playing with fire and water

yuzu miso

"At night with the 'kettle' of yu-miso on the fire I hear it reproaching me"
                                                                         —Ryota 

The Japanese Tea Ceremony is a a way of life that transcends rituals and customs. Throughout its four hundred year history, it has inspired philosophies and aesthetics that have come to define the Japanese culture. One aesthetic principle that arose from the Zen influence is wabi-sabi.

Wabi-sabi is an intuitive appreciation of the transient beauty that exists in the humble, modest, imperfect, and even in decay. It is finding refinement in the unrefined. 

It might be said that wabi-sabi is seeing a flower in a dying bulb. 

Or, maybe even, finding poetry in a citrus kettle.

 
 

Yuzu miso, as the name implies, is a yuzu-scented miso from the Shizuoka and Nagano prefectures in Japan. It is typically used in Dengaku, an ancient form of miso cuisine, where various foods are lightly grilled, glazed with miso, then finished grilling.

Commercially prepared yuzu miso is made by simmering white (shiro) miso with sugar, then blending in yuzu zest. The ancient preparation, yuzu gama (literally, yuzu kettle), where the seasoned miso is cooked in a hollowed-out yuzu, is far more romantic in concept and exemplary of the Japanese approach to cooking.

To make yuzu gama miso: Blend together 150g shiro miso, 38g sake, 50g mirin, and 17g sugar. Slice the tops off of 4 yuzu. Remove all of the pulp and membranes from the insides, leaving only the rind. Pack the seasoned miso into the hollowed-out yuzu and replace the tops. Place on a baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes at 350F/178C, or until miso is bubbly. Will keep in refrigerator for up to a month.

 

Over the years, I've attempted to grow nearly every type of allium that I could find seeds for. Shallots and cipollini are perennial favorites because they require little space to grow and will keep throughout the winter when stored in a cool, dark place. I'm still experimenting with garlic, looking for a variety that will flesh out into plump heads instead of the paltry ones that I've been getting. And with onions being so readily available, I don't usually grow them unless I find an interesting variety. 

Last fall, a friend gave me a bag of a sweet onion variety called "Candy", which I promptly deposited in a makeshift root cellar. Months later, I found they had begun to sprout. Sweet onions, because they have a higher water content, are not great keepers.

When bulbs sprout, the new growth draws on the energy that is stored in the parent bulb. In the case of alliums, the quality of the edible flesh becomes compromised and, eventually, consumed. Instead of composting them, I decided to force them like hyacinths, if for no other reason than to watch something grow.

Many flowering bulbs such as hyacinth, tulips, and narcissus can be forced to flower out of season, provided that they have been exposed to temperatures between 35-45F for a minimum of 12 weeks. I buy bulbs in the fall and store them in bags of peat moss in a spare refrigerator to force after New Years. To start them growing, simply place in a vessel with a mouth that is just narrow enough to allow only the base of the bulb through. A glass with tapered sides is perfect. Fill the glass with just enough water to cover the base of the bulb (left image). Submerging the bulb will cause it to rot. Alternately, bulbs can be supported by filling bowls with small stones and maintaining the water level. After about a week (center image) the roots begin to emerge and the shoots start to take off. After 2 weeks (right image) the bulb sends out multiple roots to support the vigorous growth. Bulbs forced in water can take 3-5 weeks to bloom.

I had intended to watch them grow— perhaps to flower— but upon tasting the new shoots, I found they were mild and sweet and begging to be braised with yuzu miso.

 

 
 

turbot broccolini cauliflower

Historically, the Brassica family, whose members are collectively known as cabbages, has seen its ups and downs. At its high point in ancient times, cabbage was prized by the Greeks and Chinese. It hit its low point in the Middle Ages, when medieval superstition suspected leafy greens of causing disease and it was deemed too coarse for the delicate European aristocracy. For centuries following, cabbage and its ilk were regarded as food fit only for peasants and livestock.

Today, the genus Brassica has the distinction of containing more important agricultural and horticultural crops than any other genus. The Brassicaceae family is remarkable in that all parts of their species have been developed for use as food:

    seed- mustard and canola/rape 
    flowers- cauliflower and broccoli 
    leaves- cabbage, kale, collards, brussels sprouts, mizuna, bok choy,
                arugula, and watercress     
    stem- kohlrabi  
    roots- turnips, rutabagas, radish, horseradish, wasabi, and daikon 
 
All of these plants are united and identified by their four-petaled flowers that form the shape of a cross (hence, the old classification of Cruciferae) and by their pungent flavor attributed to glucosinolates.

Glucosinoltes are a type of organic compound that contain both sulfur and nitrogen. Plants use this compound as a powerful defense system. Nutritionally, glucosinates are dichotomic— on the one hand, they can be toxic to humans and animals when consumed in massive doses, but in subtoxic quantities they become beneficial and are even known to produce anti-cancer enzymes. Glucosinolates are directly responsible for the strong, bitter flavor of Brassica that we either love or hate. I have to side with the Greeks on this one.

 

Brassicas, in one form or another, are always present in my vegetable bin. I'm a fan because they lend themselves to many different preparations. I love them all.

There is something fundamentally satisfying about the snappy texture of barely-cooked broccoli and cauliflower that appeals to the grazer in me. When I want something heartier, I slowly braise them in stock until they practically melt. Braising works well with leaves, stems, flowers, and roots, though vivid colors turn murky when cooked this way. Alternately, I toss the blanched, fleshier Brassicas in olive oil, spread them out on sheet pans and roast them in a hot oven. Their frizzled, dark edges are irresistible. 

Brassicas contain varying levels of glucosinolate depending on their species, with brussels sprouts leading the pack and cauliflower trailing at the end. Cooking methods directly affect the levels of pungency. A quick plunge in boiling water leaves the flavor molecules intact, while a long, slow braise leaches the molecules into the liquid, and gradually transforms them to a mellower, but funkier goodness. The dry heat of roasting intensifies flavor and adds a layer of complexity from the caramelized sugars.

Last spring, I tried the deep fried brussels sprouts at Momofuku. The outer leaves were blistered and singed, nearly black with char; their cores soft and pungent. It was a level of flavor— intensely bitter-sweet and nutty— that once experienced, you are changed forever.

 

turbot with a blanket of braised green cauliflower, white beans, preserved buddha's hand citron, 
 and black truffle
blanched broccolini stems, deep fried flowers

 
 

broccolini flowers

 

Something extraordinary happens when deep-frying broccolini flowers:

At first, they sing [some would say hiss].

And then they dance [look out for the high kicks].

For the Grand Finale, they burst open in bloom.

Delightfully entertaining, they are.

[I'm easily amused]

 

deep-fried broccolini flowers

buddha's hand citron salt
  

Indian Summer :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean

 

The sweet corn that we enjoy today is far removed from its ancestor. It is thought to have originated from teosinte, an ancient wild grass native to Mexico. Centuries of cultivation and hybridization has transformed it into the more palatable and versatile species that we continue to grow today. This was not a natural occurrence— it took careful selection and sophisticated horticultural skill to achieve. How primitive cultures had the knowledge to accomplish this continues to perplex scientists and researchers. 

The domestication of corn is thought to have started 7,500 to 12,000 years ago in the Balsas river valley in lower Mexico. During the 1st millennium, cultivation of maize spread into the Southwestern United States. It took another thousand years for it to reach the Northeast and Canada, where Woodland Indians cleared forests and grasslands, creating large fields to plant the new crop.

 

Native Americans did not practice monocropping as we do today— cornfields belong to modern agriculture. Instead, they employed a more sustainable system of interplanting three crops: corn, beans, and squash— a triad that is deeply rooted in Native American mythology, known as "The Three Sisters".  

To the Native Americans, The Three Sisters were sacred goddesses that could not bear to be separated. Among the tribes, there were varying versions of the legend that revolved around a creation myth. According to one legend, Sky Woman, who lived in the Upper World, fell through a hole in the sky towards an endless sea. Animals scurried to dig mud from the bottom of the sea and spread it on the back of a giant turtle to cushion her fall. Sky Woman gave birth to Corn Mother, who bore three daughters that were inseparable until their death, when they were buried together on Turtle Island (North America). Out of their graves sprouted corn, beans, and squash— their gift to humanity.

 

Like most myths, The Three Sisters sounds far-fetched and fantastical, but in fact, their relationship is scientifically sound. 

Throughout the Old World, corn, beans, and squash were sown together in small mounds of earth that were scattered through fields. The beans would wind around the corn as they grew, using the cornstalk as a support, while simultaneously supporting the tall, slender stalks from toppling over in the wind. The nitrogen-fixing nodules on the roots of the beans fed the nutrient-hungry corn and the squash vines that covered the ground at their feet. The squashes shallow roots and copious foliage shaded the ground, preventing weeds and preserving moisture. Together, they formed a perfect symbiosis.

This same symbiosis carried over from horticulture into nutrition— when eaten together, The Three Sisters form a perfect food. Corn provides protein and niacin, while beans and squash contribute the amino acids necessary for digestion. Native Americans also nixtamalized their corn to produce hominy by soaking it in alkaline water (made with wood ashes), thereby liberating the niacin and making it more nutritious. The importance of The Three Sisters and nixtamalization was supported when pellagra (a disease brought on by niacin deficiency) spread through non-indigenous cultures who adopted corn as a staple food without the ancient wisdom to accompany it. Again, the scientific community was left marveling at the primitive ingenuity. 

 

Gourds are related to pumpkins and squash and were cultivated by Native Americans to use as dippers, spoons, cups, medicine holders, bottles, canteens, sacred honey containers, and ceremonial rattles. I grew these to use as birdhouses— dried, cut with a saw, and lightly sanded, they make interesting organic bowls.

 

 

The Three Sisters

corn beans pumpkin 

popcorn sage broth

hominy chip 
 

Indian Summer :: the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion

Before primitive man began cultivating his food, he relied on foraging in the wild.
In the warm months, there were plenty of fresh fruits, berries, shoots and greens for Woodland Indians to eat, but these would be gone with the first hard frost. To get through the cold months, he relied on nuts, tubers, and roots that could be gathered in autumn and stored in pits. In the Northeast, storage pits were essentially large holes dug out of the earth that were lined and covered with bark.

  

Unfortunately for the North American Indians, the earth's offerings of tubers were slim in comparison to their contemporaries in the more temperate southern hemisphere. South America boasts the richest natural diversity of edible tuberous species— the most important being potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas), and cassava (Manihot esculenta).

To the east, Eurasia, which includes the Mediterranean Basin and Pacific Islands, also possesses a large diversity of indigenous tuberous plants and some of the first brought into cultivation. Among these are taro (Colocasia sp.), yams (Dioscorea sp.), and the proliferate kudzu (Pueraria lobata).

In North America, the introduction of the potato and sweet potato appropriated the domestication of our own native tubers. The two most prized by Woodland Indians— groundnut (Apios americana) and arrowhead (Sagittaria latifolia)— have never been widely cultivated. Today, there is only one tuber indigenous to the United States that holds a place in the world's common stock of vegetables: the Jerusalem artichoke, or sunchoke.

The sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosis) is the tuber of a species of sunflower that can grow up to ten feet in height. The French explorers were so smitten by the flavor of the cooked tubers that they sent specimens back to France, where it began to be cultivated. The Italians, who thought that it tasted like artichokes, labeled it girasol articiocco (sunflower artichoke) and planted it in the famous Farnese gardens. The English, who were also cultivating the tuber, mispronounced the Italian label, calling it Jerusalem artichoke and the name stuck. It's interesting that a plant that was introduced to the Europeans by the Native Americans was enjoyed abroad for over three hundred years, and until recently has been largely ignored, or used for cattle feed, in it's native country.

 Onions are thought to have originated in central Asia, though it's likely that many countries had their own wild species that became domesticated simultaneously. In North America, we have Allium canadense (pictured above) and ramps, or wild leeks (Allium tricoccum). These were foraged by Native Americans and used to enhance the flavor of vegetables and meat.

 

Common burdock (Arctium minus) is the taproot of a biennial thistle. Native to Eurasia, it was introduced to North America by the early European settlers and quickly adopted by the Native Americans as food and medicine. Because it contains many phytochemicals, it was used for a wide range of ailments from rheumatism to skin acne. Today, it is being studied for its anti-cancer properties.

Burdock was an important winter food for Native Americans, who dug up the the roots in the fall and dried them for winter use. Fresh roots have a sweet, nutty flavor, punctuated by a deep earthiness that is off-putting to some. The skin looks thick and tough, but is actually quite thin. The flesh is milky white, but quickly oxidizes and must be immediately submerged in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. Older roots are fibrous and must be cooked; the young roots are tender and crisp when raw, but should be thinly shredded and soaked in several changes of salted water to extract some of the pungent earthiness.

In autumn, the seed heads (above, left) are covered with fine spurs that easily attach themselves to clothing. In the 1940's, this characteristic captured the attention of George de Mistral, who went on to use it as a prototype for a hook-and-loop fastening tape that he invented. We know it as velcro.

 

Goldenrod (Solidago) is a native wildflower belonging to the plant family Asterceae. Other edible members of this family include:  sunchoke, burdock, artichoke, chicory, and lettuce. Although it is sometimes regarded as evasive because of its ability to adapt and dominate, it is also widely cultivated for its profuse yellow blooms. In the wild parts of my yard, the goldenrod grows alongside the burdock and make amiable companions in the landscape as well as the palate.

Native Americans dried goldenrod leaves to flavor teas and broth. They also cooked the leaves and ate them as greens. Goldenrod produces pollen that is collected by bees to make a strongly-flavored honey. I find the flowers and pollen tastes like carrots and parsley, with a hint of mint.

An interesting characteristic of goldenrod is its natural rubber content. Thomas Edison experimented with this property and produced a rubber that is resilient and long lasting, but was preempted by synthetic rubber. The tires of his Model T (given to him by his friend Henry Ford) were made of rubber from his experiments.

One of the most daunting aspects of cooking "native" is the lack of dairy. Before the introduction and domestication of cattle, there was no widespread use of animal milk, therefore no cream, butter, or cheese to enrichen foods and carry flavors. For this, the Native Americans relied on nuts. 

Nuts and seeds were an important staple in the Indian diet and their gathering was part of an annual cycle of activities. Nutmeats were laboriously pounded in stone mortars; the resulting pastes were used like butter in cooking and baking, or dried and used as flour. Nut oils were extracted by mixing water with the paste and skimming the separated oil that rose to the surface. The remaining paste was further diluted and used as milk.

Another food missing from the native diet is vinegar. Aside from fermented corn mash that was introduced to southwestern tribes (via central and south american influence), fermentation of plant liquids was not widely practiced by North American Indians. This seems incongruous with the ancient history of fermented beverages by the rest of the world, but explains why today's Native American population has a high percentage of alcohol intolerance. Similarly, the void of dairy products also accounts for lactose intolerance among 95% of the same population. 

 

Earth Salad

burdock, sunchoke, wild onion, hazelnut, goldenrod

I've dressed this salad with nut butter to show the versatility of the native staple. I chose hazelnuts because of their affinity to the artichoke— a relative of the burdock, sunchoke, and goldenrod. To my modern sensibility, it proved to be one-dimensional in taste and lacking the counterpoint of acidity. Although I'm striving for authenticity of ingredients, I did not hesitate to add cider vinegar in the interest of flavor balance. Nor do I apologize for using my high-speed blender. After all, I live in the New World where the convenience of electricity and technology makes cooking more efficient, and, by contrast, makes this exercise all the more poignant.

 
 
 

Indian Summer :: the forest :: mushroom pine

Woodland Indians were a group of numerous tribes that inhabited the forests along the eastern United States and Canada. They were skilled hunters and foragers who connected to their Creator through nature, believing that plants, animals, stones, and stars possessed spirits to guide them in their journey through life. The forests were not only a place to live, hunt and forage— they were cathedrals.

 

Indigenous people lived in balance with the earth— they took only what was necessary and wasted nothing. When a pine tree was harvested, the needles were used as incense and in rain ceremonies, thin twigs were woven into baskets, and sturdier branches were fashioned into tools and weapons. Bark was used to cover wigwams, line food storage pits, and boiled to make a variety of medicines. The cambium was pounded, boiled, and eaten as food. Resin was chewed for pleasure— a primitive form of chewing gum. Pine cones and nuts were pulverized into fine powder, mixed with animal fat and marrow, and eaten as a confection. Pine pitch was an all-purpose substance, used for making cosmetics, medicine, glue, and water-proofing. Roots were peeled into fibers, used as cordage and thread for sewing. What remained was used for building or firewood.

Mushrooms and fungi were gathered after rains for food, medicine, religious ceremonies, and for poisoning enemies. Oyster (Pleurotis osteatus), chicken-of-the-woods (Laetiporus sulphureus), and sulphur shelf (Polyporus sulphureus), were (and still are) sought-after varieties that grow on deciduous trees. Morels (Morchella esculenta), giant puffballs (Calvatia gigantea), and chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius) grow directly out of the earth, in and around forests. These were often eaten raw, baked in clay ovens, shredded and added to soups and stews, or dried for winter use.

 

Mosses are fascinating and beautiful non-vascular plants that carpet the floors of dense forests. Because of their absorbing and analgesic properties, Indians used them as diapers and wound dressings. Though they are not toxic or harmful to eat, they are not very good (I've tried). It's possible that they were ingested as medicine— so much of this information is lost to us. What is known for certain is that primitive cultures had a heightened awareness and intimate knowledge of plants and their properties because of their connection to the earth.

 

Moss on Mushroom

chanterelle   pine pesto

 
 

autumn pudding

 

from behind cascading leaves
the sun emerges like a sleepy child

heavy eyelids
blink
fractals of gilded light
a gentle yawn
exhale 
a universe of scent
both familiar and exotic

leaves drift
fall
rustle a lullaby

I bid it sweet dreams
and eat my way across the autumn sky  

 

 

parsnip vanilla pudding
butternut squash, autumnberry, kaffir lime gelee
candied pumpkin

Download recipe:  Autumn pudding

autumn leaves

I sometimes find myself out of synch with the seasons.

Like last week when I had to talk myself out of making spaghetti with jalapeno tomato sauce— a simple, summery sauce of barely cooked ripe tomatoes— because it was November. 

Or, like yesterday, when I booked a holiday cocktail party and my head filled up with visions of sugarplums and other wintry fare.

Today, the rake calls. It's all about the leaves.

Raking leaves is definitely not my ideal of fun. But like all chores, once I find a rhythm, it becomes meditative. Not today though— I'm too preoccupied with cocktail parties... and hors d'oeuvres.

Cocktail parties prevail in the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years.  To my clients, a few hours of drinks and passed hors d'oeuvres means that they can entertain without the stress of formal dinner parties. There are no expansive (or expensive) menus, multiple place settings, or seating arrangements to deal with— just a well-stocked bar, a tasty selection of finger foods, and a capable staff to serve and execute.

I've seen a lot of hors d'oeuvre trends come and go in 20 years of catering. The once popular notion that anything wrapped in pastry or made in miniature was de rigueur is long gone. Modern tastes favor lighter fare with clean, bright flavors. (That said, I welcome the occasional request for pigs-in-a-blanket and sliders) 

Presentation, too, has come a long way. I remember etched silver trays with elaborate floral arrangements complete with trailing ivy that the servers carried around like bouquets. The food became lost in these. Nowadays, I aim for vibrant food, simply arranged on white porcelain platters. When the food lacks visual interest, I don't hesitate to add something to the plate— but only if it makes sense and adheres to the philosophy that nothing belongs on a plate of food that is not edible, functional, or relevant.

 

As I tackle the leaves, I think about canapes and how they're a fitting model for the perfect hors d'oeuvre.

Canapes cover a broad range of foods that we eat with our fingers. They run the gamut from basic cheese and crackers to the old-school French vol-au-vents and barquettes. In between are smörgås (open-faced sandwiches), crostini, and savory tarts. Their common denominator is a dry, crisp base that makes them neat and easy to pick up and eat, and a moist, often creamy, topping. The textural contrast between the two— dry and wet, crisp and creamy— are a basic gustatory pleasure and primed for an update.

 

Cheese & Crackers

goat cheese on carrot-beet-parsnip crisps
 

And as the leaves pile up, I think, again, about crisp.
 

How to reinterpret cheese and crackers?  
Start with the cracker and add flavor.
 

Crackers are basically flour, water, and fat. Certainly, doughs can be flavored with concentrated liquids or with dried flavor in modest amounts, but these introduced flavors are often muted by the large ratio of flour that is required to produce a crisp product. If the ratios are thrown too far off, we lose crisp.

Pure flavor can be extracted from produce with a juicer into liquid flavor and can be further concentrated or distilled, or the solids can be dehydrated and ground into powder. Potentially, these flavor-packed products can replace water and flour. But, of course, it's not that simple. 

Juice is not just flavored water, it contains fine solid particles and compounds. Fruit juices may also contain acids, pectin and reactive enzymes that effect texture. Ground dehydrated solids may resemble flour but do not possess the gluten that will allow it to behave like milled wheat. Luckily, we are not limited to wheat flour— or even starches from grains— to produce crisp.

There are other starches that gel liquids. They are so effective that only small amounts are needed. They don't interfere with base flavors because they are odorless and colorless. The gels, when dehydrated, form flexible films that turn crisp when heated. Technically, these are called glasses.

 

Unlike raking leaves, glasses are fun to play with. 
 

Ultratex is a tapioca-derived modified food starch that thickens liquids much like cornstarch, but does not require heat to activate. Adding 2-3% of Ultratex to a cold, thin liquid will instantly tighten it into a sauce. Thicker gels (5%) are quick to dehydrate and form crisp brittle films that are slightly papery.

Tapioca Maltodextrin is also derived from the cassava root. It is a mildly sweet polysaccharide. TM is best known for its ability to stabilize fats and transform them into powders. It forms slightly stickier films than Ultratex. When the two are combined, (at a rate of 18% TM to a 5% Ultratex gel) they form sturdy glasses that when baked at a high temperature during the final stage of dehydration (while they are still flexible) they make the most stable glasses, even in the presence of humidity.

Methylcellulose (A types) and Hydroxypropylmethylcellulose (E, F, and K types) also form films that dehydrate to glasses. Methocel glasses differ from Ultratex and TM in that when they are finished at a higher temp (100C), they turn from shiny and transparent, to matte and opaque.
 

Texturally, all of these additives produce thin, brittle crisps. 
Visually, the methocel crisp looked most like a cracker, albeit,a fragile one.
It needed more bulk.
Aeration gives the illusion of bulk without actually adding any.
Methocel F types are used to create and stabilize whipped things.
Problem solved.

making a mold of autumn leaves out of silicone plastique

Juice crackers:

 Bring 230g juice and 80g sugar or isomalt (isomalt is less sweet) to a full rolling boil. If the juice is not acidic, up to 10g of lemon juice can be added for flavor and balance. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely. In a small bowl, blend together 6g Methocel F50 and 8g Ultratex 8. Drop the powder blend into the center of the juice mixture. Cover the clump of powder with the blades of an immersion blender and blend until dispersed. Hydrate in the refrigerator for 4-6 hours, or overnight. With a mixer, blend until light, foamy, and opaque. Spread on silicone sheet or molds and dehydrate until film can be peeled off in one piece. Return to silicone and bake at 225F (100C) for 10-15 minutes. Immediately remove and bend or form into desired shape, supporting until it cools and hardens. Crackers can be made ahead and rebaked briefly to crisp.

To be clear, I use the term 'cracker' loosely. These are not crackers in a conventional sense— they lack flakiness. More accurately, they closely mimic the texture of a tuile or gaufrette wafer, but with the pure flavors of carrots, beets, and parsnips, un-muted by starch.

 

I'm dreading the acre of leaves that still need to be gathered and disposed of. 
In joyful procrastination, I've created another pile of leaves in the kitchen.
The irony is not lost on me.
 
As always, nature inspires.

bat wings

Chicken wings basted with black sesame paste, soy sauce, mirin, and brown sugar.

Pomegranate ketchup.

Butternut squash crisps... because even bloodsuckers need veggies.

This would be pure kitsch if it weren't so good.

pulled beef bbq grits

Grits are not something that I normally go to as a side dish. I have my New England upbringing to blame, but a recent trip through the Carolinas may have changed that. 

I have long wanted to visit the city of Charleston SC for various reasons. The food, the flora, the antebellum architecture, the colorful history-- all compelling draws. Underlying these was a romanticized curiosity about a city that had spawned and/or inspired many of my favorite authors-- and sustained me through the 850 mile drive.

We arrived in Charleston late on a Sunday night. My husband, who had driven the entire way, opted to hang back in the hotel while I went out, hungry and restless, in search of local flavor. I found an old, established restaurant not far from the hotel and ordered a Dark 'n Stormy and Shrimp and Grits. The cocktail was an antidote to my road-weariness. The Shrimp and Grits, though lacking finesse in presentation and execution, was soothing and comforting.

Strolling back to the hotel, I was hyper-aware of my surroundings. Flickering gas lanterns lit the cobbled sidewalk. Soft breezes carried the mingled scents of decay, gardenias and salt marsh and the sound of soulful blues drifting from a distant nightclub.  Was it my overactive imagination or the rum that caused me to believe that I could feel the stirrings of the ghosts, angels and demons that haunt the city? The whole time, I was thinking about the Shrimp and Grits-- not about it's flaws-- but about how eating the dish was like riding a bullet shot straight into the heart of a place.

I ordered cheese grits for breakfast the next day and noted how comfortable they were with eggs. I ordered them again, two days later in Asheville NC, with some excellent BBQ and marveled at how perfectly they foiled the tangy/sweet/smoky sauce and succulent meat.

The trip continued with stops in Virginia and Pennsylvania, where I picked up more memories of places, people, and food. I indulged in extraordinary tasting menus that were masterful, poetic, and delicious. I returned home weary from travel, yet revitalized, and-- strangely-- craving grits with BBQ sauce. 

beer-braised pulled short ribs

bbq grits

purple snow pea salad

rau ram 

To make bbq grits:  Bring 1 cup of beer to a boil. Stir in 1/4 cup corn grits, reduce heat to a simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, until beer is absorbed and grits are creamy. Stir in 1/4 cup bbq sauce and 2 Tablespoons smoked butter.