Heritage

www.em-i-lis.com

One of the items on my Christmas list that I was most excited to receive was Heritage, the cookbook by Charleston chef, Sean Brock, that was released late last fall. I've eaten at both Husk and McCrady's, two of Brock's restaurants, and really loved them both. As I've come to learn more about Brock himself, I've developed an even greater respect for him as a cook but also as a seriously knowledgeable, regional food historian working to preserve the culinary traditions and ingredients native to the part of the American Southeast that runs from southwest Virginia through South Carolina.

Heritage is a beautifully rendered labor of love. The strains of personal narrative, farmer biography and food history are as engaging as the photographs which, though frequently highly stylized, seem to both entice the palate and make me feel confident that I, too, could cook the recipes. Included are some of the very dishes I enjoyed in Charleston. Heritage is also quite educational, and I have spent several nights curled up in bed with it, becoming more familiar with many of the ingredients I tasted in Brock's restaurants and in the greater Charleston area.

Brock's book suggests a number of specific corn, wheat and seed ingredients, and continuously recommends sourcing those items from Anson Mills. So after a recent night spent in bed with Heritage, I placed an order from Anson Mills, a farm/mill committed to reviving and growing new-crop heirloom grains, legumes, and oil seeds and then cold-milling them to order. If you are committed to the food world at all, you've probably come across Anson Mills' grits which are most definitely the "grit of choice" for serious chefs and grits-lovers.

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Founded by Glenn Roberts in 1998, Anson Mills has also been instrumental in resuscitating -indeed saving- Carolina Gold rice and Benne seeds (among others), two critical Antebellum-era crops. Brock is hugely in favor of that effort. I love the synergy of the Anson Mills-Brock relationship so was happy to direct order for both support and authenticity's sake.

I was particularly jazzed about the bags of Benne seeds I ordered. Benne, a West African ancestor to today's distant cousin, sesame, is closely related to okra and was grown as a subsistence crop in the 1800s. Because it's difficult to harvest, it ultimately lost its place as a heralded ingredient and crop. I first heard of benne when I tasted it, also for the first time, at The Ordinary (a fab seafood hall with magnificent ambiance) in Charleston. If you threatened me with everything you've got, I couldn't tell you what I ordered that contained benne seeds* -because really, oysters!- but with the bartender (because really, sitting at the bar! see A, B) we talked about benne and the unbelievable depth and nuttiness it imparts to Lowcountry food.

*Ok, because I blogged about that meal, I see that in fact I ordered black roux gumbo which was black because of the benne. #somanyreasonstoblog

Few grow it these days, but Anson Mills does, and as my mouth was watering over multiple recipes containing benne seeds and/or bennecake flour, it was clear that both would be an integral part of my order.

Today, before I knew that my A.M. shipment would be arriving, I headed to Capitol Hill to deliver a meal to a couple with a new baby girl -auguri! I keep quitting catering and then not. Bygones. Now I quit for real. Anyway, because I was so.far.downtown., I decided to make a stop at Union Market on the way home because I wanted to replenish my stock of Frantoio's marvelously peppery olive oil that I'd bought there last April. Sadly, that place seems to have left the premises, but I did discover two terrific meat stalls with really specialized cured meats and cuts all made from happy, humanely raised and slaughtered animals.

I admit to seriously loving short ribs so made a beeline for those at the first, Harvey's, but then and there, y'all!, the renowned BENTON'S bacon (from Tennessee; Brock calls for this very bacon in Heritage). Plus some other skin-on bacon from Pennsylvania. I immediately bought two pounds of Roseda Farm's short ribs and a pound of each type of bacon. The smokiness is incredible; were it visible, it'd be a large, plumey cloud of eye-closing, mouth-watering goodness.

www.em-i-lis.com

www.em-i-lis.com

Once home, I found and gleefully opened my box from Anson Mills, and really, everything came together. Soon enough I'll make the oyster-benne stew, and I'll let you know how it is, but tonight I used the short ribs and some of the Pennsylvania bacon to make an unctuous, five-hour stew that we will most definitely savor tomorrow night.

Food days such as these are really something. Love!

An excellent review of Heritagecan be found here.

Giant raisins in the Loire

Giggling and eating les raisins secs géants by the handful, we dialed her number. Curious if we'd correctly remembered the U.S. country code, we waited to see if the phone would ring and Claire would answer. She did, and in a blubbery, drunken voice, Tom said, "Mom, help us solve an argument: what did King Wenceslas look down upon?" "The Feast of Stephen. Why? Where are you?" she replied with good humor.

"What a sport," I thought, while cursing under my breath because her answer meant Tom was right.

We were staying in the guest house of a vineyard deep in France's Loire Valley. Amsterdam was our home that summer, and we took as many European excursions as we could, knowing that such an opportunity might not come around again. Newlyweds, every jaunt seemed the height of romantic spontaneity, even if we were swindled here or stuck in a dingy train station there.

Our week in the Loire involved no such challenge because it is beautiful and great wine and crottins of fresh goat cheese are everywhere. Going there was my idea, a way to satisfy my dream of drinking Sancerre every day while at the same time exposing Tom to a place he'd never been nor expressed much interest in. "The French?" he'd sniffed, unknowingly. "Aren't they rude?"

"Bah," I said, "Just wait until you try the cheese, drink their wine, live there for a brief bit."

Before our trip to the Loire (and Normandy), I teased him with a long weekend in Paris. From the first crêpe au Nutella et à la banane, bought from a street vendor on the banks of the Seine, he was hooked. We traversed Paris by the mile, a walk of epic proportion punctuated by breakfasts of warm croissants and coffee, picnic lunches in lush parks and boozy dinners at wine bars and neighborhood haunts.

After Paris, it wasn't hard to convince Tom of the need to return to France. This time, once arriving at Gare du Nord direct from Amsterdam's Centraal Station, we rented a car and headed south toward Sancerre, embarking on a circular path that would let us experience the Loire Valley and some of Normandy before landing back in Paris and heading home.

We'd wanted to stay on vineyard grounds if possible, and at that time, the "agriturismo" movement was hot. It was somewhere near Vouvray, which sits near the Loire River and almost to Tours if you've left Bourges roughly two hours back, that we checked in to the chambre d'hote from which the infamous King Wenceslas call was made.

As an aside, I should tell you that when traveling, Tom and I like to stay casual. We have, for the past eleven years, prided ourselves on: finding and frequenting the best markets and grocery stores wherever we are because we prefer to rent apartments or rooms rather than hotels and then eat breakfast at "home" and/or lunch via picnic; eating at a restaurant's bar (versus a table) whenever possible, especially for dinner; learning the word for "sale" in a multitude of languages -sconto in Italy, solde in France, etc; and adhering to the "See it or so be it" mantra we coined in Vienna. We did not like Vienna at all and became bored with trying to find reasons to love it. Hence, see it or so be it.

Anyway, we had, on the outskirts of Bourges, stopped at a Carrefour which we'd decided was our preferred French grocery. You can't always go to fresh markets, you know? There, our eyes, palates and stomachs had thrilled at the bags of giant raisins - les raisins secs géants- primarily because of their sheer size. Literally giant. It was on those that we were snacking when we drunkenly called Tom's mom.

Why on earth were we talking about King Wenceslas? Because we were planning a trip to Prague, Budapest and Vienna (the very trip during which we came up with "See it or so be it.") and got to talking about Wenceslas Square in Prague, named after Saint Wenceslas who's the patron saint of Bohemia, probably because Wenceslaus 1 was the Duke of Bohemia before being assassinated. Anyway, long, circular story, but whilst talking about Wen Square, Tom started singing the carol, Good King Wenceslas, and I disputed the then-ridiculous-sounding line telling us that he looked down on the Feast of Stephen.

And that is why we called Tom's mom while drunk and eating giant raisins and talking randomly about Wenceslas while in a guest house in the middle of Val de la Loire.

To be continued.

Nelson's Donuts

In the middle of a nondescript block of East McNeese Street in Lake Charles, LA, stands Nelson's Donuts. Nelson's is an institution. During my childhood, Tastee Donuts and Nelson's were the spots we frequented most; Tastee was good and its location was more convenient, but it never touched Nelson's. And while Tastee shuttered its drive-thru many years ago, Nelson's continues to thrive.

The sign is new, a slight update to the one I grew up looking out for as Mom, or later friends and I, drove towards the brick-red-roofed building. Gal pals and I spent many a post-slumber party morning tricking our fatigue with the sugar rush of a warm, freshly glazed dozen. Elia, Mom and I often went for an early weekend breakfast, and now, the boys insist that a trip to Nelson's be one of our first activities upon arriving in Lake Charles.

Nelson's is open seven days a week, from 5am to noon. As Tom and Jack were immersed in a spirited game of Chinese Checkers, Ol and I made the Nelson's run this morning. We arrived at 7:45, and, per the usual at that time, the drive-thru line snaked into the street (drivers not headed to Nelson's go around without complaint). We took the last lot spot, and Ol flew to the window, eager to place our order.

The smell of hot grease, yeasted dough and sugary glaze envelops you as you approach the counter. Even if you swear you're not hungry, you will find yourself ordering a donut or two for yourself and later regretting that you didn't get more. I made that rookie mistake this morning and have rued it ever since.

Jack had requested two strawberry-filleds, one cinnamon twist, some donut holes and a chocolate-glazed. Ol chose a chocolate-glazed bedecked with sprinkles, donut holes, a cinnamon twist and an eclair. We got a French Market (like a beignet) too, just because. Ol sucked down his cinnamon twist before we reached home, and I poached a bite of J's strawberry-filled and Tom's chocolate-glazed.

I have eaten many a donut all over America, including those from vaunted spots like Voodoo Doughnuts in Portland and Dough in Brooklyn. Those from Dough were magnificent, and yes, a Krispy Kreme is good when a fix must be sated. But there's something perfect about donuts from Nelson's. They don't try to be anything but delicious, consistently so, and they are. Nothing fancy, nothing silly, no soupçon or drizzle of anything you really didn't want anyway. They're just wonderful, and we're already looking forward to a big, messy, sugary box next time we're here.