Old Hagdorn’s creation must have been quite a success, because he eventually took over the bakery, and it remained the specialty there for the next four generations. Roald Dahl probably had one of the last batches made by great-grandson Albert before he sold out to the current owners—which might be why he was so uncharacteristically forthcoming with the recipe. Certainly, we didn’t find a single other baker in Arnhem sellingMeisjes. They’re still exclusively Hagdorn’s.
Before leaving town we stopped at the local library, where we uncovered a compilation of pastry recipes by local master bakers. While it contained nothing onArnhemse Meisjes, it did stress the use of two particular ingredients in cookie making:Zeeuwse bloem, a flour from the province of Zeeland, right on the North Sea, which makes cookies especially crispy because it binds less moisture than flour from inland-grown wheat; and soft brownbasterdsuiker, or beet sugar. (You can imagine our reaction when we first found light brownbasterd, dark brownbasterd, and whitebasterd sugar in the supermarkets here.)
Bruinebasterd suiker has the texture of American brown sugar and is often used to give a dark color to commercial cookies, including one of our own favorites, LU’s Bastognes. However, Bastognes also have a distinctive crunchiness, which derives not frombasterdsuiker but from another Dutch baking secret—kandij suiker.We suspect that it is the thick coating of these amber crystals of rock-candy sugar (made not from beets but from unprocessed sugarcane syrup) that givesMeisjes both their shattering crunch and their deep-flavored, mellow sweetness. And, yes, theyare fairly addictive.
DEPARTMENT OF RANDOM RECEIPTS
ESSENCE OF CORN
Down East, locally grown sweet corn won’t arrive at the farmers’ markets until summer has started to slide into fall. Early August—yes, the days are still hot and the roadsides lined with brown-eyed Susans. But apples are turning red, the leaves of more than one maple are a shock of scarlet, and teachers will soon be holding meetings at the grammar school. In other words, the arrival of sweet corn—Seneca Daybreak, followed soon after by Honey & Cream and Burgundy Delight—is greeted with the little edge of self-pity that flavors any long-delayed anticipation. We buy our first bagful with a resolute determination to make up for lost time.
This, of course, means making an entire meal of it, setting the pot to boil the moment we get home. It is only after we have put at least three such feasts of corn on the cob behind us that we are able to calm down a bit and permit our pleasure in this end-of-summer delicacy to exfoliate. It is one of life’s small ironies that when we do we turn to what must be the most unembellished dish of all in that cantankerous compendium of Spartan cookery, Helen Nearing’sSimple Food for the Good Life, where it is named, starkly, “Uncooked Corn.”
To make this, you bring the corn, a large bowl, and a sharp knife with you out to the picnic table in the backyard (this is messy work), shuck the ears, and pull away all the silk. Then take the knife and use the point to cut down the middle of each row of kernels and the back of the blade to scrape the sweet, milky pulp into a bowl. This fresh-scraped custard is served up and eaten as is. You don’t have to be of the back-to-the-earth persuasion to find this delicious: no,more than delicious—so mysteriously satisfying that even a touch of salt seems unwanted tampering.
The old-fashioned word for this pure corn pulp ismilk —a word that, until I ate it plain, I felt was a misnomer; if anything, it more resembles watery scrambled eggs. But to eat it in this raw, pure state is to feel something of what a nursing baby must: that you are imbibing not food but food’s platonic essence, a substance that by its own pleasing nature—rather than through any subsequent refinement or distillation—is entirely digestible. The experience in the mouth is not so much of eating as of inhaling: the tongue just breathes it in. Nothing I have ever consciously tasted has seemed so light, so delicate and sweet, so effortlessly good.
Indeed, the problem with a bowl of fresh-scraped corn pulp is that it is a littletoo pure to serve as part of an actual meal. It is the sort of thing that, like wild blueberries and milk, you want to eat by itself and by yourself alone, sitting on the porch in meditative silence. Our compromise is to eat a few spoonfuls straight from the scraping bowl, then take the rest and cook up a pot of sweet corn pudding or fill the griddle with the tastiest, most delicate imaginable little crispy puffs: sweet corn fritters.
SWEET.CORN PUDDING
[per serving]
3 large fresh-picked ears of corn, shucked and de-silked
cup whole milk or light cream
a pinch of salt
a grinding of black pepper
a pat of butter
Using the method set out above, slice each row of kernels on each of the three ears and scrape out the pulp (each ear should yield ¼ to cup). Put this and the milk or cream in a small pot and set it over a medium flame just long enough for the contents to heat through. Season with salt and a grinding of black pepper, ladle into a soup bowl, and float a pat of butter on top.
Variations.Corn and Seafood Stew: I never thoughtanything could improve on our elemental Maine lobster stew (for that recipe, consult the chapter “Crab Rolls & Lobster Stew” inSerious Pig ), until one day I stirred in 2 cups of corn pulp during the final reheating. The result was astounding. Conversely, we’ve added fresh-picked crabmeat to the pudding to make a great corn and crabmeat stew, and I suspect that this would work just as well with oysters or shrimp.
Creamed Corn: Obviously, a small side dish of corn stew would make a transcendental serving of creamed corn, but consider briefly parboiling (2 minutes or so) the ears to set the pulp before scraping it out. This yields something different and quite luxurious: pure corn on the cob … in a bowl. Heat this gently and serve it forth lightly seasoned and nicely buttered.
SWEET-CORN FRITTERS
[makes 24 fritters—a meal for 2 or 3 or a side dish for 4 or 6]
6 large fresh-picked ears of corn, shucked and de-silked
2 tablespoons butter or bacon fat (at room temperature)
3 eggs (at room temperature), separated
3 to 4 tablespoons (1 ounce) all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon salt
black and cayenne pepper to taste
butter or bacon fat to grease the griddles
Put a heat-proof platter in the oven and preheat at the lowest setting.
Use a patent kernel cutter or the edge of a sharp knife to cut the kernels from 3 of the ears, scraping each stripped cob with the back of the knife to remove any remaining pulp. Then, using the method described on page 216, slice each row of kernels on the other 3 ears and scrape out the pulp. Each ear should yield to ¼ cup of kernels or ¼ to cup of pulp. All 6 ears will thus produce a generous 2 cups of kernels and about 1 cup of corn pulp.
Put 2 tablespoons butter or bacon fat and 3 egg yolks in a mixing bowl. Stir the fat and egg yolks together gently until they make a smooth emulsion. Add the corn pulp, blending well. In a small bowl mix the flour, salt, and black and red pepper. Sieve this into the batter and stir until well blended. Fold in the corn kernels. Beat the egg whites until they stand in soft peaks. Mix about a quarter of this thoroughly into the batter, then fold in the rest more delicately, to preserve the loft.
Over a medium-low flame, melt a tablespoon of the butter or bacon fat on a griddle or in a large skillet (use half the amount of fat if the pan has a nonstick surface). Drop the batter by generous tablespoons onto the hot griddle and cook until the undersides form a golden crust. Then flip them over until the other sides do the same—about 30 seconds per side. Turn them with care—these fritters arevery fragile. When the first batch is done, transfer it to the platter in the warm oven, regrease the griddle or skillet if necessary, and prepare the next batch in the same way. Serve the fritters as soon as they are all made. They are a delicious savory side dish but can be a meal all by themselves, topped with sweet butter and, if you like, maple syrup.
A small treasure in our cookbook collection is a tiny book of corn recipes, published in 1917. Ca
lled simplyThe Book of Corn Cookery, by Mary L. Wade, it offers many ways of using corn pulp, including the following four easy and very appetizing recipes.
CORN-STUFFED TOMATOES
[serves 4]
4 whole tomatoes
1 sweet red bell pepper, cored and seeded
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup corn pulp
salt and pepper to taste
Cut off the tops of the tomatoes; scoop out their centers with a spoon. Pour boiling water over the pepper; remove the seeds and cut into small pieces; cook in the butter for 5 minutes. Season the corn with salt and pepper. Add the cooked pepper. Pack this mixture into the tomatoes, replace the tops, and bake for 30 minutes in a 350—F oven.
CORN OMELET
[serves 2]
2 tablespoons flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup corn pulp
1 cup milk
4 eggs, whisked together until light
1 tablespoon butter or bacon fat
Mix the flour and salt with the corn pulp; add the milk and the lightly beaten eggs. Heat the butter or bacon fat in a frying pan. When bubbling hot, pour in the egg mixture. Cook slowly on top of the stove or in a 325—F oven about 10 minutes, or until a silver knife stuck into the center comes out clean. Carefully invert onto a hot serving plate and serve at once.
SOUTHERN CORN PUDDING
[serves 4]
1 pint rich milk (half-and-half)
1½ cups corn pulp
1 tablespoon butter
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon paprika
2 eggs, slightly beaten
Heat the milk to just below the scalding point. Add the corn pulp, butter, salt, paprika, and, last, the beaten eggs. Stir gently until the mixture is blended, then pour into a buttered pudding dish and bake in a 325—F oven until set, or about 45 to 55 minutes.
We found this recipe in Paola Scaravelli and Jon Cohen’sCooking from an Italian Garden, and it immediately captured our hearts. If you like butternut but are tired of it baked or mashed, you’ll find that this bright-flavored dish gives it a nice touch of Mediterranean swank, as well as some unexpected matchings of texture and flavor—the union of butternut and basil is especially intriguing. A perfect salad for early fall. Here’s how we’ve adapted it.
ITALIAN BUTTERNUT SALAD
[serves 4]
FOR THE VINAIGRETTE:
½ to ¾ teaspoon sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
teaspoon dried oregano
¼ teaspoon ground hot red pepper
1 to 1½ tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil
1 garlic clove, finely minced
FOR THE SALAD:
1 small whole butternut squash, peeled, cored, seeded, and cut into ½-inch cubes
1 red bell pepper, cored, seeded, and chopped
2 large scallions, trimmed, sliced vertically, and chopped
several basil leaves, torn to bits, or a handful of parsley, minced
Mix together the ingredients for the vinaigrette in a large bowl. Steam the squash cubes until just tender but not soft (al dente). Turn these out into the vinaigrette. Add the other ingredients and stir gently until the bits of pepper and scallion are evenly distributed and everything is lightly coated with the vinaigrette. Let rest for 30 minutes or so in a cool place before serving so the flavors can meld.
PEASE PORRIDGE
Feb. 28, 1782.Was rather uneasy to-day on Account of being afraid that I have got the Piles coming or something else—unless it is owing to my eating a good deal of Peas Pudding two or three days ago with a Leg of Pork.
— James Woodforde,The Diary of a Country Parson
There seems to have been pease porridge as long as there’s been an England—although, as C. Anne Wilson dryly notes inFood and Drink in Britain, it was probably not all that much enjoyed until salt was available to season it. There is no dating the moment when some inspired British cook thought to make the porridge into a pudding by tying it up in a sack and boiling this with pickled pork. As the peas swelled, they drew in some of the succulent fat and the savory cooking water, with its delicate taste of pork, salt, and cooking spice. (Unlike ham, British pickled pork is not smoked or dried, and so its subsequently much milder flavor does not overpower the simple pea-and-herb taste of the pudding.)
The taste of pea and pork proved so compelling in combination that by the time of James I, a common street cry was “Hot grey peas and a suck of bacon!”—with the purchaser receiving literally that, for the piece of meat was tied to a string, and the vendor quickly yanked it out of any mouth that was taking more than the paid-for taste.
Pease pudding retains a stronghold in the culinarily conservative northeast of England. Jane Grigson, who was raised on it, remembers butcher shops with “great pots of it in their windows” to be sliced into portions for customers to bring home with the pork. According to Sheila Hutchins inGrannie’s Kitchen, those pots still exist, each one holding fifty pounds of pudding. “But it soon goes,” she notes, to be eaten with “roasts, sausages, white puddings, even sandwiches, with all kinds of pork cuts and with ham and boiled bacon. ‘A grand tea we had, boiled ham, pease pudding and pickles,’ they say locally.”
Originally, the peas for pease pudding were whole. They were put in a sack with a sprig of mint and left to simmer in the pot along with the cut of meat they were to be served with. Today, the usual method is to prepare a more delicate pudding by cooking and puréeing split peas, enriching the resulting porridge with butter and egg, and then either steaming or baking it until firm.
Our version of pease pudding breaks all the rules. The split green peas are soaked overnight and then pulverized in a food processor before being cooked. Almost all other recipes, at one point or another, require a parboiling of the peas instead, a process that cooks out all their flavor. Make it our way and you’ll have a pease pudding worth eating, even as a meal by itself.
PENOBSCOT PEASE PUDDING
[serves 4 to 6]
1 cup (½ pound) split green peas
1¾ cups water
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 egg, beaten
¼ teaspoon grated lemon zest
1 teaspoon salt
freshly ground pepper to taste
1 cup frozen baby peas (defrosted under cold water)
4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter
a few fresh mint, thyme, or marjoram leaves, minced fine
Wash and pick through the split peas carefully. Put them in a small bowl, pour over the water, and let soak overnight. The next day, pulverize the split peas with any remaining liquid into a coarse-textured gruel in a food processor set with the steel blade. Then work in 1 tablespoon of the butter, melted; the beaten egg; and the grated lemon zest. Season to taste with salt and lots of ground pepper. Stir the defrosted tiny peas into the pudding mixture with a spatula. Use some of the remaining butter to generously grease a 1½-quart earthenware soufflé or similar ovenproof dish. Pour in the pea mixture and dot it all over with small bits cut from what remains of the first 2 tablespoons of butter. If possible, cover with plastic wrap and let rest in the refrigerator a few hours before baking.
To bake, preheat oven to 350—F. Unwrap the cooking dish and put it in the oven. Bake for 1 hour, or until pudding has set. While pudding bakes, melt the additional 4 tablespoons of butter, pour it into a small pitcher, and stir in the pinch of minced fresh herb. Let this steep in a warm place on the stove. When the pudding is done, run a sharp knife around the inside edge of the dish to free it and turn it out onto a serving plate. Serve in slices, bringing the pitcher of melted herb butter to table for each eater to dribble over their own slices as they like.
Cook’s Note.Sheila Hutchins suggests that meat drippings make a tasty substitute for all or part of the butter in a pease pudding—an idea that seems to us an immediately appealing use for a big spoonful of drippings from a roast chicken.
; Confirmed asparagus lovers will immediately see the appeal of the following recipe. Because you can taste as you go, there’s no danger of overcooking the spears. Then, the entire meal can be eaten with your fingers, thus establishing the intimacy that fresh asparagus deserves—without dripping butter all down your shirtfront, whichalways happens when you try to maneuver whole spears into your mouth. And the problem of how to consume the butter that remains on the plate is neatly resolved. However, the reason that I love this dish is because of the sopped toast. It’s so delicious that it can almost get you past the usual conclusion to a meal of asparagus: self-pity. It’s the only vegetable of which it can be said that too much isn’t quite enough.
ASPARAGUS IN A BOWL
[serves 1]
1 bunch asparagus, carefully rinsed
1 tablespoon butter
½ teaspoon salt
1 thickish slice good bread, trimmed to fit the bottom of a shallow soup bowl
freshly ground black pepper to taste
Peel the bottom third of the stalks. Slice off the tough ends, using the edge of the knife to locate the point where the tender part begins. Cut the trimmed stalks into bite-sized pieces, leaving the tips whole. Put the butter into a large skillet and add the salt and about ¾ cup of water. Bring to a simmer and add the asparagus, reserving the tips to add a minute later. Bring the liquid back to a simmer and, stirring frequently, cook the asparagus to the tenderness you like. Meanwhile, slowly but thoroughly toast the round of bread.
Set the toast into the bottom of the shallow soup bowl. Spoon over the asparagus and the remaining cooking liquid—there should be just enough to moisten the piece of bread thoroughly. Generously pepper and eat at once.
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