Yellow

It’s no secret I’ve been on a Southern kick of late. Well, I guess, why would it be a secret? I don’t know, something has happened to me recently. I even got myself a subscription to Southern Living. It’s all I can think about, all I want to write about and absolutely all I want to cook right now: Food of the South.

Typically I don’t have much of a sweet tooth – never really have. But I have been hearing so much about A Slice of Pie on KCRW lately that my wheels started spinning. The event sounds so fun: it’s at LACMA this Sunday, September 18 - it’s free and if you wear an apron you get free general admission to the museum, there will be mountains of pies to taste and an apron fashion show. The pies are submitted by both home cooks and professional chefs. The judges are a cross section of chefs and food writers. What’s not to like?

So I called my mom, the baker in the family. I don’t know why but I knew I wanted to make a buttermilk pie. Now I actually do not have a childhood memory of buttermilk pie. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I had ever even had it before until this past year. Baby Blues BBQ has it on their menu and one day Maggie insisted I try it. I fell in love.

I did a little research and discovered buttermilk pie is indeed a traditional Southern delicacy. It’s basically a chess pie.

Buttermilk is thick, slightly paler than eggnog, and yes, it's tart. There is no butter in buttermilk: It's actually low-fat or non-fat milk that has been fermented by various bacteria, in a process similar to the way yogurt is made.

But it's good for so many things. It makes a gorgeous  batter for frying chicken, makes homemade biscuits, rolls and cornbread tender, mashed potatoes just faintly tangy, and of course, pancakes light and fluffy.

On my first try I did surprisingly all right. I drove to Mom’s to pick up the dough for the crust she made for me (with lard!) and put it in the fridge for two hours while I got to work. But when I say work, I mean no work. This is seriously the easiest thing to make ever. I wanted it to be on the less-sweet side so I added an egg and a little extra buttermilk. The flavor was very nice except I found it to be way too eggy. Doug agreed but Mom thought it was really good.

This past Sunday, on the second go ‘round, Mom came over to dive into it herself. She made her perfect crust and got to it. We decided to use one less egg, less sugar and about the same amount of buttermilk I had used previously.

I thought it was perfect. Frighteningly so. This non-sweet-toother could have eaten that pie like a bag of salty-crunchies. Everyone I shared it with, which was about six people, absolutely loved it. Whitney, a native of Kentucky and a big buttermilk pie fan, did say she would have liked the top to be a bit bruléed. Fair enough.

Sadly, Mom and I misunderstood the information I was sent about the event and, as a result, missed the entry deadline by a mere thirty-six hours. So our, what I’m sure would have been, award-winning pie will not be in the pie-stravaganza this Sunday. Mom, so confident, even suggested we have our own Salon des Refusés. We, of course, won’t actually do that. We’ll find the platform for our pie. Hell, there’s whisperings of an all Southern-themed Dinner at Eight coming up in October. Perhaps we’ve found our dessert. 

I hope to see y’all this Sunday!

 

 Buttermilk Pie

The pie should be firm with a top boldly golden, the crust a little brown. If the pie is removed from the oven prematurely, the dessert looks like pudding spilling from a crust.

 

3 eggs
1 cup sugar (or a hair less)
2 tablespoons flour, plus a little for dusting
1/2 cup melted butter
1 1/4 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell (see below)
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Beat eggs slightly and add sugar and flour. Then add melted butter and mix well. Add buttermilk and vanilla and mix.

Dust the unbaked pie shell with a little bit of flour. Pour batter into shell, and then sprinkle a little more flour on top.

Bake at 325 degrees until the custard is set, approximately 1 hour.

My mom's awesome pie crust

Makes 2 pie crusts

2 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons granulated sugar

1 teaspoon salt

8 tablespoons (1 stick) sweet butter, chilled

6 tablespoons lard, chilled

5-6 tablespoons ice water, as needed

Sift flour, sugar and salt into a mixing bowl. Add chilled butter and lard. Working quickly and using your fingertips, rub or cut fat into dry ingredients until the mixture resembles course meal.

Sprinkle on ice water, 2-3 tablespoons at a time, and toss with a fork. Turn dough out onto your work surface and, using the heel of your hand, smear dough away from you, about 1/4 cup at a time. Scrape it up into a ball and wrap in wax paper. Chill in refrigerator for 2 hours.

Roll dough out to 1/4-inch thickness on a floured work surface. Line a 9-inch pie plate with half of the dough. Crimp edges for a single-crust pie.

Printable Recipe

Back to the Basics. Holding on. Letting go.

Over a girls' night out with Maggie last week I lamented the recent loss of a t-shirt that had significant sentimental value to me (and was super cool). A boy I once cared for deeply had sort of permanently loaned it to me and I, of course, kept it forever, until I just lost it a short time ago. I suppose it is one of the only things I had left of him, besides my memories. That whole thing was years ago, now.

Maggie just blinked at me and flatly told me to forget about it. She said I keep too much stuff. I don’t need all of the stuff. It doesn’t necessarily need to have the gravity I have assigned to it. 

It’s a shirt.

Admittedly, that smarted a bit. But she’s right. As tidy as I am and as often as I clean out my closet of clothes, shoes and accessories that I don’t want, or no longer fit, I have a ton of stuff. In addition to that signature t-shirt left behind from most of the boys that have meant something to me. I have a Steeler’s glass that was Sam’s. I’ve carried it with me for a decade. When it was broken last year so was I. I have cards Paz made for me from twenty years ago, a matchbook with a joke written in it from Michael Fancini from fifteen years ago, I have kept every journal I’ve ever written, have busted up furniture from my grandparents, and even have a hat pin, all bent and rusty, that was found in a jewelry box my dad gave to my mom long before I was born. Let’s not even mention the decrepit strainer, shaped like a triangle, with rust, from my dad’s house from way before my time, that sits on a chest in my dining room, never used, yet has no real, actual, sentimental value to me that I’m aware of. But I love it.

What you own eventually owns you, right?

I’ve never actually shed all of my stuff before. And as a result, perhaps I find myself trapped in the past a bit. “I used to do this with that person”, “I used to do that this way and this that way back in the day.” You know?

We can’t completely shed everything really. Actually, even if we get rid of it, we still have all of our stuff anyway, tangible or not. Everything is part of the mosaic that makes all of us who we were, are and will be.

These thoughts coupled with this time of year have harkened me back to thoughts of my family, my roots, my parents, the James River, youth, spirit, innocence, thunderstorms, cicadas, Yo! MTV Raps, Ca-Ca the Clown, The Magic Pumpkin, lighting bugs at dusk, Dinosaur Jr., my back deck; Richmond and Grove Ave. Where I became me.

Those of you that read me on the regular probably know all of this about me already. This is what I do periodically (maybe this is my new stuff).

But man alive, I also miss that food.

Where is it here, dear City of Angels? Where can I find brilliant (and unabashedly Crisco’ed) fried chicken, meatloaf, roast beef, fried catfish, chicken pot pie, chicken livers, collard greens, green beans, fried green tomatoes, pimiento cheese, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes (with mountains upon mountains of butter), corn on the cob, parker house rolls, tomato aspic, corn bread and sweet tea under the same roof? With a twist. In the right place. And wine, too, please. WHERE?

Because I want it. And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Sometimes tried and true, and sometimes with a twist. In the right place.

 

I’ve mentioned this previously - but I’m redundant and you all know it – the South actually created the only cuisine that is indigenous to this country. Yes, it’s true. Look it up.

So last week Doug, Maggie and I had a Southern feast: fried chicken (cooked with Crisco AND butter, mind you), buttermilk biscuits, slow cooked collards, and sliced heirloom tomatoes with a dollop of Duke’s Mayonnaise, sun tea and, of course, wine. For dessert we had buttermilk pie (recipe coming soon).

I want more. I’m going home in October. I want my emotional Snuggie. I want to talk to Aunt Babe. I’m going to ask her everything about everything. And I’m going to talk about her food. And I’m going to hug her.

And then I’m coming back here to you, my City of Angels. And I’m going to make you some food.

Shirt? What shirt? I’ve got cooking to do.

Classic Southern Fried Chicken

Serves 6 

 

2 small chickens, broken down
2 large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour  

2 tablespoons seasoned salt, such as Lawry's
1 tablespoon fresh cracked black pepper
24 ounces Crisco 

1 stick of unsalted butter

Pat the chicken pieces dry and line a baking sheet with wax paper. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the milk. Add the chicken. In another bowl, whisk the flour with the seasoned salt and seasoned pepper. Dredge the chicken in the seasoned flour.

Dunk chicken back in buttermilk mixture and back into flour mixture.

Transfer to the baking sheet.

In a 12-inch, cast-iron skillet, heat the Crisco and butter to 365°. Add all of the chicken and fry over moderate heat, turning occasionally, until deeply golden brown and an instant-read thermometer inserted nearest the bone registers 170°, 20 to 24 minutes. Drain the chicken on paper towels and serve right away.

Printable Recipe

Salt's Cure: The Little Kitchen That Could (And Does) - Parts 1 & 2

Part 1:

I am a saltaholic. I always crave salty over sweet. I salt everything. I carry my own salt in my bag so I don’t feel like a jerk asking for it in most restaurants. Almost no one can share my popcorn at the movies because of the almost comical abundance of the stuff.

I also like snackables. I love to graze. So you can imagine my delight upon hearing about the opening of Salt’s Cure this past August. Owners, Chris Phelps and Zak Walters, formerly of Hungry Cat, have created a simple, neighborhood café with a simple menu concentrating – but not limited to -  local, in-house cured meats, pates, rilletes, terrines and an assortment of pickled items. They are open for brunch, lunch and dinner, offering a compact and ever rotating menu of smalls to ginormous entrees that upon hitting the palate are anything but simple.

Finally, last Sunday, a mere five months after their opening, I had my first experience at Salt’s Cure over brunch with Brandon and his friend, Jeffrey. Interestingly I had been driving and walking past this building forever and never really noticed it. It’s an old, white garage-y looking space occupying the corner of  Santa Monica and Vista. And their signage is so small (and so very cute: a salt shaker!) that I had doubly missed it. But there Brandon and Jeffrey were, sitting at the table right by the large, almost floor to ceiling front window (not at the bar, sniff).

The room is small, modest, warm and welcoming. There are only a handful of tables and a bar that looks over their little kitchen. I’m guessing they can seat about 35 folks in the whole place (perfect). And always in that kitchen you will be sure to see Chris and/or Zac, cooking away.

Chris P., working away...

After the French press arrived ($5) and my mimosa, served just the way I like it: with one eye droplet of juice ($9), all three of us ordered the same thing for brunch that day. And how could one not? The 2X2X2 – bases loaded - two eggs; sunny side up, two homemade sausage patties (lamb when we went), a biscuit and two slices of thick-cut beef bacon, a ramekin of fresh plum preserves, and a couple of chunks of heirloom tomatoes in a bit of oil and vinegar ($13). We also ordered a plate of roasted potatoes for the table ($4). 

Delicious. Fantastic. Titanic in flavor. This was a perfect plate of brunch-ness. Even the tomatoes were reminiscent of the Hanover variety I vividly remember from Virginia – unparalleled. The biscuit was delicate and creamy, the eggs (Schaner Farms) were bold and nutty with a beautifully bright orange yolk, the house-made sausage was rustic and fresh, and the bacon… oh the bacon. *Swoon*. The potatoes were nice, but not as crunchy, smushy, crazy as I usually prefer them. I loved that they used a medley of different types yellow, red and purple. I will say that the caramelized onions accompanying those potatoes were outstanding. Brandon kept going on about them while spooning little bites of them onto my plate.

Plus, looking around the room, I kept thinking to myself (and saying aloud to Brandon and Jeffrey) that, not only the staff and owners (cute, cute, cute), but the clientele, all looked like my kind-of peoples. The ones who go to the farmer’s markets, the ones who read, the creative ones, the ones with genuinely slightly mussed hair (not cultivated), and big, kooky accessories (or none at all). I felt at home and knew it would be a very short time before my return.

Part 2: 

Less than a week ago, last Friday night, I met my friend Emma back at Salt's Cure at 7pm (told you so!) for dinner before she was meeting a first date at 10pm. And when I said this place was welcoming earlier, I was not just whistling Dixie. Zac literally opened the door for me when I arrived. He did the same for Emma and every other customer that night.

This go ‘round, I had my druthers and sat at the bar. Luckily, we secured my favorite two seats at any bar: the corner. Zac was to the left of me, greeting folks, quality control and whatnot and Chris was right in front of me, cooking epic portions of red meat. The room was warm and lively and smelled delicious. I was happy. I started everything off with a glass of champagne and Emma, a glass of sauvignon blanc.

While we caught up, we decided to order some cheese. Our server helpfully informed us that the cheese selection ranged from soft to hard (insert joke here (which I did that night)). The cheeses are $5 each or $13 for three. We ordered three: the Red Hawk (cow), the Winchester Sharp Gouda (cow) and the Pepato (sheep). The plate was served with some candied pecans, honey and a pair of oat biscuits. I was hesitant to order the gouda because I thought it would be too pedestrian. It was anything but. All of our cheeses were sublime, actually. This was followed by a plate of the pork shoulder ($8) served with walnuts and large, flat-leaf parsley, lightly blotted with a delicate olive oil. The meat was chiffony, tender, and almost melted on one’s tongue. I could have eaten mounds of it (I guess I did eat a mound of it).

This was around when Emma and I (round two or three on our glasses of wine) started obsessing about the enormous slabs of meat Chris was working on the grill. And Emma really started fixating on the Pork Shoulder-n-Beans ($18). Every time she saw it being plated (just about under her nose) she would squeal with delight about how amazing it looked and smelled. Then the two men seated next to us were served one of the gargantuan steaks ($62, serves two people). I asked if I could take a picture – they obliged – and we all ended up tasting each other’s food (the chocolate cake bite I had was outstanding) and laughing and chatting for a while: reason 2849606 I like to sit at bars.

Then Emma decided she had to have the pickle plate ($5) with foie gras pudding ($18) and grey snapper. Don’t get me wrong, no one was twisting my arm either. That foie gras was so light and airy and delicate, it was like a foie gras cloud. I actually screwed the lid back on to save it to take home and, of course, forgot and left it there (wine + karma = sucks). Emma was so blown away by the pickled onions, she ordered another plate of them (good move prior to a first date). It was all beautiful, elegant, yet bucolic. 

 

And then, Emma looked down in front of her, and lo and behold, Chris had placed a half plate of the Pork -n-Beans there, just for her! He had overheard her oohing and ahhing all night (how could one not), and obliged her with a treat of treats.

And this treat, my good people, was dazzling. Emma asked for a knife but immediately realized that it was unnecessary: this meat literally fell off the bone. It was simply prepared yet clearly tended to and thought about for hours and hours, if not days. As Emma was (still) going on about the dish, she offered a bite to the gentleman sitting to the right of her – he partook. Turned out he works there!

Oh, those crazy kitchen guys…

Listen – don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, this spot is so much, and then so much more. I hope they don’t get sick of me, because my eatin'-drinkin' self plan to make me part of the atmosphere more often than not.

Bringing It Back

I’ve never really been a big breakfast person. I love breakfast foods and, hell, brunch is my most favoritest meal of all, but I really just have absolutely no appetite within the first two or three hours of waking up. Coffee does the trick just fine until lunch (which I usually eat a bit late, as well). Additionally, in the breakfast department, ninety nine point nine percent of the time I will opt for savory over sweet. For example, I much prefer eggs, potatoes and bacon to pancakes or waffles.

About a year or so ago I stumbled across an article in Gourmet (RIP) about a cookbook by Marion Cunningham entitled, The Breakfast Book. At the time of the book’s publication, in 1987, there were almost no other cookbooks concentrating on breakfast. In the midst of an era applauding frozen waffles, microwaves and "Nouvelle cuisine" (think Dorsia), Cunningham wanted to get the home cook back in the kitchen.

I was already familiar with Cunningham as she edited The Fannie Farmer Cookbook, authored The Fannie Farmer Baking Book, and roamed across the country cooking with James Beard. But this cookbook was a new one for me.

So although breakfast is not my favorite meal of the day, nor have I ever relied on a recipe to prepare any breakfast dishes, upon hearing Cunningham say her Bridge Creek Heavenly Hots are the lightest of hot cakes, and seeing this quote, “Cooking is one of the legacies we can leave to the future, and I would like to be remembered for my baking. We all know we’re not immortal, but after I’m gone, I would like my son and daughter to be able to say, ‘Our mother made real yeast bread for breakfast.” – I was sold.

I believe I have mentioned a fond memory of my grandfather, Paw, back in Roanoke, Virgina, making sausage biscuits. He would make a whole baking sheet full of biscuits, cook up a ton of sausage, assemble the biscuits, and leave them on the tray on the counter in the kitchen. As friends and family ambled in and out of the house everyone would, at some point, wander into the deliciously sausage-y smelling kitchen and help themselves.

So, as very much a non-baker, when I discovered Cunningham’s recipe for Cream Biscuits, described as “superior and no student ever failed to make good ones in James Beard’s cooking classes”, I gave them a go. She was right. They are delicate and buttery with a light crumb, and they are delicious. And yes, simple enough that even I didn’t mess them up.

Recently, I remembered that it’s just about the time of year when I order piles of my favorite sausage from Broadbent’s – which I know I’ve mentioned before.

Then it all came together: sausage biscuits!

So last weekend, once my sausage order arrived, I tore into the kitchen to make this marriage happen. And I did it just like Paw. For two days everyone that came in and out of the house enjoyed those incredible and home-made sausage biscuits that sat on the baking sheet on the counter in the kitchen. It made them happy but it made me happier.

Funny thing: Maggie, who also has ties to Roanoke, mentioned that the whole thing reminded her of her grandfather. Sausage biscuits, on the baking sheet, on the counter in the kitchen, always. Sniff.

So I decided that this will be a theme this Fall and Winter. Yesterday I made another dozen biscuits and cooked up a bunch of sausage. They were all gone by Noon today.

Thank you, Marion Cunningham, for bringing my friends and family back to the kitchen. 

Cream Bicuits

Makes one dozen biscuits

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon baking powder

2 teaspoons sugar 

1 to 1 1/2 cups heavy cream

1/3 cup (5 1/3 tablespoons) butter, melted

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Use an ungreased baking sheet.

Combine the flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar in a mixing bowl. Stir the dry ingredients with a fork to blend and lighten. Slowly add 1 cup of the cream to the mixture, stirring constantly. Gather the dough together; when it holds together and feels tender, it is ready to knead. If the dough seems shaggy and pieces are dry and falling away, thenslowly add enough additional cream to make the dough hold together.

Place the dough on a lightly floured board and knead for 1 minute. Pat the dough into a square that is about 1/2 inch thick. Cut into 12 squares and dip each into the melted butter so all sides are coated. Place the biscuits 2 inches apart on the baking sheet. Bake for 15 minutes, or until the biscuits are lightly browned. Serve hot.