Eating New England from YankeeMagazine.com

Loads of Good Eating

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 04:00:00 +0100

I've been remiss in keeping in touch via this blog - I've just been so busy! Lots of work, but as the food editor here at Yankee, I've found that work means loads of good eating and traveling around New England visiting friends and meeting new people.

I spent much of the end of the summer in Vermont, learning about cheese. I do adore cheese and I have strong feelings about our New England cheeses — they're extraordinary. The variety and quality are unrivaled, realllllly. I've been eating and talking about cheese, especially our local wonders, for a long time. I knew how cheese is made, but aside from ricotta and mozzarella I'd never actually made cheese. So making cheese seemed like a good way to fully understand the process and the magic of turning milk into a block of slicable deliciousness.

Cheddar is the reigning king of New England cheeses — the classic that we always think of — and Vermont seems to the epicenter of cheddar cheesemaking. From the Northeast Kingdom to the Massachusetts border, the Green Mountain State is bubbling with cheddar cheese makers. In Grafton, Grafton Village Cheese graftonvillagecheese.com is a multi-award-winning operation, and the folks there said I could come up and make some cheese - as long as I understood that it's hard work.

They also own a small inn, The Old Tavern oldtavern.com, and while "cheddaring" was indeed hard work, returning to the inn was fully relaxing: no television, just a lovely room with deep tub and comfy bed. Oh, and great food in the dining room, with a strong emphasis on local ingredients and, well … lots of cheese. Staying at the inn is a nice vacation no matter where you start from. Grafton is a completely charming village that oozes with country beauty. If, like me, you're beholden to the dairy gods, the inn offers a great getaway for you -- a tour package that includes a taste of cheesemaking at Grafton Village Cheese, as well as stops at neighboring cheesemakers.

Next, I headed farther north to Plymouth, Vermon, to meet up with my pal Peggy Rose and to stay at the Hawk Inn & Mountain Resort hawkresort.com. The weekend started with a deep-tissue massage that left me feeling like a rubber band - and after the backbreaking work of making cheddar cheese (you have to lean over a giant metal trough and stack 20-pound "bricks" of wet and slippery cheese to help drain excess moisture), a massage was just what I needed. The ginormous bed (California King?) beckoned, but Peggy arranged dinner with Jack and Brenda Geishecker, who own the inn — and I'm glad I didn't succumb to an early bedtime, as the Geisheckers are a terrific couple and great dinner companions. Chef Marc Scott served up a great meal for us: a mix of Continental classics, as well as a few Asian twists that worked well. All would have been fine and well had I said goodnight and headed back to my room, but bartender Edita Hartig coaxed us into the tall chairs surrounding her "stage," and, well … many glasses later, I was very happy that my big bed was just down the hall and up the stairs.

Our plan was to head to the Middlebury Farmers' Market to catch up with University of Vermont professor Amy Trubek and to taste the cider that she and her husband are making; they own an apple orchard with gobs of heirloom varietals. But, given the downpour and the late night, it took a while to get our day started. We made it to Middlebury midday, stopping along Route 4 to check out antiques shops and to take pictures of the rows and rows of corn growing in the fields, and the rolled sheets of hay.

Farther north we drove, to Stowe, to meet my dear friend Molly Stevens (an award-winning cookbook author) for dinner at Hen of the Wood. Yankee's January/February issue will include a small bit about the food there, but suffice it to say that we dined well at this former gristmill. Then Peggy and I headed south again, and I learned that as talented and fabulous as Miss Peggy truly is, highway driving isn't her forte. She's one of those hop-in-the-far-left-lane-and-drive-50-in-a-65-mile-per-hour-zone. I won't hold it against her, as she's too generous and kind

Back at the Hawk Inn, the prudent thing would have been to tuck myself into that gorgeous bed, but somehow we ended up at the bar again with Edita. Much red wine was imbibed; many stories were told. And my tummy ached the next morning from all the laughter.

We spent Sunday goofing around. Edita and another great pal, Susan (short-story writer, Skype comedienne, and mixologist), led us on a great hike around the area, followed by a visit to a secret swimming hole. We made our way to Singleton's, a grocery store/deli/liquor store/clothing store/gun shop/bait-and-tackle source … Yeah, it took a lot to get me outta there with some money still in my wallet.

More adventures await: on to Maine for lobsters and bike riding, then a knitting weekend in Connecticut. Recipes, too.

Dinner at the Farm

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 04:00:00 +0100

Last night we had our usual Wednesday-night dinner at the farm. This is the best time of year, because, well, it's a farm ... and the farm is very happy right now (despite the devastating loss of most of the tomatoes). I made, if I do say so myself, a fantastic gazpacho with fresh tomatoes, peppers, red onions, sherry vinegar, and a bit of avocado. Very refreshing. But the real treat was Nan's peach pie. I was too full from dinner to eat pie last night, but I did have some this morning as I was rushing out the door, late as usual. Dear me. It's fantastic and a perfect this-time-of-year dessert. The peaches aren't "ours," but they're local.

The recipe is Nan's adaptation from one of her favorite cookbooks, Vegetarian Pleasures, by Jeanne Lemlin. Nan thinks they might have been separated at birth - that's how much she loves this cookbook, and Nan knows from cookbooks. I hope you'll try this. I'm making it this weekend. Maybe twice.

Peach Almond Torte

½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened, plus extra for pan
½ cup sugar
½ cup ground almonds
½ cup flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs
½ teaspoon almond extract
4 ripe peaches, peeled and sliced into 1/2-inch-thick slices
Topping

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-inch springform pan.

In a standing mixer, cream together butter and sugar. Add almonds, flour, and baking powder. Add eggs and almond extract. Combine until incorporated; don't overmix.

Scrape together and place into the springform pan in an even layer. Arrange peaches on top. Sprinkle Topping on top.

Bake 50 to 60 minutes, until golden brown. Let cool on wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Topping

1 tablespoon cold butter, cut into small pieces
1 tablespoon sugar
2 tablespoons flour
½ teaspoon cinnamon

In a small bowl, combine until you have coarse crumbs.

Best Places in Nantucket

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 04:00:00 +0100

Just back from some R&R on my favorite island, Nantucket. I've been going since I was a kid. The first time, I think, my mom took me, when I was about 6. My older brother was in North Dakota for the summer, living with family friends who own a ranch. I think Mom was trying to make me feel better about the sadness and jealousy I felt because the brother I idolized wouldn't be with me all summer, and worse, he'd be having fun. I didn't really have that little girl thing of wanting horses--it hit me later when my little sister got horses (again, jealousy?).

Anyway, Mom and I went to Nantucket and stayed at the long-gone Bayberry Inn. Just us gals. We went to the Whaling Museum and rode bikes out to 'Sconset. We saw a silent movie. I got an epic sunburn at Children's Beach near Brandt Point and we dined at the Jared Coffin House. I returned many times later, and Nantucket became a regular spot for us to sail to--I think I knew the harbor better than I knew the interior.

Now, decades later, it's a cherished place where I have friends who are part of my very being. It's also a gorgeous place to relax and have fun.

Friends who have businesses there are having a slightly bumpy season with the economy's being unsettled, but it seems that Straight Wharf and Centre and Water streets are filled with people who really want to be on island because they love it, and not for "social climbing" reasons. A restaurateur I know said, "We're having a pretty good season, nothing like years past. But no one is inches from my face on a busy Saturday night when we have no tables, seething, and saying through gritted teeth, 'Do you know who I am?' Maybe we won't be able to take a vacation ourselves this winter, but I'll live longer."

Thanks to my gracious and generous hosts, Cary and Dominick, and the good company of Steve, Cindy, and Kristen, I had a terrific time. I brought my bike and rode around swiping beach-rose petals (for rose-petal jam) and taking photos. I ran into a gaggle of guinea hens. I thought they were turkeys at first, but sure enough, guinea hens. I had lunch with Hurricane Mel and Aunt Sandy at the Galley (54 Jefferson Ave., 508-228-9641) -- smack dab on the beach looking out on Nantucket Sound. Drinks and fried calamari at the RopeWalk on the dock at Straight Wharf. Walked Tupancy Links with the ever-so-silly Irish terrier Brody. Ran into Leah and Sarah on Orange Street. (I didn't even know they knew each other.) A sunset cruise on the Endeavor and warm buttered lobster rolls at York Street House. Some sunbathing.

Had a lethal mai tai at Sarah and Jack's (my new best friends--they may not know it yet, so let me tell them first) in Madaket. And a trifecta of good meals from the three restaurants run by my pals Seth and Angela Raynor: The Pearl, Boardinghouse, and their latest, Corazon del Mar.All were crazy delicious, but the ceviche bar at Corazon was absurdly delicious: bracing, satisfying, authentic, and addictive. Por ejemplo, the lobster ceviche: a crisp corn tortilla topped with avocado, shaved red onion, aji Amarillo (roasted Peruvian pepper, slightly sweet and spicy), and marinated lobster meat. Get thee to the ferry boat!

When on island (and sometimes on mainland), we enjoy a special summer drink named for its creator, the "Cindy Joyce." It's almost as refreshing as she is.
1 part Triple 8 blueberry vodka
3 parts Paul Newman lemonade
tall glass, ice filled
garnish with lemons, blueberries, and fresh mint

Cindy insists on using Triple 8, which is made on Nantucket and Paul Newman lemonade--we've tried others and it's good, but no "Cindy Joyce!" Oh and if you're lucky enough, a "Cindy Joyce" with Cindy Joyce is one of life's greatest treats.

Cooking with the Family

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 04:00:00 +0100

I spent the weekend with my nephew and nieces, six-year-old James being the eldest, followed by Kiley at four, and young Abigail, one and a half, bringing up the rear. For better or worse, these kids are good eaters. James and I made our banana pancakes (featured in Yankee's Jan/Feb 09 issue in "Taking Comfort"); he's really turned into a pro and decided that adding chocolate chips would be a good idea. I agree. I've decided that it's better for all of us if I have at least one cup of coffee before we start measuring things and breaking eggs.

Kiley helped me make dumplings (featured in Yankee's Jan/Feb 08 issue in "Occasion: Chinese New Year") on Saturday night. I made the filling, and she carefully spooned out the right amount onto a dumpling wrapper, wetted the edges with her teeny finger, and then sealed them in a decorative pleat. (She didn't want to wash her hands before or after, but she relented.) She ate a dozen herself and then drank the dipping sauce. Not sure if that's a sign that her palate is good or terrible.

Baby Abby wasn't allowed to cook, but she did well with everything we fed her.

I left the Cape on Sunday night late. Then I spoke to my sister on Tuesday afternoon, and she said my dad was making arroz con pollo (Dad's Chicken and Rice), a family favorite (also featured in the Jan/Feb 09 "Taking Comfort"). I closed up the office at 4:45 and hopped onto I-93 South and arrived in Cotuit just in time for dinner.

I'm off to Nantucket this weekend. I'll let you know how it goes.

One of my Favorite Traditions

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 04:00:00 +0100

Once a year, I go with a group of friends to Duxbury, Massachusetts, to visit the farmers of Island Creek Oysters (islandcreekoysters.com). It's one of my favorite "traditions," and this year was a nearly perfect day. Carl Christian, owner of the Boston restaurant 28 Degrees, organizes the day and usually takes care of lunch. This year we did a potluck of sorts. We had eight people, all foodies of different sorts.

Island Creek is a co-op of a dozen or so oyster farmers who have leases on Duxbury Bay, where they scatter their teeny oysters (the size of a pinky nail) and keep an eye on them until they're big enough to eat and sell. These are fine oysters. And as I've said a million times, no ingredient expresses its provenance like an oyster. Oysters' flavor, texture, and so on are all about where they come from, and Duxbury, it turns out, is a great place to be from if you're an oyster. These are the oysters you get at Per Se in New York and any raw bar worth its salt.

We met on the town dock and went off with farmers Don Merry (with his son Ben) and Mark Bouthillier. Within minutes we had a bushel or more of oysters straight from the water, and Carl was pouring champagne. Oh, and the sun was shining, something it hasn't done a whole lot this summer. There was lots of shucking. Lots of slurping. Lots of sipping. And then there was swimming. Followed by lunch.

It was hard to head back up Route 3, but I had Sox tickets and a date with my godson Mikey. So, more oysters at Eastern Standard, where we had a fun and terrific dinner (if you're a Jeremy Sewall fan, and you should be, he's now in the kitchen, "consulting"), followed by Fenway. The Sox pulled it out at the last minute, winning the game, finally, with a run in the eighth inning. Big Poppy stank things up, but it was a good day just the same.

I Found Myself in Peru

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 04:00:00 +0100

Last month the Yankee editorial staff was all over the place. Literally. Our editor, Mel Allen, was in Japan, visiting his son (do read his blog about the trip -- it is quite touching). Our art director, Lori Pedrick, and online editor, Barbara Hall were in New Orleans for the annual City and Regional Magazine Awards. We were nominated for awards in several categories, but took no gold (this year!). I found myself in Peru.

It's a bit cliche to say that it was a life changing experience, but it truly was. I traveled with high school friends and spouses (we try to do something exotic and adventurous together every two years). How could hiking at 12,000 feet amongst centuries old Incan ruins not change a person? Or to hold hands with a monkey? Share breakfast with a toucan? Gaze upon a rendition of the "Last Supper" featuring guinea pig as the meal? So, yeah, I am different. I am still decompressing from the two weeks of planes, trains, and automobiles.

In one town where we hung out, Ollantaytambo, in the Sacred Valley, I considered what kind of life I could have if I stayed. I decided a bakery would be the way to go, because, well, baked goods were lacking (although great food otherwise was there). A nice little cafe with great coffee and basic, but delicious, baked goods. I ruminated this idea for a few days and really let myself go with it. I'd have a simple life of early mornings, training employees, knowing local customers, arranging for deliveries to this remote town, building a bakery, perfecting my rusty Spanish, and offering advice to tourists on their way to Machu Picchu or to the nearby ruins. I'd tell a story about being on vacation and falling in love with the town, "and gosh, now, after 17 years, I guess I am a local myself."

Then I remembered baking a cake in Aspen one year. Baking at high altitudes is incredibly difficult -- the air pressure is different so temperatures are different, leaveners go kaflooey, and the air is drier so batters need more liquid. Custard don't set. Cookies don't brown. Pies over-brown. Bread droops and souffles pop, then collapse.

So it turned out to be a little easier to get back on the plane and come back to my real home. Besides, we took a side trip to the Amazon and I am covered in mosquito bites.

The Fast Food Trap

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Thu, 21 May 2009 04:00:00 +0100

I'm rarely shocked — but my jaw has just dropped to a new low. I'm well aware that fast-food restaurants don't give a moment's thought to our health; in fact, they make their profits on the back of America's growing obesity, diabetes, and cancer crisis. They raise and slaughter animals with no regard, and they control vast tracks of farmland. But last night I saw a commercial for a fast-food restaurant that, although it may seem innocuous or even delicious to some, makes me scratch my head and say, "Really?"

For $5.99 one can purchase a "bread bowl" filled with pasta: an 8-inch carbohydrate bomb that gets filled with your choice of pasta (three-cheese mac-and-cheese, alfredo, etc.) and meat (bacon, salami, Philly cheese steak). The suggested serving is for two, but sure as I'm writing this, I know people will be gobbling these down on their own at an estimated 1300- to 1500-calorie count. Yikes. The sodium levels must be high, too. Sadly, they probably taste good.

Just when I think we're making progress and people are really thinking about where their food comes from, big business is going to make it easier to destroy that work. Easy on the wallet, but at what cost to the body? And, frankly, what is the overall health-care cost down the line? Perhaps these businesses ought to contribute to a national health-care fund for all the damage they do.

Fight back: Support a local restaurant, market, or producer.

Bratwursts

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Thu, 14 May 2009 04:00:00 +0100

This is an approximation of a recipe for bratwurst that my dear friend Dr. B made for his family and friends. He has left us, but I know that I'll have a hankering for one (or two) of these bratwursts once the Packers start playing again this fall. I never got to watch Dr. B make the recipe, but I think it went something like this. As much as I loved him, I won't be cheering for the Packers, but I will be thinking about what a great man I had the honor and pleasure to know.

2 yellow onions, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 bottles beer
1 package Johnsonville Brats
Mustard

Saute onions in butter until softened and transparent. Set aside half.

Heat grill to medium high.

In a large saucepan, bring the beer to a simmer and add half the onions. Add brats and simmer about 10 minutes. Drain brats from liquid. Transfer brats to the grill and brown lightly on all sides, about 5 minutes. Serve in warm rolls with a bit of cooked onion and mustard.

Fiddleheads, Ramps, and Pesto

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Fri, 08 May 2009 04:00:00 +0100

Those wonderful harbingers of spring are popping up in gardens and markets, and I'm doing my best to use as much of them all as I can. Fiddleheads have come and gone, but I managed to get my hands on a pound or so.

I wanted to pick them myself and pickle them, but ended up blanching, then sauteing, them with lots of lemon and fruity olive oil. A friend makes martinis and garnishes them with pickled fiddleheads -- they're a great condiment for such a sophisticated yet simple cocktail.

I've been getting terrific ramps. If you've never had ramps, they're a special spring onion with strong garlicky-chive flavor notes. Most people find ramps too strong to eat raw -- they're powerful despite their wee size. I've been making pesto and pickling them.

Here's how I make the pesto: I blanch the ramps in salted water, dry them well, then puree them with walnuts and a bit of parsley, lots of olive oil, and a squeeze of lemon. I've already used up most of it, just tossing the pesto in noodles, but I made sure to freeze a bit, too.

As you can do with regular pesto, just fill a few sections of an ice-cube tray, freeze, and then pop into freezer bags. (I save one tray just for this purpose. No matter how well I scrub, I just can't get the flavors out of the plastic, and that can really ruin a glass of lemonade.) And don't forget to label the bag.

Pickled ramps are good, too. I use a lot of coriander seeds in my pickling mix -- it calms those ramps right down. I'm open to suggestions for how to use pickled ramps (make a comment on this page), but I've found that a simple (olive oil, salt, and pepper) grilled steak with pickled ramps or a few spoonfuls of ramp pesto is an easy and delicious dinner. You could get fancy and tie the pickled ramps in a bow or something.

And if you'd like a new twist on old veggie favorite, try asparagus hummus -- it's ridiculously delicious. We've even made a video for you: Making Asparagus Hummus.

Hair Lessons

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 04:00:00 +0100

When I was in college, musician Billy Ray Cyrus was popular as a one-hit wonder for his horrid song (which came with its own dance steps) "Achy Breaky Heart." I remember him for his mullet. It was a really fine example of how one should never wear one's hair. I've never wanted a mullet, but last weekend I had one briefly — self-induced, but not on purpose.

Last Friday I was on NECN's "news quiz" on Jim Braude's show Broadside. Before going to the studio, I had a good look in the mirror. I try not to do that too often. I really needed a haircut. At the very least, I needed to trim my bangs. I took a shower, combed my hair out, and with my sharpest fabric scissors, "trimmed" my bangs. You know where I'm going, right? I overtrimmed and I trimmed unevenly. So I kept trying to even things out, and it got worse and worse. I decided to stop and fix it later, because I had to get to the studio and it was pouring rain - and I assumed no one would notice. If anyone noticed, they said nothing.

I watched the show with friends and decided that when I fixed my bangs, I should lighten my hair, too, because my natural color hadn't been served well by lack of sun. In the spirit of saving money, I stopped at the market and bought a box of hair coloring.

I waited a day, and before I bathed, I mixed the dye with the accelerant, carefully combed the stinging cream through my hair, set the timer, and then went into the shower. I used the special conditioner as the package suggested. Got out, combed my hair, took another whack at trimming and evening things in bang-land. Trimming turned to serious cutting, and I knew I was in trouble - but couldn't stop. I had a mullet on my hands. Adding insult to injury, the mullet was a horrible shade of reddish-orange. Perhaps you've seen the comedian Carrot Top? I wish my hair had turned out his color.

So there I was with a flaming-red mullet and no hair salon open. Most are closed Mondays, too. More insult to injury, I was scheduled to be on the Today show Wednesday morning (http://www.yankeemagazine.com/issues/2009-03/food/brisket-recipes), which meant I had to leave Tuesday morning. A fine pickle indeed.

Being the resourceful gal that I am, I called my hair stylist extraordinaire Patrice Vinci on her cell phone. This woman works hard, but I coerced her into coming to her salon on her day off to "fix" my hair. And she had a cold. She asked me to bring the scissors with me (I assumed so that she could hold the weapon in her hands and do a little CSI-type work).

I got to the salon and handed her the scissors. She took them away from me and told me she would fix my hair if I promised to never do such a thing again. I promised and then helped her make us some coffee - this wouldn't be a quick fix.

My hair is many inches shorter and blonde now — a nice blonde.

As for Billy Ray, these days he's famous for being the father of Miley Cyrus, a.k.a. Hannah Montana. I hope I'll be remembered for my children and not my misguided hair don'ts.