Charleston, South Carolina

One of the prettiest, most interesting small cities in the U.S. to visit, in my opinion, is Charleston, South Carolina.
Ask ten people what they like about Charleston and, as the saying goes, you will probably get ten different answers.
Here below are my reasons for loving this city:

Historical architecture The sheer volume of the pristinely kept antique homes and buildings is simply breath-taking. You can walk for hours through neighborhoods dating from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, meandering through narrow alleys and rambling along coloful, shady streets. In addition to private, piazza-graced homes, Charleston's churches are spectacular, too.

Restaurants Charleston restauranteurs take seafood sustainability and locally produced ingredients seriously. They realize the abundance of fabulous foods grown and produced in their own backyard and utilize these goodies effectively. Bonus: It is very easy to eat really good food on the cheap in Charleston.
Some of my favorite places:

$ Jestine's It's well known and well loved for a reason. This tiny restaurant has an ever-present line out the door (no matter the weather). I finally had lunch there a few weeks ago and it was truly a treat; all southern soul food like your Granny (or, in this case, Jestine) would have made. Fried chicken, locally caught, friend shrimp, collards, gumbo, cornbread-- and if you are into desserts, they do not disappoint, in fact the Jestine's bakery is right next door so that you can take a pecan pie or red velvet cake home. Absolutely worth the wait.

$$ Hank's Seafood Restaurant Hank's has long been a personal favorite. The food is dependably, always very good. If you are in a celebratory mood (and have got a generous bank account) try the seafood tower-- iced platters rising above the table filled with fresh seafood, some cooked, like shrimp and crab claws, fewer, like small clams and oysters are raw. Towers are decedent, delicious and best consumed with champagne. The atmosphere is lively and somewhat retro; High-backed leather booths, servers in white coats, you expect to see the Rat Pack sauntering up to the very long bar.

$$ Slightly North of Broad Great location, great atmosphere, beautiful building and very good food. Fun for lunch and brunch, but great for dinner, too!

$$$ Charleston Grill Charleston Grill is located in the Charleston Place Hotel (my favorite hotel in the city). It is cool and regal and the food is truly exceptional, excellent even. The prices reflect this, but it is a great place top go for a celebration or special, romantic dinner.

$ Hominy Grill Truth be told, I have not yet eaten here and probably shouldn't recommend it because of that-- BUT, I know the guy who supplies the Hominy Grill with their grits, and I have been told by countless people that this place purveys a fantastic taste of the Charleston, old school. It is purported to be an excellent place to eat breakfast thru dinner. Great southern classics most of which you can enjoy for under $10, fewer entrees in the $15 range.

$-$$ Fleet Landing This is Charleston's only waterfront dining and it is great fun.  Comfortable, gleaming clean, sparkling water-views with very good food to match. You can choose to sit outside or in. Great for lunch or dinner-- excellent salads, sandwiches and local fried shrimp, oysters and fish.

(and, just for drinks...)
Pavilion Bar There is no better place to relax above Charleston, looking out over the harbor and back at the city. This is a gorgeous place to have drinks at sunset and in to the evening. The enforced dress code keeps tank-top wearing meatheads at bay.

What to do Far from being an exhaustive list, the following are just a few of my favorites:

1) Walk the streets early in the morning. The sun has just risen, the streets are empty and quiet, this is a great way to intimately feel the history of the city.

2) Take a walking tour. There are lots of tours to choose from: Ghost, Civil War, photography, Gullah, African American history, architectural, general history, pub. I've taken about a dozen lead by different companies and never been disappointed.

3) Carriage ride. Maybe not for everyone, and honestly, you only need to take one once, but it is a great way to get an overview of the city and learn a bit about it's remarkable history.

4) South Carolina Aquarium. If you are into aquariums, or you are traveling with a child, this is a fabulous facility. Opened just 10 years ago, it still feels new (in an entirely good way). The staff is friendly and helpful, too. For a nominal fee, you can take a 'backstage' tour of the aquarium or visit their new Sea Turtle Hospital-- awesome.

5) Shop. For trinkets, souvenirs or just a look around, The Old Market is great fun. For serious shopping at big ticket shops and some independent boutiques, head to King Street.

6) Take a boat tour or dinner cruise. I've not done this, but there are many companies providing such adventure and loads of people partake. Looks fun!

7) USS Yorktown Aircraft Carrier. Massive, intimidating and utterly interesting.

8) Get to a plantation. If you've got a car and a 1/2 day to spare, get out to a plantation. I've been to almost all and my favorite is Middleton Place. It's not cheap, but bring a picnic, there's lots to see. Spend the day strolling the property, pretending like you own the place.

Great Hotels There are lots and lots of quaint Bed and Breakfasts in Charleston. I've not stayed in any of them; I'm a hotel girl. I like staying in very nice hotels, but I also like getting a good deal. Tip: I've found in most touristy cities, if you can stay Sunday through Thursday night, you will pay up to half what you pay on the weekend. I've personally stayed in all of the hotels listed below, with the exception of the French Quarter Inn, but I did tour that property extensively.

$$$ Charleston Place Hotel This is an oasis of tranquility. An Orient Express hotel, it's common rooms are grand, the guest rooms are swanky, a fantastic spa, and it's location perfect. It's pricey, about $229 on a super-saver deal, but worth it.

$$ Mills House Hotel Maybe even better located than the Charleston Place, this is a grand dame in an historic building. The rooms are very nice, with maybe some worn spots, but it is welcoming and airy and, for Priority Club members, a Holiday Inn.

$$$ The French Quarter Inn Located right next to the Old Market, this is an exceptional place with luxurious rooms.

$$$ Harbourview Inn Located on the Charleston harbor, this is a newer intimate property that is gorgeous, truly gorgeous.

$$ Holiday Inn Historic District Not as well located as the others, this property is about a 5 block (completely safe) walk to the Old Market, but it is newer property with very nice rooms and a good pool, at a good price.

$$-$$$ Marriott Renaissance Historic District This is well located with very nicely decorated, spacious rooms. What you would expect from a Renaissance.

Have you got Charleston favorites of your own? Comment and share your thoughts!

Thy Neighbor's Bread

I have so much respect for people who love cooking, but have to work in other fields, yet still pursue their passion for food late into evenings and on weekends. This is dedication-- it's easy to do something that you love when you have time, much harder when you must make the time.

My neighbor, Chris is one of those people who loves to cook (it's in his blood; his brother is a chef), but works in a job that has nothing to do with food. He made Gumbo last week that, I am not kidding, was as good as you could get in N'awlins. He spent half and hour alone getting the roux to a perfect, deep mahogany color. His house smelled divine.

Later, Chris brought over two loaves of bread that I figured he had bought from an artisanal bakery. He didn't-- he made them. No, he crafted them.
Chris claims that it was 'nothing' to whip up; that it was the easiest bread he had ever made. 'I didn't even have to knead it,' he told me.
I asked Chris for the recipe so that I could share it with you all and he was happy to oblige.

Did I mention that Chris has a blind passion for food?

His bread recipe begins with making the dough and allowing it to sit in the refrigerator for 14 days. This is a true sourdough recipe. And one that was so complicated that I will not be posting.

For Chris, and people like him, cooking is a labor of love. To spend half a month making a loaf of bread is nothing. I am in absolute awe of him, but won't be making his bread anytime soon. I'm just glad I live next to a man who likes to cook, bake and share.

Lobster Stuffed Flounder with Truffle Salt

It started with free lobster bodies.

I wanted to make seafood risotto for our friends gathered together in Cape Cod last week. Of course, the cornerstone to good risotto is great stock, but as I entered the simple, village fish market I was still questioning how I would come up with a really good seafood stock.

Then I laid my eyes on a stainless steel container stacked with lobster bodies. Stripped clean of the tails and claws (to be used in lobster salad) the bodies were worthless to the fish market, but priceless to my risotto stock. When the counter girl told me that the bodies were free, I took the lot and, elated, practically skipped out of the small shop.

Simply simmering the bodies in water for 30 minutes, then seasoning with salt, a stock was born. I snuggled fresh mussels, local scallops and littleneck clams into the rice, lavished the lobster stock in, and the dish turned out pretty good. Bonus: I had 5 cups stock left-over.

The next day on the beach, my friend Laura (mama to many daughters, too) told me stories about the 16 pound lobster (16 pounds!) she, her grown daughters and their significant others shared the night before. So much lobster that they couldn't finish it and were going to make a lobster risotto that night.
'You need a good lobster stock,' I said.
'Yeah, that would make it better, wouldn't it...' Laura trailed off (still thinking of her previous night's lobsterfest).
'I've got some and it is yours,' I said.
Laura fiend reluctance, but quickly accepted my offer.

The next day, Laura shared with me wonderful stories of her lobster risotto dinner, and happy Cape Cod memories made with her daughters. She also shared with me a small bag filled with truffle salt.
'Have you ever tried truffle salt?' She asked.
I hadn't, and was tentative because of my previous, disappointing run-in with truffle. But that was nearly twenty years ago. I opened the bag and inhaled. The fragrance of the salt was sublime. I knew that I would use that salt the same night.

And so, what began with 12 free lobster bodies, became stock for two dinners, and shared truffle salt for a third. I remember Sesame Street's, Elmo chirping that, 'It's nice to share' and it is indeed, especially when it is lobster and truffles.

Lobster Stuffed Flounder with Truffle Salt
If you can't get ahold of lobster, use good quality crab meat-- it will be equally delicious. If it is at all possible to get truffle salt, grab it-- it is worth the money! If not, sea salt will be yummy, too.


Stuffing
2 tablespoons butter
1/2 large Vidalia onion, minced
1 ear of corn, kernels cut from the cob
1/2 pound cooked lobster meat, chopped into bite size pieces
1/2 cup panko bread crumbs (or homemade)
1 egg, beaten

Truffle salt

8 flounder filets
1/2 cup dry white wine

1) Melt the butter in a non-stick saute pan, over medium high heat. Once the butter is frothy, add in the onion and saute for 2 minutes, then add in the corn kernels and continue to saute for several minutes longer, until the corn is cooked and the onion is translucent. Add in the lobster meat and season with truffle salt-- begin with a light hand, you can always add more.

2) Remove from the heat and allow to cool, then add in the bread crumbs and beaten egg. Now turn on the oven to 400F (200C). Place the stuffing into the refrigerator and allow to chill for 15 minutes.

3) Grease a baking dish. Lay the flounder filets, attractive side down (and there IS an attractive side) and season with truffle salt. Lay 1/8th of the stuffing in the middle of each filet, then roll them up and place them, seam side down, into the baking dish. Pour the wine into the dish and bake, covered in the hot oven for about 30 minutes, depending on your oven. The fish should separate easily when cut with a fork.

Food Memories

We moved to Augusta, Georgia June of 2000. My oldest daughter was three years old, and would start pre-school in later that summer. One of the first people I got to know (someone who remains a dear friend today) was my daughter, Claire’s pre-school teacher, Martha. Martha was a true Augustan. An old school southern lady of a ‘certain age’, who possessed the most beautiful, rich Georgian accent; listening to her made me imagine honey cascading over fluffy, buttermilk biscuits.

Martha had been a pre-school teacher at Claire’s school for fifty years. Fifty consecutive years of three olds… that alone won my immediate respect.

What Martha and I talked about most (when she had a rare, spare moment), was food. Martha introduced me to true southern cuisine, the types of foods served at family picnics, not written about in gourmet food magazines (sautéed okra) or served from a hot food bar in Piggly Wiggly (although, their fried chicken is killer). She told me about artichoke relish that a handful of old families still spent waning, sun-filled fall weekends putting up for the rest of the year. Martha knew the ladies who made the best relish in town. Or, Pimento cheese—a ridiculous spread made, classically from just three or four ingredients: Grated cheddar cheese, Duke’s mayonnaises, finely chopped roasted red pepper and maybe a bit of finely minced onion. The synergy of that artery-clogging spread is remarkable and worth every, delicious spoonful.

But it was talking with Martha about barbecue that taught me the most. Up north, to say, ‘barbecue’ indicates a grill (charcoal or gas) loaded with burgers, hotdogs, maybe some chicken or sausages, occasionally kebobs.
‘No,’ Martha sternly corrected me. ‘In the south, barbecue means only pork barbecue. Barbecue to Augustans is a pork butt [Boston butt], smoked over hickory wood for hours until it is falling apart. Of course you’ve got to make some mustard sauce for it, and serve it on slices soft, white bread—the cheaper the better.’

This was a revelation. To me, barbecue was a generic term, synonymous with Saturday evenings and assorted meats, sizzling quickly over hot coals. To Martha though, barbecue was a process an adored all-day affair that would, simply by its size, bring together family or friends to share in the huge roast that lay resplendent, shredded and smoked along side coleslaw, deviled eggs, tomato pie and pimento cheese, on the southern family’s picnic table.

I began teaching myself how to properly, authentically smoke pork. Noticing how the mahogany color of the roast gives way to the interior pink ring that indicates how well the smoke permeated the meat. I figured out the right balance between charcoal briquettes, lump, hardwood charcoal and soaked wood shavings. I loved the process, the hours it took, tending to the fire.

I also made my own mustard sauce—instantly loving its sweet/tart flavour with the zing of red pepper flakes. It complements the richness of the pork so well.

I’ve always deciphered my surroundings by the foods I find there. I try to assimilate, or at least learn about the people and culture through what they eat—which dishes they hold dear. Recipes are so historic and hold such a wealth of information about the people who make them; what they value.

I’ve been using my cheap Webber grill to smoke pork shoulder for ten years now. Georgia, Switzerland and England—that grill has done some traveling. I always making my own mustard sauce, and every time I pull the roast off the grill, bring it into the kitchen and its fragrance wafts through the house, it brings me straight back to Augusta and my dear, southern friend Martha.

Longest Day of the Year

Our backyard at 10:30pm June 20th

It's 7pm and my two 5 year olds just went outside to play. Haven't even begun to think of making dinner. The sun is shinning like it is 12:45 in the afternoon; this has got all of us turned around and confused.

Today is summer solstice, the longest day of the year and it just seems a bit sweeter because we live in an area that is most usually cold and rainy. Tourists come to northwest England to go to Liverpool and live the Beetle's Experience or tool around County Cheshire looking at the ancient, bucolic scenery, but not for the weather.

I woke up last night thinking that I had overslept -- the sun was blazing in through my drapes-- what time was it? Disoriented, I reached for the clock, rubbed my eyes and saw that it was 10:30pm. What the...?

I know that I will pine for this intrusive light come December; for as sunny and bright as these summer days are, the winters are equally dark.

'Maters

I never really liked tomatoes until I was 32 years old, moved down to Georgia and ate my first exquisitely ripe tomato. It was there in a funky roadside produce stand that I discovered the beauty of a flavorful tomato; loaded with character and aroma.

The owner of the market, Jimmy was a rotund man straight out of the Dukes of Hazards; bushy mustache and all. He was a true southern character and he knew his tomatoes.  From about April through October Jimmy stocked reliably delicious tomatoes, sourced in the early spring from Florida, moving northward as the summer came and went, ending finally with tomatoes from New Jersey in the fall.

One week in the very end of October I went in to Jimmy’s produce stand and asked to buy 20 pounds of ripe tomatoes. He looked at me like I was truly crazy and said, ‘Lady, what you gonna do with 20 POUNDS a ‘maters?’ I told him that I was going to make sauce and freeze it for the coming winter. He shook his head and mumbled, ‘Yankees…’ and walked into the shed behind his produce shack. He chuckled as he sold me a box heavy with tomatoes.

Since moving away from Georgia seven years ago I have never had tomatoes as good. Not even when we vacation down in South Carolina—there was just something about those 'maters from Jimmy’s broken down produce stand that tasted so good.

Duck Race II

I wrote briefly about our village's duck race taking place the day after Easter. I was very excited about this event, expecting to find hundreds of ducks decked out in sporting gear while their owners paced nervously, wringing their hands before the gun shot marked the start of the... run? Waddle? Swim? I didn't know, but I did know that I wanted to take part.

We trudged down to the village, all six of us. The main street was packed, literally shoulder to shoulder. It wasn't just about the duck race, though. Their were kiddie rides, charcoal grills piled with smoking sausages and burgers, people making general merriment.

My daughter, Camille ran in to her best friend, Molly from school. I asked Molly's dad where we could bet on a duck.
'You don't bet on a duck, you buy one,' he told me.
'Then you own it? Like you take it home after the race?' I asked excitedly.
'No. They wipe the ducks off and store them in a shed until next year's race,' he was looking at me curiously now.
I was rather shocked. This guy is a farmer, surely he recognised this as an inhumane way to treat animals.
'That's a bit cruel, isn't it?' I asked.
'Cruel? Cruel to what-- the ducks?' He replied.
'Of course the ducks!' I stammered.
He chuckled, 'Jenny, the ducks are made of rubber. Like the little yellow duckies children take into the bath tub.'
'Oh...' I trailed off for a second as it all registered in my molasses-like mind. 'Well, that's just stupid. Why do they race rubber duckies?'
'I don't know, just always have I guess.' he answered.
And they did, they plunked hundreds of rubber duckies into the lake and let them slowly float down to the dam where they chose one randomly as winner.  The 'race' took two hours.

I still don't get it. But it was a fun afternoon and put me in the mood to devise this recipe for Duck Provencal.

Misspoken Words

‘I don’t want to do another recitalllllllllll,’ Tess, my littlest five year old whined. She and her twin, Mimi had been in ballet for two years now and this year was the first time they have ever performed in a recital. Because there are so many children in the ballet school, with so many proud parents and grandparents wanting to watch their angels springing across the stage, the dance school has arranged for the girls to perform three recitals.  Including backstage time and after show undressing, the children are at the theatre for six hours at a stretch. That’s a lot for anyone, let alone a little kid.

So I understood Tess’ upset. “Tess, this time, I am coming with you backstage—I am one of the chaperones for your dance class." "Chaperone?" Tess asked. "Yep, that's me! ” I tried to sound upbeat, although, to be honest I was not looking forward to this duty, either. It was Mother’s Day here in England and I would be spending from noon until past six at night in a fluorescently lit, drafty, holding room with several dozen, very young, bored ballerinas.

Claire, my oldest chimed in, “Yeah, Tess—Mommy is going to be the chaperone this week! It will be fun to have her there, won’t it?” Tess shrugged her boney shoulders and put on her coat.

I buckled Mimi and Tess in the car. Camille, my ten year old came along, too. She wanted to do makeovers on all the little girls while they waited for their turn to go on stage.

As we drove west on the motorway, zooming past pastures of grazing sheep, all three girls were quiet, then Tess spoke, “Momma, what do shepherds do?” Now that’s something I never really thought about, I said to myself as I began to formulate an answer. “They keep their flock together, make sure none of them get into trouble, guide them around from place to place. Make sure they get enough to eat and drink—that sort of thing. Why?” She was still looking out the widow, “Just wondering,” She said more quietly now, like she was thinking about what I had said.

It was a long ride to the recital hall. A little while later, Camille began telling us all about what she was studying in school. “A long time ago, there was a Duke and a Dork who owned absolutely all the land. But they—“ “Wait, a Duke and a what?” I interrupted her. “A Duke and a Dork, Momma. A Duke is a type of royal man and a Dork is a type of royal woman.” She said extremely confidently. “Ooooooooh. Okay, continue.” I said. And she did, telling us the story of the serfs and their unkind Duke and Dork.

Three hours in to chaperoning duty and I am sure that the clock began moving backwards; tock-tick. I have never arranged so many heads of hair into ponytails and buns. We had a small square in which to sit and keep our charges under control. Camille sat on the floor in the middle, with little girls circling her, waiting to get their makeup done and be transformed from a five year-old ballerina to a five year-old clown.

A girl I didn’t know came over and sat next to me, then Tess came and sat on my other side. The girl asked, “ Is Camille your daughter, too?” “Yes,” I answered. “She is kind to do all these girls make-up,” She said watching Camille carefully apply bright blue eye shadow to the dancers’ eyelids, and brilliant pink circles to their cheeks. “Yes, Camille is a nice girl,” I smiled. Tess put her face between me and the little girl and, wearing a huge grin said, “Yes, and I am a pain in the ass!” I sat frozen. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to reprimand her because I knew she had no idea what she said—I didn’t want to draw attention to her words, give them meaning. And I had an overwhelming urge to laugh, but knew I couldn’t do that, either. I got up and pretended to look for something in my bag and allowed a broad smile to dent my face.

Nearly seven hours after leaving home, we were driving back. It was dinnertime and we were all tired. Tess said in a sleepy voice, “Momma? I’m glad you came to our show today. You were a good shepherd.”

I guess it was a pretty good Mother’s Day.

Sleepless Nights Bring Daydreams of Tomatoes

I awoke at 3:13 this morning to the incessant doodle-dooing of our neighbour’s cockerel. Every morning between 3:10 and 3:23, that feathered fella begins to crow and carries on for hours.  Consistency; if he makes nothing more of himself than stuffing for a cheap pillow in his brief life, that dapper rooster will be remembered (by me anyway), for his daily crows.

Usually I hear him once then roll over, go back to sleep and dream of chicken and dumplings, but tonight (or this morning, rather) he woke me fully up and that is the state in which I remain now. It’s 5:47am and I have given up trying to get back to sleep.

Naturally, as I laid in the quiet of the wee morning hours, I began thinking about tinned tomatoes.

‘Tinned to-mah-toes’ here in the UK are better known as canned tomatoes (pronounced, ‘caaaaned tomay-toes’) in the States. And that is what has been dribbling through my mind for the past couple of hours (dribbling being the best my mind can excrete ideas at this hour).

We say to-may-to, they say to-mah-to.

I troll grocery store aisles like some women shop for shoes. I carefully contemplate shelves of benign canned goods as if they were stocked with Manolo Blahnik’s. I like the feel of the tin in my hand; cool and weighty, its smooth label shifts ever so slightly as I turn it to read.

I find it fascinating that, although we speak the same language, England and the U.S. name their tomato derivatives differently. Tomato ‘puree’ here in the UK, is what we would call ‘paste’ in the States. Stacked along the end caps and shelves of British super markets stand legions of tomato products, the same as in the States, but there are also some more unusually suspects: Passata (sieved, uncooked tomato pulp), sugocasa (similar to passat, just chunkier), creamed tomatoes (apparently the same thing as passata), polpa (seemingly similar, too?) and chair de tomate (tomatoes from Provence, France that have been finely chopped, fortified with tomato puree and thickened slightly with cornstarch).

It was this last one that caught my eye yesterday. ‘Chair de Tomate’—it sounded so exotic. It was cheap, too so I bought several small cans. I continued slowly meandering through the food aisles. It truly is like being in an amusement park for me to spend time, even in a convenience store. Walk me into a farmers’ market? Forget about it; I go into a trance-like state, hearing nothing, seeing no one, aware of only the food.

I walked past the olives and pickles aisle (attention: British people do not eat sour pickles, only sweet—barf). One could safely (but incorrectly) assume that I would veer off to the gourmet/deli olive section. In France, Italy or Spain, this would be true, but I can’t stand the fru-fru olives sold in bulk in the UK and the States—I think they are overpriced and undertasty. I discovered that my local Sainsbury’s carries my favourite jarred green olives made by Tabasco; spicy and salty they are a dangerous indulgence.

Grabbing the jar of Tabasco olives and placing it in the cart next to the chair de tomate, it was settled, I would make chicken empanadas tonight for dinner. 

Lamb: Tasty, yet Intimidating

On a morning walk down the lane... they seem to know that I am marinating their cousin

Market Day

Like many people interested in food, I adore farmers’ markets. Whether the markets are vast or tiny, quietly meandering past stalls laden with artisanal foods is one of (my) life’s simple pleasures.

Our little English town’s market has an impressive number of producing participants. My favourites are the cheese makers, with so many types of cheddar it is hard to choose (but, mature cheddar with stem ginger is one I always have room for in my straw bag), and the lady who sells goat meat—this one is not a favourite because I like goat meat, I’ve not tried it, she is a favourite of mine simply by virtue of what she offers; so far from the well trodden aisles of main stream, grocery stores. I can’t pass the wild boar stall without buying some form of this medieval meat. Boar sausage, stew meat or chops; to me wild boar tastes like a sumptuous cross between pork and beef. I like the idea that it is the same meat the people of this area ate half a millennia ago.

Standing back and looking at the produce stall, brimming with all that just-pulled-from-the-ground winter veg, is as lovely as taking in a still life oil painting. Muddy and fragrant with the moist earth clinging to its once inhabitant, you can practically smell the cell-multiplying force that brought those root vegetables into existence.

I have a particular soft spot for potatoes. Knobby and imperfect; barely any resemblance to their pristine tuber cousins that lay in plastic bags along Sainsbury’s shelves.

Shopping in a farmers’ market is so much more of a sensory experience than shopping in a chain grocery store. It is so much more satisfying, contemplative and calming.

Of course, I can’t buy everything I feed my family from local farmers’ markets; they are more of a weekly treat. I slog through the massive grocery stores the other six days. But once a week, for that hour or so that I wander, mind-adrift through the farmers’ market, when I can see, smell, touch and taste produce created by people who are passionate about its very existence, I experience some sort of gastronomic nirvana.

The food I buy will fill my belly, but the market itself fills my spirit.

Nanny's Crab Aspic

Ever since I wrote a story about eating dinner with my grandparents I have been thinking (obsessing?) about the crab aspic that my grandmother, Nanny used to make. It was very old fashioned, very British (as I came to find out once we moved to England) and defied my sense of logic. Was it a Jell-O dessert or something savoury? I couldn’t wrap my 12 year-old mind around it, but I loved it all the same.

Aspic, for those of you who haven’t dined with an 80 year-old British woman recently, is a savoury gelatin. In classic French dishes, it is often made from the bones and stock of veal or pork, set, then cut into small cubes and scattered around an ornate roast or main dish. But it can also be made for vegetarian dishes, as well. Simply put, Jell-O, or ‘jelly’ as it is referred to here in the UK, is usually sweet and aspic is almost always savoury.

Nanny’s Crab Aspic was made of tomato juice, crab, sliced green olives and celery. If you are not used to aspics, the aforementioned ingredients list may have turned you right off this recipe. But if you like the flavour of a Bloody Mary, then you might just like my recipe for B. Mary’s Crab Aspic.

I made a batch yesterday to serve as a light salad before a dinner of slow roasted beef, petite pois, Yorkshire pudding and gravy. I placed the small salad plate down in front of Jeff-- the ripe, red aspic glistening in the kitchen lights. He looked at it, and, having obviously not recently dined with an 80 year-old British woman, said, “I will eat this if I have to….but, do I have to?”

‘No,’ I replied. ‘More for me.’ As if that was a triumph; I had nine aspics to get through.

... They are good for breakfast, by the way.

Food Memories of the ‘70s

From 1976 until about ’79, once a month my grandparents would take me out for dinner. Eating in a restaurant in those days was a treat, at least for our family. My three sisters and one brother were all much older, in high school or college and had no desire to spend their time with their very little sister and grandparents (they had illegally bought beer to drink and unsupervised parties to attend). So it would be just my mother’s parents and me.

I loved those dinners. I wish I could say that it didn’t matter to me that we were at a restaurant; that it was the meaningful time spent with my elders—but that would only be half the truth. The reality is, I loved them both equally, the company and the food.

Nanny and Herb, my grandparents (why ‘Herb’ was referred to by his first name, I to this day don’t know) would let me choose the restaurant. It was always one of two: The Maennechor, (a German restaurant and men’s singing club to which one must be a member of German descent) or TGIFridays. 

Two stratospherically different places to eat.

I liked the Maennechor because of the utter oddness of the place and the food. Picture if you will, men in starched, white shirts and crisp, black bowties strolling about the tables, singing German folk songs as waitresses with cotton candy-like bouffant hair-dos, decked out in landhausmode—traditional German peasant dresses, dished out bizarrely foreign delicacies. To a Midwestern, ten year old girl, the food was surreal: Fried Pike, a fish from the Great Lakes that came to the table having been fried whole, eyes and all and, my grandfather’s favourite, Pig’s Knuckles, which looked to be exactly what it professed, only I discovered years later in culinary school that what is referred to as ‘knuckles’ are actually the knees of a pig. 

The Maennechor was also where I had my first taste of crumbled blue cheese. To this day my favourite salad is one made of iceberg lettuce, garnished with two cucumber slices, one cherry tomato, dressed in Italian and topped with crumbled blue cheese. I go weak in the knuckles for that one…

My other favourite restaurant, TGIFriday’s was, in 1978, authentic Americana serving what has now become quintessentially 'American' dishes. I mean, TGIFridays put stuffed potato skins in the culinary map. And nachos? Forget about it—are you old enough to remember how fantastically original these dishes were back then? Bare in mind that this was thirty-odd years ago, way before sous vide cooking was the norm. Back then, meals were prepared fresh upon order. 

TGIFridays was the godfather of all family-sit down style restaurants. It blazed the trail for Outback, Macaroni Grill and the like. Unfortunately, today those types of restaurants are woefully prolific and void of any sort of culinary vision, creativity, or in my opinion even anything edible.

But back in the heady days of bell-bottom fifth grade, my absolute favourite dinner to get at TGIFridays was the Pizza Burger. Simply genius.  It was the best of both worlds! A thick, juicy hamburger topped with pizza sauce and gooey melted mozzarella cheese. It was the best burger EVER. 

I still pine for that burger...and for those evenings spent with my grandparents.

…If this overwhelming feeling of nostalgia doesn’t pass soon, I may post a recipe for pig’s knuckles within the week.

Anyway, it is with the original TGIFridays in mind that I created Pizza Chicken. It is simple to make and can be all prepared ahead of time, just popping it in the oven when you are ready to eat. 

Don’t Try This at Home

I started out with all the best intentions—to create a really tasty dish easy enough for dinner for the family on Tuesday night, but impressive enough for friends on Saturday. I researched, as I almost always do—I rarely simply throw ingredients together— I looked into which flavors paired best with which, the most efficient cooking methods, etc. I was close to obsessing about this recipe, because, rather than just one entry, I conjured up in my mind, the picture of a plate of food—three recipes culminating in the perfect mid-winter dinner.

The dinner would have read (on a fine restaurant menu) like this: Pyramids of Scottish Salmon in a Horseradish-Potato Crust with Roasted Baby Winter Beets Ensconced in Shropshire Blue Cheese with Balsamic Reduction Syrup and a Fondue of Garden Leeks.

What a freaking food snob.

Except I’m not.

And maybe that is why I failed so miserably.

I didn’t have the obsessive compulsion to work at these recipes until they were perfected.

The kids wanted dinner.

My husband wanted to talk.

The laundry needed to be folded.

I gave up.

I did try, but I won’t even go into the sorrowful details of it all. It just didn’t work.

None of it.

Except for the Balsamic Reduction Syrup that I bought at a gourmet food store… that was nice.

What I can salvage is this: The topping to the salmon, the horseradish-potato crust, tasted great.  It would have worked, had a done a few things differently in the second trial (my instructions below explain the right way to carry out this recipe).

So, I have no soft-focus pictures of the dinner-of-all-dinners to post here. You will have to use your imaginations.

But, do try this sort-of-recipe. If you are not completely pre-occupied (as I was), it should turn out.

And I promise it will be tasty.

Horseradish-Potato Crusted Salmon

1 and ½ large potatoes, peeled and shredded (yielding 2 cups)

1 medium shallot, minced, yielding 2 heaping tablespoons

2-3 tablespoons prepared horseradish (depending on the heat you like)

2 tablespoons chopped parsley

½ teaspoon salt

Lots of freshly ground black pepper

Vegetable oil

4 fillets salmon, skinless

1)   Mix everything but the oil and salmon together in a bowl. Do this just before you are ready to cook, or the potatoes will oxidize, brown too much and the salt will leech out the water from them. Yuck.

2)  

20 20 minutes before you are ready to eat: Place a large, heavy sauté pan (heavy is important, I use cast-iron) over medium heat. Pour in enough oil to liberally coat (and, yes— I would use that term, even if I were not a liberal) the bottom of the pan. Season the fillets with salt. Pat some of the potato mixture onto one side of each salmon fillet (remembering that you will be coating both sides of each fillet). But for now, spread the potato mixture on one side of each fillet only. Place the fillets into the hot pan, potato side down. Spread the other side with potato mixture. Press down on each fillet to adhere the potato to the fish. Cook, uncovered and undisturbed for about 8 minutes, until the potatoes are golden and crunchy, then carefully flip over and cook the other side for an additional 8 minutes. Serve at once.

Makes 4 servings. Good luck.

What happened to Martha?

Not to worry. Martha lives on in my heart and recipes and stories. And everything on this site, all the content has remained exactly the same.
I've just changed the name.
I changed the name because my best girl friend, (who happens to be a man and happens to be an extremely-creative-online-advertising-guru man) told me that I needed a name that, in two words, told the story of my blog.

Made sense, so I came up with Finding Tasty.

Keep reading! It's all the same good stuff; recipes, stories, travel yarns.

~Jenny B

Do You Believe in Ghosts?

The family went to Speke Hall, just outside Liverpool, yesterday. It was a gloriously sunny day; perfect for a browse around an historic house and gorgeous gardens, followed by a picnic lunch.

The original parts of the property were built during the Tudor period (in the 16th century). It is an amazing example of Tudor architecture, with outstanding interiors to boot. Really and truly a special place.

As is my MO, upon entering the main house, I asked one of the guides if there was a ghost in the property. She replied, 'Well, I don't believe in ghosts, but there is a story of a ghost upstairs in the bedroom with the cradle in it. The story goes--' I cut her short there and said, 'Please, don't tell me anymore. I want to see if I feel anything in the room.'

I am no clairvoyant, but I have occasionally had accurate feelings of people long passed in historical homes that I have visited. I am pretty sure that there is a ghost in the 275 year old house that we currently live in (televisions turn on by themselves, secure books fall from shelves in quiet rooms-- I've never had a creepy feeling, always peaceful, playful).

We walked through the ground floor of the house, the main public rooms. The whole place had a very pleasant atmosphere. We especially like the 'Great Hall'-- an amazingly, grand hall in the Tudor style, with a costumed man playing the lute-- very cool.

When we reached the top of the stairs leading into the bedroom hallway, I pulled my big girls aside and said, 'When we go into a room with a cradle in it, try and be quiet, listen to the first thing that comes to you. See if you feel anything special there.'

I walked into the bedroom, looked at the bed and immediately felt the name Caroline-- very certain and very strongly. My two big girls walked in after I did. I asked my oldest if she felt anything and she said she only felt a woman's name that began with the letter 'A'. In the room there was a guide, and I asked her if she could tell us the ghost story.

She said, 'In the early days after the house was completed, in the 1500's, the man who lived here with his wife and infant son, came home to tell his beloved that he had lost all of their money. They would, from then on, be penniless. Sitting in their bedroom, this room, his wife, overcome with dread, picked her baby son from the cradle and threw him out the window into the moat, where he drown. The story goes that it is she who haunts the room.'

The girls and I stood there, silent. After a moment, I asked expectantly, 'What was the woman's name?' knowing full well that it would be Caroline.

'Mary Norres,' the guide replied.

'Oh.' I said, slightly disappointed.

'But that ghost story is not true. We've done extensive research and found that both the woman and her son grew to be old and died of natural causes.' The guide continued.

'What was the origin of the story then?' I asked.

'We think that the story was started by the last owner of this house. She never married and lived here alone, save for servants, and wanted to scare people away from coming around the property. But, that is where the real ghost story is. Her ghost has been seen here as recently as this year. Another guide watched her walk out of this room, which was her bedroom in full riding gear.'

'What was her name?' my oldest daughter asked.

The guide replied, 'Adelaide. Adelaide Watt. She was the last to own this house and loved it very much.'

So, do you believe in ghosts?

Gloucester Old Spot

One of the nicest things about living and eating in England is how easy it is to find ‘freedom food’. Freedom Food is the farm assurance and food labelling scheme established by the RSPCA, one of the world’s leading animal welfare organisations. The RSPCA monitors how animals are raised and slaughtered, making sure that they are treated humanely. Those farms that qualify can put the ‘Freedom Food’ stamp on the packaging.

Most large grocery store chains carry at least some choice of RSPCA approved meats. Sainsbury’s (the U.K.’s 3rd largest super market chain) has an impressively large selection. Even if they do not buy Freedom Food meats, most Brits have an acute understanding of what the labelling scheme means.

I try and buy meat at local butchers, but if that is not possible, I always buy RSPCA endorsed meat. It is not much more expensive and it only seems fair.

Until last week, I thought buying form my local butcher as good as it got. Then I found the Great Tasting Meat Company, just outside the Medieval market town of Nantwich, England. Andrew Jackson is the farmer and proprietor of this company that raises its animals on their family property, Gate Farm. There he humanely raises cows, pigs and lambs. The critters are free to roam, graze and forage for food, like they would in the wild, naturally. They live longer, happier lives (...until, of course, they are eaten).

Perusing the meat case at the Great Tasting Meat Company's farm shop, I thought I'd give a shoulder roast of pork a try. The cut came from a Gloucester Old Spot, a rare or traditional breed of pig.

Many farmers claim their pork (beef, lamb) tastes better because of the breed and the manner in which the animals are raised, but so few deliver. Secretly, I was not a huge fan of pork (unless cured, smoked or marinated, I never found it to have much flavour). But I wanted to see if there was any validity to the claims that Mr. Jackson made about his meat—that it was the superior in taste.

I was very surprised to find that the Gloucester Old Spot was far and away the best I have ever tasted— Ever. I didn't know that there could be such a difference in flavour between the fine meat I get from my butcher and the meat derived from a naturally raised, rare breed.

I prepared it simply, so that we could really taste the meat. It needed no sauce, no chutney or accouterments—we enjoyed it with potatoes roasted in with the meat and sautéed green vegetables.

Here’s the kicker—this pork roast was only pennies more than that which I normally buy.

So, in the end, it simply makes sense to buy these types of meats from smaller producers. Everyone wins; I get an unbelievably flavourful roast for virtually the same price that I always spend, the animal gets a decent life, and the small business is supported.

It is truly worth the effort of seeking out these local purveyors and trying them for yourself.

Lots O' Lobster

My birthday is tomorrow. In light of this, I walked over to our town's fish monger to order what I believe to be the best tasting creature in the sea-- lobster. I grew up summering in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. It is from this area of the U.S. that lobster boats descend upon the cold, Atlantic waters to retrieve the fierce, bottom-feeding critters. My family would have lobster probably six times a summer-- I would have eaten it everyday for every meal, if I could have-- truly. And although cooking and eating these giant sea bugs was fairly common, lobster dinners were always held in the highest of regard at our house.

We celebrated and relished every bite.

And prepared them as simply as possible-- steamed with warm melted butter, maybe corn on the cob and a salad. We laid the table with newspaper so that after dinner, we would simply fold everything up (shells, corn cobs and all) and stuffed it into the trash. The casual atmosphere and sense of anticipation made these the happiest of dinners.

So, I guess lobsters play an emotionally significant part in my memory, as well as a gastronomic one-- those two are so often tied together, aren't they?

The last time I had lobster was three years ago-- my last visit to the Cape. We were there with dear friends and their children. We bought a 10 pound lobster-- it was almost as big as my then one year old twins. So delicious; it was simply steamed and served with melted butter. I think we skipped the corn and salad that time.


Last night, I savoured again the lobster of my youth. It was perfect.

A few hours later, as the mister and I were watching a movie we enjoyed just a bit more of that luscious, lobster flavor-- I remelted the butter we had dipped our lobster chunks into and poured it over the freshly popped popcorn. Believe it or not, it was out of this world!

This morning, I boiled up the lobster bodies and shells to make a broth that I turned into Crab Saffron Bisque for lunch. It was to die for.

Now, I am out of lobster parts and accompaniments. Not a scrap left, I must savour only the memory of the steaming, red ocean beast. And hope that is not three more years until I can once again revel in the flavor of my favorite crustacean.

Exchange Students and Crab Rangoons

Damien came to our high school in suburban Ohio, as the only foreign exchange student in our class of 500. A strapping lad from Brisbane, Australia, he must have been at least six feet two inches tall, with tousled auburn hair and an accent straight out of ‘Kangaroo Jack’. As if that was not enough to ingratiate himself into our conservative Midwestern town, he was utterly unself-conscious, easy-going and the life of every party. He was a breath of fresh air; Everyone loved being around Damien.

At the end of our senior year, a few weeks before he was to return to Australia, Damien asked me to go to dinner with him. I am still not sure if it was intended to be a date or not (I was the kind of girl that boys wanted as a sister, not a girlfriend), but we had a smashing good time. He took me to a small Chinese place. I must clarify that Chinese food in Ohio, has nothing to do with authentic Chinese cuisine—but to teenage kids, it sure tastes good.

Per my M.O., I remember exactly what we ate. Damien ordered crab rangoons as a starter. I had never heard of them before. I guess his geographic origins gave Damien a better understanding of Asian delicacies. Crab rangoons, for those who don’t know are wontons that are stuffed with cream cheese and crabmeat then deep fried until golden and crunchy. Once bitten, the molten cream cheese/crabmeat goodness oozes out of the crispy wonton in a warm, savoury puddle of creamy seafood bliss.

We had great fun at that dinner.

After graduation, I never saw Damien again. We emailed several times over the following years, but all has been quiet for the past decade or so.

A few days ago I was clicking around FaceBook and I searched Damien’s name. Up popped a picture of that tall, boyish Aussie (with ubiquitous beer in hand)—he hadn’t changed a bit. I have to admit, after smiling to see his face, the first thing I thought of was crab rangoons (one. track. mind.) I hadn’t seen Damien or those crunchy little devils in over twenty years.

I emailed Damien a big, random ‘Hello! Remember me?’ and then started in on developing this recipe for crab rangoons. Although teenagers can eat virtually all the fried Chinese/American foods they like, this forty-year old has got to watch it just a bit, so I have baked them—they are yummy and crunchy, not quite as crunchy as the fried variation, but tasty all the same.

Below is my recipe. If making the crab rangoons for friends, double the recipe; they are as popular at parties as Damien was.

Little House

I remember loving Little House on the Prarie when I was about 8 or 10 years old. Remember those days before computers, DVD players, even before VHS players?? When we all had to wait a week to see our favorite program (and then ALL summer watch only reruns??)

Anyway, my friend Carol, who lives here in England, is American, has more kids than I do (5!) and, (I dare anyone to top this) she home schools them all. Beat that. Carol offered to lend us season 1 of Little House on the Prarie. I was like, 'for sure, mamma!' I didn't know what my oldest would think of the show; She is utterly wedged inbetween childhood and adolescence right now-- would she be too cool for Laura Ingalls?

The short answer is 'no'. REALLY 'no'. To find a television show that my children, who range in age from almost 4 up to 11 (and sassay) is a trick, but Little House has charmed them all (not to mention the mister and I, too).

I won't belabour the fact that the show reinforces values that are so simple and timeless, but often overlooked. But I will say that a dose of Little House is like a spoiled brat elixir (works on parents, too).

Carol has just lent us season 2. My girls were so excited to climb into our big brass bed (where all six of us snuggle down together to watch the show just before bedtime) and watch the first episode. I was, too.

If you can order Little House from Amazon, or the like, do it-- it is a great investment of your money and your time.