Attman's Authentic New York Deli

I used to live in the city. I used to live on East Baltimore Street by the western edge of Patterson Park in Butchers Hill back when re-gentrification was first taking hold, and rats and addicts and undercover cops still wandered the alleyways. Shortly after I moved there, the city decided to help support the efforts of the well-intended yuppies homesteading in the neighborhood and engaged in some beautification. This included repaving the sidewalks and adding some very attractive brick inlay work. It also included placing giant potted plants on the corners. They lasted until sometime around bar time of the first night. At the time, my friends and I laughed at this with jaded cynicism. It was, however, the beginning of a significant change. I left the neighborhood before this change was complete, and am now amazed when I drive through it on my way out to my current home in the suburbs.

I used to spend Fridays drinking in Fells Point in the now defunct Miss Irene's, home to bikers, artists, Johns Hopkins residents from foreign countries, and other assorted oddballs. I used to wake up too early on Saturday mornings from a restless, beer-fueled semi-sleep with a rough edge. But I was still young and thought I had the cure for a hangover. My cure entailed throwing on a pair of shoes and a coat over my jammies and driving down to Attman's Deli for a fresh potato knish and a Dr. Brown's Cherry Cola. And, while Butchers Hill is now fully re-gentrified and Miss Irene's has become an upscale bistro, Attman's is blissfully unchanged.

Attman's is a staple of the Baltimore landscape. It sits alongside Lenny's Deli on a two-block stretch of Lombard Street that used to be known as Corned Beef Row as at one time it boasted a number of classic delis that were rumored to rival New York's finest. I can vouch for this claim as the pastrami Reuben I get at Attman's is still better than any sandwich I've gotten in New York. I took the hike up there for my Friday lunch this week and, as usual, was not disappointed.

I love that they even offer a pastrami Reuben. I find this to be superior to the traditional corned beef mostly because I find pastrami to be a superior cold cut. The peppery flavor adds a little zest to the sandwich, and the texture of the meat is more like actual meat and doesn't have that graininess of corned beef. And their cold cuts are cut on the meat slicer right in front of you as you order, so your sandwich comes to you with freshly sliced meat. The lady in front of me ordered her roast beef shaved, and she got to see a sample slice before her sandwich was made.

Attman's uses good Jewish rye bread. The slices are thin but substantial and can carry the weight of their meaty sandwiches, even the notoriously damp Reuben. They use a generous amount of Thousand Island dressing on both slices and nestle the still-crisp sauerkraut on the inside between two slices of Swiss cheese and all that fresh-cut deli meat. It even survived my five-block walk back to the office. Wrapped in deli paper and then foil, the sandwich was still warm when I got to my desk. And, the bread held together while I ate, without the almost inevitable sauerkraut downfall that has afflicted my other Reuben experiences.

Even though it's been years since I visited Attman's, very little has changed about the quality of their food. That consistency is comforting and a little reassuring when so much else about my former life has changed, or even disappeared altogether. Standing in the narrow space between their counter and their beverage coolers, I felt a little nostalgic for my early years in Baltimore that now seem so reckless in comparison to my current life. Sometimes you can go back home, and Attman's is proof that sometimes some things really don't change, and in this case it is a very good thing.

Attman's remains one of my all-time favorite lunch spots in the city, as well as a genuine slice of Baltimore culture. While Corned Beef Row may be a shadow of what it once was, Attman's continued to serve up quality deli meats and sandwiches to a packed house seven days a week with a brisk and personal efficiency that comes from 100 years of service. They also offer catering.

Attman's Deli is located at 1019 East Lombard Street within walking distance of the Harbor East, Inner Harbor, and Little Italy neighborhoods. Metered street parking is available.

2012: The Year in Review

This past year has been one of growth: for  me personally, for this blog, and for me and my counterpart culinarily speaking. The year started off with the acquisition of a new camera and a commitment from me to this blogging endeavor - to improve the quality of the content and to attempt to find a voice.

From a culinary perspective, Gareth continued to explore new terrain and expand his skills. 2012 was the year of meat-binding. Starting with our New Year's Eve roasted rabbit, Gareth continued to use this technique for roasting meat and herbs throughout the year with delicious results.

Frenched rack of lamb, bound up with rosemary sprigs

Beef roast bound with an herb and bleu cheese filling

Pheasant bound with herbs and potatoes

We also began exploring the many fine offerings from D'Artagnan. First discovered at our local Wegman's, we began ordering directly from their website at the end of 2011. They provided last years' Solstice Partridge, but also kept us well-stocked with duck breast and various cuts of lamb. By mid-year, I was ordering whatever was on sale to see what Gareth would do with it. This got me a taste of roasted pigeon, several amazing quiches, and a willingness for my counterpart to cook pheasant.

Braising squab on the stovetop

This was the year of the wedding cake, a labor of love for our favorite couple who finally tied the knot. We produced a three-tiered white cake covered in butter cream that reached about a meter in height. Of all our exploits, this was by far the grandest. While I did not create a blog posting about this, my personal Facebook page included an extensive photo gallery of the two-day process.

That's a lot of batter

Gareth's first wedding cake

At work, my spouse embraced the Indian culture of his team, an appreciation he brought home and into the kitchen. He developed his own curry powder and tried his hand at several Indian staples, including kheema, biryani, and butter chicken. While I attempted the latter myself early in the year, Gareth perfected it, and it is now in regular rotation, much to my delight.

Kheema

This was also the year that I remembered how to bake. I've traditionally played more of a passive role in the kitchen, helping to prep, taking photos, and doing clean up. But in the running dialog about food between me and my spouse, I came up with some of my own ideas this year. Keeping in mind a chefy approach, I created my first pinwheel cookies and baked the best pie I've made in well over a decade.

Mary Cherry Christmas Pie

So what does 2013 hold in store? More experimentation, more good food, and more participation from me. The Food Journal is also undergoing a bit of a redesign. I hope to launch the new and improved site in the next couple of months.

Happy New Year!

Holiday Baking: Mary Cherry Christmas Pie

When my counterpart and I started discussing Christmas dinner a few weeks back, I knew I wanted a cherry pie. I grew up in Northeast Wisconsin, and we spent our Christmases with my grandparents and cousins in Sturgeon Bay on the Door Peninsula, where orchards of tart cherries littered the landscape from Brussels bordering Kewaunee County in the south up to Gills Rock on the northern tip of the mainland where a ferry could take you to the islands on the very northern tip between Upper and Lower Michigan. Every Christmas, every holiday, ended with a tart cherry pie.

I haven't had a cherry pie for Christmas since that last Christmas with my grandmother in 2004. While I can usually count on my brother-in-law for a sweet potato pie - a regional favorite out here in Maryland - this year I decided that I was having a nice tart cherry pie like when I was a kid.

I have long been a fan of the basic pie crust in the Betty Crocker cookbook, but this year I deviated. I tried the Deluxe Butter Flaky Pastry Pie Dough from The Joy of Cooking, 1997 edition.

This is a double-crust recipe for a 10-inch pie. After recently discovering that my 9-inch pie pan is actually 9.5, I felt confident that this recipe would yield enough crust. For this pie crust, you will need:

2.5 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2 sticks of cold unsalted butter
1/4 cup vegetable shortening
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon ice water

Mix together your dry ingredients and set aside.

Cut your butter down into small pieces about 1/4 inch thick. Cut the butter into your dry ingredients using a pastry blender. The recipe - and really all pie crust recipes - claim you can use two butter knives cutting in a cross-wise motion against each other for this process. This has never worked for me, and I doubt it has worked for anyone. If you are a baker, even if only around the end of the year, get a pastry blender.

Now, the point of pie crust is fairly contrary to the point of many other baked items. For pie crust, you want to keep everything cold. Especially so with a butter crust like this one, so don't over work it. Cut everything together until there are still some pea-sized lumps of butter.

At this point, the recipe calls for the vegetable shortening, but also mentions that you can just use more butter if you like. The authors note that an all-butter crust is more difficult to work with. I was undeterred, and cut another half stick of cold butter into my dough.

The dough should still be pretty coarse but also somewhat mixed. Here's where I work it by hand, adding that ice water a little at a time. You want just enough to pull it all together. The third cup plus tablespoon was all I needed.

Divide it in half, shape each half into a flat disk, and chill for at least 30 minutes.

When the pie crust is chilling, I took a little rest, then moved on to the filling.I used the Cherry Pie with Canned or Bottled Fruit, also in The Joy of Cooking. For this filling you will need:

4 cups canned or bottled cherries, juice drained but 1/2 cup added back
1.25 cups sugar for tart cherries
3 tablespoons corn starch
1 tablespoon lemon juice - I used the juice from one lemon
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
2/3 tablespoons butter

I did not have any Door County cherries on hand, and I hear they are not as easy to come by as they used to be, most of the orchards having been sold or developed or let go to rot and ruin. This actually makes me quite sad. But, I had a good substitution with Oregon Tart Cherries in Water. I needed three 14.5 ounce cans to get the required four cups of fruit.

Oregon tart cherries - almost as good as my childhood memories of Door County

Mix the cherries and juice with the sugar, lemon juice, almond extract, and corn starch, and let the mixture sit for about 15 minutes.

Cherry pie filling

While it's sitting, you can preheat your oven to 425 and roll out your bottom crust. Despite the warning about the all-butter crust being difficult to work with, I had less trouble with this dough than with any other pastry dough I've ever attempted. I had enough to line my pie pan without tears or holes or patches. Cut off any overhang with a clean kitchen shears, leaving enough to crimp the top crust.

A single blemish on an otherwise perfect pie crust

If your 15 minutes have passed, pour the fruit filling into the pie crust and dot it with the butter.

Now, I know there are strong opinions among bakers about the lattice crust being the preferred topping for a fruit pie. A raging debate on this takes place in my own family. My niece has perfected the lattice top crust just to let us older women know that it really isn't that difficult. And it isn't. But, this is my Christmas pie, and I have something special in mind. So, I rolled out my top crust.

And reached for the Christmas tree cookie cutter. After some careful measuring, I determined where the center of my top crust would be and gently cut out five Christmas trees, tops pointing center. I used my pastry blade to ease the dough off the board and into position atop the pie, lining it up based on my measurements. I used the tried-and-true crimping tool of my forebears - a dinner fork - to secure the crust in place. Then, for the crowning touch, I took a small star cookie cutter and cut one out of the dough scraps. I used a little egg white to affix it to the center of my top crust to make Christmas pie perfection.

The top crust with Christmas tree cutouts

And in position atop the pie

So, whether you use a whole crust with vents or a lattice crust, bake your pie at 425 for about 30 minutes. Then, turn the oven down to 350 and slip a cookie sheet under the pie. Bake it for another 25-35 minutes, until the crust is golden and the filling is bubbling. During this second half of baking, use your nose to make sure the edges of the crust aren't overcooking. If they start to get too dark, cover them with foil.

Let the pie cool on a wire rack. You can store it at room temperature for only a couple of days, so clear a spot for it in the fridge.

The finished product - Mary Cherry Christmas Pie

Holiday Gifts

During the latter years of my grandmother's life, after I had moved out to Maryland, my counterpart always made sure I made it back to her doorstep for Christmas. This is not out of any love for winters in Wisconsin, but out of genuine love and fondness for both me and her. To hear him tell it, she made him promise to do just that as a condition to agreeing to my moving so far away to begin with. I like to believe this as it fits with my concept of being her favorite grand-daughter. We shared a birthday, me and her, and I always felt that this set me apart from my siblings and cousins. When my grandmother met the man who would become my husband, I felt as if she let him into our special relationship.

And he made good on it. Every year until her passing he traveled with me back to spend Christmas with her. And, each year he cooked for her. Not just dinner, but three meals a day plus casseroles and soups that he portioned out and put away in her freezer for after we were gone. As she aged, she - like so many people - lost interest in food. Or at least in cooking. We would arrive to find little actual food on hand and her seemingly content with microwave popcorn. Gareth would run to the Piggly Wiggly (with her checkbook, at her insistence) and restock. And so, while I visited with my family, Gareth cooked, and my grandmother ate.

Food is nourishment, not only for our bodies but also for our spirits. Gareth's good hot food brought my grandmother back to life each year, made her feel valued and loved and a little more comfortable. Cooking - when done in a thoughtful and caring manner - is an act of love and one of the best ways to provide comfort.

This holiday season, while I remember those final Christmas visits with my grandmother, I am also pondering the very recent departure of another from that grand generation - Gareth's great uncle. Just 50 miles away from us, when he took a final fall that was ultimately fatal, we made several trips down I-95 to visit him and his children as they arrived, relatives so distant they were nearly strangers, yet so similar to my spouse they could only be his kin. In the face of the dying patriarch and his offspring, bewildered with impending grief, we brought with us food. And we were greeted with smiles, warmth, and embraces.

We served dinner and inspired conversation. Everyone keeping vigil in that tiny apartment began breathing again, if only for a few hours. With warm, home-made food in their bellies, the extended family appeared to gain the strength to continue. And when a few days later their father passed, we made one final journey with our last offering of comfort and carrot cake. And we were thanked profusely for both.

The passing of Gareth's great uncle highlights the memories of Christmas with my grandmother. They were both part of that generation who grew up during the Depression and came of age during World War II. They did not have those modern problems of wounded inner children and fractured marriages and prescription drugs and other modern ailments of my generation. They were kind and thoughtful and optimistic and very, very grateful.

So this is the year I give up cynicism. This is the year I stop categorizing "Lethal Weapon" and "Die Hard" as Christmas movies and embrace the hope and joy of "Holiday Inn". As I start my holiday baking, I will move with kindness and thoughtfulness and gratitude. I will give out my cookies with a little prayer of thanks for all the good people in my life, and for the time I spent with that older generation. May I carry their optimism forward in my life.

The Changing of the Seasons

These last few months have been a busy time, full of joy and sadness, celebration and grief, and experiences that run the full gamut of living. I learned of the tragic death of a good friend I had lost touch with. I watched from afar as a friend and professional colleague made her last stand against cancer as her struggle finally came to an end. I participated in the joining of two good friends in marriage and contributed to their simple yet elegant and very personal, intimate wedding. I rallied my family to scatter my father's ashes some three years after his death after the UW Medical School had completed their study his body. I helped my mother mark the 50th anniversary of her marriage to him. I welcomed an old friend from high school into the area and attended my first military function as I witnessed her husband take command of a nearby military base. I saw my niece off to her new life in San Francisco, holding my breath as she lept out of the proverbial nest and spread her wings to really fly. And she is soaring.

And now it is summer, and life feels so good. The heat of the season feels invigorating this year. I am motivated, energized, renewed. I look forward to the transition of the hearth from the kitchen to the yard  as we begin cooking on the charcoal grill. Cooking over burning wood alters the character of food in many ways, and I imagine the meat  picks up some attributes of the wood as it smokes.

My counterpart has been lighting the charcoal in a separate smoker attachment and then adding it to the grill after the lighter fluid has burned off. He adds some of the good hard beech wood scattered throughout our yard, and sometimes a little fresh rosemary, to the grill as well, which add to the flavor of the meat. A small compartment of water just under the meat keeps everything moist and tender.

Sauces and gravies give way to marinades and glazes. Vegetable medleys are replaced by fresh greens and tomatoes and avocado. This summer, I have been getting berries in my salad as well, a culinary endeavor that we have typically shied away from until we experienced the successful execution at the dinner following the aforementioned wedding.

The seasonal flavors and textures of summer leave me feeling light, hopeful, optimistic. The days are long and hot. The air at work is restless as we are unable to escape the conditioning of our K-12 education and the knowledge that the last day of school has passed marking the beginning of summer vacation. We move outside and enjoy the increased daylight, knowing that all too soon, the days will shorten, the shadows will lengthen, and we will be forced back indoors.

But for now, I embrace the sunshine with a smile.

Grilling out

Golden Lady

When I first described her to my spouse, I used phrases like "put together", "a force to be reckoned with", "the most prepared one in the room", and "someone I can learn a lot from". Now that she has passed, I think of several things. A bright shining beacon standing tall, casting her light far and wide, providing guidance and direction to everyone around her. A giant bird from Greek mythology with wings spread wide and so many of us nestled in the warmth of her embrace. She was a role model, a mentor, a friend. She was strong and fierce and a little bit frightening to me at first. She was wide open to life and all its experiences, embracing the joy and the pain and everything in between. She was fearless.

Her fearlessness was contagious. In her sphere of influence, risk was necessary, but planning was essential. She encouraged me to move forward professionally, never doubting my own ability to succeed even when (especially when) I doubted myself. Failure was sometimes inevitable, but usually avoidable if one had a good risk strategy and an accurate assessment of the work to be done. Bold, but prepared, she embraced everything that came her way.

But she also paid attention to what I was doing outside of work. As our professional relationship turned more personal, she learned of my photography hobby and expressed praise for my efforts. She began reading this blog and shared some of the recipes and advice I posted. She knew that if something is important to your friends and colleagues, it should also be at least somewhat important to you. This is one of the cornerstones of healthy relationships and part of what allows them to become deeper and closer and richer.

In the face of terminal illness, she did not shut down and withdraw into herself. She expanded and drew more people near her like some brilliant supernova. She wanted to experience everything, and this included the wonderful experience of getting to know other people. She knew that our relationships with others adds a richness to life, enhancing our own experiences and providing us with a more full view of the world as our experiences are refracted through the crystalline lens of a group experience.

She was also a private person, handling her personal pain carefully. I knew her for almost a year before I learned she had cancer. Through chemotherapy and radiation and a full pharmacy of drugs, her appearance remained flawless and her demeanor unshakable. Even though she was determined to live beyond the disease, she embraced the experience as another part of her life, and did what she needed to do to get through it. No denial for her. And we went along with her as cancer ran its sometimes sneaky course of disappearing only to return with a vengeance. We walked with her at the annual Komen Race for the Cure. We celebrated with her each time she seemed to have kicked it. We embraced her each time it came back and continued to spread.

She is part of a growing list of women I have met who developed breast cancer. The stories include a young woman who barely survived and her mother who knew of the genetic component of many cancers. The mother went to her doctor for a screening, and a small tumor was found. It was removed before it had a chance to take root. Both women survived. A vegetarian who followed all the dietary recommendations for prevention and developed it anyway. She kicked it, it came back, she kicked it again. A friend from high school who is proud of her struggle and so grateful to be cancer-free. A blogger I follow who rails against the marketization and trivialization of this epidemic by the prevalence of pink ribbons on everything from cookies to KFC dinners, yet there is still no cure.

And what is the source of this epidemic? How can we protect ourselves? There are alarming reports of carcinogens in our food packaging, as well as in the additives in many prepackaged foods. Yet maintaining a healthy diet of natural whole foods is not a guaranteed preventative. Earlier this week, new studies questioned the effectiveness of vitamin D as a cancer preventative. Is breast cancer inevitable for US women?

While this is a frightening thought, we cannot live our lives in fear. Breast cancer may be the monster in the closet for me and my peers, but there are things we can do. Early detection is often the key to overcoming the disease. And most of us know what we need to do:

• A monthly self-exam, usually after our menstrual cycle. This makes us familiar with our bodies so it is easier for us to detect if something has changed.
• Annual visits to the gynecologist. She will also perform a breast exam and may be able to detect danger before it grows.
• Bi-annual mammograms beginning at age 40. 
• A healthy diet and an active lifestyle. This never hurts. While it may not be the secret to prevention, it ensures that we are strong and healthy in body, mind, and spirit and could improve our chances of survival if we develop cancer.

This week I lost an important and valuable member of my circle. While we were not best friends, she was important to me in so many ways. I will always remember her fearless embrace of life - all of life - and her uncanny ability to face everything with a smile. This week, her regular reminders for me to smile have echoed  through my psyche. I will carry that, along with all my cherished memories of her, as I move forward through my own life, enriched for the time I had with her.

On Wisconsin!

When you drive through rural Wisconsin, whether on the vast network of county rural routes or the sparse network of interstate highways running along the Fox River and Lake Michigan, there's one thing you can find at almost every gas station along the way - fresh donuts.

By "fresh" I mean made that day and delivered still warm on arrival from a local bakery. I'm not talking about Kirspy Kremes or Dunkin Donuts or anything made out of buckets of frozen dough and delivered by semi truck. I'm talking about a breakfast confection made from scratch using an old family recipe by people who work just down the county road and delivered by one of their kids.

These are the genuine article and a reminder of why ventures like Krispy Kreme and Dunkin Donuts seemed like viable endeavors to begin with. But like most things in Wisconsin, the rural gas station donut is still connected to its origin, and those mass-produced counterfeits seem like so much sawdust and fluff in comparison.

Which is one of the truly great things about Wisconsin. Despite the dehumanizing winters and brief growth season, Wisconsin has remained remarkably close to its food. It is still predominantly rural, making even the more urban stretch through the Fox River Valley from Milwaukee to Green Bay a bastion of fresh and local food. Sure, there are the usual national chain restaurants. But there is also a plethora of local eateries and food markets. The proximity of the vast farmland may serve to remind people of where food actually comes from - not a box or a can or a drive-through window, but from the land, from the fields, from their neighbors. And for much of the population, from their family and ancestors.

The area I live in - northeast Maryland - is similarly rural with many local farmers and produce markets, yet we do not share this attitude about food. Harford County is littered with "casual dining" chains and local imitators. Despite the closeness of cattle farmers, vegetable farmers, small dairies, etc, for every Broom's Bloom Dairy or Deer Creek Beef Co-Op, there is a corresponding Applebee's or Chili's. It seems as if Maryland is not interested in food the same way Wisconsin is.There is a common sense thinking about modern, commercially-produced food in Wisconsin that is missing from the culture out here.

Most people are aware of Wisconsin's Germanic and Norse heritage, what with the prevalence of beer, sausage, and cheese in the state. There is also a good dose of French, with the popularity of booyah in the northern regions originating from an attempt to recreate bouillabaisse with what was available in the New World. What is less apparent to the outsider is the Belgian influence on rural Wisconsin culture.

It is only when you drive through the state and look at the architecture - utilitarian, well-proportioned, well-spaced - that you notice something different about many Wisconsin farms. The Belgians did things differently from the Germans and Scandinavians and were thought of as odd. Among the ethnic jokes of questionable taste that I heard in my youth, the butt was always the Belgians. Yet a closer look at their heritage and influence on Wisconsin reveals a practical sensibility not seen in other areas.

The Belgians first settled in Northeast Wisconsin. The largest population of Belgians in the US runs up the peninsula form Green Bay up through Kewaunee and Door counties into Sturgeon Bay and beyond. The society they left int he Old World was multi-cultural, and they retained their open-mindedness and respect for their neighbors even in the face of extreme differences in lifestyle and belief. It is felt that this Belgian sensibility of "live and let live" helped give rise to the Progressive Movement of the early 20th century.

Their country of origin also had a high regard for community. More social than the dour Lutherans of Scandinavia, the Belgians that mingled among them in Wisconsin helped ensure that the communities they inhabited ensured that local sources of groceries and sundry items were kept close, including food. The result is a definition of "local" that means within the county - or maybe the next county over. Compare that to Maryland where food from Delaware, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and even New Jersey is considered local.

In Wisconsin, food is grown closer, travels less, is more likely to be allowed to ripen before it is picked. There is less processing involved, and non-homogenized milk in glass bottles from local dairies is still available in Wisconsin grocery stores. Wisconsin still has a palate that knows how food is supposed to taste. It's easy for the outsider to get a reminder of this. All you have to do is hit the road and find the nearest gas station.

Mary Bakes Potato Bread

After a series of increasingly bad dinners that culminated with me being assured that I never actually have to cook ever again, I decided to return to more familiar kitchen terrain, and today I am baking bread.

I learned how to bake bread at my mother's bosom. It was Green Bay WI in the 1970's and grocery stores didn't have bakeries and she had seven mouths to feed on one income. Making bread at home was cost effective and probably more convenient than buying it. Later, when she re-entered the workforce and there was less time and more money, we would frequent the Dolly Madison outlet off of East Main in what is now known as the Three Corners neighborhood. But before such cushy times, I remember a childhood full of a different type of comfort - the smell and taste of home made bread.

This was also before bread machines, and my mother made her bread by hand. I follow this practice even with such modern conveniences as the Kitchen Aid (complete with dough hook) in the house. What I learned from my mother is that it's not just about the finished product. I learned that bread is about family, and that a lot of love goes into it. Bread is also about the process. And the process you follow shapes the end result.

I also learned that dough feels good. I learned this when I was four. Making bread was a family ritual shared by me, my mom, and eventually my younger sisters while my dad was at work and my older brother and sister were at school. Only we younger ones got to punch down the warm dough after the first rise and help knead out the air created by the yeast. And once the bread had baked, only we got slices of still-steaming bread covered with Mom's home made jelly, often made with fruit growing wild in our back yard.

Mis en place

While my mom made a very nice, hearty loaf of white - and then later whole wheat - bread, I make potato bread. I use the Joy of Cooking recipe as my guide. Bread is one of those things that, because it so hands-on, absorbs the energy you put into it. If you knead the dough to work out your anger and frustration, the dough won't rise properly. You also get better results from your yeast when the moon is full. And, all ingredients should be at room temperature when you start as cold eggs or milk will result in sluggish yeast. For potato bread, the type of spud you use also has an impact based on the starch content. I get results that I like best with red potatoes. They have a strong potato flavor and are not too starchy.

Sweating eggs are still too cold

Buttermilk Potato Bread

3/4 cup mashed potatoes, still warm
1 stick very soft butter
4 tsp active dry yeast
2 cups buttermilk
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
2 tbsp sugar
2 1/2 tsp salt
about 6 1/2 cups flour

I'll start with reheated left-over mashed potatoes if we have any. If not, I'll make my own. a couple of good-sized potatoes should be enough. I don't usually measure them out but then add enough flour at the end to make it work. I also season the potatoes with salt, pepper, butter, cream, and herbs.

Using a large bowl, mix the softened butter into the potatoes until fully integrated. Add the yeast, buttermilk, egg, sugar, and salt.

NOTE: If you don't have buttermilk on hand - I know I never do - you can make your own by adding a couple of dashes of a light vinegar - not Balsamic - to regular milk.

Regular milk

Add some vinegar to curdle slightly

Add the first three cups of flour and blend in with a spatula or wooden spoon. Once integrated, begin adding the remaining flour one cup at a time. After for or five cups of flour have been added, you'll need to give up the utensils and mix by hand. This is a wonderful experience. If the dough is still sticky after all the flour has been added, add a little more until the dough is smooth and elastic.

Smooth and elastic dough

Once it's the right texture, shape it into a ball and place it in an oiled bowl, flipping it to coat with the oil. Cover with a towel and leave it alone to rise until it has doubled in size, about an hour or so. This can be done at room temperature. However, if  the various factors cited above prevent you from getting a rise out of the dough, place it in a warm oven (175 or lower) with the door ajar.

Doubled in size

Once the rise is complete, knead out the air, using additional flour if the dough becomes sticky. Shape the dough into two loaves and place into greased loaf pans with any seams or creases facing down. I am partial to Pyrex glass pans as the glass provides an even baking temperature and creates a nice crust. I also recommend using the full 8- or 9-inch loaf pans rather than mini-loaf pans for a yeast bread.

Cover and let rise again, keeping an eye on things as this rise is usually quicker - about 45 minutes or less.

Bake at 375 for 45 minutes to an hour, depending on how your oven behaves. Pay attention to things after the first 30 minutes. Things baked in my oven tend to develop a dark outer crust before the insides are completely cooked. When the upper crust is just about the right color, I cover the loaves with foil until the rest of the bread catches up. Once I see a golden brown crust forming on the bread in the pan (I can see this because I'm using Pyrex), the bread is done.

Fresh from the oven

Cool in the pans on a wire rack for at least 30 minutes before cutting a piping hot slice, slathering it in butter, and enjoying thoroughly.

Holiday Traditions: How Fried Oysters Came to Appalachia

Since moving to the Mid-Atlantic region, I have often wondered why folks from West Virginia eat oysters this time of year, oysters not being native to the Appalachian Mountains. A former Baltimorean back home in West Virginia provides the history of this tradition, as well as her own personal family history. Her family served them at Christmas, but I've also met folks who included them with Thanksgiving and New year's dinner. It's so well-written that I'm just going to copy it verbatim from the email she sent me.


When I was a child growing up in the hills of West Virginia, we always headed up the hill to my Grandma's house for Christmas dinner. Along with the baked ham, cranberry sauce, and homegrown mashed potatoes and green beans was an unexpected dish in a green plaid ceramic bowl: fried oysters. It was a small bowl as only my father and grandmother ate them (my mother hated them and wouldn't let my brother or me try them), but it was always there, with the golden brown fried oysters. Grandma was not a seafood buff; indeed, the fried oysters were the only seafood that I ever saw her eat. But every Christmas, she ate the fried oysters. 


Years later, my best friend (who grew up in the mountains two counties over) and I were in college, preparing for the holiday break and discussing traditions when she mentioned the oyster stuffing for her turkey. "Hey, we had oysters too. I always thought that was odd." "Oh, it's an old mountain tradition to have oysters at Christmas." And then she told me the story.


Way back when the hills were being settled, our ancestors were mostly subsistence farmers, but there were certain goods, like sugar and coffee, that could not be grown and needed "cash money" to acquire. So every year, one man from the area was chosen to take cash crops to Baltimore, MD, to the market. This man would leave after the first frost and walk to Baltimore. He would leave after the crops were in (and probably after the hog slaughter, held after the first hard frost to preserve the meat), and the neighbors would help his family with the stock and any necessary maintenance on the farm. He would leave about the first of November, walk to Baltimore, do the trading for the community, and head back on the trek over the mountains. In those days, it was preferable to travel in the winter, as the frozen dirt roads were easier to navigate than the mud of spring and fall. Plus, the cold kept the oysters from spoiling. 


Yes, oysters. When the traveler arrived home, around Christmas, he brought the staples that he had traded for along with oysters for Christmas dinner. Thus began the mountain tradition of oysters at Christmas. 


I make these every year at my parents' house (much to my mother's dismay, as she has a prejudice against oysters and doesn't even want them in the refrigerator with her other food). And the first year I lived in Baltimore, I stopped by the Broadway Market to get some fresh-shucked oysters to give to my best friend. 


Oysters, either fresh-shucked or jarred
Flour
milk
eggs
salt
pepper (I sometimes substitute Old Bay seasoning for the salt and pepper)
White corn meal
Oil for frying (traditionally this would have been rendered bacon grease; I use vegetable oil)
(All measurements are approximate...no measuring cups needed. Also, you will be refreshing these as necessary.)


Mix about 1 cup flour in a small bowl with salt and pepper. 
In a separate small bowl, mix a ratio of 1 egg to about 1/2 cup of milk. This is the egg wash. 
In a separate small bowl, pour about a cup of corn meal. 


Heat about 1/2 inch of oil in a large deep frying pan or deep fryer. One at a time, dredge oysters in the flour mixture. Dip in the egg wash. Then, coat with the cornmeal. Set aside, and repeat with remaining oysters. When any of the stations run out, refresh with additional flour mixture, egg wash, and cornmeal as needed. 


When oil is hot (i.e., when sprinkled water jumps back out), add the prepared oysters. Cook for about 2-3 minutes per side till golden brown. Drain on paper towels. 


Once you get started, you'll have a regular assembly line going, and you'll find that you are able to prepare the next batch for frying as the first batch is cooking. If the oil overheats and begins smoking, remove from heat for a few minutes and repeat.


If you have a favorite recipe that you would like to share, please email me at MarysFoodJournal@gmail.com and let me know how you would like to be identified (ie "a reader in Ellicott City" vs your actual name). Include any traditions or memories associated with the dish if you like.

Company's Coming Chili

Chili is always the first meal of the holiday season for me. One of the great holiday traditions in my family is having a pot of chili on hand the day everyone arrives for the holidays. My grandmother started this when I was little. If you were among the first to arrive, you got to enjoy the company of a small gathering of extended family in relative quiet before the holiday got into full swing. If you arrived later, you got my grandmother's undivided attention and a bowl of chili that had been simmering on the stovetop since mid-afternoon. I was the last to arrive one Christmas, rolling in from Madison at about 11:00 PM. My grandma was waiting up for me, and she and I watched Johnny Carson together over a bowl of some highly concentrated chili goodness that warmed my heart.

My mother carries on the tradition as me and my siblings and our families gather in Madison for Thanksgiving. My mom has her own recipe and has dried beans cooking already for tonight's dinner when my sister arrives from the north-western Chicago suburbs. This recipe is committed to her memory, and hers alone. My grandmother's recipe was made available to all on her cooking show "5 Minutes with Dolores Allen" on WDOR radio, and was then published in her 1989 cookbook "Door County Recipes Old and New and a Little Local Lore". Here it is verbatim:

Dolores's Chili
This may not be the way Mexicans or Texans make chili.....but ti's the way I like it!

2 lbs ground beef
3 large onions, chopped
Salt & Pepper

Brown the meat with the onions and cook for about 30 minutes.

Add:
1 qt. canned tomatoes (or a large can of tomato juice).

Simmer, covered, about an hour.

Add:
3 cans chili beans or kidney beans, drained
1 package chili seasoning

Simmer 15 minutes more.

I like to make this ahead of time, and let it stand for the flavors to blend, and then reheat when ready to serve. If you want "Chili Mac", add cooked macaroni or spaghetti.

Here is the recipe as it appeared in her cookbook. Artwork provided by my mother in her youth. "Door County Recipes Old and New and a Little Local Lore" is still available throughout Door County, WI. You can also find used copies on Amazon.

If you have a favorite recipe that you would like to share, please email me at MarysFoodJournal@gmail.com and let me know how you would like to be identified (ie "a reader in Ellicott City" vs your actual name). Include any stories or traditions if you like.

In Memory of Katie Becker: 1990-2006

This posting is not really about food. It's about my niece Katie. She had diabetes. On October 30, 2006, she skipped dinner, took her nightly insulin shot, and went to bed. By morning she had passed away at the age of 16.

Halloween has always reminded me of Katie. Her parents were active members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, an international organization that meets to re-enact medieval life. Running around in costume was part of her childhood. As she got older and discovered Manga, she frequently looked like an anime character, but always still looked unmistakably like Katie.

Her diabetes first manifested on Halloween when she was in elementary school. After an evening of eating trick-or-treat candy, Katie ended up in the emergency room. At a very young age, Katie quickly adapted to regular blood glucose checks, regulated diet, and the insulin shots needed to keep her alive.

This did not slow her down in the least. She came to see me in Maryland every summer. We visited DC and saw the Smithsonian museums. We went to Otakon, the Manga convention in Baltimore, and heard one of her favorite writers speak.

Katie also introduced me to social networking through the Deviant Art community. She was a prolific poster, and I watched her develop her drawing and writing through her profile posts. She became very adept at the Manga style of drawing and quickly moved beyond fan fiction to create her own universe.

Katie's last visit in the summer of 2006 still haunts me. And haunts is the right word. She was in that inevitable transition toward adulthood. She was starting to clash with long-time friends and thinking about what it was she wanted in life. She wanted something from me that summer, too - something specific. I tried to give her what I thought she needed for her own good, as adults often do to the young people who trust them. What I wanted to give her was the knowledge that she could be anything she wanted to be, that life had some struggles, but that it is really an open road, and that she could make her own destiny. She was incredibly bright and creative, and I had no doubt at the time that she could succeed at anything she chose to do, and I wanted her to see this in herself. I am not sure what she thought I was trying to do. I do know that at the end of that visit, she was distant.

The beginning of the school year included two fainting episodes at school. I called her - a rare move on my part. Even though we chatted through Deviant Art, I was somewhat of an absentee aunt, something I regret to this day. She informed me that everything was fine, and I took her word. Then came another fateful Halloween.

After learning of her death, I logged into Deviant Art and read her postings from the time she return from her annual visit up to her death. I then saw what I had previously missed - the intensity of her struggle, her frustration as her efforts to forge her way in life led to misunderstanding and even greater frustration. The hole she left grew larger as the feeling that I had somehow failed her seeped in.

After the funeral, as we took on the monumental task of cleaning her room, I found a little wooden box in her desk. Inside, tied up in a little ribbon, I found every card I had ever send her - birthday cards, Christmas cards, the random Valentine - all neatly bundled together and kept in a very special place. I began to realize how important I had been to her.

As adults, one of our responsibilities is to care for the next generation, whether we are parents, teachers, care-givers, or the mysterious aunt who moves far away and only shows up for Thanksgiving. They look to us for guidance, acceptance, love. I will never know if I succeeded or failed in my responsibility to Katie. She died at a time when she was just starting to struggle out of the chrysalis of adolescence, when her whole life was just around the corner.

I am left with more than just memories - she could not resist a blank page, and I still find old journals, sketchbooks, work planners with little drawings and notes from her scattered randomly throughout. I am also left with the reminder to take my role as an adult seriously. The children who look up to me count on it.

Katie, a few weeks before she passed

There are two types of diabetes. Type 1 diabetes, also known as Juvenile Diabetes, is not preventable . This type of diabetes is genetic and is passed from parent to child. There is treatment but at present no known cure. This is the type of diabetes Katie had. She inherited it from her father, and so did her younger sister.

Type 2 diabetes used to be called Adult Onset Diabetes. It typically manifests itself later in life as part of the degenerative, aging processes. In my lifetime, this has changed. I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes in my 30's. I was overweight. When I lost the weight, the diabetes went with it.

But now children are developing Type 2 diabetes. When Type 2 diabetes develops in a child, it can be just as life-threatening and potentially devastating as Type 1.

For more information, or to make a donation, please visit the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.