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The Versatile Mr. Catfish!

Published by Kathy Hunt


After graduating from college and moving to suburban Philadelphia, what I wanted, more than anything, was to adopt a dog. What I got was a cat, Andy Peabody, who came with a homemade, nondescript toy called Mr. Catfish. The gentle, gray tabby became my doorway into pet ownership. His beloved, yellow-and-gray pipe cleaner toy became, in its own weird way, my introduction to catfish.

Over the weekend I was reminded of Andy and his quirky sidekick when I went fishing in Marietta, Ohio. There the catch of the day was the benign, whiskered channel catfish.

Of the 28 varieties of North American catfish, channel remain the most commercially important. Fast-growing and highly sustainable, they thrive in rivers, lakes, reservoirs and ponds. Although they can reach 50 pounds in the wild, the Ohio channel cats that we caught – and released – were closer to one and a half pounds.

Had we kept these fish, we could have expected a meal with an earthy tang to it. Because wild catfish happily potter about in murky waters, they develop a muddy flavor that farmed ones don’t possess. Yes, in this instance, farmed fish actually taste better than wild-caught. That’s great news for cooks and consumers for channel catfish are America’s most commonly farmed fish.

Often when I hear “farmed” in relation to seafood, I think environmental pollutants, disease and fish escapes——food that I don’t want to purchase or consume. This is not the case with U.S.-farmed catfish. Raised using environmentally sound aquaculture, these guys remain one of the eco-friendliest options in American markets.

Along with sustainability, catfish also has in its favor versatility. I often use it in place of such over-fished favorites as cod, orange roughy and perch. It responds well to almost every cooking technique, including baking, broiling, frying, grilling, poaching, sautéing, stir-frying and steaming. Its delicately sweet meat marries well with bell peppers, chiles, garlic, lemon, onions, paprika, pecans, tomatoes, sesame, soy sauce and vinegar. Native to the South, catfish makes frequent appearances in this region’s cuisine and pairs nicely with Cajun and Creole seasonings.

SPICED CATFISH

Serves 4
4 (4 to 6-ounce) catfish fillets
Sea salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Freshly squeezed juice of 1 lemon
1 1/2 teaspoons paprika
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into chunks

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Grease the bottom of a medium baking dish.
Season both sides of the fillets with salt and pepper and place them in the baking dish. Pour the lemon juice over the fillets.

In a small bowl stir together the paprika, garlic powder and cayenne pepper. Sprinkle the seasoning over the fillets and then dot the fillets with the butter. Bake, uncovered, until the fish becomes firm and can be flaked with a fork, 12 to 15 minutes. Serve immediately.

Feast from the Forest and Field

Published by Kathy Hunt

Last week I owned up to my dearth of gardening skills. What I lack in ability, I more than make up for in my enthusiasm for others’ horticultural handiness. So, when a friend invited me on a foraging walk last weekend, I jumped at the chance. I mean, really, who has a greener thumb than Mother Nature?

As you might expect from someone who blundered through gardening, I struggle with identifying wild edibles. Set set me loose in the forest to collect stinging nettles or chanterelles, I’m likely to pull out a clump of poison ivy or toxic jack o’ lantern mushrooms. Obviously, these are not the ingredients of a lovely soup or sauté. However, if you put me in charge of foraging, these are what you might receive. Yeah, I need to learn a bit about harmless versus deadly wild plants.

Led by naturalist Steve Brill, the ecology walk featured such wholesome plants as garlic mustard, wild ginger and purslane. Things that I had dubbed “worthless weeds” and yanked from my overgrown garden likewise made appearances. Had I known that delicate lemon wood sorel possessed such a pleasing citrus flavor, I would have added it to salads instead of to our overflowing compost bin.

Greens weren’t the only foods found. The woods were dotted with crab apple, black cherry and persimmon trees. All that fruit, right at our fingertips. The squat, shrubby spicebush also popped up along our path and offered multiple culinary uses. I could pour hot water over the leaves for tea or chop up the hard, red berries to flavor quick breads and other baked goods.

Although I enjoyed learning about these edibles, what I longed to see were elderberries. Found throughout North America, Europe and Western Asia, these tiny, black berries make tart and tasty jellies, sauces, syrups, chutneys, pies and soups. Because they contain a small amount of a toxic alkaloid, elderberries should be cooked before being consumed. Nonetheless, on the walk we all sampled a raw one or two. So far, so good.

While elderberries hung heavy from their slender branches, I still couldn’t collect enough to cook. However, the next time that I come across a half-pint of these berries at a farmer’s market, I’ll whip up the following pies.

INDIVIDUAL APPLE-ELDERBERRY PIES
Here the winey tang of elderberry pairs with the tart sweetness of apple for these delicious, open-faced pies.
Serves 6

5 medium-size Granny Smith apples, cored, peeled and diced
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup water
1 cup elderberries
2 sheets phyllo, defrosted
1/4 cup butter, melted
Confectioner’s sugar, for decorating
Vanilla ice cream, optional

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 6-cup muffin pan.

Place the apples, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, salt and water in a medium-size saucepan and bring the contents to a boil. Cover and cook over low heat for 5 to 10 minutes, until apples are soft. Add the elderberries and stir to combine. Strain the mixture, reserving the liquid. Allow to cool.

Cut the phyllo into 24 squares, each measuring 4 inches by 4 inches. Cover the squares with a damp cloth. Take one square and brush the top with butter. Place another square at an angle on top of this square and brush the second square with butter. Repeat the steps with two more squares; you will have a stack of four overlapping squares. Place the buttered, overlapping squares into a greased muffin cup. Repeat these steps with the remaining phyllo squares.

Spoon the apple-elderberry filling into the pastries, filling each to the top. Bake the pies for 20 to 25 minutes or until golden brown.

Meanwhile, return the cooking liquid to the saucepan and cook until it thickens into a syrup. When the pies have finished baking, cool them for 5 to 10 minutes before gently removing them from the pan. Place each one on a plate, spoon the syrup over the top, dust with confectioner’s sugar and serve with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, if desired.

What to Do with All That . . ..

Published by Kathy Hunt

After years of kidding myself that one day I’d grow bushels of pert tomatoes and eggplants at our suburban Philadelphia farmhouse, I’m finally throwing in the towel on gardening. It’s never helped matters that I’m not there enough to consistently weed and water a garden or that every vegetable planted feeds not my family and friends but those of groundhogs and deer. There’s another reason, though, behind my bailing out on horticulture. Truthfully, I’m a lousy gardener who can’t even keep the lowest maintenance plants—garlic, onions, potatoes—alive.

In spite of my black thumb each August I find myself wondering what to do with all the season’s produce. Gardeners can’t seem to give the stuff away. Well, actually, they can and do but, as the overwhelmed recipient, I often find myself wanting to give it back. Such is the case with corn.

The problem with corn is that I never receive just four or five ears. Whether I drop by my favorite farmer’s market or a friend’s backyard garden, I invariably leave with at least a dozen ears of freshly picked corn. This is a wonderful gift on nights when I’m cooking for six or more people but not so great when I’m making a meal for two.

What to do with all this corn? Over the years I’ve dropped countless ears into pots of boiling water or onto hot grills. I’ve sliced off the kernels and made them into sautés, casseroles, stews and soups. Corn bread and muffins? Been there and done that so many times. The same can be said for corn relishes, salsas, puddings and flans. While I’ve not ground my own cornmeal for polenta, I have run the kernels through my food processor and made tasty corn purees. Yet, on nights when I’m out of ideas for that mound of shucked corn, I turn to the following standby.

WARM SUMMER CORN SALAD
Serves 6

2 tablespoons salted butter
1 large garlic clove, grated
4 cups fresh corn kernels
1 large red bell pepper, chopped
11/2 teaspoons minced fresh basil
Sea salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Heat the butter in a medium sauté pan. Add the garlic and sauté until softened but not browned, 2 minutes.

Add the corn and pepper, toss to combine, and cook for another 5 minutes. Add the basil and stir to combine. Taste and add salt and pepper. Serve immediately.

Pop on over!

Published by Kathy Hunt

popover

They’re airy! They’re crisp! They’re buttery! They’re one of the best foods adapted from English cooks. They’re popovers!

Derived from Yorkshire pudding, that puffy mainstay of the British Sunday roast, popovers date back to 19th century America. Unlike their English forbearer, which was baked in a rectangular pan with a layer of meat drippings, popovers were cooked without beef fat in individual cups. As a result, instead of a fluffy souffle-like dish, you ended up with golden, crusty yet velvety rolls.

popovers on a plate

Freshly baked popovers

Similar to Yorkshire pudding, popovers come from a simple combination of eggs, milk, butter and flour. The ratio of liquid to dry ingredients gives the batter its levity or “popover-ness.” In the oven the liquids create steam, which causes the rolls to puff up. Tear into a popover and you’ll find a perfect hollow center, the lovely side effect of all that steam.

Steam also provides these baked goods with their name. As the steam increases, it pops the batter over the sides of each individual baking cup. Hence the moniker “popover.”

popovers

Rosemary Stilton popovers

Although some bakers claim that muffin tins make acceptable popovers, I prefer to use deep, cup-shaped, commercially produced popover pans. With muffin tins my rolls look like squashed mushroom caps. With popover pans they look as they should, like popovers.

Popovers can be flavored with herbs, spices or cheese. Because I love the subtle taste of these rolls, I usually leave them plain or flavor them after baking with preserves or sun-dried tomato, garlic or herb butter. The choice is yours.

ROSEMARY STILTON POPOVERS
If you prefer a plain popover, just leave out the chopped rosemary and cheese. Likewise, if you want to make mini popovers, use a mini muffin pan in place of the traditional popover pan. In this case it won’t matter if your baby popovers look like little mushrooms.

Makes 12 standard size or 36 mini popovers

1 1/2 tablespoons melted unsalted butter, plus more butter for greasing pans
3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups skim milk, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, sifted
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon ground white pepper
1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary
scant 1/4 cup crumbled English Stilton or other rich blue cheese

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

Grease the popover pans with butter. Place in the oven for 2 to 3 minutes to preheat.

Whisk together the butter, eggs, milk, flour, salt, pepper, rosemary and cheese until smooth. Pour the batter into the preheat pans, filling each cup to less than half full. Bake for 30 minutes, until golden brown and puffy. Serve hot.

Soba at Home

Published by Kathy Hunt

Last week I owned up to my obsession with and quest for great soba in Japan. Prior to this trip, I’d been satisfied with dried soba from the Asian section of Fairway Market. Now, however, I’m like those Italian food snobs who shun anything but handmade pastas. I want my noodles fresh and unprocessed. I want my noodles made by hand.

With a copy of Takashi Yagihashi’s Takashi’s Noodles spread out on my kitchen counter I set out to create soba. Yagihashi’s clear directions and illustrative, color photographs made it seem easy. After all, the recipe only required three ingredients and a bit of kneading. How hard could it be?

I quickly realized that, as with pasta, soba making is an art that I wouldn’t master on the first or second try. Ingredients were one obstacle. Buckwheat flour is not as elastic as other flours; it doesn’t contain gluten, a necessary component for stretchiness. To compensate for this absence, cooks often use a ratio of 20% gluten-rich whole wheat flour and 80% buckwheat flour in their soba.

Following Yagihashi’s recipe, I added 1/3 cup, less than 20%, all-purpose flour; this flour has a slightly lower gluten content than whole wheat. The resulting dough was more crumbly than stretchy. I later switched to whole wheat flour and bumped up the amount to 7 generous tablespoons, making the dough a tad more pliant than the original.

Knowing how long to knead was another hurdle. Initially I didn’t do it long or vigorously enough. As a result, when I rolled out the dough, it tore. Accepting that I’m not the strongest of kneaders, I substituted my stand mixer’s sturdy dough hook for my wimpy arms. I then ended up with springy dough that slid back into shape with each roll of the pin. Frustrated, I returned to hand kneading and just worked beyond the suggested 5 to 6 minutes. If you, too, suffer from scrawniness, knead your dough for 8 to 10 minutes. It will be smooth, shiny and fairly elastic when done.

In Japan soba is cut with a flat, 12″ long and 6″ wide knife known as a soba kiri. In my kitchen it’s sliced with a Santoku knife. If you own a sharp, Japanese knife, you might as well use it on this Japanese specialty. Otherwise, any long, flat-bladed knife should work. I suspect that even a bench scraper would do the trick.

Fragrant noodles cut and impediments overcome, the last step was to boil the soba for 30 to 60 seconds in unsalted water. Once they’d finished cooking, I plunged them into ice water to cool. After that I drained, dried and ate the soft, nutty noodles with a smidgen of soy sauce and sesame oil. Easy to make? Not yet. More delectable than dried? Absolutely!

BASIC SOBA
Adapted from Takashi Yagihashi’s Takashi’s Noodles (Ten Speed Press, 2009)

2 1/4 cups buckwheat flour (available online from shops such as Kalustyan’s)
7 tablespoons whole wheat flour
1 cup water, at room temperature, plus more as needed

Sift the flours together in a large bowl. Add the water and mix the ingredients together by hand. If the dough seems too dry, add more water in small increments. You want the mixture to be firm and smooth, like pasta dough, but not crumbly.

Form the dough into a mound and place it on a lightly floured work surface. Knead by folding the dough over once and pressing downward and forward with your hands. Turn the dough one-quarter clockwise and continue kneading and turning for 5 to 10 minutes, until the dough becomes smooth, shiny and stretches when pulled. Cover the dough with cling wrap and allow it to rest for 20 minutes at room temperature.

After 20 minutes unwrap the dough and divide it in half. Cover one piece and place the other on a lightly floured work surface. Using a flour-dusted rolling pin, roll out the dough until it becomes a rectangle 18 inches long and 1/16-inch thick.

Fold the dough into thirds. Using a flat, sharp knife and a lightweight box or board as your guide, slice the folded dough into 1/8-inch thick noodles. Shake out the cut noodles and set them aside until ready to cook. Roll out and cut the second piece of dough.

At this point you’re ready to cook your noodles. For recipes see the entries Searching for Soba and Southeast Asian Soiree.

Searching for Soba

Published by Kathy Hunt

When I told friends that I’d be traveling to Japan last month, the first or, depending on the person’s love of manga, Godzilla movies or Hello Kitty, second thing mentioned was sushi. Eyes lit up with thoughts of velvety, coral-colored toro blanketing perfectly made beds of vinegared white rice. Although I love sushi, I had a different culinary mission for Japan. As soon as the plane touched down in Tokyo, I went on a hunt for soba.

The name for the thin, grayish-tan noodles as well as the buckwheat flour from which they’re made, soba has long been a favorite food. It has a warm, earthy flavor, nutty aroma and firm texture that I adore. I likewise appreciate that it can be eaten hot or cold, with or without stocks or sauces and on its own or with meats, herbs and/or vegetables atop it. Plus, it’s loaded with nutrients and a decent source of vitamins B, C and E and protein. What’s not to love?

Once in Japan, I didn’t have to look long or hard for my quarry. Consumed since ancient times, soba is especially popular in the country’s northeast region, which includes Tokyo. It’s a food consumed not only in every day life but also on special occasions such as New Year’s Eve and when meeting new neighbors. The long noodles are said to represent long, happy lives and relationships.

I had my first taste of Japanese soba at Meigetsuan Tanakaya in the Ginza district of Tokyo. There I ordered mori soba; these are plain, cold noodles accompanied by a dipping sauce. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure what I’d requested for the servers didn’t speak English and my grasp of Japanese didn’t extend beyond “Konnichiwa. Soba. Domo arigato” or “Good afternoon. Soba. Thank you very much.” Nonetheless, I was thrilled by my simple, healthful and tasty lunch. I was likewise delighted by my view. Seated at a wooden counter, overlooking the kitchen, I watched the chefs cut, cook and plate the delicate noodles as I stuffed myself with them.

My soba quest didn’t end at Meigetsuan Tanakaya or in Tokyo. In Kyoto I wolfed down kake soba. This hot dish features scallions, chilies, cubed tofu and nutty noodles floating in warm dashi stock. I also tried tempura shrimp, carrots and zucchini blossoms served over cold soba. At Arashiyama Yoshimura near the base of Mount Arashiyama I had a spectacular cold vegetable soba. Featuring enokitake mushrooms, shredded nori and carrots, sliced scallions and okra, and sprouts, this repast tasted as sumptuous as it looked.

Because I am so infatuated with these noodles, I’ll continue the discussion next week with steps on how to make soba from scratch. Until then . . .

COLD SOBA W/ PETITE PEAS
If you don’t love peas, serve the noodles on their own with the scallions and sauce.
Serves 4 to 6

1 pound dried soba noodles
10 ounces frozen baby/petite peas
2 scallions, whites and 1-inch of greens thinly sliced
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
3 tablespoons light soy sauce
2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar
1 tablespoon honey
1 1/2 teaspoons sesame oil

Cook the soba according to the package’s instructions. Drain and plunge the noodles into a bowl of ice water to stop from further cooking.

As the soba is cooking, boil the peas until just tender, 3 to 5 minutes.

In a small bowl mix together the scallions, ginger, vinegar, soy sauce, honey and oil.

Drain the noodles. Place the noodles and peas in a serving bowl, pour the sauce over the top and toss to combine.

Beans, Beans, Beans

Published by Kathy Hunt

If you follow Kitchen Kat, you may recall the rocky beginnings that I’ve had with baked potatoes, fish and peas. Add to that list green beans. Beans suffered the same fate as the other troublesome foods. They were crisp and green in the afternoon, when my mother and I sat in the backyard, snapping off the uneven ends and tossing the trimmed veggies into colanders. By dinnertime they had become squishy and bland, the result of an hour spent bubbling away in a stockpot.

Complaints about texture and flavor led to the addition of ham to the pot. Instead of rectifying the problem ham only added to it. Now, rather than just limp, tasteless beans I also had to slip hunks of tough, grayish meat to the family dog. Mushy beans she could handle. Leathery ham? Not so much.

Eventually canned beans replaced fresh. Although canned vegetables wouldn’t normally be a treat, these particular ones were. To dress up the beans’ drab look and flavor, my mother would stir in a dollop of Cheez Whiz before serving. As unpalatable as they sound today, those salty, saucy, albeit pulpy, beans were a highpoint of family meals.

In spite of my love for this quirky dish I never whipped up cheesy green beans for myself. The shame of cooking canned beans and Cheez Whiz was simply too much. Left with bad memories of fresh ones, I stopped eating green beans altogether.

Thanks to cooking classes and a desire to give these Vitamin A- and C-filled vegetables another shot, I’ve added green beans to my dinner repertoire. Steamed or simmered until crisply tender, which should take three to five minutes, they’re a lovely addition to any menu.

Available year-round, green beans peak in the summer months. Look for slender, bright colored, crisp and blemish-free vegetables. You can store fresh, tightly wrapped beans for up to five days in the refrigerator.

HAZELNUT HARICOT VERT
Serves 4 to 6

1 pound fresh French green beans, ends trimmed
Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 garlic clove, minced
1 tablespoon chopped fresh chives
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 1/2 cups cherry tomatoes, halved
1/4 cup blanched hazelnuts, toasted
Sea salt, to taste
Ground black pepper, to taste
Shaved Parmesan cheese, for garnish and to taste

Using a steamer basket placed over a lidded stockpot, steam the haricot verts for 3 to 4 minutes or until bright green and crisply tender. Remove from heat and plunge the beans into a bowl of iced water.

In a small bowl whisk together the lemon zest and juice, garlic, chives and olive oil.

Drain and dry the beans. In a large bowl toss together the beans, dressing, tomatoes, hazelnuts, salt and pepper. Taste and adjust the seasonings before adorning with shaved Parmesan cheese and serving.

The Hidden Charm of Durian

Published by Kathy Hunt

Travel to far-flung locations and you’re bound to encounter extraordinary food. Although I tend to skip the more offbeat or infamous dishes—crickets on a stick, deep-fried chicken feet—I invariably try all the local produce. Yeah, I’m a risk taker.

Produce may not seem all that exciting until you consider the spiky, hard-shelled durian fruit. Native to Malaysia and found in tall trees, it’s known for its tough exterior, custardy interior and horrific odor. If its overpowering scent doesn’t get you, its size and sharp spikes might. Weighing up to 10 pounds, falling durian has caused serious injuries and death.

Thanks to its tough reputation, durian ranked high as a food that I had to try. Anything that smelled of rotten cheese, stinky feet and raw sewage and could kill and yet was still willingly, even eagerly, consumed must be good.

While durian will never replace bananas, raspberries or cantaloupe as my favorite fruit, it does have its charms. Its sticky, yellow pulp possesses a warm, nutty, creamy flavor unlike any other produce. Versatile, it pairs well with both sweet and savory foods. In Malaysia cooks make salty as well as sweet preserves with it while in Singapore folks use it to fill crepes and flavor ice cream.

Widely available in Southeast Asia, it’s sold on the streets and in markets from India and to the Philippines. Because of the odor, hawkers usually cut and wrap durian for their customers. As a result, eating this fruit is easy. Simply unwrap and dig in. Just don’t take it with you into the subway or other confined, public spaces. In Singapore it’s a crime to do this while elsewhere it’s merely considered rude.

If you don’t make it to Southeast Asia, you can try durian in the comfort of your own home. Asian and upscale markets carry whole, frozen fruit. Defrost before cracking open the shell and consuming.

In season from June to August ripe durians have solid, healthy stems and rattle when you shake them. They keep about two days so consume them quickly.

DURIAN ICE CREAM
From “The Food and Cooking of Singapore and Malaysia, Indonesia and the Phillipines” by Basan, Tan and Laus (Anness Publishing, 2011)
Serves 8

6 egg yolks
generous 1/2 cup superfine sugar
2 1/4 cups whole milk
12 ounces durian flesh
1 1/4 cups heavy cream

Whisk the egg yolks and sugar together until light and frothy.

In a heavy pan heat the milk to just below boiling. Whisking constantly, add the egg mixture and whisk until well blended. Strain the liquids into another pan, place the pan on medium heat and, stirring constantly, cook until the mixture thickens and forms a custard. Remove from heat and set aside to cool completely.

As the custard is cooling, puree the durian flesh in a food processor or blender.

Once the custard has cooled, whisk in the heavy cream. Fold in the durian puree and pour the mixture into the bowl of an ice cream maker. Churn until ice cream has formed. Note that if you don’t own an ice cream maker, you can pour the mixture into a freezer-proof bowl and freeze for 4 hours, beating twice with a fork or electric mixer to break up the ice crystals.

Time to Make a Cherry Pie, Sauce . . ..

Published by Kathy Hunt

Every June I’m on pins and needles, anticipating the kick off of the East Coast’s all-too-brief cherry season. As soon as those ruby globes hit the farmers’ markets, I’m stuffing canvas bags with as many sour cherries as I can carry.

What’s the allure to sour cherries? Softer and smaller than the sweet varieties, they are a highly versatile, colorful and flavorful fruit. Toss them into a saucepan with a smidgen of sugar and simmer them over low heat and I end up with the foundation for an array of amazing treats. Think I exaggerate? Think again. These guys star in, among other things, pies, tarts, preserves, sauces, meat dishes, drinks and colds soups.

Out of the 1,200 varieties of cultivated cherries, 300 are classified as sour. Within the sour family exist the aptly named Early Richmond, which is the first cherry to appear in spring, the juicy, white-fleshed Montmorency and red-fleshed Morello. Chances are that if you’ve ever drunk the liqueur Kirsch or the cocktail guignolo, then you’ve had Morellos; they form the base of both drinks.

Likewise, if you’ve ever eaten a sundae with a maraschino cherry on top, you’ve consumed a sour cherry. Hailing from Croatia, the petite marasca or maraschino cherry has become synonymous with this dessert garnish.

Whether you plan on making a pie, simmering a sauce or topping off a sundae, remember to look for semi-firm fruit with the stems intact. Store your cherries unwashed and in the refrigerator until you’re ready to use them.

MACERATED CHERRY SUNDAE
Serves 4

2 cups pitted sour cherries
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup Calvados (apple brandy)
2 tablespoons grenadine
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
vanilla ice cream
2 tablespoons almond slivers, toasted

Simmer the cherries, sugar, Calvados, grenadine and vanilla extract over medium heat for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until the sugar has dissolved. Remove the pan from from the heat and allow the cherries to cool to room temperature.

As the cherries are cooling, make a sauce for the sundaes. To do this, place ¼ cup of the macerating liquid into a saucepan and boil until reduced by half, 10 minutes. Cool before using.

When the cherries and sauce have cooled to room temperature, put one scoop of ice cream into 4 parfait glasses. Add 1 to 2 tablespoons of macerated cherries to each glass and then cover them with another scoop of ice cream. Repeat and then sprinkle the syrup and equal amounts of almonds over each sundae. Serve immediately.

Olive Olives!

Published by Kathy Hunt

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved olives. As a little kid, I’d sneak into my parents’ kitchen, clamber up on the counter, and slide a container of black olives from the top cupboard shelf. Bounty procured, I’d consume every single salty olive in that can. Oh, the joy! Oh, the upset stomach! No matter how violently ill olive binging made me, I’d be back a few days later, pulling yet another can off the shelf.

At that time I knew very little about olives. Didn’t understand that they were fruit from the Mediterranean. Also unaware that black olives were actually ripe green olives that had, in all likelihood, been lye-cured. This curing process gave them their velvety texture and mild, oily taste. It also made them a sheer delight to eat.

Whenever I craved more complex flavors, I’d raid the refrigerator for a jar of pimento-stuffed olives. To an uncultured elementary schooler, green olives filled with red ribbons of pepper were the height of culinary sophistication. I mean, really—how could food get any more festive, fancy or flavorful than that?

Decades later I can’t resist France’s slightly tart, green Picholines and Nicoises. Nor can I pass on Greece’s purple Kalamatas and dark green Naphlions. I’m even hooked on the bold, dry-cured, black olives from Morocco. Packed in salt, dry-cured olives possess withered flesh and a stronger taste than those cured in water, brine or lye.

Picholine Sole

In the ensuing years I’ve learned that I can do a lot more with olives than eat them from a jar or can. I can use them to perk up sauces and tajines, enliven fish and poultry and make fabulous tapenades. When stuffed with ground meats, breaded and then pan-fried, they become the hearty appetizers known as olive all’ Ascolana. The Le Marche region of Italy is famous for this filling treat.

While my tastes have become more sophisticated and my options broader, I remain, at heart, an elementary school kid. My favorite way to consume olives remains straight from the container.

PICHOLINE SOLE
Serves 4

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
4 (4 to 6-ounce) sole fillets
Sea salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1/3 cup green Picholine olives, halved
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

In a large nonstick frying or sauté pan heat the butter and oil on medium. Spread the flour onto a small plate.

Season the fillets with salt and pepper. Dredge the sole through the flour, coating both sides.

Lay the fish skin-side down in the pan and cook for 3 minutes, until the skin browns and the flesh begins to turn white around the edges. Flip the fish over, add the olives, swirling them around the pan, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the sole is flaky and cooked through. Place the fish on a serving platter and cover to keep warm.

Add the two tablespoons of lemon juice to the hot pan and swirl the ingredients around to blend. Pour the olive sauce over the fish and serve immediately.