by Maya Angelou
Puffed Pastry
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
⅔ cup soft shortening
1 large egg, beaten with 2 tablespoons milk
Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. Cut in shortening. Mix in egg mixture lightly. Chill for 1 hour.
Gazpacho
SERVES 6 TO 8
½ clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons vinegar
2 ½ cups cold water
4 tomatoes, diced
2 cups canned tomato juice, chilled
1 green bell pepper, diced
2 tablespoons minced onion
1 cucumber, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
½ cup bread croutons
Blend garlic, salt, oil, vinegar, and water. Add tomatoes and tomato juice. Serve bell pepper, onion, cucumber, celery, and croutons on the side. Each person can choose veggies and croutons as desired.
Petit Pois
SERVES 4 TO 6
1 pound fresh small green peas
2 cups chicken stock or water
½ pound cooked pearl onions
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup cold milk
In small, heavy pot, cook peas in stock over medium heat for 5 minutes. Add onions and cook another 5 minutes. Drain.
Season peas and onions with salt and pepper and butter. Mix flour with milk, then add to peas and onions, stirring quickly. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly for 10 minutes. If cream sauce is too thick, add water to desired thinness.
Twice-Baked Potatoes
SERVES 4
4 large Idaho baking potatoes
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
4 green onions (white and green parts), minced
1 cup sour cream
2 tablespoons (¼ stick) butter
Salt and freshly ground black pep-per, to taste
½ cup grated white cheddar cheese
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Scrub and pat dry potatoes, and grease with oil. Bake for 45 minutes. Remove from oven, and increase oven temperature to 375°F.
When potatoes have cooled, cut lengthwise, and scrape center from potatoes carefully, leaving ⅛ inch so that walls of potatoes will not collapse. Mix remaining ingredients in bowl, and mash with potatoes. Divide mashed potatoes equally among shells. Bake for 30 minutes.
Haricots Verts
SERVES 6
2 pounds thin green beans
½ teaspoon salt
3 quarts water
Vinaigrette (recipe follows)
Cook beans over medium heat in salted water until crispy tender. Drain well, cool, and pour Vinaigrette over beans.
Vinaigrette
MAKES 1½ CUPS
½ cup water
1 cup cider vinegar
½ teaspoon dried tarragon
½ teaspoon dried thyme
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
Salt, to taste
Bring water to boil. Add vinegar to water and scald for 5 minutes. Remove from heat, and cool. Add dried herbs, olive oil, and garlic, and season with salt.
ROSA GUY AND I BECAME GOOD FRIENDS in New York City during the late 1950s. She was Trinidadian-born and brought to the United States when she was seven years old. I had been born in Missouri and raised everywhere. Still, we had much in common. We were nearly the same age, enjoyed music, food, dancing, and relished the company of high-spirited men. We were both good cooks and admired each other’s skills. She was a founding member of the Harlem Writers Guild, and because I also belonged to the association some other members tried to set up a cooking competition between us. We refused to be drawn into such an unproductive use of energy.
Rosa told me that Trinidadians make and eat souse during the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. I told her that people in Stamps, Arkansas, where I grew up, do the same. She always invited friends to celebrate Thanksgiving at her house but now suggested that we might like to do New Year’s at my apartment. She and I would both make souse to help celebrate. We would eat and then go to Central Park to drink champagne and watch fireworks.
New Year’s Eve bloomed and Rosa arrived early with her souse. I confess to being a little nervous. My grandmother was the best cook I had ever known and I had used her recipe. Rosa set her bowl down on the kitchen table and lifted the top. I must have given a little scream. She asked, “What’s the matter?” I said, “Those are pig’s feet.” She said, “Yes, of course. It’s souse.”
I pulled my souse from the refrigerator and ran a knife around the side of the dish and unmolded the contents.
She asked, “What is that?”
I said, “Souse.”
We looked at each other, then at our so different dishes. There was nothing for it but to laugh.
She asked, “You call that souse?”
“Everybody I know in Arkansas calls that souse and we call what you’ve got pickled pig’s feet.”
She said, “Of course you make souse out of pig’s feet. Here, have a taste.”
Her dish was wonderful. The skin on the pig’s feet was white and there were rings of onion and wedges of crisp green peppers. I ate the piece she pulled off and it was exactly what we called pickled pig’s feet.
I said, “Taste this.” Then I took a slice from my loaf-molded souse.
She ate it. “That’s good. That’s hog head cheese.”
I said, “Yes, but we also call it souse.”
When the guests arrived, we served them hog head cheese and pig’s feet and unending champagne.
When a person relished my dish, I would look over to Rosa and smirk. Each time her souse received a compliment, she would all but stick out her tongue at me. I imagined had we been alone and ten years old, she would have put both her hands behind her ears and moved them forward and I would have made a face and said, Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah.
For many years we brought in the new year in Central Park with champagne after having eaten souse, hog head cheese, and pickled pig’s feet in my apartment.
Pickled Pig’s Feet,
or Souse
SERVES 6
6 pig’s feet
2 tablespoons salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 cups cider vinegar (or more, to taste)
5 whole cloves
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
3 large green bell peppers, quartered
3 large onions, sliced into rings
Scrape and clean pig’s feet. Place in large pot, and add boiling water to cover. Cook over medium heat until pig’s feet are tender, about 4 hours. Add 1 tablespoon salt, ¼ teaspoon black pepper, 1 cup vinegar, 3 cloves, ½ tablespoon sugar, and ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes to broth. Cook 1 more hour. Remove pig’s feet from hot broth and cool.
Make another brine with remaining salt, black pepper, vinegar, cloves, sugar, and red pepper flakes. Boil 15 minutes, then cool. Pour over cooled pig’s feet. Place in refrigerator. Add wedges of bell pepper and rings of onion to cold brine. Serve cold.
Hog Head Cheese
MAKES 6 TO 8 BREAD-LOAF PANS
5 pounds pig’s feet
1 pound pig’s ears
2 pounds pork roast
1½ bottles Chardonnay
2 cups cider vinegar
1 large onion, studded with 6 cloves
8 stalks celery
5 bay leaves
10 black peppercorns
Five 1-ounce packages Knox gelatin
3 teaspoons salt
3 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
2 red bell peppers
Cornichons (optional)
In large pot, place pig’s feet, ears, and pork roast in wine and vi
negar, and add enough water to cover. Place clove-studded onion, celery, bay leaves, and peppercorns in cheesecloth bag, and add to pot.
Mix gelatin in 2 cups cool water, and add to pot along with salt, pepper, and bell peppers. Bring to a boil, and simmer about 4 hours, skimming the surface as it cooks. Cool, then strain, reserving liquid. Carefully remove all bones.
Cut up pig’s ears, meat from pig’s feet, and pork roast. Place in large bowl, and mix well. Check seasoning and return strained liquid. Pour into 6 loaf pans, or more if needed. Cover with plastic wrap, and put into refrigerator for 5 or more hours. When cool and set, turn out of pans onto cutting board. Slice and serve like pate. Place each slice on salad plate, and add a few cornichons if desired.
DOLLY MCPHERSON AND I MET at a party in Rosa Guy’s home. Before she left, she invited me to her house for brunch the next morning. She said the invitation included Rosa. I thanked her and said I would come but that I wasn’t sure about Rosa. I knew that in Rosa’s house, after a rough Saturday night, Sunday morning always came late and didn’t come easily. To my surprise, Rosa said yes, she would love to come. She wanted to see what someone so proper would serve for brunch.
Dolly’s apartment was ready to be photographed for House Beautiful. In the living room a Federal nineteenth-century sofa sat on a lilac wall-to-wall carpet. An antique sewing table functioned as a side table while Queen Anne chairs surrounded a Duncan Phyfe table. Her walls were filled with fine art. Dolly was graced in a long housecoat. We had laughed together so quickly the night before that I had not noticed her very formal manners.
She served us good sherry in beautiful crystal glasses. I complimented her on their beauty and she said she had picked them up in France during her tour as a Fulbright Scholar.
Had the aromas from the kitchen not burgeoned with savory promises, I would have thought that maybe she was too highfalutin to cook for my taste.
I told her the food smelled inviting, then asked if she had some scotch. She said yes, and when Rosa said she’d like scotch as well Dolly said she would join us but with a sherry.
On her last trip from the kitchen, she announced that brunch was served. Her dining table could have groaned under the weight of her offerings. Parsleyed egg noodles shone under a lathering of butter, and in another dish string beans looked crisp and pert. There was a loaf of warm bread on a cutting board and a lovely platter of sautéed chicken livers and onions. A gravy boat filled with dark brown sauce sat nearby.
It looked good enough to eat. I hoped it was. The livers earned my lifelong respect. They were well done but still soft, and the gravy was delicious without the well-known bitterness so often found in liver gravy. The beans were tender but still had some crunchy character, and the crust of the bread was crisp while the soft inside was warm enough to make the room-temperature butter submit.
Rosa smiled at the table with approval.
When we finished brunch, Dolly said now she would have a scotch. She liked to have a full meal before she drank liquor. That sounded reasonable to me.
On the strength of the perfectly cooked brunch and on the chemistry that passed between us, I thought I’d like to have Dolly for my sister-friend.
That was nearly forty years ago and we now live in the same town and each of us has spent decades working at the same university. We still say hallelujah for our sisterhood and I am still praising Dolly’s chicken livers and gravy. And I have become used to having a sherry before dinner, with the meal, and a scotch after.
Chicken Livers
SERVES 4
1 pound chicken livers
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
¾ cup all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons diced celery
2 tablespoons minced green onion (white and green parts)
1 medium onion, finely diced
2 cups chicken broth
⅓ cup good-quality dry sherry
Wash and separate chicken livers, and pat dry. Season with salt and pepper, and dredge in ½ cup flour. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in large skillet, and sautê livers for 2 minutes on each side. Remove livers from skillet.
Add remaining oil to skillet, and sautê celery and all onions until translucent. Add remaining flour to skillet. When brown, add chicken broth. Cook for 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Put livers back in skillet, and add sherry. Cover, and cook for 5 minutes. Serve at once.
Buttered Noodles
SERVES 4
½ teaspoon salt
2 quarts water
One 1-pound package egg noodles
2 tablespoons butter, softened
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh parsley
In large pot, bring salted water to a boil. Add noodles. Cook over medium to high heat for 10 minutes, or until desired tenderness. Drain. Mix butter and parsley with noodles, and serve at once.
THERE WERE BRICKS IN MY MATTRESS and rocks in my pillow and no rest at all in my bed. On the same lumpy surface my husband lay snoring gently, a look of sweet satisfaction on his face. I so envied his delicious peace that I was tempted to pinch the skin on his inner arm, but he deserved better treatment than that so I decided to get up and leave the bed and the indulgence of slumber to him. Stealthily I began to slide out of the bed. When my feet touched the floor, I pressed both hands on the mattress. I didn’t want him to realize that I was getting up so I continued to press on the mattress releasing tension slowly until I could stand up straight and my husband could sleep on undisturbed.
I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of good Chardonnay. I had to confront the stress, which kept me from my rest. The truth was my writing was going badly. Or to put it directly, my writing was not going at all.
A sample of my work made me cry:
A RAT
SAT
ON A MAT
THAT’S THAT.
I was working on a fourth book, and although the others had been well received, it seemed to me this one would reveal to the world that I was a charlatan and couldn’t write my way out of a brown paper sack.
I decided to cook a complicated dish, which would take my mind off the exacting task of writing. I chose to make chocolate êclairs with whipped cream and custard filling.
From the moment I decided to cook, I forgot about writing. Gone was my concern with nouns, pronouns, verbs, and dangling participles. I had made cream puffs and profiteroles before but never êclairs, so I had to concentrate.
I finished the dough and measured it for twelve êclairs. I decided to make six with custard filling and the rest filled with whipped cream. I turned on both ovens and put three êclairs on each cookie sheet and placed them on the middle rack of each oven. I made the custard and started the whipped cream.
I put a large block of unsweetened chocolate in the top of a double boiler and turned the fire low so the chocolate could melt.
When the oven whistle let me know that the pastries were done, I opened the oven door and nearly fainted. I had measured dough the size of six large cigars, three on each cookie sheet. They had grown into loaves the size of giant Italian bread. I took them out and put the next load into the oven and was handed back six more giant loaves.
While they cooled, I made more custard and more whipped cream and warmed more unsweetened chocolate. Hours passed as pastries cooled and custard thickened and cooled enough to be placed into the giant pastries. I dusted some of the giant pastries with powdered sugar and drizzled chocolate over them all. After stuffing the refrigerator in the kitchen full of them, I made room for them in the refrigerator outside by the swimming pool. Dawn had arrived bringing its pink and gold clouds before I was finished cooking and filling the êclairs.
When I went back to bed, I was exhausted. I felt as if I had made dessert for an army. When my husband awakened and turned to sit up on his side of the bed, I raised myself and sat up, pretending I had not lain down just one hour earlier.
When my husband sat down for his coffee, I a
sked, “Would you like a little chocolate eclair?” (I knew he loved sweet pastries in the morning.) I chopped off a huge piece from the custard loaf. “When did you make this?” He ate so happily I didn’t feel the need to answer.
That evening after dinner I offered a whipped cream eclair. He said, “Of course.” The next day we repeated the actions of the day before except that I gave him whipped cream for breakfast and custard for dinner. The next morning he awakened before I did and left the bedroom. He came back immediately.
“Maya, Maya, wake up. What the hell have we got? Come here.”
I followed him to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door. Sliced êclairs were stacked on every shelf. He said, “Come outside.” He opened the refrigerator door on the deck. “What the hell do we have? An eclair cottage industry?”