Reason No. 473 on why you should learn how to can

I've been spending the day happily browsing Andrea Weigl's new Pickles & Preserves, a volume in the Savor the South series from UNC Press. It is a pleasant reminder of the joys of canning, a welcome thought on this day when our windows are open to a sunny and mild March afternoon. 

I am reminded of the contentedness that comes from both making canned goods and sharing them with friends, as well as the simple pleasure of opening a jar of something that tastes as seasonal as the day it was sealed. With such good cheer, could one be faulted for using one's own canning pantry to create a cocktail at 4 in the afternoon?

Sad news on a day last summer halted my plan to make Bill Smith's famous honeysuckle sorbet. Rather than pitch the fragrant infusion, I turned it into a simple syrup and placed filled pint jars in a boiling water bath. I hoped for the best, assuming the delicate flavor would droop.

But, oh, it did not. Combine with muddled mint and lemon, a spoonful of jam, a shot of vodka and a splash of soda, and you've got a taste of summer on a not-quite spring day.

Honeysuckle Sipper

Makes one drink.

2-3 fresh mint leaves
1 slim wedge of lemon
1 generous teaspoon raspberry jam (or other flavor)
3 ounces honeysuckle syrup
2 ounces vodka
club soda

Muddle mint and lemon in a cocktail shaker. Add jam and ice, then honeysuckle syrup and vodka. Shake vigorously.

Strain and pour into tall ice-filled glass. Top with club soda and give it a quick stir. Garnish with a mint leaf. (If it's your first one. Otherwise, forget it.)

Rinse and repeat.

On Cinco de Mayo, declare your independence from Margaritas with a beer-based cocktail

House-made sangrita gives the Michelada
a special kick at Dos Perros in Durham.

For many Americans, Cinco de Mayo is celebrated as an annual excuse to drink to excess, generally by means of machine-dispensed frozen Margaritas that look like neon-hued slushies. Even if you opt to go on the rocks, there's generally little opportunity to go au naturale in busy bars that rely on  commercial mixers.

There are plenty of places in the Triangle where one can procure a truly fine hand-crafted Margarita made with fresh fruit, herbed infusions and and top-shelf tequila. But this weekend, undoubtedly one of the most profitable for tavern owners, what some gringo celebrants will find in their disposable cups is a rough mix of cheap tequila tempered by the cloying sweetness of a mass-produced mixer.

There's no rule that one must swill tequila to commemorate Mexico's unlikely victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. Indeed, one imagines that hot and tired soliders were glad to revive their spirits much as thirsty modern Mexicans do -- with an ice-cold beer brightened by a generous squeeze of fresh lime juice.

Across Mexico, you are about as likely to be served a beer with lime juice as you are to receive a sweet pour if you request iced tea in the American South.  But why stop there? Creative Mexican bartenders make all sorts of cocktails using beer, the most famous of which surely is the Michelada.

The Michelada is a cousin to the Bloody Mary, but with beer in place of vodka. There are about as many variations on the general theme as there are la barras in the distinct regions of Mexico, and across the U.S., where the drink is especially popular in border states -- and others, like North Carolina, with rapidly growing Latino communities. The Michelada's robust flavor can vary significantly, starting with pale or dark beer. Options include tomato juice or Clamato; hot sauce or a blend of select chiles; Worcester, soy or savory MSG-rich Maggi sauce -- or all three, depending on whose recipe you follow.


Michelada, Eating My Words-style, with
tomato juice, Worcester and Tiger Sauce.

You can choose from hundreds of Michelada recipes posted online, including ones by chef Rick Bayless, who tirelessly promotes authentic regional Mexican foods in his books and cooking shows. The flavor profile has become so internationally renown that chef Marcus Samuelsson, born in Ethiopia and raised in Sweden, confidently titles his version The Perfect Michelada Recipe. It was the starting point for several we made last night -- and one more today, so far -- strictly for the purpose of research.

Chef Bill Smith of Crook's Corner, who travels extensively in Mexico, believes that two area bars do an especially good job with beer-based cocktails. One is the Michelda at Dos Perros in Durham; the other is the Tiger Mojito at the recently opened Lucha Tigre in Chapel Hill. Both restaurants graciously shared their recipes.

So, if you're out and about celebrating Cinco de Mayo this weekend, leave the Margaritas for the first-timers and try a Michelada or other beer-based specialty. And if your friends call the next day in a post-tequila fog, be an amigo and invite them over. After all, among the magical Michelada's claims to fame is its acknowledged status as a hangover remedy.

Dos Perros Michelada

Rim a pint glass with a mix of salt, toasted chipotle peppers, Spanish paprika and cayenne pepper. Fill glass halfway with ice.

Prepare a shot of sangrita, which Dos Perros makes from the "juice" of its pico de gallo -- you can substitute the juice of homemade or store-bought pico -- Valentina hot sauce and a splash of orange and lime juices.

Serve components separately (see photo at beginning). Pour sangrita over ice then top with a Modelo Especial.

Lucha Tigre Tiger Mojito
Muddle a healthy pinch of mint, about 8-10 leaves, at the bottom of a pint glass. Add 2 teaspoons of sugar and fill the glass with ice.
Pour in 1/4 oz. fresh lime juice and 1/4 oz. light rum. Fill with Tiger Beer.
Stir with bar spoon until sugar is incorporated. Garnish with mint, lime wedge and sugar cane.

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.

A Charleston loquat grows in Raleigh – and may yield Lee Bros. liqueur

About a dozen years ago, we enjoyed our first road trip to Charleston. We’ve never forgotten the city’s many charms and likely never will, since we carried home a tiny memento that now looms large.

“Ah, loquats,” sighed Ted Lee during a recent call to promote The Lee Bros. Charleston Cookbook (Clarkson Potter) when told the tale of our seed-turned-tree. “What a great souvenir. We may be on tour during loquat season, but fortunately I’ve got someone who will collect them for me.”

While Lee’s fruit is harvested from a massive, Confederate-era tree that yields mountains of the small soft-skinned citrus, our loquat started from purloined seeds of fruit picked on the sly. It has taken deep root in Raleigh soil, but it may still pine for home as it’s been stingy about producing fruit since we dragged it past the state line.

Much as we enjoyed the Holy City's sights and experiences - with its battlegrounds and ghost tours, Charleston was our 10-year-old son’s dream getaway – the hotel pool became our favorite place to escape the afternoon heat. Graham discovered he could slip his hand through the fence and pluck handfuls of unfamiliar ripe fruit from a nearby tree.

“Eat this,” he said, offering me a handful of small yellow-orange orbs unlike anything I’d eaten before. I ate one tentatively, then popped several more. “They might be poisonous,” he suggested as I paused briefly mid-chew to consider the idea. “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “But they certainly have a lot of seeds.”

It was, of course, the loquat, a curious citrus that is common to the region and adored by locals for their sweet-tangy taste. Graham was not as fascinated by the fruit as its seeds, which he collected in a plastic bag. He announced that, like great explorers before us, we would take them home and plant an orchard.

Tim dutifully planted a few seeds in a pot, and we were amused when they sprouted. It grew tall and hearty, demanding a new pot every few years and eventually became too huge and heavy to drag indoors each winter.

A few years ago, it finally found a permanent home in a sunny spot where our house meets the driveway. It was maybe three feet tall then; it now nudges the roofline.

Two springs ago we enjoyed our first harvest. We ate them with a homesteader’s enthusiasm, cooking with some but neglecting to save any for canning or other more long-lasting purposes. The following spring, not a single fruit appeared.


Photo of Ted Lee's personal stash of  Loquat Liqueur,
from his Brooklyn kitchen.

A mild winter cruelly encouraged it to bloom early this year, and a subsequent cold snap turned the fragrant ivory blooms brown. We remain hopeful, however, as it appears to be full of buds. If they grace us with their bounty, we will make loquat liqueur from Charleston Kitchen.

Ted Lee says the simple-to-make infusion can be enjoyed in as little as two to three weeks, but it’s best if tucked out of sight to let the fruit slowly surrender its essence.

“Matt and I are really different in a lot of ways,” he says. “He can wait that long. I’m like, look, it’s got a bit of tint and I’ve got some flavor and I’m going to start drinking it.”

Given his exuberance, Lee admits it’s rather odd that he has two Mason jars still packed with loquats and liquor. He promptly emailed this photo as proof.

“It’s important for people to not be put off when the loquats oxidize and turn brown,” he says. “The infusion is tinted yellow and the flavor is like cherry almonds. It mimics that sort of maraschino cherry taste when you add it to Manhattans,” as they suggest in the book. “It’s got a round cherry taste, kind of like a Luxardo.”

Loquat Liqueur
Reprinted by permission of Ted Lee from The Lee Bros. Charleston Kitchen, @2013 by Clarkson Potter.

Makes: About 3 cups liqueur
Time: 3 minutes to prepare, two weeks steeping

4 cups loquats, washed (about 1¼ pounds)
2-3 cups vodka, preferably Ciroc

Put the loquats in a quart-size Mason jar. Top the jar with the vodka and let stand for two weeks before using (many Charlestonians prefer to wait 1 year). The vodka will keep for a few years at room temperature.

Loquat Manhattan

2 ounces (1/4 cup) rye whiskey or bourbon
1 ounce (2 tablespoons) Loquat Liqueur
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Ice cubes
1- to 2-inch strip of orange peel (for garnish)

Pour the rye and the loquat liqueur into a bar mixing glass or pint glass, and shake the bitters on top. Fill the glass with ice. With a bar spoon, stir the cocktail for 15 to 20 seconds using a swift circular motion to avoid introducing bubbles into the liquor. Strain the cocktail into a champagne coupe. (If you prefer to serve it over ice, put 1 or 2 small ice cubes into a rock glass and pour the cocktail into the glass.) Pinch the orange peel over the cocktail to release its oils onto the surface, brush the rim of the glass with the peel, and drop it in.

A kugel and a cocktail! L'chaim!

Grandma Ruthie, my mother, had little interest in lite or reduced-fat products but might have been swayed by some of the flavorful options available today. This updated version of her high-octane Hannukkah classic is just as satisfying but causes less guilt -- well, just enough, considering it's creamy roots are definitely Jewish.

If you have access to fresh ricotta (check Trader Joe's), ignore the calories and use that instead of the processed reduced-fat type. Also, feel free to substitute your favorite jam (but not mixed berry, trust me) or crispy cereal, or add handful of golden raisins or other dried fruit.

A special tip regarding golden raisins from my friend Norma Kessler, baker and pastry chef at the highly-regarded Carolina Inn in Chapel Hill, paired with related a cocktail suggested by me: 

• Plump golden raisins by simmering them for a few minutes in a small saucepan with equal parts dry white wine, orange juice, white rum and simple syrup. Drain and reserve liquid, stirring raisins into kugel mix before baking. 
• Add a jigger of rum to the remaining liquid, pour into shaker with crushed ice and shake vigorously. Strain into glasses with a few ice cubes; top with ginger ale and an orange slice for a festive sip.

16 oz. reduced-fat cottage cheese (such as, Light 'n Lively)

16 oz. fresh or reduced-fat ricotta

8 oz. reduced-fat sour cream

4-6 tbps. butter, melted and cooled, divided

12-15 oz. jar less-sugar apricot jam (or whatever you like)

1/2 cup golden raisins, optional (see above)

3 eggs, beaten

1 tsp. kosher salt

1 16 oz. bag egg noodles

4 cups Frosted Flakes (or similar crispy cereal), crushed

vegetable oil spray

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cook noodles in salted water 8 minutes or until al dente. Drain and rinse lightly with cool water.

While noodles are cooking, mix cheeses, sour cream, eggs and half of the melted butter in a large bowl until well blended. Add jam, salt and golden raisins (if using), stir again until jam is mostly incorporated -- a few blobs here and there are not only fine but also desirable (if you're lucky enough to get that slice). Add cooled noodles into mixture and fold until well blended.

Coat 9x13 baking pan with vegetable spray. Pour in mixture and lightly smooth top. Put cereal in zip-top bag and crush coarsely with mallet or rolling pin. Sprinkle evenly over mixture then drizzle with remaining melted butter. If you like, gild crumbs with a spritz of vegetable oil spray to make sure it's all coated.

Bake 45-50 minutes or until tester comes out clean and top is crispy and lightly browned. Let cool at least 10 minutes before slicing.