cocktail (but plan on having several)

5–6 fresh basil leaves, plus one for garnish
1 sugar cube
1 ounce Cointreau or triple sec
1½ ounces Patron or other silver tequila
5 ounces orange juice, preferably fresh-squeezed

Using a wooden spoon or "muddler," mash the basil with the sugar cube and Cointreau in a tall Collins glass. Fill the glass with crushed ice and add the tequila and orange juice. Stir with a long spoon or straw and garnish with a basil leaf.

Spiced pecans too good to save for holidays

Year after year, one of our most anticipated holiday gifts is a tin of spiced pecans from my college buddy, maid of honor and enduring confidante Tracey Nichols. They arrived early this year, as did Hanukkah. Despite solemn oaths to make them last more than a day, they were gone within an hour.

When finished, the spiced pecans will have
a crispy, bubbled surface. 

And, year after year, we talk about why it’s crazy to only snack on these irresistible nibbles at the holidays.  It’s one thing to cling to tradition, but it’s another to deny yourself the sweet satisfaction of a truly simple to prepare treat.

Tracey agrees and gladly shared her recipe for this month’s #LetsLunch posting. Since we are not the only ones to enjoy her cookery – she also sends cookies, but that’s another story – she wants you to know that it can easily be tripled and baked on two sheet pans for maximum sharing. Or hoarding.

Splurge on whole “fancy” pecans, which deliver a more appetizing presentation than cheaper broken pieces. I guesstimated the bulk of my $10 purchase from a store bin that’s frequently replenished. While the recipe calls for 3 cups of nuts, I had closer to 3½ cups. The sugared spiced mix, congealed with the glue of an exceptionally fresh egg white from my neighbor’s farm, was more than ample to coat to the extra handful.  


The spice mix is well balanced but totally tweakable. Though I adore this highly anticipated gift, I have to admit I gulped in horror to realize it contains ground cloves – second only to anise in my Voldemort of Spices list. Not surprisingly, I didn’t have any, so I substituted freshly ground cardamom. The floral aroma that filled my kitchen was intoxicating.  Next time, I might add a dash of cayenne.

Even though I know I can make these any time now, I probably won’t.  The nuts were delicious, but not quite so perfect as receiving them year after year in the same tin, which I faithfully mail back for refills.

Tracey’s Spiced Pecans

1 egg white, beaten slightly	½ tsp. salt
1 tbsp. water	1 tsp. cinnamon
3 cups pecan halves	¼ tsp. ground cloves
½ cup sugar	½ tsp. ground nutmeg

In a small bowl, beat together egg white and water.  Stir in the pecans, stirring until all sides of pecans are moistened.  In a small bowl, mix together sugar, salt, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg.  Sprinkle over pecans, mixing well. 

Glossy spiced pecans, before baking.

Cover a cookie sheet with foil and coat lightly with vegetable oil spray.  Spread pecans on cookie sheet and bake in a preheated 300 degree oven for 30-35 minutes.  Stir after 15 minutes to redistribute nuts. When finished, the nuts will shake easily on the pan and have a slightly bubbled, dry crust.

Allow to cool then store in a tin or other airtight container. Will last about a week at room temperature, or so they say.

Happy birthday to me: Heavenly angel food cake from scratch

My family has always been a bit strange about birthday celebrations. They’re almost always marked on time and always generous. But, almost equally, they’ve been the result of haphazard planning.

I will never forget the year my grandmother forgot to buy my brother David a birthday card, into which she would tuck a check. “Dovey,” she said, calling to him decades ago from a bedroom of our house, which she reluctantly and briefly occupied after my grandfather passed. “Are you going out? Here’s a quarter. Buy yourself a birthday card.”

She laughed as soon as the words left her mouth. I joined after seeing his quizzical expression sag and his eyebrows furrow in frustration. He was not amused, but such exchanges were not uncommon in our household.

I’m sure my mother must have baked us birthday cakes when we were young, but I mostly recall Carvel ice cream cakes, sometimes bedazzled with sparkers, serving as the grand finale to party games like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. (Yes, I really am that old.)

If not Carvel, we’d get a newly fashionable sheet cake from the grocery store, where someone squirted your name in tinted clear icing that looked just like Prell shampoo. Mine probably had purple flowers, since I was obsessed with all things grapey at the time, but I have no recollection of what lurked below.

Cake has never been my thing. Then and now, my favorite cake is angel food cake. “That’s not birthday cake,” my mother would say dismissively when I’d ask for one. “What color frosting do you want?”

Happily, my husband and son also are keen on angel food cake, and we enjoy it often in summer topped with the luscious red stains of sweetened strawberries. Thoughtful co-workers once feted me with angel food cake and a selection of toppings like an old-fashioned ice cream sundae party.

I’m good with most store-bought varieties, and I’ve made boxed-mix ones with great success. But, until last weekend, I’d never made one entirely from scratch. With my birthday falling on #LetsLunch posting day, it seemed the ideal topic for this month’s theme of “first time/new beginnings.”

I have a tube pan with a removable bottom and stubby legs on the rim to allow the cake to cool upside down, though I prefer to dangle it from a slender wine bottle. Ironically, the pan was an inheritance from my mother’s kitchen, and may well have been a wedding gift. I also have cream of tartar, another necessity.  After consulting with dear friend and fellow #LetsLunch-er Nancie McDermott, I decided to adapt her angel food cake recipe from Southern Cakes (Chronicle Books).

The only thing I still needed was delicate cake flour, so I made a Sunday morning grocery run. At the checkout line, I struck up a conversation with an angelic little girl wearing a glittering dress chosen for visiting a favorite aunt. Her sister had a matching dress in blue, she said, but she preferred purple.

Her amused father noticed a box of cake flour in my cart and asked what I was making. When I told him, he closed his eyes and smiled.

“I make that all the time,” he said. “People try to convince you that it’s one of those things that’s too hard to make at home, but it’s so untrue.”

Asked if she was happy when daddy made angel food cake, she grinned and revealed a missing front tooth. “Anything that ends in cake,” she said, shyly leaning into his jacket, “is really good.”

Angel Food Cake with Orange Glaze
Adapted with permission from Southern Cakes by Nancie McDermott (Chronicle Books, 2007).

1 ¼ cups sifted cake flour
¼ tsp. salt
1½ cups sugar
1½ cups egg whites (10 to 12)
1¼ tsp. cream of tartar
1 tsp. vanilla extra
1 tbsp. orange zest, finely grated

Glaze
2 tbsp. plus 1 tsp. orange juice, fresh squeezed
1 cup sifted confectioner’s sugar

Heat the oven to 325 degrees. Set out a 10-inch tube pan – ideally one with a lift-out bottom – but do not grease it.

Sift the flour, salt and ½ cup of the sugar into a small bowl. Set aside.

Unless you are supremely confident about separating eggs, crack and separate each over a small bowl before adding the whites to your measuring cup. You don’t want a rogue yolk to slip in as you near the finish line. (Save the yolks for making curd, such as Rose Levy Berenbaum’s sublime orange curd.)

Beat the egg whites with a mixer at medium speed in a medium bowl until pale yellow and very bubbly. Add the cream of tartar, and continue beating until the egg whites swell into thick, velvety clouds. While still beating, sprinkle in remaining sugar by spoonfuls, scraping down the bowl often, and beat until the egg whites have a soft, substantial shape and hold curled peaks. Beat in the vanilla and orange zest. I used a juicy tangelo, a season-friendly hybrid of tangerine and grapefruit.

Finish the batter by carefully folding in the flour mixture in four batches. Use a rubber spatula or a large wooden spoon, folding gently each time only until the flour barely disappears. Take care to not deflate the airy mixture.

Carefully scrape the batter into the ungreased tube pan, smoothing the top and then running a table knife through center of the batter, going all the way around the tube, to break up any large air pockets. Bake at 325 for 40 minutes, until golden brown and fairly firm in the center.

Remove the cake from the oven and turn it upside down over a wine bottle or another tall, slender glass bottle; or balance it on the metal extensions protruding from the pan for this very purpose, if you have such a pan. Let your angel food cake hang upside down until it is completely cool, one hour or more.

To remove the cake from the pan, gently run a table knife around the sides of the cake and along its bottom, loosening it from the pan. Turn out onto a cake plate or stand, top side up.

Poke several holes in the top of the cake with a toothpick or skewer. Mix orange juice and confectioner’s sugar in a small bowl until fully combined. Drizzle over cake, allowing it to seep into the holes and dribble down the sides.

You can dig in right away or, to ensure a prettier slice, let the glaze set for at least 30 minutes before serving. With a serrated knife, use a gentle, sawing motion to cut the cake.

Ribs epitomize barbecue for Steven Raichlen

Steven Raichlen will participate in a demonstration and book signing event at 6 p.m. July 25 at Fearrington Village in Pittsboro in celebration of his book, Best Ribs Ever: A Barbecue Bible Cookbook: 100 Killer Recipes. Tickets are $40 each and include samples of ribs, beer and an autographed copy of the book. For information, call 919-542-3030.

There are lots of foods called barbecue, but most North Carolina purists sit in the same pew when it comes to the holy trinity of whole hog, pork shoulder and wood smoke.

Steven Raichlen doesn’t mind sitting in the next row. After spreading the gospel of barbecue around the globe and teaching countless fans how to make it at home through his popular books and cooking shows, Raichlen remains devoted to a certain cut.

“If I were to pick one dish that epitomizes barbecue, that stands as the pin-up for it all, it has to be ribs,” said Raichlen, author of the new collection Best Ribs Ever (Workman Press).  “There’s just something so primal about it. Any food eaten with your bare hands, preferably outdoors, takes you back 1.8 million years ago to the whole king of the hill thing.”

Raichlen credits the built-in flavor boost provided by marrow-rich rib bones and feels a bit sorry for those who deny themselves the pleasure that comes with the relatively high ratio of fat to meat.

“Hey, fat equals flavor,” he said, noting that barbecue is not a subject fit for calorie counting. “It’s extraordinarily versatile. I know people in North Carolina will disagree, but for me, it just doesn’t get any better.”

Raichlen is an ardent admirer of the Carolina ‘cue – he’s especially keen on Allen & Son, the celebrated Chapel Hill smokehouse that remains faithful to the low and slow method – but he thinks those who try to pass off electric- or gas-cooked meat as the real deal deserve a sort of barbecue ex-communication.

In his travels to research this and other books and broadcasts – he reckons he’s circumnavigated the globe at least a half-dozen times in search of barbecue heaven – Raichlen said he’s come across many exceptional cooks whose methods are rooted in the Tar Heel tradition of pit barbecue.

The owner of the Auberge Shulamit inn and restaurant in Rosh Pina, Israel, finally found the smokey flavor she wanted to feature after a friend from North Carolina came over and crafted a pit to cook meat. “She was very taken with this and tried it with goose, which is delicious,” said Raichlen, who wrote about the restaurant’s Smoked Egg Pâté in Planet Barbecue. “If you’re willing to broaden your definitions, you open yourself up to some amazing barbecue experiences.”

There are some places, however, that Raichlen just won’t go.  “Boiling, braising and microwaving – that’s just wrong,” he said, enumerating the three “heresies” defined in the book.

“Some people would argue that smoking low and slow is the barbecue analog of braising, but it’s different when you rely on natural juices to flavor the meat,” he said. “Braising the ribs in the oven then throwing them on the grill to brown them up is very different. Same goes for boiling or microwaving. You might make something very tasty, but it’s just not barbecue.”

Raichlen suggests that newbies start with the appropriately titled First Timer Ribs, a simply seasoned feast that explains step by step how to prep the meat and cook it to perfection. 

Rotisserie collars are available spit-style and
specially made for ribs, such as this Weber Rib-o-Lator.
(Photo: www.virtualweberbullet.com)

Ever the barbecue missionary, he's hopeful that the recipes in Best Ribs Ever will encourage cooks to venture beyond the basics to enjoy exotic seasonings – and not just with baby backs and short ribs, but also lamb. One of his personal favorites is North African “Mechoui” of Lamb Ribs served with a spicy harissa.

Part of this dish’s appeal is the method of cooking with a rotisserie collar, which can be ordered online for most gas or kettle-type grills.

“I use one to cook a spit-roasted chicken at least once a week, and it’s an especially good way to cook ribs,” said Raichlen. “Honestly, it’s somewhat in the spirit of a Carolina pig pickin’, and who can resist that?”

Amen.

On Dad and onions: A love story

Graham smooches Dad, who hds been entrusted with his Elmos. That's
 Tim and me before the Wall 'O Fame (Parsippany, NJ, February 1993).

My dad has been gone a long time, but it still makes me sad to count the years. It's easy math, really, because Graham was not even three when he died 18 years ago, just a few weeks before Father's Day.

When I think of him, as I often do, the thing I remember most was his wide grin and big laugh, a great belly jiggler often punctuated by a toss of the head and tears of joy. He was easily amused, my dad, and he did so many things that still strike me as incredibly funny.

The Big Kid, after building the Little Tykes play
gym in the cold while his grandson napped
(Sanford, NC, December 1993)

A thing you should know about Irving Warren was that, while he often splurged on us, his personal style favored frugality. He was a child of the Depression who did not like things to go to waste. He recycled office paper long before it was fashionable, painting glue on one side to make his own note pads. In addition to birthday gifts "too nice" to use and saved for special occasions that never came, we found dozens of glass jars in the garage after he died. Like the ledgers he filled with an accountant's precision, they were neatly arranged in a cabinet, each one containing different sorts of nuts, bolts, screws and nails, not to mention bits and pieces of carefully catalogued miscellany. Waste not, want not.

One night at dinner, which probably consisted of grilled steak and frozen vegetables, he inadvertently combined two of his favorite things. While intending to pour root beer into his drinking glass, he misjudged and tipped it instead into a take-out deli container full of sliced raw onions.

"Irving!" shouted my mother. "What are you doing? Irving!" My brothers and I quickly advanced from nervous silence to howling laughter. Dad just folded his hands and leaned in to peer at the foaming mess with calm acceptance. Slices of sharp, eye-watering onion were taken out a few at a time, gently tapped on the rim to let excess soda dripped off, then arranged on his plate, where he dutifully ate every bite.

I still marvel to think that this unplanned side dish did not choke him with heartburn, but the simple fact is my dad loved onion with just about everything, and this was long before the advent of Vidalias or other sweets he would have contentedly munched like apples.

I don't often need an excuse to tell this story, but I share it today as part of the international #LetsLunch food blog posting which celebrates dads. With this recollection and the ever-popular Lipton Onion Soup Mix dip in mind - it was my mother's go-to for virtually any gathering - I decided to make a dip for dad incorporating these two memorable ingredients: onions and root beer.

The splash of root beer that deglazes a skilletful of caramelized onions - I used one of my mother's favorite pans for good measure - makes this a somewhat sweet dip that stands up well to dark pretzel sticks and salty potato chips. If you'd like to make it more savory, opt for a rich stout or splash of full bodied red wine vinegar.

Root Beer Glazed Onion Dip
2 tbsp. unsalted butter
2 tbsp. olive oil
3 large garlic cloves
2 large purple onions
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
2 4-inch sprigs rosemary
Cheesecloth and butcher's twine
1/2 cup root beer soda (I used Dad's, a vintage brand he enjoyed)
1/2 cup pecorino romano, freshly grated
8 oz. container of sour cream
Pretzel sticks, ruffled chips

Sautee onions slowly to caramelize. Stop when you get
a nice layer on brown on the pan (above) - but before
the onions burn. Deglazing with root beer (below)
incorporates tasty bits into the mix and cleans pan.

Cut onions into large chunks and place in work bowl of food processor with garlic. Pulse until it is chopped to a fairly uniform coarse texture. Be careful to stop before it becomes a watery puree.

Melt butter with olive oil in skillet over medium-low heat. Add onion-garlic mix and sautee slowly. Wrap sprigs of rosemary in a small piece of cheesecloth; knot with twine then tuck into pan.

Check on mix and stir every 10 minutes or so; remove the rosemary after about 30 minutes (don't worry if a few sprigs escape). It should take about 40 minutes or more to fully caramelize, or even up to an hour if you work with a low flame and a lot of patience. Aim for the point where the onions just start to stick to the pan (above right), but be careful to not let them burn.

Pour in the root beer and, with a wooden spatula, scrape up all the lovely browned bits. Keep stirring until liquid evaporates and mixture thickens.

Remove pan from heat and allow to cool completely. Stir in sour cream, blending well, then add grated cheese and mix again. Transfer to container and refrigerate at least 2 hours to let flavors meld.

Transfer dip to serving dish with chips and pretzels - or whatever you dad would like.

Southern knishes - hold the mishegas

I thought Bruce Springsteen was talking to me in 1975 when he declared that "tramps like us, baby we were born to run." Two years later, I eagerly left New Jersey for college and adventure - not necessarily in that order - and, baby, I never looked back.

I returned many times, of course, in the years since, but only for fairly brief family visits. I not so secretly congratulated myself for making my life's accomplishments elsewhere - first Cleveland, then Indianapolis and, for the past 18 years, Raleigh.

But on those returns, and when friends and family from Up North came Down South to visit, I craved just one thing: Knishes.

I had no idea I had it so good by having access to so many Jewish delis in my childhood. The son of one of my mother's dearest friends even owned one. Mom stopped there faithfully every Saturday morning, after the ritual of having her hair set and starched. She returned home with a brown-paper bag stuffed with foods so pungently fragrant they beckoned us all to the kitchen like cartoon snake charmer.

There were kosher hot dogs, of course, tucked into steamed buns under piles of real sauerkraut. There were pastrami and corned beef sandwiches so big you could hurt your jaw trying to eat them. Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray for my dad and black cherry for me. And then there were the knishes, their leathery hides folded in foil and accompanied by small tubs of spicy brown mustard. Yes, please.

Traditional NY deli-style knish (@mizchef)

The nirvana of memory was never really matched in following years by freezer-case options or soulless pretenders sold to the unfortunates who simply didn't know any better. My brother David made a good faith effort to replenish my stock on a visit, only to realize at the airport that he'd left the precious cargo at home.

I made knishes once from a boxed mix, but there was no magic in that Manischewitz powder. I finally decided to try making them from scratch last year as a Hanukkah experiment. I'm just now facing my fear of yeast and pie crust, so the idea of making, resting and rolling out dough was intimidating. It took more time and effort than I expected, but the results were batamt - which sounds a little like Yiddish for "the bomb." In any language, they were delicious.

The yield was not quite like the ones I once savored, but their pedigree links directly to Arthur Schwartz, a bona fide knishmeister and self-titled "Food Maven." The crust is lighter but appealingly toothsome, and the potato-onion filling is eminently tweakable to incorporate leftovers or a creative urge.

Which brings me to the "fusion" challenge of this month's #LetsLunch posting, which today features personalized takes of cross-cultural cuisine by distinguished chefs, food writers and food lovers across the globe. The inspired theme comes from the just-published Cowgirl Chef: Texas Cooking with a French Accent (Running Press) by Ellise Pierce, a #LetsLunch founder.

It was important to me that my debut feature a recipe that boasted big flavor and reputable culinary chops. So to place Schwartz's New York deli-style knish firmly in a Southern terroir, I looked no further than Virginia Willis. This goddess of Southern goodness has a fine recipe for pimento cheese, and its vibrant color was just the thing to light the fusion fuse for this project.

So, nu? Go makes some knishes. Or, as my mother would have said, "What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

Knish Dough and Potato Filling
I followed Schwartz's directions closely to prepare the dough and filling. Allow plenty of time for the onions to slowly caramelize and attain maximum sweetness. I made narrow strips of dough as directed on my first try, which produced adorable bite-size knishes perfect for entertaining. For this batch, I divided the dough into thirds. Next time, I'm just going halve it for what I consider traditional-sized knishes.

Pimento Cheese
Everyone in the South has a secret recipe for pimento cheese, but Virginia Willis' version is hard to beat. Do not use packaged shredded cheese, which is treated to minimize clumping. Creamy results are guaranteed only if you shred it yourself. Can you save some time (and knuckle skin) by putting the cheese in the freezer for about 15 minutes and using the shred setting of a food processor.

I used a a plump local spring onion instead of a Vidalia, a good splash of Louisiana Hot Sauce and a bit more mayo than called for. If you don't make your own and want extra points for going uber-Southern, use Duke's brand mayonnaise. Pimento cheese is best made in advance and chilled in the fridge for a few hours to allow flavors to fully meld.

Assembly and baking
Schwartz's recipe describes open-top knishes as "traditional," though I never saw one during my peak knish consumption years. My idea of traditional is squared and sealed, but I decided to give his version a try since I hoped it would create a somewhat volcanic result with oozing pimento cheese lava.

I was not disappointed. Indeed, a friend who admired the top photo said it looked like what he'd expect to find at the end of the rainbow. What a mensch.

I used the last strip of dough to make closed knishes - more rectangular than square, but more like memory than not. Whichever style you prefer, be sure to brush the dough with some egg wash to fortify the structure and give it a handsome finish.

Try to let them cool a bit before diving in or you'll risking having molten cheese burn the roof of your mouth. I enjoy knishes drizzled with a little mustard - Gulden's Zesty Honey Mustard is a guilty pleasure - but they're also great straight.