Home cooking

by Laurie Colwin

  cakes, the English cannot be surpassed. If you love English food there are many things you can make at home and you can find things at specialty stores. But the one thing you can never find, which lovers of English food dream about at night, is double cream.

  When the English come to the United States and see what we call cream they cannot believe their eyes. What we call heavy cream they get for free on the top of their unhomogenized milk, which is delivered in glass bottles by actual milkmen.

  When Americans see what the English call cream, they cannot believe their eyes.

  My first encounter with double cream took place at my first encounter with English Sunday lunch at the Davieses' house in the country. We had just finished our roast beef and it was time for dessert. Out came a bowl of raspberries and a large gravy boat.

  "What's in there?" I said.

  "Cream," they said.

  I turned the gravy boat slantwise but nothing poured out. I felt this might be some sort of joke since all eyes were on me. I gave the gravy boat a little shake but nothing emerged.

  "Try a spoon," said Richard's mother.

  I did, and what I scooped out was the consistency of cold molasses or very thick, homemade mayonnaise. I plopped it onto my berries.

  "This is cream?'' 1 gasped.

  "Double cream," they said.

  Since it was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten, I went on a kind of binge of double cream, which, it seemed miraculous to me, you could simply go into a grocery store and buy. I especially liked it slathered on little pancakes that came six to a package. McVittie's Scotch Pancakes have now disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Back in the States, so great was my longing for double cream that when Richard, who lived in New York, went home for Christmas, I asked him if he would bring me a pint.

  I met him at the airport one cold January night. He emerged from Customs, tall and rattled-looking, carrying a dripping bag out in front of him as if it were a wet fish. His coat sleeve and his shoes were covered in double cream. The lid had slipped off in the bag, the container had slipped sideways and the resulting mess caused considerable interest among the Customs inspectors.

  "What is that?" said the Customs man to Richard.

  "It's cream, for a friend," Richard said. The Customs man gave him a hard look, and then his face softened. He spoke gently, as if to an insane person.

  "We have dairy products in the United States, too, Mr. Da-vies," he said.

  But anyone who has been to England could have told him that we don't have cream.

  WITHOUT SALT

  s a child, while my sister busied herself mooshing the chocolate candies to see which had the best centers, I was happily licking the salt off the pretzels and leaving their sticky bodies on the rug. To show off my manual dexterity, I liked to take the pimientos out of the stuffed olives and stick the olives on my fingers. In this way, I could easily polish off an entire little jar, and my craving for pickled onions was considered advanced in one so young.

  All my favorite foods were salty. 1 would gladly forgo ice cream for potato chips. I adored bacon, pickles and peanuts. As I grew up and became more sophisticated 1 graduated to pro-sciutto, anchovies, sun-dried tomatoes, Genoa salami, tapenade and Nigoise olives. If nothing salty was around, I simply ate salt. As a college student I was asked by my geology instructor why I had failed to identify my halite crystal. The reason was that I had eaten my halite crystal.

  I was also in the habit of salting my bread, even though I used only sweet butter. How happy I was when someone gave me a salt grinder for a present! How lovely those crunchy little grains

  tasted on top of Italian butter and semolina bread, and in a pinch, I simply took off the top of the grinder and ate the grains right out of the jar.

  So I was brought low, to say the least, when 1 was informed by my doctor that if I did not quit my evil ways I would end up with hypertension.

  I wended my way home from the doctor's office unhappily thinking of all the things I would have to do without. From the bus window I could see throngs of people eating pizza and soft pretzels, many of them looking a good deal less healthy than 1. That night as I sat in my kitchen hoping that my tears might improve the awfulness of my salt-free cottage cheese, I felt sorrier for myself than 1 had ever felt. Nothing, I was sure, would ever taste good anymore. What was life without goat cheese? Virginia ham? Lime pickle?

  1 brushed my tears away and decided to meet my fate squarely and with a courageous heart. I figured that if I had to do without all the salty things I loved, 1 would simply buy the best of everything that wasn't salty: the finest olive oil, raspberry vinegar, fresh unsalted mozzarella cheese, Normandy butter, very fresh garlic, chili peppers and ginger.

  Going salt-free often costs more money, I discovered. You can buy salt-free chicken broth in the health food stores and it costs about a dollar more than the kind you can buy in the supermarket. It also takes more time. To make a good salt-free soup, you have to start with extra rich broth which can only be made at home. And some salt-free things, like cottage cheese, are hopeless. Others, like saltless Cheddar cheese, are not half bad and some—saltless potato chips—are actually wonderful.

  After a couple of weeks I felt I had gotten the hang of my new regime. I had discovered saltless bread, smoked mozzarella, green peppercorns and fresh sage. 1 felt I might venture out into the real world for a meal. 1 did, and I was shocked. How incredibly salty everything was! A bite of ham seemed almost inedible. A Chinese meal brought a buzz to my head and tears to my eyes. I scrambled home to the safety of my now pure

  kitchen and had myself some tiny new potatoes with a little pepper, a slice of bread with dark green olive oil and some chopped scallions and a sliced kirby cucumber with nothing on it at all.

  Without salt, things taste like themselves. Many critics of American agribusiness claim that our national salt addiction is the result of an attempt to get some flavor into our denatured produce. These critics are doubtless right, so the salt-free person must treat himself well. It is possible to eat happily even if your idea of a reasonable sandwich is, as mine used to be, a salt bagel, cream cheese and Budnerfleisch, a salty, air-dried beef from Switzerland.

  It is even possible to make a delicious salad dressing without a speck of salt. It is inspiring to make your own vinegar by steeping shallots, or sage leaves or fresh hot chili peppers, basil or rosemary. The salt-free person must make his own condiments since most sauces—mustard, catsup, horseradish or Worcestershire—are loaded with salt. Angostura bitters, however, are salt-free and delicious added to a salad dressing.

  I am now a better, slightly thinner person because of this regime. I am a little tired of cooking down the tomatoes to get something that resembles tomato paste (which is very salty), but it is worth it. 1 have a shelf full of interesting vinegars, and another of delicious oils, and I no longer explain to friends who come for supper that nothing has been salted. I keep in mind that when I feed people without salt, I am actually doing them a favor.

  For a salt-free dinner party I suggest:

  BAKED CHICKEN WITH GARLIC AND APPLES

  serves 4-6

  2 small frying chickens cut up

  paprika, pepper

  as many unpeeled cloves of garlic as you like

  6 Mcintosh apples

  butter

  /. Sprinkle the chicken with paprika and pepper It is worthwhile to go to a spice store for the paprika — the fresher the better

  2. Do not peel the garlic, but remove any obvious tough outer layer

  3. Cut the apples in fourths and core.

  4. Lay the garlic and apples among the chicken pieces.

  5. Dot with butter and bake as long as you like chicken to bake.

  6. The apples will have cooked down, and the garlic cloves can be eaten skin and all.

  Because you have used two chickens for four people, you will have leftovers. Therefore you can treat yourself the next day to

  COLD R
OAST CHICKEN WITH BUCKWHEAT NOODLES

  /. Slice the leftover chicken into strips.

  2. Boil the noodles (available in health food and Oriental stores) according to directions on the package. Drain under cold water

  3. Place the chicken over the noodles. Add chopped scallions and dress with the following:

  Without Salt SALAD DRESSING WITH GINGER

  129

  /. Grate a small knob of ginger—about half an inch.

  2. Mix the grated ginger into V2 cup of finest olive oil.

  3. Add 1 to V/2 tablespoons vinegar.

  4. Steep one smashed garlic clove in the dressing for a few minutes.

  Pour this over the chicken and noodles, and you will never miss salt again.

  STUFFING: A CONFESSION

  It was years before I could come out and say how much I hated stuffing. Everyone in the world but me was fired I by an elemental urge to fill up bird cavities with this

  and that. At Thanksgiving time, friends would proudly confide their stuffing recipes, many of which I found personally nauseating: dried bread, prunes, oysters and water chestnuts, for example. Prunes and oysters! If such a dish were set before you at a restaurant, you would flee in horror and dismay, but when it comes to stuffing, anything goes. People get to make up disgusting combinations and then stuff their poor turkeys with them.

  Holiday after holiday I would push my portion around on my plate. After all, you cannot say to those near and dear to you: *i think your stuffing tastes like sawdust flavored with sage and it has the consistency of lumpy library paste." Everyone else loved it. It was clear that I was in opposition to a national tradition.

  But I did not realize how emotionally charged an issue stuffing was until I decided to make Thanksgiving dinner on my own for the first time. After years at my parents' and sister's, I felt it was my turn to do things my way.

  "What are you going to give us?" my sister wanted to know.

  "Baked brussels sprouts. Chestnuts and onions. Green salad. Ginger cake. An unstuffed turkey."

  "A whatr

  "I don't like stuffing," I said. "I never have. This is my big chance not to have any."

  "But there's no point to turkey without stuffing," she said.

  "But that is the point. I love turkey and I do not see it as a mere vehicle for the stuffing. This way, the turkey will be prominent."

  "I don't know if I can get the kids to come," she said, referring to my four stuffing-mad nieces.

  When Thanksgiving came, everyone liked the turkey, but they all seemed a little downcast. Something was missing—^the stuffing.

  "An unstuffed turkey is more elegant," I said. But no one seemed to care.

  The next year I acquired some in-laws and went to their house for Thanksgiving. My in-laws are Latvian. When they came to this country, turkey presented a challenge to my mother-in-law, who, since she had never seen an American turkey, treated it as a large game bird. She poached turkey thighs until tender, ground them in a meat grinder, mixed them with cooked rice, salt and pepper, and stuffed the bird. Then she pressed peppercorns against the side of the turkey, wrapped it in bacon and roasted it. The result was exceedingly good, and it made me realize that 1 was the only person in America who had ever thought of going without stuffing. I would have to adjust.

  Shortly after that, I tasted the first bread stuffing I actually liked, it calls for butter, cream, sweet Italian sausage, mushrooms, celery, garlic, fresh sage and the torn-out insides of two loaves of Italian bread, with a beaten egg added after everything has been amalgamated and the bread has soaked up a quantity of butter and cream.

  "This has possibilities," I said.

  At night some people count sheep and others read mysteries. I

  lie in bed and think about food. Often I make up menus. Sometimes I invent recipes. One night, while drowsily meditating on the issue of stuffing, it came to me: cornbread and prosciutto. Yes, that was it! The perfect stuffing. The next Thanksgiving, I tried it out.

  "I'm stuffing the turkey this year," I told my sister. She was much relieved.

  "What with?" she said.

  "Cornbread and prosciutto," I said.

  "I wonder what it will taste like," she said. 1 did not find this an encouraging response.

  CORNBREAD AND PROSCIUTTO STUFFING

  for a 17-20 lb. bird

  soup stock (see step 1)

  1 stick butter

  2 medium yellow onions, diced

  1 leek, diced

  I large clove garlic, minced

  V2 pound prosciutto, diced

  1 pound cornmeal stuffing (see step 4)

  black pepper to taste

  1 scallion, chopped

  1 fiead Italian parsley, chopped

  1. Make a rich stock out of the giblets, wing tips and neck (if you can stand not to roast it) of the turkey, along with some chicken parts and an onion. Let simmer for several hours. Makes about two cups.

  2. Melt butter in a large saucepan and add onions, leek (white and tender green part) and garlic Wilt these in the butter.

  3. Add prosciutto (for people who do not eat pork products, dried funghi porcini and toasted pecans make an admirable substitute) and saute briefly.

  4. Slowly add the contents of two bags of cornmeal stuffing if you are lazy or the equivalent amount (about sixteen ounces) of fresh cornmeal stuffing if you are not, fresh ground black pepper to taste, scallion and parsley, and saute until the bread is coated with the butter.

  5. Moisten with broth until fluffy but not wet. This is enough for a seventeen-pound turkey with some left over to cook in a pot as a side dish.

  Before tasting it, I wondered if it was wise to cook from recipes that come to you when you are in a semiconscious state, but this stuffing was universally loved. It made everyone happy, and it made them feel that everything was right again. After all, an unstuffed turkey is like a jigsaw puzzle of the American flag with a piece missing right in the middle. Now 1 had been brought to my senses and all was restored to order.

  The next year I caught my sister stealing spoonsful of it from the casserole, and if 1 hadn't stopped her, she would have stuck her fork right into the turkey cavity.

  No one ever says: "Cornbread and prosciutto. I wonder what it will taste like."

  Instead, they say the words every cook longs to hear: "This is wonderful. May I please have some more?"

  FLANK STEAK: THE NEGLECTED CUT

  Standing ribs are the king of beef, and filet mignon is the prince. The flank steak is a humble serf, lean, workmanlike and with no pretense to anything grand. It

  is seen as an inferior cut—the sort of thing you have for family dinner but not for a dinner party.

  My introduction to flank steak was a dreary one. I was invited for supper by a colleague who told me she was no cook, but that flank steak, according to the recipe of her sainted grandmother, was her one dish. Because I like to hang around in the kitchens of others, I watched while my colleague took a flat, blade-shaped piece of meat which she then rolled up and tied, like an old carpet. This was plopped into a kettle of hot water and set to boil for what seemed an awfully long time. While it cooked we stuffed ourselves with bread and cheese and then it was time to eat.

  I was told that this was an old-fashioned dish and it may have been. It had the texture of poached rope and I have never had the nerve to try it again.

  Boiled beef is a noble thing. The soul—even the soul of a

  person who eats red meat five times a year—cries out for it every once in a while. It is mean to boil a flank steak when there are so many other cuts—shin, rump, bottom round—crying out to be boiled. A flank steak should be grilled over a wood fire or broiled in the broiler, or not cooked at all.

  If people are not boiling their flank steaks, they are often stuffing them, and why not? Because flank steak is flat it looks as if it would take well to stuffing. Some people pat on the stuffing, roll, tie and then pot roast their steak. Others cut a pocket in the poor littl
e steak and then cook it to death. This is wrong, all wrong. No one would dream of boiling a rib roast or stuffing a filet. But because flank steak looks as if it can take whatever punishment is dished out, people feel drawn to misuse it.

  The result of these methods is gray and stringy. When Cubans overcook a flank steak at least they call it ropa viejo —"old clothes." To cook a flank steak properly, you must first contemplate its many virtues.

  First of all, it is very tender when sliced on the diagonal. It has a wonderful beefy taste and is also nice and juicy. Because it is thinner at the ends than in the center, people who crave rare and those who demand well done can both be made happy.

  Furthermore, it is cheap, and it is good hot, lukewarm or cold. It takes brilliantly to marinating and if you are lucky enough to have any left over it can be minced and put in a lentil salad, or eaten cold on toast for breakfast.

  Because it must be grilled fast it can be made at the last minute, and is thus perfect for unexpected guests or when you feel you must have a good dinner but don't want to cook ahead. It is properly sliced paper thin and a little goes a long way. It also looks lovely on a platter.

  Although I am not much of a beef eater, I am loyal to the flank steak. It is delicious in any season of the year. In the summer it can be broiled in the morning and sliced cold in the evening. Furthermore, it has very little fat. Considering these many splendors, who would want to boil it?

  No matter what you do to it, the method of cooking is always the same. You lay the steak flat in a pan and put it under the broiler or over the coals for about five minutes (or less for rare) per side. It is not a terrible thing to slice into it to see how it is doing, but it is not a good idea to do this more than once.

  After it is cooked, let it sit for five minutes or so and then slice it on the diagonal into thin slices and arrange it on a platter. The juice from the meat makes an excellent sauce.

  The plainest way to cook it involves painting your steak with olive oil, rubbing it with garlic and seasoning it with fresh black pepper.

  The simplest marinade consists of olive oil, garlic, soy sauce and lemon juice. To make something that resembles steak teri-yaki, add a teaspoon or so of honey.