Peaches, Herb and Melba

Before getting to the meat of today's subject matter, I'd like to explan something-- the evolution of today's post.

I'm off to my 20th high school reunion this weekend so, naturally, the song "Reunited" by Peaches and Herb has been crowding my brain. The initial idea was to exorcise this R & B demon from my head by making a salad containing, naturally again, peaches and herbs. I thought that by taking matters into my own hands, uniting these two ingredients and then consuming them might give me some sort of edge. However, I became frustratingly uncertain as to which herb was the right Herb. Peaches might react unpleasantly to, say, marjoram or, even worse, dill. Rosemary sounded nice, but my hunch told me that herbs with feminine names wouldn't appeal to her either. The goal here was a reunion that feels so good.

I abandoned Herb, but I kept Peaches with me. I thought about explaining where she came from (China, not Persia as her botanical name Prunus persica suggests) and how she came to whet our appetites with just a little shake of her sequined groove thing. I was surprised by both her strength and her depth-- much more depth than I think your Friday morning attention span can handle.

So I decided to make Peach Melba instead.



That's Nelly Melba in the clip above. Sadly, she's not making her peach dish. Instead, she's making a cake for the Duke and Duchess of York, later to be known as King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. I couldn't find any other footage of her, so this will have to do.

Born in what is now a suburb of Melbourne, Australia in 1861, Helen Porter Mitchell grew up to ditch her son-of-a-baronet husband and infant son, change her name to Nellie Melba (in honor of her hometown) and become one of the greatest-- or at least most famous-- sopranos in opera history. She has inspired not only the above mentioned dessert concoction, but toast, thereby making her the most eponymed woman in modern food history. Why such honors?

It wasn't her sweet disposition. Apart from abandoning her family, she was also known as a fickle, upstaging attention-grabber. The consummate diva, when asked to answer for her own bad behavior, the words "I am Melba" always passed from her lips. That, she believed, was enough explaination. She was also given to physically shoving other performers downstage if they got in her way. She was, not surprisingly, detested by her peers.

She was, however, loved by her public. One man in particular-- Auguste Escoffier-- adored her.

While appearing at Covent Garden-- her operatic home for more than twenty years-- and residing at the Savoy Hotel where Escoffier was master chef, she sent him (possibly as a thank you for previously naming the toast in her honor) a pair of tickets to see her in Richard Wagner's Lohengrin. Escoffier was so taken with her performance that he created another dish (if toast can indeed be called a dish) for her-- Peche au Cygne (Peach with Swan)-- peaches and vanilla ice cream served alongside a dramatic swan ice sculpture which mimicked the swan-shaped boat featured in the opera. It was not, however, called Peach Melba. He renamed the dessert a few years later, after his move to the Ritz Carlton, adding both raspberry sauce and the Melba name.

Legend has it that Melba was concerned that eating ice cream might constrict her gorgeous vocal chords, which is why I have chosen to serve the peaches below slightly warm. I know what it's like to piss off a diva, believe me.

Peach Melba:

Ingredients:

3 yellow peaches. Not too ripe. Freestones make life easier.
4 cups water. You may also poach the peaches in white wine. Frankly, I'd rather drink the wine
than poach with it.
2 cups sugar
2 cups raspberries (fresh or frozen). Fresh raspberries are ideal for garnishing.
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons of sugar (taste the raspberries before adding sugar. I prefer the sauce to be tart,
like la Melba herself)
Vanilla ice cream. (I'm using vanilla sorbet because I have to lose 10 pounds by tomorrow for
my reunion.)

Some sort of wafer cookies for garnish and a little crunch.

Preparation:

1. Slice a shallow "x" on the bottom of each peach to facilitate peeling. Blanch the peaches in the four cups of simmering water for about one minute. Or two. Is the skin starting to peel away along the edges of the little "x"? If so, take them out and place fruit in an ice bath to cool them. Let sit until well cooled, then excoriate. Set aside.

Add sugar to the simmering water, stirring lightly to dissolve. Return the denuded peaches to the simmering syrup. Turn off the heat and walk away for a while. Some swear by slicing the peaches before poaching them. I'm not a fan-- the edges of the peaches become too soft and feathery. Do so at your own risk. I like the center of the peach to have a little bit of give to it. Probably because I have teeth.

While the peaches are doing their thing, make the raspberry sauce. Place berries, 1/4 cup of sugar and 1 tablespoon of lemon juice into your cuisenart or what-have-you and pulse. I had some berries in the freezer and did not bother to wait until they thawed before I pureed them. I ended up making a sort of soft-serve sorbet as a result, which I let melt to become spoonable and saucy. Set aside and wash your blending apparatus immediately, if only to save yourself from flicking bits of seed stuck to the plastic with your fingernail later.

When the syrup has cooled to slightly warm, remove the peaches and slice in half, removing the stones.

To Assemble:

In parfait glasses or whatever you have handy-- vessels with pestles, flagons with dragons-- spoon a little raspberry sauce on the bottom. Of the glass, please. Place one half of a peach, which should be slightly warm on top. Spoon vanilla ice cream over that, drizzle with a little more raspberry sauce. Garnish with whole raspberries and cookie. Serve immediately.

*Fun Fact* Nellie Melba died on 23 February, 1931 as a result of complications from a botched plastic surgery.

Fried Gallus Gallus

Every summer, I become mildly obsessed with frying chicken. I think of the beautiful childhood picnics I never went on. Laying out my hand-stitched quilt on a grassy patch of park free of dog feces, the well-timed automatic sprinklers offering me a refreshing spritz of mist at 15 minute intervals, drinking freshly squeezed lemonade and eating my Grammy's homemade fried chicken.

How I miss Anaheim.

If a summertime picnic was to be had, it was generally done in my backyard on an old, frayed electric blanket (not plugged in). Just myself and my dogs, Cindy and Penny, who were not, as one might think, named for Cindy Williams and Penny Marshall. The coincidence of my childhood with Laverne and Shirley is simply bad timing. No sunscreen. We didn't feel the need for such things in those days. All I needed for a (temporary) deep, golden tan was the mayonnaise dripping from my bologna sandwich. I know what you're thinking. Eew. Well, you're right. My neighbor Kim and I once slathered Best Foods all over our bodies and then baked ourselves in the sun. We thought nothing of it until we began to smell. That was about the time Kim's mother found us and screamed something about us being walking salmonella and wasting her good mayonnaise. She then sprayed me down with a hose and sent me home.

But I digress.

The point I am feebly trying to make is that we were not, by nature, fried chicken eaters. The occasional Shake n' Bake assisted fried chicken was ingested, but without relish. Or mayonnaise, for that matter.

I think, though, that I had always wanted to be a fried chicken eater. Perhaps it was the trappings that went with its eating-- red checkered picnic cloths, watermelon, big, happy families. Maybe even a sack race. That seemed like a great summertime sort of lifestyle.

My understanding of the dish didn't occur until well into adulthood. I had invited my cooking school partner Todd over for dinner one summer evening and thought fried chicken sounded like a good idea. As I took the chicken legs out of their plastic seal and began to place them directly into the flour mixture I'd made, Todd cocked is head like a confused dog and asked, "What are you doing? That's not how my Mama makes fried chicken and my Mama knows fried chicken." His voice had suddenly developed the long, rounded vowels and deep base of an imaginary Kentucky Colonel-- decidedly un-New Jersey-like, the state in which Todd learned to speak. He explained that his mother was from West Virginia. Oh. We went to the market to purchase what he needed to make proper fried chicken, then I stood back and watched him work. Since the chicken needed to soak overnight, I think we went out for burritos that night in stead. He came back the next day to fry it all up. I was floored and humbled by the results.

Now I realize that everyone thinks they know what the perfect fried chicken should taste like. Well, you're wrong, plain and simple.

Thank you Todd, wherever you are. And thank you, Mama Webb, for showing me into the light.


Mrs. Webb's Fried Chicken

Ingredients:

12 pieces of chicken (I like thighs and drumsticks. Breasts just seem like a waste for frying)
1 quart of buttermilk (low fat will do just fine)
a generous amount of salt
1 onion, sliced into rings or Lyonnaise style, if you like-- you're the one eating them
3 cups of all purpose flour
1 to 2 tablespoons cracked black pepper
1 tablespoon cayenne pepper
1 1/2 quarts vegetable oil for frying (corn, safflower or whatever. Don't get fancy with the oil or people will laugh at you). Or, if you prefer, vegetable shortening.

Preparation:

1. In a large bowl, coat the chicken pieces liberally with salt. This not only salts the chicken, it draws out impurities, preventing unsightly blood spotting as you fry. Let the chicken sit in the salt for one hour.

2. Rinse the salt from the chicken. Rinse the bowl, too, for reuse.

3. Return chicken to the bowl and add the sliced onion. Toss together and cover with buttermilk. Cover and set in refrigerator overnight or for one full day.

4. In a skillet, pour one inch of oil and heat to 325 degrees. Try not to let the oil get hotter or the chicken will burn. I use a thermometer to guage the temperature. I suggest you do, too, since the oil temperature drops significantly when the cold chicken is added.

5. In another large bowl, combine flour, 2 tablespoons each of salt and pepper and the cayenne (truth be told, I've never bothered to measure the amount of this I use. Just suit yourself).

6. Remove all the chicken from the buttermilk-tainted bowl. I don't care where you put it as long as you put it somewhere clean. Shake excess buttermilk from a piece of chicken and roll it in the flour mixure. Dip the chicken back into the buttermilk and once more into the flour. A double crust is, for me anyway, de rigueur. Add the chicken to your pan as you go, skin side down. I find that adding the chicken gradually to the pan helps to maintain a more constant oil temperature. Just make sure you have some sort of system for knowing which pieces have been in the longest. I work clockwise. You do what you want.

7. Fry the chicken until golden brown, about 10 to 12 minutes per side. Make sure you've got some music appropriate for frying playing. This is going to take a little while.

8. As each piece finishes frying, place on a rack to drain. Why waste paper towels?

9. Now you have these wonderful onions to fry up. Proceed as with the chicken, battering and double dipping. How nice to have a side dish built right into the recipe.

Serve hot or cold. Not the onion rings, of course. I like the chicken cold. For picnics, you know.

Serves 4 to 6 people.

Tempura

Saving My Cherry for a Rainy Day

People have been ranting and raving ad nauseum about how great stone fruit season is shaping up this year, beginning with cherries. Far too many exclamation marks have been typed, causing an unfortunate cramp in the left hand in the most rabid of us, blogging their praises. I prefer to save my left hand for other, more important activities...

If your mind has made its way back from the gutter now, that's wonderful. Thanks, but I was referring to activities like practicing good penmanship and chopping down cherry trees.

I'm afraid I was not among those singing gospel-strength love songs to the cherry this season. In fact, I think I've actually shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes with an "Oh really?" dropping from my lips in response to their purported greatness. It's not because I'm a cherry hater. Quite the contrary.

I am merely a jealous lover. If everyone gorged themselves on cherries this season, would there be enough left over for me? An act of self preservation, plain and simple.

How fascinating that I should mention preservation and simple in the same sentence, since they are the essence of my post today.




In May and June, if one looked in my refrigerator, one would find among the cheeses, mustard, beer and long-forgotten yogurts, a bag of cherries. Sometimes two because I'd forget that I had purchased a bagful the previous day.

The cherries are for eating out of hand, mostly. If I'm feeling ambitious, I'll pit and stew some with sugar, water and a little vanilla extract for pouring over my ice cream. Or make clafoutis, a dish my friend Karen refers to as a "no-brainer." Indeed it is and, therefore, the perfect dessert for me.

By the end of June, I am sick of cherries. Or sick from them. I am, by then, ready for some summer loving. My attention wanders. A bit of peach fuzz catches my eye and my taste for cherries sours.

Until next year when the fever hits me again, sometime around April.

This year, I celebrated Easter with some old friends from cooking school. Doralice, our organizer and chiefest food pimp, brought with her a jar of her vodka cherries. I thought to myself, "That's just about the smartest thing I've ever heard of: fruit and alcohol." I made a mental note to do the same this year. I'm glad I didn't forget.

If you are anything like me and have no patience whatsoever for jam-making, preserving fruit in alcohol is just the ticket-- or tonic. I may be tired of them now, but come winter, I'll be glad I have them to remind me of warmer days. In fact, they will inspire much warmer nights since I will use them to garnish Manhattans, my cold weather cocktail of choice.

Here's the recipe. I hope it doesn't prove too difficult.

Brandied Cherries:

Two important things you will need for this recipe:

1. a 4 quart glass or ceramic container
   
2. a lot of patience

Ingredients:

1 cup simple syrup
6 cups dark sweet fresh cherries (most would suggest pitting, I disagree for aesthetic reasons)
2 cups vodka
2 cups brandy

Preparation:

Place cherries, simple syrup, brandy and vodka in container. Cap tightly or cover snugly with plastic wrap. Store in a cool dark place for three weeks. If you tell me there is no such place in your home you are kidding no one but yourself. Swirl the mixture around in the container every three days.

After three weeks, I imagine (I say imagine since I've never done this before) I will taste the liquid (my container comes with a very convenient spigot at the bottom) and adjust the sweetness should I choose to do so with more simple syrup, or maybe add a vanilla bean or some whole allspice or whatever strikes me as a good idea at the time.

Then I'll let them sit some more. That is, until it turns cold and I start craving a Manhattan.