History Dish Mondays: Turtle Soup

Photo by Everett Bogue

Yesterday, I cooked up a batch of a popular 19th century summertime treat, Turtle Soup.  It went over surprisingly well with my friends!  But you'll have to wait to read more about it: I was testing my turtle recipe for an upcoming article in Edible Queens magazine.  The Summer 2010 issue will feature this dish and many more.

History Dish Mondays: Bazmaawurd, Mulahwajah and Juudhaab

Bazmaawurd ready to be rolled.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the article Cooking with the Caliphs, which analyzed a medieval cookbook from the court of 10th century Baghdad:

"A little over a thousand years ago, an Arab scribe wrote a book he titled Kitab al-Tabikh (The Book of Recipes)... The book has come down to our time in three manuscripts and fragments of a fourth—and what a treasure it is. These are the dishes actually eaten by the connoisseurs of Baghdad when it was the richest city in the world."

Yesterday, I had a few friends over, and we tried some of these 1,000 year old dishes.

To begin, I presented Bazmaawurd: chicken, walnuts, fresh herbs and lemon (it was supposed to be citron, but I couldn't find one fresh) rolled up in a Lavash.  I think this was everyone's favorite.  The flavors were so fresh, light and zesty.  I found it to be a little dry--but it went nicely with some labneh.

Next I dished up a seasoned lamb dish called Mulahwajah, of which I neglected to take any photos (tipsy).  I stewed lamb meat with leeks, onions, a cup of water, and a fascinating spice blend:  coriander, cinnamon, caraway, pepper, and galangal.  The latter is a spice with a light, flowery, almost citrus taste.  And this recipe calls for a lot of spice: 5 1/2 teaspoons for a 1/4 pound of meat.  It covered the meat completely, but lamb has such a pungent flavor it stands up well to heavy spicing.  The result was a dish that blurred the boundary between sweet and savory with flavor unfamiliar to western tongues.

Lastly, I made Juudhaab: "The supreme roast meat dish was juudhaab (or juudhaabah), where the meat was served on a sweet pudding which had been baked at the bottom of the tannur to catch its dripping juices."   This dish is vaguely similar to Yorkshire Pudding, in that a soft bread is cooked using fat from the meat it is served with.  But the resemblance is remote; in fact, I have never heard of a food prepared quite this way before.

***

Juudhaab

From Kitab al-Tabikh by Abu Muhammad al-Muzaffar ibn Sayyar, approx. 945 AD

Translated by Linda Dalai Sawaya for Cooking with the Caliphs.


1 whole chicken
¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons rosewater
ground saffron
1 pound dried apricots
2 fresh lavashes, pitas or other flatbreads, 12" in diameter (or more, if smaller)
½ cup brown sugar

1. Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Place apricots in small saucepan, add water to cover apricots by ½ inch. Bring to a boil and stew until apricots are soft and the water has reduced to a thin syrup, about 15-20 minutes.

2. In a baking pan or bottom of a broiling pan, place one lavash.  Strew with apricots in syrup, sugar and 1/4 cup rosewater in which pinch of saffron has been dissolved, then cover with remaining lavash.  Cover with a wire rack or top of the broiling pan.

3.  Wash chicken and pat dry. Mix 2 tablespoons rosewater with pinch of saffron and rub on chicken, inside and out. Place on rack or on broiling pan.

4. Bake at 500 degrees for 20 minutes, then turn heat down to 325.  Roast until a thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the thigh reads 160-165.

5.  Carve chicken and serve in slices over the lavash and apricot pudding.

***

The result was interesting: I wasn't thrilled with the slightly greasy taste and texture of the sweet pudding.  But my guests tore into it with grunts and "mmm"s.  The lone vegetarian was mortified.  But we still love her.

Check out all of these recipes and more in the original article here.

History Dish Mondays: Charlotte Russe

I work part time as an educator at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum (Wednesday and Saturday if you ever want to stop by and see a tour). While studying information for a new tour, I came across a mention of "Charlotte Russe."  Charlotte Russe, it said, was sold from pushcarts on the streets of the Lower East Side in the 1920s.  "What the hell's Charlotte Russe?" I wondered.

Charlotte Russe, in it's simplest form, is whipped cream adorned with lady fingers.  The fanciest version I've seen involves mace-flavored whipped cream, mixed with isinglass, and pressed into a mold lined with almond sponge cake.  Sounds pretty good, right?  I plan to give this latter recipe a whirl in the near future.

Left: Image from Miss Corson's Practical American Cookery and Household Management. by Juliet Corson, 1886.

For this experiment, I selected a recipe of middling complexity that was close to the time period I was learning about.  It comes from Fannie Farmer's infamous Boston Cooking School Cookbook, one of the most popular cookbooks of its time because it was the first to offer standardized measurements.

***
Charlotte Russe

From The Boston Cooking School Cookbook (Seventh Edition) by Fannie Merritt Farmer, 1941.

1 packet gelatin

1/4 cup cold water

1/2 cup whole milk

1/3 cup superfine sugar

1 cup heavy whipping cream

1 1/2 tsp vanilla

1 package (about 20) ladyfingers

1. Line a mold with the ladyfinger cookies.  A medium-sized bowl works just fine.

2. Beat cream with an electric mixer until it forms stiff peaks. Set aside.

3. Dissolve gelatin in cold water.  Heat milk in a microwave for two minutes on high, then add to gelatin.  Add sugar and vanilla, whisk until sugar is dissolved.

4. Set in a pan of ice water, stirring constantly until the mixture just begins to thicken.  Or, you can place the mixture in the freezer, stirring every minute.  But be careful!  If the mixture gels too long, you'll end of with tapioca-like lumps in the final product.

5. Beat with an electric mixer on high for five minutes; then add in 1/3 of the whip cream and mix until thoroughly combined.  Gently fold in the remaining whip cream with a spatula until just combined.

6. Pour into the ladyfinger mold, using a spatula to smooth out the top.  Refrigerate for at least two hours, or until set.  Turn out onto a plate and serve.

***

I served this at a dinner party and we all agreed it was tasty, but a little plain.  It was like inside-out angel food cake.  I think although it was a little boring for our modern day pallets, it probably would have tasted like heaven to a kid on the streets in the 1920s.

Update:  After a little poking around on the internet, I found a few descriptions of what Charlotte Russe would have looked like in New York.  I has assumed it was a simple version, just whipped cream and lady fingers, but it was held in a cardboard contraption that made it easy to eat on the go.  From The Food Timeline:

"Charlotte russe. A French dessert (supposedly created by Marie-Antonin Careme) made in mold with ladyfingers and Bavarian cream...While this confection is known and made in the United States, a simple version consisting of a square of sponge cake topped with whipped cream (sometimes with chocolate sprinkles) and a maraschino cherry was also called a "charlotte russe"...This was a standard item in eastern cities, particularly among urban Jewish Americans (some of whom pronounce the item "charely roose" or "charlotte roosh"), who made it at home or bought it at a pastry shop, where it was set on a frilled cardboard holder whose center would be pushed up as to reveal more cake as the whipped cream was consumed."
---Encyclopedia of American Food and Drink, John F. Mariani [Lebhar-Friedman:New York] 1999

"...But to old-time Brooklynites, a charlotte russe was a round of sponge cake topped with sweetened whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, and sometimes a marashcino cherry, surrounded by a frilled cardboard holder with a round of cardboard on the bottom. As the cream went down, you pushed the cardboard up from the bottom, so you could eat the cake...these were Brooklyn ambrosia."
---The Brooklyn Cookbook, Lyn Stallworth and Rod Kennedy, Jr. [Alfred A. Knopf:New York] 1994 (p. 386)

So you pushed the whole thing up like a cake and cream push pop.

History Dish Mondays: The Original Christmas Cookie

There are two very interesting aspects to this recipe.  It comes from Amelia Simmons' book American Cookery, the first cookbook of American authorship, published in 1796.  It's one of the earliest printed uses of the word cookie or "cookey," an Americanism derived from the Dutch word koekje, a little cake that was offered as a treat to New Year's day visitors in New York City.

Secondly, this recipe was published at a time when Christmas was not uniformly celebrated.  Santa Claus wasn't invented for another thirty years, and the domestic, gift giving Christmas we're familiar with today did not exist.  There was a great debate as to whether Christmas should be celebrating piously, in quiet prayer and devotion; or in a more traditional Solstice celebration, with a focus on drinking and mischief.  "The Antics" were roaming the streets of Boston, a rowdy gang who burst into the houses of the wealthy, and acted out bawdy plays for a reward of money or alcohol.  "Callathumpian bands" paraded around the streets of New York, their purpose to make as much noise and cause as much chaos as possible.

For more on the origins of modern Christmas, read Stephen Nissenbaum's amazing book, The Battle for Christmas.  I don't know more about this recipe in particular, but I was intrigued to taste the earliest American Christmas cookie recipe that I know of.

This recipe is essentially a sugar cookie flavored with coriander, which is the dried seeds of cilantro (and technically, cilantro is fresh coriander).  Simmons'  receipt is vague, so I searched for a modern recipe I could retronovate, and found the perfect solution in Martha Stewart's Old Fashioned Sugar Cookie.  This recipe appealed to me because it uses an interesting modern technique of applying a double layer of sanding sugar, which gives the cookie a sweet glaze.  I altered the batter so it would be closer to Simmons' original recipe.  For a slightly more authentic Christmas Cookey, I recommend using a recipe for Springerle cookies, a traditional Dutch treat, and replace the anise flavor with 1-2 tsp. of ground coriander.

***
Christmas Cookeys
From American Cookery by Amelia Simmons (1796)
Modern recipe derived fromMartha Stewart's Cookies

3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt

2 tsp ground coriander
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup packed light-brown sugar
1 cup unsalted butter, (2 sticks), softened
2 large eggs
Sanding sugar, for sprinkling

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Whisk flour, baking soda, coriander and salt into a bowl; set aside.

2. Using an electric mixer, beat sugars and butter at a medium speed until pale and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, until mixed. Scrape down bowl with a rubber spatula

3. Reduce mixer speed to low and gradually add flour mixture. Mix until just combined.

4. Scoop dough into a ziploc bag or sheet of plastic wrap. Form into a ball and refrigerate for at least an hour.

5. Break off a 1/4 of the dough ball. On a generously floured surface, roll out dough until it is 1/4 inch thick. "Cut or stamp in shape and size you please (Simmons)," and place on a baking sheet. "Sprinkle tops with sanding sugar, then lightly brush with a wet pastry brush; sprinkle with more sanding sugar (Stewart)."

6. Bake for 7 minutes, turning half way through.

***
I really like these cookies; they're a simple sugar cookie, with a kick of fresh citrusy flavor form the coriander.  I've boxed them up with some Chocolet Puffs and Cayenne Gingerbread, and they'll make a lovely Christmas gift.

.

History Dish Mondays: Huguenot Torte

You are gonna love this torte.

I first heard about the Huguenot Torte when paging through my most recent issue of Cuisine at Home. The photos promised a luscious-looking apple and pecan treat, that "...Hails from the Ozarks, but was popularized in South Carolina by French Protestant immigrants known as the Huguenots." An apple dessert that also has a historical provenance? Excellent.

Then I came across the same recipe in the pages of The First Ladies Cookbook, who listed it as one of Martin van Buren's favorite dishes. "Well, if MVB likes it," I thought, "It has to be good!"

As it turns out, this dish had little to do with the Huguenots, and nothing at all to do with our eigth president.

While researching a little further into the history of the Huguenot Torte, I can across this article in the New York Times. The article is part of a larger feature called Recipe Redux, wherein the author revisits recipes that were printed in the Times in years past. Huguenot Torte first appeared in the paper in 1965: "The Times’s recipe came from “The First Ladies Cook Book,” where it is featured in the chapter on Martin Van Buren — a historical impossibility because the dessert was created nearly 100 years after his term."

According to culinary historian John Martin Taylor:

"...The torte descends from a more recent Midwestern dessert called Ozark pudding. Huguenot torte, Taylor said, first showed up in print in 1950 in “Charleston Receipts,” a successful community cookbook in which the torte recipe was attributed to Evelyn Anderson Florance (then Mrs. Cornelius Huguenin). In the 1980s, Taylor tracked her down in a nursing home and discovered that she had eaten Ozark pudding on a trip to Galveston, Tex., in the ’30s. After fiddling with the recipe, she renamed it Huguenot torte after Huguenot Tavern, a Charleston restaurant where she made desserts. The tavern became known for the torte."

I don't hold the untruths that have been propagated about the Torte against it, because in actuality, this torte is one of the most amazing desserts I've ever had. It takes advantage of the fall apple harvest and is incredibly simple to put together. It has very little flour and a lot of eggs and sugar, which results in the most fascinating texture combination after it is baked: the top is the crustiest, crispiest meringue, while the inside is gooey, buttery caramel.

This dessert is astounding and due for a revival; in fact, I bet Martin van Buren would have loved it, had he been alive when it was created.

***
Huguenot Torte (1930s)
Ingredients taken from The First Ladies' Cookbook (1965)
Directions inspired by Cuisine at Home magazine (2009)

2 eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup peeled and chopped tart cooking apples
1 cup coarsely chopped pecans
1 teaspoon vanilla
4 tablespoons all-purpose flour, mixed with
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 cup heavy cream, whipped with 2 tablespoons sugar and 1 teaspoon almond extract.

1. Preheat over to 325 degrees. Grease a 9 x 13 inch baking dish; or line it with parchment paper.

2. Beats eggs and vanilla at high speed. Add the sugar a little at a time, until the eggs are light and creamy, about five minutes.

3. Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Mix into egg mixture until just combined.

4. Fold in apple and pecans.

5. Pour into baking dish. Baked torte 35-45 minutes, until the top is golden brown.

Cool five minutes and serve warm, cut into squares. Don't get stressed out when the Torte crumbles as it is dished out; that's it's nature. A dollop of lightly sweetened, almond flavored whipped cream is an excellent compliment. This Torte tastes even better the next day, after being warmed a few minutes in the oven.

History Dish Mondays: Peach Brandy

I have long dreamed of making peach brandy from scratch, a key component of my favorite summer-time drink: The Mint Julep. Too long have I made-do with "Mr. Boston." The time is right for plump, ripe peaches, so I am seizing the day and attempting to infuse my own peach brandy.

I consulted Jerry Thomas for guidance:

I took two large, very ripe peaches, and smushed them up good, skins and all , with the bottom of a rocks glass. I spooned them into a mason jar, and then filled the jar with brandy to the top. I mixed it around a little bit to ensure a happy marriage of brandy and peach. Thomas recommends letting the mixture macerate for 24 hours, which means in the future this mixture could be made on relatively short notice. However, I'm going to Alaska tomorrow morning for two weeks. How could letting it sit a little longer possibly hurt? It could only improve the flavor, right??

So I've just covered the jar, and pushed it to the back of the fridge. See you in two weeks, Peach Brandy! When I return, I will strain the liquid, and mix some cocktails.

History Dish Mondays: Little Citron Puddings

I did more research on the uses of American citron (see my previous post), and discovered it tended to be used in the same way as many candied fruits: in cakes (particular wedding cakes) and cookies. I came across the recipe for Little Citron Puddings, which seemed unique but not out of the ordinary, and relatively simple to make. I decided to give it a whirl.

The next day, I took a teacup of custard out of the fridge and gave it a taste. At first, I thought the citron didn't offer any flavor except gelatinous and sweet. But after trying a few bites of custard sans citron, I realized it really did add some depth of flavor that I couldn't quite put my finger on. The custard was a good consistency, the nutmeg delightful, and the tea-cup container pleasing and convenient. However, it just wasn't really...good. It lacked a certain something, and the texture of the citron was a tinch repulsive.

I'm thinking that American citron is one of those Victorian dishes I just can't get behind. But I'd be curious to try the same methods with a real citron, to see if it's more flavorful.

History Dish Mondays: Deviled Egg Salad

Recently, my Mom read that passing down cookbooks from mother to daughter is a way of preserving a family's history. So in that vein, she gifted me with two cookbooks that my grandmother received as wedding presents in the 1940s: The Settlement Cookbook and the Watkins Salad Book.

My mother tapped the books. "Every time we made peanut butter cookies, it was always from The Settlement Cookbook." she said. "Every time we made deviled eggs, it was always, always from the Watkins Salad Book."

True to her word, when I paged through the Watkin's Salad Book back in NYC, I found a permanent bookmark glued to the page for "Deviled Egg Salad."

Deviled eggs are a food I always associate with summer cookouts. So with the Fourth of July right around the corner, I thought I'd share with you my family's recipe.

***

Deviled Egg Salad

From the Watkins Salad Book (1946) by Elaine Allen

6 hard boiled eggs

1/4 tsp Powdered Mustard

1 tsp vinegar

1 tsp melted butter

1/4 teaspoon ground red pepper

1/4 teaspoon Salt

Mayonnaise

Paprika

1-2 tablespoons Diced sweet pickles (optional)

I hard-boil my eggs according to Martha Stewart's instructions, which I've found to be the best.

1. Slice the eggs in half and scoop out the yolks. Place the yolks in a bowl.

2. Mash up the yolks with seasonings, vinegar, butter and just enough mayonnaise to moisten. Season to taste--I did not have ground red pepper, so I used Cayenne pepper, which was equally as good. Mix in diced sweet pickles.

3. Refill egg whites using a spoon or pastry bag. Sprinkle with paprika and chill.

Serve and enjoy!

***

For more on deviled eggs, including history and recipes, visit The Deviled Egg Gourmet.

History Dish Mondays: American Citron

A sweet preparation of American citron.

There's a recipe I come across again and again in 19th century cookbooks: Citron, or American Citron. The earliest recipe appears in the first American cookbook, American Cookery by Amelia Simmons:

Citron, I've discovered, is a cirrus fruit native to southern Asia. The pulp is inedible; instead, the rind is cut up and preserved. I supposed it was generally unavailable in early America, so watermelon rind was used as a substitute.

I found a few recipe in later 19th c cookbook that suggest brining citron, like a pickle. So I decided to make two batches, a sweet preparation and a savory.

***

American Citron (sweet)

From American Cookery (1796) by Amelia Simmons.

1 quarter watermelon, fruit and skin removed, sliced into 1 inch chunks

1/2 cup sugar.

Place watermelon rind slices and sugar into a pot, cover with water, and bring to a slow boil. Boil for about two hours, or until tender. Pour into a canning jar and seal, cool in refrigerator for at least two hours.

American Citron (savory)

Based on a recipe from Martha Stewart's Everyday Food

1 cup white vinegar

1/2 cup sugar

1 tsp salt

1/4 tsp celery seed

1/4 tsp mace

Bring ingredients to a boil, stirring to dissolve sugar. Arrange rind slices in a jar. Pour hot brine into a jar until rind is completely covered and seal jar. Refrigerate until cool, about two hours (or up to 1 week).

***

For canning, I used an old spaghetti sauce jar and a canning jar that some face cream came in (I washed it). When I opened up the jars the next day, I was surprised to find that the steam had created a tight seal on both jars, including resealing the spaghetti sauce jar. I've never canned before, so these things amaze me. I sampled both citron preparations: the preserved citron was soft and almost completely transparent. It tasted like sugar melon and feet. The pickled citron was crunchier, but also a little slimy. I remembered reading some 19th c recipes that warned against the slime, and recommended soaking it in a brine, rinsing it, and brining it again to get rid of it. My bad.

The odd part about citron is that there are many more recipes for preserving it than how to eat it, or what to eat it with. Now that I've successfully made citron, I have to figure out what the hell to do with it.

American citron, brined.

History Dish Mondays: Featherballs

You are gonna love these balls.

This week, in my ongoing Jewish-American cooking project, Ilana and I are attempting Featherballs:

Featherballs are essentially matzo balls, but are unique in the fact that they are flavored with nutmeg or ginger. My friend and cohort Ilana pointed out that ordinarily in matzo ball soup, it's the broth that is the most flavorful, and the matzo balls added as filler. In this recipe, the flavor of the matzo balls are brought to the forefront. Additionally, these balls do have a light and fluffy texture--but we'll get to that in moment.

I journeyed to Brooklyn to meet with Ilana and her boyfriend Jed, for a lesson in Matzo balls. They filled me in on some matzo ball facts: That they were normally made with butter or margarine, so they anticipated this recipe to be much richer, and possibly heavier. Additionally,

most New York matzo balls are fist-size, like the ones you'll find at Katz's or the 4th Ave. Deli. These featherballs were to be rolled the size of walnuts. Their are also two types of matzo balls--the light "floaters" and the dense "sinkers." Neither are wrong, just a personal preference.

We whipped the eggs and the schmaltz until each were fluffy, then combined them and added the dry ingredients. We split the dough between two bowls, and flavored half with nutmeg, and half with ginger. The dry ingredients were added, and mixed by hand until just combined. Jed warned us that over mixing the ingredients would result in a matzo ball as hard as rock.

Jed also said that with most matzo ball recipe, you let the batter chill first, and then roll the balls. In the recipe, you roll first and then chill. We shrugged and followed the recipe.

While the matzo balls chilled in the fridge, Jed cooked some carrot slices in chicken broth. We used boxed broth, but one of the cool things about this recipe is it written for a home cooked soup: you would make you soup, skim the chicken fat off the top, add the fat to the matzo balls, and cook the balls in the soup. Jed also noted that the carrots are essential; they help to break up the saltiness of the broth and the matzo, and gives your palette a rest.

The featherballs are dropped into boiling chicken broth.

When the broth came to a rolling boil, we dropped the featherballs in and covered the pot. 18 minutes later they were done. Be careful not to cook them too long--they begin to fall apart in the water. Some may be a little underdone in the middle, which is fine. We turned off the burner and served us up a bowl of featherballs.

I have to admit, I have no basis of comparison, these being perhaps the second matzo balls I've had in my life. But I did think they were really good. Jed and Ilana have grown up on matzo. The three of us agreed the texture was great--Jed and Ilana said much less dense than an ordinary matzo ball. It was light, but also very hearty. After eating four, we were full.

We couldn'y taste the ginger in the featherballs, although they were still salty and good. The nutmeg taste was present, and they were deigned the favorites by Jed and Ilana. For me, it was hard. I associate the taste of nutmeg with dense cakes of the 1850s, and it was difficult to get out of the mindset. We speculate that mace (the spicy out shell of a nutmeg) might also make a good featherball.

The featherballs were really perfect. Ilana hit the nail on the head: "These are the best matzo balls I've ever had. I think we've really rediscovered something."

In the coming weeks, we plan on doing one more Jewish cooking day based on our Manischewitz cookbook. Ilana and Jef will handle savory dishes (pumpkin pancakes, tamales, asparagus wheel) and I'll attack sweets (boston pie, orient cake, farfelroons). I will keep you updated as to our progress.

History Dish Mondays: Cooking with Schmaltz, Part One

Chicken cookies triumphant.

I'm embarking on a new project with my friend Ilana. While at her bubbe's for Passover, Ilana came across a Manischewitz Matzo Meal cookbook from 1930. It was printed both in Yiddish and in English, and the recipes were in a similar vein, featuring Kosher preparations for America classics such as Boston Cream Pie.

I had remembered reading about these duel-language cookbooks in Laura Schenone's book 1,000 Years Over a Hot Stove. Schenone writes:

"As the 20th century marched on, many Jewish women felt comfortable assimilating through the table, partaking in the fruits of American technology and convenience and all its symbols of progress. It was possible to do this, they proved, and still remain Jewish in identity, soul, and even according to religious law, if they wished."

The assimilation of Jewish immigrants through food seemed to be happening largely from 1900-1935 and it resulted in an unique cuisine that was simultaneously traditionally Jewish and modern American. Product cook books, like the one printed by Manischewitz, seemed especially intent on creating this modern, hybrid woman.

So we got curious what these recipes tasted like. Ilana and I perused Tempting Kosher Dishes, and selected a few recipes that seemed like the best examples of the hybrid cuisine. This week, I'm cooking up a batch of Mock Oatmeal Cookies:

Yes, these cookies are made with "melted chicken fat." Chicken cookies.

***

Mock Oatmeal Cookies
From Tempting Kosher Dishes, B. Manischewitz Co., 1930

2 cups matzo meal
2 cups matzo farfel
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup walnuts
2/3 cup schmaltz
4 eggs
1 tsp. cinnamon

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

2. Cream together the schmaltz and the sugar. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each one.

3. In a separate bowl, stir together cinnamon and matzo meal. With the mixer on low, slowly add the matzo meal. Mix until combined.

4. Stir in the walnuts and matzo farfel. Drop teaspoon sized lumps onto a greased or silicon cookie sheet.

5. Bake 15 minutes, or until bottoms are golden brown. Cool and enjoy.

**note: I would recommend doubling the amount of walnuts (or raisins) and adding 3/4 salt to the matzo meal.

My lips had never touched schmaltz until I moved to New York. Traditionally Jewish, it's chicken fat, used to replace butter when necessary according to Kosher laws. It's commercially available, but traditionally skimmed off the top of stock. I was having a hard time getting my hands on it in my largely Greek and Hispanic neighborhood. But fortune smiled, and while out on a video shoot, I brought up my search for schmaltz to food journalist (and schmaltz advocate) Josh Ozersky and chef Marco Canora of Hearth and Insieme. We were on our way to Insieme, when Marco mentioned he had just cooked up a pot of chicken stock, and would be more than happy to skim me some schmaltz from the top. I was beyond thrilled--looks like I owe Marco some Mock Oatmeal Cookies.

Marco skims for schmaltz. What a great guy.

Matzo Meal is ground Matzo; while Matzo Farfel is crushed or crumble Matzo. It's worth it buying it in canisters as opposed to breaking up Matzo crackers. It's cheaper and saves time.

I mixed this recipe as I would a normal cookie dough, although this batter was definitely thinner. By mixing in the Matzo Farfel at the very end, it stayed crispier, and added more texture. I left out the raisins, because I hate fruit in my cookies. I sampled some of the dough before popping it in the oven: It had a disturbing chicken aftertaste.

Left: Matzo farfel. Right: Mock Oatmeal Dough.

A half hour was far too long a bake time for these cookies, and I burned my first batch. The second batch I baked 15 minutes, and they came out perfectly brown on the bottom. I offered one to my roommate without telling him what was in it.

The verdict? Well, we both ate two. The chicken aftertaste had somehow baked away. They had a great texture, similar to a scone: crisp on the outside, and surprising soft and cake like on the inside, despite the lack of leavening. The matzo farfel really crunched and popped in you mouth. It would be a good cookie with a cup of coffee.

I did find the cookies needed a bit of salt; I would probably add 3/4 tsp the next time I made them. Adding more walnuts wouldn't have hurt either.

In fact, I would make these cookies again. I think they're made even more appealing because of their unique origins. Not bad for a cookie that started off smelling like chicken soup.

Next week, Featherballs: a matzo ball seasoned with ginger or nutmeg, fried in schmaltz.

History Dish Mondays: The 8,000 Year Old Recipe

Nettle pudding.

Nettle pudding has been declared Britain's oldest recipe. From Epicurious.com:

"Not helping the culinary reputation of their countrymen at all, British archaeologists and food experts have announced what they say is the U.K.'s oldest recipe, an 8,000-year-old list of instructions for nettle pudding--or as we might dub it in the present day, weed glop."

***

Nettle pudding

Original recipe from Daily Mail UK Online

Ingredients
2 bunches of young nettle leaves

Any combination of 4 wild greens, such as:

bunch of sorrel
bunch of watercress
bunch of dandelion leaves Some chives

1 cup of barley flour 1 teaspoon salt

Chop the herbs finely and mix in the barley flour and salt. Add enough water to bind it together and place in the centre of a linen or muslin cloth. Tie the cloth securely and add to a pot of simmering venison or wild boar (a pork joint will do just as well). Leave in the pot until the meat is cooked and serve with chunks of bread.

**

Reading over the recipe, I realized it was made with wild greens that would have been gathered from the cook's surroundings. So, even though I live in Queens, I decided to make my recipe with wild greens gathered from *my* surroundings.

WARNING! If you don't know anything about wild plants, you can poison yourself. I grew up in a rural area in a family full of chemists, so I have some background in identifying wild edibles. Don't try this at home if your only experience involves me, or looking at photos on the internet.

Wild onion sprouts in a housing project.

I got the idea to try hunting and gathering in New York after I saw wild onions springing up in the yards of the Ravenswood Housing Projects. The lawns have gone to seed; which was great for me. On a walk home from my boyfriend's house, I hopped the fence and snipped some of the green onion tops. This lot was also bursting with violets, another edible plant, but one I didn't think was appropriate for this particular recipe. I tucked the onions into a plastic bag with a damp towel, so they wouldn't wilt.

Next I came across a vacant lot, and found another plant I had been searching for: Lamb's Quarter. I first learned about lamb's quarter while working on a video with chef Bill Telepan, who also uses wild leeks and ferns in his cuisine.

The lamb's quarter were just babies, since it's so early in the season, but they would do. I snipped them and added them to my baggy.

I also squeezed through a locked gate to grab a couple handfuls of what I thought was wild yellow sorrel, but after bringing it home I wasn't sure. I decided to pitch it, and wait until I had more sorrel information.

Dandelion greens grocery store.

Lastly, I passed by an embankment near the East River and collected some young dandelion leaves. They are best eaten before they flower.

While I was foraging, I really expected to be treated like a crazy person. It's not often you seen some one picking weeds out of a vacant lot in Queens. But strangely--people went out of there way to be nice to me, and say "hello." I guess carrying a handful of green stuff = good person in the universal judgement book.

I brought everything home and washed them thoroughly in a colander. I even used a touch of soup. I sampled a few leaves--the onions were especially flavorful and delicious. The dandelions were bitter, but bearable, and the lamb's quarter was delicate.

Left: Wild onion greens and lamb's quarter, foraging in Queens. Right: Stinging Nettle

I couldn't find the recipe's namesake, Nettle, in the wild. So I stopped by the Paffenroth Gardens stall at the Union Square Green Market and picked up a bunch.

When I got home, I pulled the nettle leaves from the stems (I recommend wearing gloves; they ain't called stinging nettles for nothing). I then chopped all of my greens finely, and mixed them together.

I was not able to find barley flour in the grocery story; I bought barley in hopes of making my own, but it turns out I need a "grain grinder." So I substituted a cup of regular flour, and added just enough water to make it wet enough to bind together--about 1/2 cup. I formed it into a ball, and wrapped it in cheesecloth, tying off the end with a twist tie.

Left: Adding flour and water, and forming into a ball. Right: The ball is wrapped in cheesecloth, and dropped into a simmering pot of hot ham water.

I had a ham bone in the freezer, left over from Easter, and I threw that in a big pot of water and let it come to a simmer. I dipped in my cheesecloth encased ball, and let it simmer for an hour.

An hour later, we had what one of my friends described as a "hammy leafy wheat ball." I told her to be quiet because she was about to put a time machine in her mouth. When I unwrapped the cheesecloth, the pudding was surprising firm and a deep green. I scooped servings onto slices of bread.

The verdict? Not bad. I wouldn't make it for pleasure, but the taste was surprisingly mild. Any hint of bitterness from the greens was gone, and they were all very tender. The dish was also very filling: my friends and I ate our whole servings, then hiked and played 4-square for 5 hours. And we felt good.

I feel like Nettle Pudding was designed to put to good use spring greens, a food that while very nutritious was not very filling on its own. Barley flour would have added even more nutrients to this dish. The dish was also designed to be eating with meat. The pudding helped a small amount of meat go a long way, much in the same way rice or grits are used as a filler.

And I have to say, it was pretty cool to eat something very similar to what people were eating 8,000 years ago.

For more wild greens and ways to cook them, check out my video with Bill Telepan on Nymag.com

And if you live in New York , take a foraging tour with Wild Man Steve Brill.

History Dish Mondays: Burnt Almond Ice Cream

Burnt Almondy Ice Cream Goo.

We're continuing our ice cream social agenda with Burnt Almond Ice Cream, another flavor pulled form Lincoln's Inaugural Menu.  This is a custard ice cream, so it's a little more difficult than what we've been making up until this point. And I'll let you in on the surprise ending: mine didn't turn out.  It didn't freeze in the ice cream maker, and it's currently a Tupperware of goop sitting in my freezer.  I did something wrong in this recipe, I just don't know what.  The great tragedy is that it TASTES AMAZING.  I think I'll try serving it as a sauce on top of other ice cream.

At any rate, give this recipe a try, and if your results are more successful than mine, please let me know.

***

Burnt Almond Ice Cream
Original Recipe from the Boston Cooking School Cookbook By Fannie Merritt Farmer 

Boston, Little, Brown And Company (1896).

1 1/3 cups sugar (set half aside)

1 tablespoon flour

1/8 teaspoon salt

1 egg

2 cups milk

1 quart cream

1 1/2 tablespoons vanilla

2 cups finely chopped, toasted almonds (or to taste)

1. Mix half the sugar, flour and salt.

2. Add egg, slightly beaten.

3.  Add milk slowly, whisking constantly.

4. Cook over a double boiler (or makeshift double boiler) for 20 minutes, stirring constantly the first 15 minutes.  If you've made a custard before, this may not look as think as you think it ought.  But don't worry, it will thicken up when you add the caramelized sugar.

Left: Makeshift double boiler. Right: Caramelizing the sugar.  Do not try to taste the caramelized sugar by sticking your finger in it; its is very very hot and you will get burned very very bad. Like me.

5. In the last five minutes of cooking time, caramelize the sugar.  Put the remaining sugar in a non-stick saute pan over a low heat.  Stir constantly.  When the sugar begins to melt, it will caramelize soon after.  You want the sugar to be completely melted and the color of maple syrup. Take care not to burn it.

6.  With the double boiler still on, drizzle a fine stream of the caramelized sugar into the custard, whisking constantly.  As the sugar hit the custard, and might cool slightly and become gooey.  Don't fret, just keep stirring until the sugar is fully integrated.

7. At this point, you custard will be a dark brown.  Add the cream and vanilla and combine.  Let sit until it comes to room temperature, or place in the refrigerator for an hour or more.

8.  Freeze in an ice cream make according to the manufacturer's instructions.  I let my ice cream mellow in the refrigerator over night, and then I put it in the ice cream maker for 30 minutes.  It never seemed to freeze; I just tossed the almonds in at the very end and then stuck it in the freezer. tragedy.