frau is back...and subverting dominant paradigms

dear fraus:

i've been away for a while because of work and such. all blogging time was consumed by the election--and reading more than writing. but, rest assured, i've been cooking and eating, through the book and not. i'll try to get around to reporting on some of those adventures (hand-made mayonaisse being among the more incredible).

today's post, however, is not on the subject of edibles or anything related to my life in the kitchen. rather, i am taking the suggestion of a lady i know and writing about yet another splendor of frau: laundry. (don't squirm as you realize what kind of inanity blogs have enabled...)

so, why laundry? i have begun pondering a frau approach to laundry because of two of the concerns which have been consuming limitless quanitities of my brain power this winter. indulge me...

my first concern is philosophical. in these days of almost stunning economic distress, i find myself growing ever more uncomfortable at the way we have all become alienated from the skills that make self-sufficiency and sustainability possible. like many of you, i've been reading about the depression and the way that average people learned to "make do." in the 1930s. for ill and for good, much less tenuous linkages existed between the idea of 'modern convenience' and people's life-needs than do now. (especially in a place like kansas...). indeed, up until the 20th century, the majority of people in the world (and even in the u.s.) still relied on the same basic technologies to feed themselves (they gardened, cooked, and preserved), clothe themselves (they bought fabric or yarn, or spun it themselves, and made their own garments), and even entertain themselves (books, music, friendship).

now, i know what you're thinking. frau, you're ridiculous. you are a (relatively) well-paid professional who has well-paid professional responsibilities that leave one with little time to do all this crazy old-fashioned shit. well, don't willfully misunderstand me and assume that i'm dissing Progress or being unrealistic about my abilities to sustain myself and my family. i'm not. i'm not going off the grid. i'm not ditching capitalism. i'm not turning my back on david ricardo and the basic principle of comparative advantage. i'm just saying that in my michael pollan-reading, all things considered-listening, organic co-op-buying way, i'm trying to genuinely consider the ways in which older technologies have been abandoned not because they were ineffective or unsustainable but because they were...old. why have we turned our backs on these often-more sustainable ways of living? just because they don't come in fancy packaging? just because some advertising executive has long since put them out of his mind in favor of flashier products? i dunno about that but i guess i do have a sneaking suspicion that we, as a people, are lying to ourselves and choosing to believe the lie. that's can't be good. (maybe i've just been watching too much "mad men"...).

anyhow, my second concern, which is really far more pressing than the first, is that i freaking hate hate hate static cling. yup, static cling. the zapping, the shocking, the crackling. i hate it SOOOOOOOO much. and, i live in a windy, dry, cold place with central heat. the static cling sucks. and nothing makes it go away, including that super-gross spray that makes you smell like a car wash. and, just to drive the point home, we're not talking about the occasional sock stuck to a skirt here...we're talking about feeling the force of electricity constantly ricocheting around your entire body like you were tesla in the middle of an experiment. we're talking about this:



so, throw together an urge to re-imagine one's place in the world, a desire to reflect upon the nature of Progress, and the constant irritation of static cling, and you get yourself a little frau revelation.

as it turns out, all of these concerns can be (partly) remedied by a little research, some creative shopping, and, mr. wizard-style, a funnel, a plastic spoon, and a bucket. i'm not kidding, folks. you will be amazed.

you see, one night, on a desperate web search for remedies for the dreaded static cling, i discovered an entire subculture of do-it-at-home recipes for laundry stuff. they were just floating around on the world wide web and i had had no knowledge of them. this was the wisdom of subaltern voices who've been subverting the tide and downy paradigm for years. they have been relying on old-school, non-petroleum based, phosphate-free ingredients found in your grocery aisles (obscured, of course, by all the bright colors and sexy names on the tide and downy bottles...). they've been mixing up cheap-as-dirt home brews to clean and soften their clothing. they've been living almost static-free and completely guilt free. and, they've been breaking the chains that bind us in the state of advanced consumerism.

i was amazed and fascinated. i had to try it. i can't explain why but it just stoked the fires of resistance that have been lit as we've watched or economy crumble around us and hearkened back to the new deal days. indeed, i did extra laundry for a couple weeks just to use up the old stuff i had sitting around (rich with irony, i know. ain't green consumerism grand...). well, i found a reason to clean unused towels and sheets, to wash duvets and tablecloths. and, then, the day came. i finally got to make my own laundry soap and fabric softener.

and make it i did. admittedly, it was a little anticlimactic as a *process*. it took about five minutes. i used three ingredients to make laundry soap. THREE ingredients. all of which are environmentally friendly. and CHEAP. here are some recipes if you're interested. but, in brief, you get some old-school phosphate free soap (there's even a brand that was popular during wwii...it's called fels naptha). look at the pretty, retro advertisement...



so, you grate the soap or whazz it in the cuisinart. to this you add some borax and some arm & hammer washing soda (baking soda on all-natural steroids). you mix this stuff together, use 2 tbps per laundry load (with a little extra borax for really scuzzy stuff) and that's it. suck it, proctor and gamble!

then, today, after finally working through a bottle of that seventh generation, frou-frou fabric softener i had been buying, i got to make my own. i had been husbanding the three ingredients i would need: baking soda, white vinegar, and lavender essential oil. i mixed them up in a big bowl. the soda and vinegar (for those of you who remember this experiment from childhood) fizz in great big volcanic bursts at first. after the brew settles down, you add some essential oil for fragrance, put it back in an empty bottle, and you're done.

i did the first two loads with this combination today and, in addition to being less staticky (it's complicated but the vinegar and baking soda do something magical to defeat the forces of electricity...), i got to experience the unique satisfaction of having solved a household problem without the aid of marketers or high-paid chemists. i feel positively radical. i know that's a sorry statement about our political culture...but, hell, there it is. i subverted the dominant paradigm. and i am static free.

may you all be as lucky.

super-frau

here's a great article on refining basic kitchen skills.

fascinating...who is up for an experiment?

another tomato recipe from the nyt.

puzzled by peaches...

In the dreams of many a hapless home cook reside images of all the beautiful golden pies and impossibly tall and delicately decorated cakes that you wished you had the talent to make. Those of us in the cook camp often redouble our efforts to develop baker’s skills but generally do so only to our own emotional peril. The (sometimes spectacular) failures over which I have presided have only served to reinforce my belief that there are cooks and there are bakers and rarely can any one person be both. Indeed, the very skills that make for a good cook-- adventurousness, improvisation, inexactitude--tend to undermine the attention to detail and impossible patience that is demanded of the baker. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve made pies and cakes that I thought tasted good…but I don’t think I’ve made many that seemed genuinely worth the effort they required.

In the summertime, however, the cooks get a reprieve. That reprieve comes in the variety of ways one can turn summer berries and stone fruit into, if not pies, at least a series of “pie-like” creations. Cobbler, Buckle, Brown Betty, Crisp—redolent with the sort of burnished Americana for which all of us (even non-Americans) are, I imagine, hard-wired to feel nostalgic—are the closest a cook like me really gets to a successful pie. One need only throw some fruits into a dish with some butter, flour, and sugar and the oven yields rare, sweet pleasures with a minimum of the pain that some of us refer to as “baking.” Rather than rolling or crimping or doing that tedious basket-weaving thing—all of which practically give me night terrors when Thanksgiving is near—one need only sprinkle or press crusts and toppings into place for cobblers and their cousins. Indeed, the cobbler family of desserts transfers the responsibility for ultimate success from the cook to the fruit and offer the added bonus of intending to look rustic instead of refined. For what more could the cook ask?

This all brings me to a puzzle—a peach puzzle to be exact. Had I heard of this exquisite baked dessert without having had the opportunity to eat it, I’d have accused the recipe-writers of trying to sneak a pie recipe under the noses of wary cooks. On the face of it, the peach puzzle really does seem to be the black sheep of the cobbler family. Relying as it does on what the recipe refers to as “the abracadabra of a magic trick” (incidentally, if you want to know if you're a baker or a cook, ask yourself whether that description tantalized or terrified you), a trick demanding inversion before serving, the puzzle seems awfully ripe with potential for disaster. It also requires some work with a rolling pin. (Admittedly not more than do a batch of biscuits, but still...) A pie in disguise is how I might have described it. This is not auspicious for the pie-wary.

Happily, a friend of mine—one who is that most secretly envied of all things, a good cook and a good baker—prepared this recipe for me from local Indiana peaches last summer and despite her mad skills, my fears were laid to rest by her assurances of its level of difficulty. The recipe (the link is here) was the grand prizewinner in a contest run by Cook’s Country Magazine (part of the America’s Test Kitchen empire) for the best heirloom recipes in the United States. It is nothing more complicated than a biscuit crust laid over some lovely ripe peeled peaches. In the middle of the dish, you place an inverted ramekin to eventually collect the juices. Before laying the crust on top, you pour a little slurry of brown sugar, melted butter, and water over the peaches to help make those juices more, well, juicy. What could be easier?

Okay, so the other night, in celebration of my birthday, I decided to make peach puzzle again. By the time we got through dinner and into the kitchen to make dessert, it was, like, 11:30-ish at night. I was tired but committed. Like the cook that I am, I cut several corners, including pretty much every step in the recipe. The result was a crust too small for the plate but I persisted. It was my birthday. I wanted dessert, dammit. After taking this out of the oven, I was pretty concerned. The “magic trick” referenced above consists of a process by which the liquid from the peaches and brown sugar mixture somehow gets sucked into the upside-down ramekin you place in the pie dish. This means that you get a crispy biscuit crust, beautifully poached peaches, and a little dish of peach syrup perfect for topping the necessary scoop of vanilla ice cream that you put on top of each serving. When I took the puzzle out of the oven this time, the juices were still in the pie dish; not in the cup. This was ominous. I let the plate cool (turns out I had forgotten this was the essential step) for the requisite half an hour and while the result was not quite as perfect as my first attempt, the magic did work, the cup did fill with the lovely syrup, and the whole thing was still delicious. (Though served about an hour after my officialy birthday had passed...). I still don’t really understand how the magic trick works save to say that it has something to do with contraction and expansion and steam (right???) but what is important is that it does work.

We have snacked on our puzzle through three nights of remedial “Mad Men” viewing, which demonstrates the extent to which the dish holds up in the fridge if you’re worried about making a large dessert for a small crowd. So, there is no excuse not to try this if peaches are anywhere in your vicinity. Hurry up, too. I can already feel the chill of fall in the air.

before the crust is place on top...








smacking of failure...







not half bad for the middle of the night.

she's so heavy: thoughts on my cast iron skillet

Two posts in one day is a little obsessive but having eaten out for the most part over the past four months and having spent the last week unpacking my beloved kitchen, I’m jonesing for time at the stove. Some people have sports (and/or, for the even luckier, exercise…) to relieve the tensions of everyday life. Some people have booze. I, to my peril perhaps, have cooking. Of course, this means that I also have eating but I claim cooking as the real diversion. Anyhow, to commemorate our sojourn to the Market, I made what can only be called a table full of summer for dinner: fried okra, baby summer squash sautéed with an herby, spicy Moroccan green sauce, and an heirloom tomato salad. The okra was coated in cornmeal in the traditional Southern style (for a recipe superior to Deborah Madison’s I have my mother to thank). Without a cast iron skillet, however, no recipe for anything fried and thus lip-smackingly good could be half as successful. And, this got me thinking of this humble piece of kitchen equipment. Truthfully, after two moves in the past year, what I really want to know is why something so unbelievably heavy has been kept by a species as mobile as humans. So, as I sit and happily digest the season’s eatings, I’m going to do what I arguably do best and meditate on the mundane: the cast iron skillet.

A quick Google search regarding the origins of cast iron results in a rich story about an old technology that still has few equals. Cast iron, it turns out, has played an integral part in human life since 31 A.D. when an enterprising mechanical engineer and government official in Nanyang, China, figured out how to make the stuff more easily than it had been made before. I could claim to understand the process by which he effected this efficiency but, honestly, why? The intricacies of metallurgy, I confess, elude me. What is relevant is that by some accounts (hint: one of them ends in –pedia…) the bellows of the blast furnaces used to smelt cast iron were operated by humans and/or horses before old Du Shi came along. While scholars cannot determine if the bellows were made of leather or wood (and while that seems of rather trivial consequence here…), they note that the use of water to move the bellows—Du Shi’s invention—played a significant role in promoting the use of cast iron by making production better, faster, and, indeed, cheaper.

As is often documented in human history, anything worth making is worth turning into some sort of deadly weapon and by the early 18th century, the majority of cast iron was produced to make cannons and bullets (or is musketballs?) for the English Army. Also in the early 18th century, however, an Englishman named Abraham Darby began making pots at a foundry along the banks of the River Severn in the barely inhabited Shropshire countryside. The valley in which the Coalbrookdale Furnace that Darby rebuilt in 1709 was situated came to be called Ironbridge Gorge and is widely recognized as one of the sites central to the history of the Industrial Revolution. Although the family made its fortune on pots, the Furnace later came to produce the iron bridges that are so associated with the remarkable transformation of agrarian life to the mobile and urban life we have come to think of as “modern.”

But, back to pots. So, by the late 18th century, cast iron cookware was quite the thing. Adam Smith himself quantified the “wealth of nations” not in their GDP (which, of course, didn’t exist until Keynes and the macroeconomic revolution) or bullion (which did…) but rather in the number of pots and pans produced by a country’s furnaces and used in its family hearths. Cast iron cookware came to the New World along with other European fineries and became an indispensable kitchen tool for the rich and homely alike. Jefferson’s yeoman and Hamilton’s merchant both relied on cast iron to get dinner to the table. Able to withstand the heat of the open fires and the beatings and bangings of travel (Lewis & Clark crated a dutch oven in one of their keel boats to fix meals for the Expedition), cast iron cookware remained the centerpiece of the cook’s arsenal throughout the expansions and migrations of the 19th century. Back across the Atlantic, the French were the first to add porcelain enamel to cast iron, taking advantage of its superior heat conduction and durability but making it easier to clean and, let’s be honest, prettier. And for both Americans and French, the availability of cast iron pots shaped a hearty cuisine. In the New World, slow-cooked dishes like chili, delicacies like fried okra and fried chicken, and humble staples such as cornbread demanded the kind of even cooking and high heat that cast iron provided. For the French, peasant fare like Coq au Vin and charcroute were made possible by the appearance of cookware that helped a little heat go along way, turning the old hen into a tender and succulent braise and offal into a flavorful delicacy. In a very real way, the availability of cast iron cookware made the gastronomy of so many cultures possible.

And this is where, I suppose, things get personal. My cast iron skillet was handed down to my mother by her mother—not uncommon in the South—and somehow found its way to me. It is black and a little sticky and is never so lovely as when it shines with the evidence of use. Though it’s “natural” inclinations towards being non-stick make it ideal for sautéing temperamentally “low-fat” things, sometimes I can tell that it just wants to fry! Nothing connects me to my mother and grandmother quite so clearly as the smell of cornmeal as it turns that lovely caramel color in the bottom of a pool of hot oil. Deep frying used to scare me as a kid. I remember that it seemed the perfect image of courage to see my half-pint of a mother braving the sputtering, splattering mess to produce something magically crispy and savory for the dinner table. Fried food coming out of our kitchen--a rarity--seemed magical to me and it was my mother who was always the magician. My father did the lion’s share of the cooking in our house, but when the skillet wanted to fry, Mom was the right man for the job. And so as I have grown up and moved out on my own, I have learned to summon the bravery to take on the dangerous delights of deep-frying. It is not the gladiator's ring or bungee jumping, but deep frying is an extreme sport of another kind. The satisfaction of reviving this connection--a connection woven in the flavors and smells of food--to the women who have come before me—and of course of eating the results—long outlasts the pangs of guilt that come with imbibing something whose only pretensions towards nutrition are caloric.

The marriage between human beings and the tools they make and use is as central to the flowering of civilization on earth as is anything. While one’s daily encounters with the more glamorous products of this marriage—cars come to mind—certainly remind us of this, it is somehow more fulfilling to appreciate the humility of a hardy stalwart like the cast iron skillet. This connection to our collective past--and perhaps to our individual pasts--is certainly worth the heavy lifting. (And the okra ain't bad either).

whole wheat buttermilk pancakes, p. 629

Rising early is de rigeur for the cook out here on the Prairie. We have lived in Lawrence for a year now and this morning, for the first time, we made it to the Farmer's Market early enough to actually behold the summer bounty of the Great Plains. Dressed in an embarrassing combination of pajamas, fleece, and a baseball cap, I was up and we were out by 7.15am. Turns out that if one is willing to go to such extremes, one does, indeed, find an abundance of gorgeous produce (and other delights...) at the Market. The cliches are dead on--the early bird does get the worm. (I needn't add on this wormy note that our Farmer's Market bears an actual worm-seller...).

So, upon returning with bags full of multi-colored peppers, heirloom tomatoes, fresh red onions, musky table grapes, and a beautiful, positively lusty heirloom watermelon(Crimson variety), we resisted fatigue in favor of satisfying hunger. I opened up Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone (hereafter VCFE) and looked up something hearty for breakfast--Buttermilk Pancakes. We have a ton of whole wheat flour and wheat bran so I decided to try that variation.

"Pancakes," you say with incredulity. "You are blogging about pancakes?!" Yes, I am blogging about pancakes. While I have been cooking since I was nine years old, pancakes--the most yeomenlike indulgence on the breakfast table--have eluded me. I couldn't cook up a short stack to save my life. If they didn't break, they splattered. If they stayed together, they dried out. If they weren't undercooked, they were burned. Failing at a simple task is such a massive blow to the ego that I spent years lying about my preferance for waffles just to avoid the shame of another failed morning at the griddle. So, last year, armed with a renewed sense of confidence and an interpretation of past failures that placed blame squarely on the makers of Bisquick, I began to pursue the perfect pancake again. I found a fairly sensible recipe on one of my favorite sites, Joyofbaking.com and I started to experiment. Leave it to a little buttermilk, baking soda, and baking powder, and to the love of a good stove. Sunday mornings were reborn as pancake mornings. I became so adept at flipping cakes that I could balance bacon frying, coffee grinding, and watching "Meet the Press" with the management of a veritable assembly line of perfect, fluffly, golden hotcakes. It was a personal victory and stands as a testament to the power of frau...and leavening. So...although it's a humble place to begin, I believe that commencing this project with the elegant simplicity of the hot cake is fitting. That and I was hungry for pancakes this morning...

All in all, while I'm not sure the pancakes were quite as light and fluffy as my standard recipe, they were pretty delicate. Whole wheat flour can make a gummy, heavy pancake which makes buttermilk essential. The wheat bran gave the cakes a flaky texture. Madison's innovation, far as I can tell, is a good pinch of nutmeg in the batter. I'm not fancy enough to have whole nutmeg around--and, truth be told, I'm not even sure if the ground nutmeg I have is "fresh" anymore. it smells nutmegy, which is my only litmus test. Because I have recently gotten back into eating nuts, I toasted some chopped pecans for mine; J demands chocolate chips. (for what it's worth, I think that mini-chips are the only choice for pancakes/waffles).

Couple of notes: first, if one is crazy enough to turn away from earthly delights like bacon (as we are in our vegetarian quest...), I'd up the salt in the recipe. Madison doesn't specify so I settled on a small pinch. I'd increase that to two pinches. Second, I used about 1 & 1/2 tbsp. of sugar. This makes a rather neutral (neither savory nor sweet) pancake. I like the grade B maple syrup though so that more than makes up for it on the sweetness spectrum. Third, as with all pancakes, when the recipe cautions against overmixing, pay heed. I always fail to do this and mix one time too many. I just love my Parisian whisk that much...

So, here in our amateur way, are photographic renditions of...Whole Wheat Buttermilk Pancakes with Wheat Bran and Pecans.

dry ingredients mixed first. doesn't wheat bran look virtuous?








mise en place...








The griddle--the hotcakes.








Hot off the griddle, with chopped, toasted pecans








Ingredients/Sources:
--Hudson Cream Whole Wheat Flour, HyVee
--Hodgson's Mill Wheat Bran, the Merc
--gorgeous local Bauman's Cedar Valley Farm Large Eggs, the Merc
--Twig Salted Butter, the Merc
--Grade B Maple Syrup, Quebec, Trader Joe's

Music to cook by (I'm totally stealing this idea from Carol Blymire):
--"Car Talk," NPR. I know...it's terrible. I've gotta get my fill of the Boston accent from somewhere.

let's get this party started...

the book is in my possession. bryan and maddie have internet. our kitchen is unpacked. the farmer's market happens tomorrow morning.

people, i urge you to play along. deborah madison's book is gorgeous and the potential for food triumphs and tragedies is great. be part of this movement. yes, we can...cook through the book.

and, here are tips on photographing your creations.

on canning

this article popped up in the local lawrence paper this morning. note the link to the usda's guide to home-preservation, which will give you all the safety details. we have neither a water canner nor a pressure canner--i use a lobster pot. here's another excellent link, with step by step instructions.

makings of the best sauce ever.

I believe the picture says it all.

more tomatofest

tomato jam from bittman @ the nyt. perhaps this is a way to ease into the canning world?

tomato bloody martini...

for those with tomatoes to spare, i give fusion "cuisine" at its best. here is an excellent recipe.

something more than your average salsa

I'm thrilled to have tomatoes coming out of my ears - I've already donated bags of them to neighbors - I want to make a sassy salsa but I need something new - my base is generally as follows:

diced tomatoes (must have gooey seeds removed - non-negotiable)
I try to use tomatoes of varying colors for sparkle
diced raw garlic to taste (I made it with roasted garlic once and it wasn't quite right)
parsley
cilantro
olive or canola oil
lots of salt and black pepper
half the juice of a lime

then there are standards add-ins like various peppers, cukes (not so great by the way), corn, olives, various hot sauces - I've done avocado but I hate that it gets brown after a day or two (even with the lime) - and I've added peach and mango before but it's just too california ya know?

does anyone have a good idea for a little jazz to my standard salsa?

Report?

Bryan and Maddie have started without me. What did you cook?