good cateress newsletter may 07

good cateress, newsletter, May ‘07


May. The beginning of the New season of fruits and vegetables,
something truly worth celebrating! Although this year for us in the
North East it will be a little later than usual, due to our very sad
April. In England they spent Easter sunbathing in their gardens,
while we in New York were inside with rain and cold, feeling quite
miserable. I have ventured to the Green Market two or three times in
recent weeks, full of expectation, there are a few ramps; last week a
few asparagus.

In previous years we have been eating the new seasons greens; Turnips,
mustards, collards, chard even these hardy growers are still to be
seen. For some reason I dont regard these as Spring vegetables,
although clearly they are

When I think of ’new’ vegetables, the one’s we wished on the first
time we ate them that year, I am talking of shelling peas, fava beans,
new potatoes, carrots and asparagus followed by soft fruits,
strawberries, raspberries and then my personal favourites currants and
gooseberries, rarely found here, although Chip in the Green Market
usually has a few.

As a toddler, I am told, I would stand in among the rows of peas, you
could quickly tell how tall I was or how far I could reach by the
height of the remaining peas. One of my earliest memories is of
sitting on the kitchen table with the large yellow colander next to
me, shucking peas, my mother was guiding me in this enterprise,
helping me to put some peas in the colander not just my mouth. My
mother always cooked the new peas with a couple of good pods and a
sprig of mint in the water. Divine!

My other favourite shucker that appears now are Broad Beans known here
as Fava beans. In England we plant them in the Fall and they grow
through the winter ready for an early spring harvest. We grew them
ourselves and occasionally would cut the top leaves off the plant ,
depending on the black fly that seemed to find these plants
particularly tasty, and sauté them with garlic. They were always
sweeter and younger than the store bought beans, as the farmer wanted
a fuller pod for the weight. In England we eat these beans in their
pale grey/green outer skins, which gives them a distinctive slightly
bitter taste. I enjoy them out of those skins as they serve them here,
but I tend to think of them as an entirely different vegetable.

Baby new carrots! I can eat 3 or 4 while driving back uptown from
Union Square. Crunchy, earthy, sweet. The perfect snack and nothing
like the hideous little carrots in bags at the supermarket, again not
even the same vegetable. As I crunch away on the carrots, I am
reminded of Peter Rabbit stealing the farmers carrots in the Beatrix
Potter book.

When I had my appendix removed at the age of 16, in the midst of
moving from the Folly to the Clarendon in Chale on the south side of
the Isle of Wight. The Clarendon an old coaching Inn that had stood
there for 400 or so years, with long views of the west Wight
coastline. A couple of days after the operation, these were in the
days when you kept you in hospital for a week, Mum and Janette
appeared in the ward with a trug filled with Mrs. Kings new carrots
and peas to cheer me up. It was heaven after the truly inedible
hospital food, I happily sat up in bed shucking the peas, chomping the
carrots and quickly thereafter recovered. The hospital staff and
other people in the ward just thought it was all too peculiar!

Asparagus too. My mother always had asparagus for her birthday in
May, in honour of her on her birthday I always eat them and toast
her, fortunately on saturday at Union Square there were a few local
asparagus. My first asparagus, having grown up in Germany were the
large white European variety. We did love those large white
asparagus, we were allowed four stalks of mums birthday treat. For
those that don't know, the Peruvian white asparagus available here
while they might look like European white asparagus, actually bear no
resemblance to them at all; although the distinctive flavor is mildly
sensed.

Our first year back on the Isle of wight, we had been living there
about a month, it was May mums birthday I thought I would buy her Isle
of Wight asparagus for her present, the shopkeeper showed me green
asparagus. I was horrified I had never seen them that colour and
declined them! I quickly grew to love and appreciate them.

But my favourite of all new Spring produce is buttery new potatoes,
boiled with a mint sprig, giving them a slight minty flavour. Why is
it so hard to find good new potatoes that you scrape rather than peel
here? It has always bewildered me the lack of seasonal and variety of
potatoes here in America. Every where we lived in Europe we had them,
so why is America so happy to put up with an Idaho baker year round,
so boring. In his book Botany of Desire, Michael Pollan talks about
potatoes and how the Peruvian Inca’s grew 100’s of different varieties
of potatoes for many different things, perhaps they should go back to
that and stop growing white asparagus.

A new potato has skin that you can literally remove by running your
thumbnail across it, hence scraping them. At the end of May beginning
of June in England, the Jersey Royals arrive from the Channel
islands. Perhaps the king of new potatoes, as a child I could eat 15
or so potatoes in one sitting.

Is there a meal more redolent of Spring than Roast leg or shoulder of
local new lamb served with fresh garden picked mint sauce; new
potatoes, carrots and peas, followed by local strawberries and cream.
I can smell and taste it all.

Finally, in May the woods and copses are full of bluebells, you look
at a carpet of blue, with a light fragrance and the buzzing of insects
sucking the nectar of pollen.


Here we go into summer....

good cateress newsletter mar 07

good cateress, newsletter. March/April 07

Last year as I began to formulate the possibility of a newsletter in
my mind, I had always known that the topic for the March newsletter
would be my grandmothers Nettle Soup. It was part of our family lore.
In the early Spring we could not drive from Whippingham to Wootton on
the back road that ran through Brocks Copse without my mother looking
at the side of the road, where the new Stinging Nettles were about 4 -
6 inches high. Nettle Soup she would say with a shudder.

In the depression of the 30’s and then into the war years with its
rationing, each Spring, on Sunday afternoons after church, my
grandmother with her young family would head by bike to Brocks Copse
specifically for the young nettles.

Brocks Copse is a dark wooded area with the old road running through
it, so named for its badgers. However I always thought it was a foxy
place, dark and rather like the wood Beatrix Potter wrote her story of
the fox. I would go there to pick the pale yellow wild primrose, that
makes the nursery bred Primula seem such a tawdry upstart. The
hedgerows would be full of pussy willow and catkins, later in the
Spring there would be some of the few remaining wild daffodils. We
would never tell where these precious remnants of flowers that at one
point had been a carpet of bobbing yellow reminiscent of Wordworths
daffodils in the Lake District; people had dug up the bulbs for their
gardens, where they had for the most part died. On the bend of the
road there is a lone house, my aunt Janette had stayed with her
Grandmother here as a child, she remembered there being no electricity
and the house was lit by candles and paraffin lamps.

So, as a family they would head out to pick the dreaded nettles. My
grandmother made the soup as a Spring tonic to clean the blood of the
winters ailments. Apparently the soup was hugely cleansing and we
were always led to believe that we should be grateful that we were not
made to drink this awful concoction. Although my mother wanted us to
understand clearly that in case of the apocalypse and we survive this
was an easy source of nutrition.

Last summer while visiting dad he had given me my grandmothers recipe
book. I already had my mothers, in which at about the age of 10 I had
began to write my own recipes. There in Mahala’s book was the
infamous recipe for Nettle Soup, I read it, it seemed rather like
Spinach soup and I did wonder what all the fuss must have been about.
As I am rarely in England at this time of year, I have not tried the
recipe for lack of young stinging nettles. I have never seen them
growing here in the US as they do in England, where you cannot walk in
the Country without being stung around your ankles, and you pray for
the lowly Dock leaf to be somewhere nearby so you can rub the dock
leaf on the sting to ease the stinging rash.

So I was really surprised to open both Martha Stewart and Gourmet
magazine this month and find recipes for Nettle Soup. Clearly Carl
Jung's collective unconscious is much in play.

We are slowly inching our way towards my favourite time of year. I
have already began to prepare the soil for planting my garden here in
Harlem. There are signs of growth, although my first daffodils
bloomed on New years day and all through January and now look like a
mess, others are budding. The chives are up and the Clematis are
sending forth their first green shoots. My Basil and Tomato seeds are
in their peat pots on the windowsill.

Then there is the 127th Street Playlot. I have become involved with
the Playlot through the Block Association and working with the
Abyssinian Development Corp. The Playlot has a couple of childrens
play frames, empty planters and tree’s, the magnolia is getting ready
to bloom. We have just won a small but significant grant from
Citizens for NYC.

The award ceremony was one of my great moments in NYC. There were
awards large and small given to various groups from all five boroughs,
all made up of people from all walks of life and nationalities,
interested in improving their neighborhoods and exchanging information
abut where to get more help. Ranging from places like East New York
Farms, an amazing endeavour in Brooklyn that has rescued abandoned
lots and literally turned them into a neighborhood farm, to groups
like our Block Association who are just beginning to make that change.

We have a difficult time ahead of us. We began with a clean up day on
Saturday and we can now see what we need to do. We have a lot of
empty beds but hopefully with the help from various New York charities
we can get plants, tools, soil. In the summer we hope to have Yoga
and calisthenics, art and music classes.

I have heard it said many times that one person can make a difference
and for me, West 127th Street is where I would like to do that.

Happy Passover. Happy Easter
--

good cateress newsletter nov/dec 06

good cateress, newsletter. Nov/Dec 06



When I started to write the newsletters I knew the November and
December would be the hardest to write, as they are my busiest months.
So I have decided to combine them. As a caterer any sense of joy for
the Christmas season is lost, but in my teen years I still had it.

I need to write a little explanation here, about where I am writing
about. For the most part it will be the Isle of Wight, and in
particular the River Medina area from Cowes up the river to Newport.
My cousin Diana, an archivist, has traced my mothers family back to
the 14th Century; we are all christened, married and buried in the
four parishes along the river, Cowes, East Cowes, Northwood and
Whippingham. It is still for the most part a beautiful river valley
although Cowes and East Cowes ccontinue to grow along it, but much of
it is unchanged for centuries. Pastoral farm land the most part, with
a public footpath that runs along the East bank. As I write this in
my office in Harlem I can look up at the wall above my desk filled
with Victorian prints of the river, Whippingham Church, Uncles house
in Cowes, but mostly the river from different angles and I am
transported back to my roots.

My parents, my aunt Janette and uncle Murray in a variety of
partnerships and singly had the pub called The Folly Inn on the river.
Originally, The Polly, a working barge in the 17th Century which had
been swept aground in one of our notorious sou’westers, presumably
during the equinox high tides and it had never been able to float
again. At some point it had become an Inn and so it remains. When
Murray and Janette had the Folly in the 60’s, while doing some
renovations they had discovered that the original hull was still
fairly intact and had installed Plexiglas in the floor so you could
see it. Further renovations had removed all that, but in the attic
there were still parts of the original deck.

Also living on the river were the Cundall family. Pam and Allan with
their sons, Robert, Colin and Philip ran sailing holidays on their
boat the Rene Phillippe. The Rene was a large wooden motor boat, I
thought she went to Dunkirk, but everybody tells me I am wrong. People
came from around the world for the sailing holidays and Pam's amazing
cooking.

It was a wonderful life for all of us, particularly the children. We
lived on a tidal river, played around on boats, Simon fished and so
dug for rag worms for bait in the river silts st low tide he was
always being rescued from the gooey sucking mud. There was a copse
behind the Folly for us to play in, during the Spring there were
primroses and wild daffodils, Blue bells in May. We went to sleep at
night with the Halyards beating tunes on the masts and the night
wading birds chirping to each other as our lullabys.

Come early December their would be an invitation from Pam to help her
make sweets/candy as Christmas presents. Some years the Rene would
be tied up along the jetty, but one year I do remember rowing out to
the Rene. Pam and Lucy, my mother would have worked out all the
ingredients ahead of time, and of course, what I would be doing, my
job was to show up. I always showed up I loved this day. One of my
favorite things, was candy making.
Fudge, coconut ice, truffles, marzipan fruits, chocolate corn flakes.
Anything with sugar and butter.

We started with fudge. As the sugar melted into the condensed milk,
the tangy air of the river faded as the sweet smell pervaded the boat.
I had to stir almost continuously to stop the sugar from burning on
the bottom of the pan; something that with Pam's gentle reminders
never happened, but when I was alone frequently did. This was a job
that called for patience, something I didn't have much of, as I
stirred and watched, stirred and waited for ‘soft ball’ phase to be
reached. Pam would talk to me, distracting me from my impatience with
a small chore here and there that could be done during the stirring.
Then without warning we were there. The smell would change. It was
exciting pouring the molten mixture into trays to cool, ready to be
cut into squares. Of course, I wanted to try it hot from the pan,
burnt fingers and certainly scalded tongue followed.

My next sweet was coconut ice. I enjoyed making it but I could never
quite get my mind around laying the pink and white on top of each
other, I wanted them to be side by side.

Chocolate and cream turning into ganache for truffle, with each year a
different flavor. Sometimes chopped apricots, always some liquor. It
was put away in the fridge to solidify ready to be scooped with a
melon baller and rolled in cocoa.

By now the portholes were running with condensation from the steam.
The water lapped against the boat as the tide turned.

The following week we would get together again. Pam was very creative
and had found small trays to pack our sweets on, with colored doilies
as a liner and sprigs of holly with berries from the copse. It looked
and felt like Christmas.

I really enjoyed these times, but one year I stopped helping Pam, I
forget why, I was a teenager and it probably seemed unimportant. But
I never stopped making sweets. For a brief moment in my early
twenties I decided that was what I would be a sweet maker. After all
I would make fudge, coconut ice and sell it to my friends. My then
boyfriend, older and wiser than me, said the words that I have
subsequently used on many occasions. “You will have to make an awful
lot of sweets to make any money,” Its true but homemade sweets, jam,
cookies and cakes are really the nicest gift to give and receive.

Old fashioned Vanilla fudge

1lb Sugar 2oz butter 300 ml Magnolia vanilla essence

Grease a tin 6inch x 6inch

Put the sugar, butter and magnolia in a large heavy based pan, heat
gently until the sugar has dissolved and butter melted. Bring to boil
and boil steadily to 240 F or soft boil stage, stirring frequently.
Remove the pan from heat to cool surface, add the essence and beat
until mixture becomes thick and creamy and grains form - minute
crystals. Pour into tin. Leave uintil nearly cold and mark into
squares with sharp knife. When it is firm cut into squares.


Merry Christmas Happy Hannukah
Beautiful New Year

--

good cateress newsletter aug 06 - blackberries

good cateress newsletter Sept 06 - mushrooms

Late last summer while staying at our friend Pippa’s house in the
Green Mountains of southern Vermont.  A clear glorious morning, I was
walking beside the river that runs through the property observing
damage from a storm the previous day. As the storm, that was clearly
far worse further up the valley, had cleared, I had gone outside to
watch the otter play in the pond, I could not think what the sudden
roaring noise was or even where it was coming from. Looking down the
hill from the house I realized that our usual sedate, lazy river was
now a raging torrent of brown furious water, sweeping everything in
its path away.  I had never seen anything like it.

Today however the sun was out, the frogs and birds were singing; bees
and butterflies flew feverishly among the late summer wild flowers, as
if sensing the storm had presaged the end of summer.

Nearing the woods, where the ferns still dripped rainwater, the earth
smell changed to the peaty mold of Fall.  Here the fallen trees had
tree mushrooms growing on them, the ripples of growth reminding me of
waves on a beach.  I had passed a few puffballs, still quite small,
smiling in remembrance of jumping on the giant puffballs in England,
watching the ‘puff’ of spores explode out of them. I had been told
many times how delicious they were sautéed in butter but had never
been tempted to try them. In fact after the heavy rains, there were
now mushrooms and toadstools coming up everywhere, in a myriad of
shapes and sizes, from the tiny fluorescent orange smaller than my
finger nail, to huge wet brown shapes that I did not recognize.  If
only I knew what they were?

I walked further into the woods and stopped in my tracks.  There
before me was a Porcini mushroom.  I knelt down beside the mushroom,
looked at it from every angle, smelt it, looked underneath at the
gills.  I know that toadstools like to mimic mushrooms and the
surefire way to tell is the color of the gills.  This however looked
like the real thing. I walked on but kept coming back to the ‘porcini’
looking at it wondering; worried about it. After a good amount of
time, I  carefully picked the ‘porcini’ and carried it back to the
house.  It was a beautiful mushroom.

For the rest of the day I came back to the mushroom and thought about
it.  Would I or wouldn’t I cook it? In the end I did not cook it,  I
was too worried about being alone and eating a poisonous mushroom.
All the childhood tales of people dying from poisonous mushrooms,
adult tales too.  I couldn’t do it.  I threw the mushroom out.  I
still think about it.  I know it would have been divine!

In England a slightly different experience of mushrooming, here we
knew our favorite mushroom, where it grew and when to pick. After the
first September rains, the sou’wester I realize now are the remnants
of Atlantic Hurricanes. We would ready ourselves for the appearance of
the first field mushrooms.  Looking out of the upstairs windows we
could see our nearest mushroom field. Simon, my brother, would walk
the dogs over it that afternoon reporting back that there was no sign
of any mushrooms.  A decision would be made that we would get up early
, certain that by the next morning the mushrooms would appear.

Walking along the River Medina, we climbed over the wooden stile into
the field, the dogs slid underneath and were already running around
excitedly.  A low lying mist lay along the field as the rains and dew
were burnt off by the warming sun. We all set off in different
directions, heads bent to the ground, in my case I looked up
periodically to check the field and where exactly the cows were.  All
the mushroom fields seemed to have cows in them, apparently the two
things went together.  I had been chased and herded by cows through
all too many a field.

Simon, who inherited my fathers mushroom instinct, was always the
first to shout ‘I've got one,’ slowly there would be echoes of “me
too” and then silence we were all too intent on picking.

There they would be; the white caps peeking through the long grass.
The ancestor of the cultivated white mushroom, full of flavor.  The
smaller mushrooms caps tight and furled; others opening up in the
warmth of the sun ready to drop their spores.  Mushrooms in fairy
circles mixed with fairy cap toadstools which amazed and delighted me.
As we were in cow pastures, some came up through cow pats, no one
picked those ones.  Some had maggots, how? They were a few hours old,
but everything wanted a taste of mushroom.

Walking home the air was full of the musty mushroom smell; we were
starting to salivate with anticipation over our breakfast treat.  We
were barely in the door, knowing instinctively our task, mum was
laying out rashers of bacon on the grill pan.  We  were spreading the
mushrooms out on newspapers on the kitchen table, sorting them.
Peeling the ones we were having for breakfast; setting aside others
for soup for lunch.  A little bacon grease in the skillet, the sliced
mushrooms were added, the kitchen full of the woodsy aroma of cooking
mushrooms, toast was being made.  This,  one of the great all time
breakfasts, something I have not eaten in 23 years.

Mushroom soup remains one of my favorite things to eat.  I buy a mix
of mushrooms; button, cremini, shiitake and a portabella.  Saute
onions and garlic in butter, then add the wiped and sliced mushrooms,
gently cooking the juices flowing, I like fresh marjoram, sherry and a
little cayenne for flavor.  I learnt while cooking with two Sicilian
lady cooks, about the Fungi stock cubes from Italy.  For the longest
time you could not get them here and I would ask friends going to
Italy to look for them, but Star brand now sells them here, I find
that this adds that wild mushroom flavor to soups, stews and risottos,
which makes such a difference to the taste.  I let the mess ‘o’
mushrooms, cook quietly for about an hour, until the flavors are
melded. I add flour to make a roux paste, then slowly add a
combination of milk and homemade chicken stock.



jane mcqueen-mason
212 665 2704