Shrimp and Grits - My Way!

Shrimp and grits, my way.  Talk about a Southern low-country culinary tradition!  But, let me explain a few things to un-boggle your so-called mind.  Lots of people who have shivered through snow clogged winters, lived through dust storms on the great plains, and think their football teams can keep up with the teams from the southeast, have no idea what grits are.

First, some basic American history and meaningless trivia.  Native American tribes gifted the early English settlers with corn, or at least that’s how the story goes.

Stick with me….the word grits comes from the old English word, grytt, meaning coarse meal.

Now we get to the difference between cornmeal and grits, and you can stick polenta in there as well.  Grits are corn kernels that have had the husk and germ removed, usually using lye or another alkaline agent, which turns the kernels into hominy.  Looks like a nude kernel of corn that has never seen the sun.  As a matter of fact, grits are sometimes called hominy-grits. 

Now grind the hominy kernels.  In the old days, they used a stone mill for the grinding and you can still find ‘stone ground grits’ today.  Voilá!  You got yerself some grits.  Started out as mostly a breakfast food and I still love ‘em with eggs and sausage.

Flash forward to around 1985 when a New Yawk Times food writer, Craig Claiborne proclaimed the marvel of the sensational shrimp and grits he found at a North Carolina restaurant.  He wrote an article, and being from the Mississippi Delta himself, Mr. Claiborne knew what he was talking about.

A note about Craig Claiborne, who passed away in 2000.  If you want to know about the basics of cooking, don’t go to Julia Child. Pick up any one of Mr. Claiborne’s books. 

http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/people/c/craig_claiborne/index.html

Claiborne’s article turned into a twelve cylinder, culinary engine that powered grits from the backwoods into the spotlight.  Today, you’ll find shrimp and grits everywhere  from north to south and east to west, from hole-in-the-wall eateries, to the big name restaurants.  Along the way, every major chef in the country has added his two grits worth to the basic recipe.  Barbecue.  Red pepper.  Garlic.  Cheese.  Haven’t seen escargot and grits, but I know it’s coming.

Now, I’m not a purist, but I do like my shrimp and grits to taste like shrimp and grits.  If I wanted to taste barbecue, I’d go to Texas.

So let’s quit messin’ around and git to it!  My recipe is in two parts, as you might guess.  First the grits, then the shrimp.

First the Grits

1 Cup of grits (use the 5 minute variety if that’s all you can scrape up)

2 Cups of milk

2 Cups of water

salt to taste

coarse ground black pepper to taste

1 Stick of butter (using a half stick at a time)

  Note:  Your amounts may vary, depending on the grits you use, but in any case, stick with half water and half milk.

Put the first four ingredients and a half stick of butter in a sauce pan and bring to a boil.  Stir well. The recipe on your box of grits is going to ignore any mention of milk and is going to tell you to bring the water to a boil first, then add the grits.  BUT, I like my grits creamy, especially if I’m going to layer them with shrimp.  The secret to creamy grits is to bring everything to a boil at the same time.  Then, cover and lower the heat to a simmer.  Stir once in awhile until the grits are done.  Your box of grits will give you a pretty good guess at how long that will take.  If the grits become too thick, add a bit more water or milk and when they’re done, stir in the other half stick of butter.

Now the Shrimp

1 lb of large shrimp  (41 to 50 count per pound)

1 ½ Cups of chopped onions (medium chop on all the vegetables)

1 Cup chopped celery

½ Cup chopped bacon

½ Chopped red bell pepper

2 Tablespoons butter for cooking the vegetables

1 to 1 ½ Cups chicken broth

Splash of Worcestershire Sauce

Two pinches red pepper flakes (too much will overpower the flavor of the shrimp)

Salt to taste

¼ Cup butter + ¼ Cup flour, mixed into a paste

Low-medium heat.  Put the vegetables, the bacon, and 2 Tablespoons of butter in a sauté pan.  Cook until the vegetables are soft, but not brown.  Add the spices and shrimp. Stir.  As the shrimp turn pink, add a cup of the broth.  Stir in the flour-butter mixture and allow the mixture to thicken.  Continue to cook on a low temperature for another three minutes.  Add the remainder of the broth as needed to keep the sauce from getting too thick.  You’re looking for a creamy consistency.

Put a helping of grits in individual shallow bowls and ladle the sauced shrimp on top.  Super for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. 

Enjoy it with your breakfast coffee and juice, or with a light, white wine.

The Larks

Many World War I flying novels concentrate on the air war, but only the air war.  Drinking and whoring, yanking and banking, kill or be killed, in little more than paper airplanes, with a max speed of 100 miles per hour or less.

All good fun.  Lots of death and destruction. But sometimes I yearn for a little more of the human element. The Larks, by Jem Shaw has what I was looking for.

I always say that everyone fought a different war, just as everyone went to a different high school.  How is that?  Even if you’re in the same squadron, flying the same type aircraft, you’re not on every mission.  You’re not there when a squadron commander chews someone’s ass.  You’re not listening to someone’s last thoughts when aircraft meets earth in a fiery ball. You weren’t best friends, but someone else was.  You may not have been there last year when the commander was a self-serving jackass, but you’re there when a peach of a commander took over.

You each have different friends, different moods, different squadrons, different wars.

In the First World War, it was even more so.  The average life span of a front line English pilot was less than a month.  Many died their first day in combat. The makeup of the squadrons changed almost daily.  Battle lines bulged and swayed.  Squadrons picked up and moved in the early morning, or the dead of night.  Cold bunks grew warm the very next day when more rosy-cheeked young men filled the ranks.  What kinds of men were they?

It was a different kind of war.  New weapons.  Machine guns turned the time honored frontal assault into mass suicide.  There had never been an air war.  Maybe, thought the ground commanders, the aeroplane might be good to spot for artillery.

How do you train newly minted airmen for flying, for war?  Here’s how you take off and land.  Now go fight.   Tactics?  Ask one of the old heads who’s been in the squadron a month.

And as the war ran on and the bodies piled up in great masses, aeroplanes morphed into killing machines. more and more adept, like genetically modified wasps.  And more aviators died, ever more efficiently.  Yet somehow, determination, and a copious ration of black humor carried them through.  As you read The Larks, you’ll find yourself plunging into the hopeless abyss of certain death one moment, only to laugh out loud on the next page.  Yet, it is anything but a comic tale.

Many WW I flying novels paint a clear picture of living with death, wasting few brush strokes on the battle with death.  What it does to your mind.  What it does to your dreams.  How it twists your loyalty.

Jem Shaw does a bang-up job of filling in the gaps, while the plot screams along.  Difficult.   In the heat of battle, moral dilemmas plunder your mind.  What if you’re in love? Can you think about love and still maintain the fighting spirit?  What if you’re offered a way out, can you take it and still be loyal to your comrades?

The Larks is populated with all the people you find in a real war.  Desk bound colonels who would “Love to take a crack at the enemy,” yet never do.  Politicians, who make idle decisions, then go for tea.  Wives and lovers who mourn the casualties and are left to pick up the pieces. Pilots afraid of death, but even more afraid of letting their comrades down.  Pilots who live for the hunt and die in foolhardy quests.

And in the middle of it all, men fly delicate machines and do a grand job of killing soldiers on the ground and other men who fly delicate machines.  Day to day, hour to hour, in weather not fit for birds, in battles committed to open slaughter.

Jem  Shaw has written a heart stoppping novel that lets you wade through the mud on the way to your aeroplane, let’s you feel the wind in your face, and smell the oil and cordite, all the while wondering if today will be the day you die.

When Boundaries Come Down - Lunch at St Germanshof

 

Way out in the country

When boundaries come down, as they have all over Euroland, you get some interesting situations. Sometimes you have to hear someone speak, or catch a glimpse of a sign on a shop window to know where the hell you are. If you visited Europe before the European Union formed in 1993, you’re in for a shock.

With the Schengen agreement, in what was once known as Western Europe, the borders do not exist except on paper.  Drive wherever you want and never show a passport.

But, I don’t want to chat about governmental agreements…yawn…I want to lead you to a special, romantic, intimate place that straddles Germany and France.  The perfect place to take that special someone, or your wife.

Breakfast.  Lunch. A quiet dinner for sixteen?  Take your pick.  Bring your appetite and a close friend’s MasterCard.

St Germanshof Hotel is one of those picturesque places that make you stop the car, back up, and pull into the parking lot, even if your wife is screaming that ‘This is the middle of nowhere.”  Don’t listen.  She’ll soon change her mind.  And don’t be surprised to find you’re not alone.

The specialty is wild game.  In the summer, it’s not unusual to find a wild boar roasting on a spit in the biergarten.  Happened to me.  We’d just finished some superb trout and I wanted sunshine and a frothy beer.  I asked the waitress, “Where’s the biergarten?”

“In France.”  She pointed out the window to the bar, wooden tables and the big boar on a spit.  Never seen a wild boar.

So I asked the man at the grill, “What kind of dog is that?”

“Not a dog, a boar!”  He was kind enough not to use the word imbecile.  What the heck?  YOU ever seen a wild boar over a fire?  Lean looking.  Long, ugly snout.  Looks nothing like a big hog. Big bastard.

This latest trip was in November.  Nothing doing in the biergarten.  Fire inside.  Crowded, as usual, but no problem getting a table for two, and this time no screaming wife.  I mean, she was there.  Don’t want to give the wrong, ahem, impression.

Once again, we both went for the fresh trout, with toasted almonds.  Superb.  Two dishes that people constantly and disastrously overcook, fish and fowl.  This fish came tender, delicious, falling right off the bone, without a shred of dryness. 

Delicious, buttery potatoes, almost too perfect to eat!

Accompanied by a light white, German wine, fresh potatoes, and a mixed salad, it was just the thing for a fall day. 

Bread with an herbed quark (much like sour cream) spread.

No dessert, but we lingered over coffee.Germany is like that.  No rushing.  You’ll see tables of just men, or just women. Time for friendship and conversation.  Relaxing.

By the way, the St Germanshof is also a hotel.  If you’re planning to be in the area, stop by their web site first. Spending the night would not be a hardship. It’s about an hour and fifteen minutes, almost due south of Kaiserslautern

http://www.st-germanshof.de

Cornbread Dressing - Simply Delicious

Everything you'll need

Holidays are times for favorites and that especially means food.   Gingerbread cookies, whose deliciousness floats through the house; Roasting turkey, cranberry sauce.  The list grows longer.  One of my special favorites, besides seeing my favorite elf, cozy by the fireside, with a naughty grin on her face…ah, lost my train of thought….oh, yeah, food.  Cornbread dressing!

Some call it stuffing, but I never stuff a turkey, so I call it dressing.  Dates back to my childhood, over half a century ago.  I picture my mother, who miraculously never weighted more than 105 pounds, in the uncomfortably warm kitchen, Vogue perfect, a starched apron completing the ensemble.  The oven going.  The stovetop, with half a dozen steaming pans, and on the counter a cast iron skillet loaded with day-old cornbread.  Why day-old instead of freshly baked?  Moisture, my lad.  Cornbread that’s a tad on the dry side soaks up the goodness of all that’s to follow.

It all starts with cornbread. Here’s my recipe, but feel free to use another.  The important things are to make it a day ahead and to make enough!  This is a single recipe that I use to make dressing that feeds 6-8.

2 Cups cornmeal (I use organic, non-genetically modified.  Just make sure it is a normal grind, not finely ground)

1/4 Cup sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder (non-aluminum)

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 Cup milk

1/4 Cup vegetable oil

2 egg whites, or 1 whole egg, beaten

Heat oven to 400ºF (200ºC).  Heavily grease an iron skillet or 8x9 inch pan.  Put the pan in the oven to heat while you mix the cornbread.

Combine the dry ingredients. Stir in the wet ingredients, mixing only until the dry ingredients are moist.  Do not over-mix.

Remove the pan from the oven, pour in the batter, and put the pan back in the pre-heated oven.  Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the middle comes out clean.

Once you have the cornbread, the rest is a cinch.

Prepare the vegetables:

1 1/2 Cups sliced celery

1 1/2 Cups roughly chopped onions

1 Carrot, shredded

1 1/2 sticks butter

2 Cans or 1 32 oz carton organic chicken broth

Melt the butter in a skillet, add the vegetables and stir.  Cook only until the vegetables are just soft.

While the vegetables are cooking, in a saucepan, heat the chicken broth and reduce by half.

Crumble the cornbread into a large bowl.  Add the cooked vegetables and mix lightly, being careful not to pack down the mixture.  Moisten with the reduced chicken broth and toss.  Do not let the mixture get soggy. Taste and add more broth or melted butter if you wish.

Put the dressing mixture in an ovenproof dish and bake at 350ºF (180ºC) until the tops of the chunks of dressing begin to brown.

Notice, the dressing is not packed down!

Already have the Turkey carved, the table set? Remove the dressing from the oven and serve with your favorite homemade turkey gravy.

Now that you’ve done your duty, crack open that bottle of bubbly and join your elf by the fireside.  Maybe the guests won’t notice.

Saarbrücken Christmas Market by the Castle

Lots of Christmas markets (Weihachtsmarkt) this time of year.  Some last more than a month, others just a few days.  Look around.  You’ll find plenty, big and small, sometimes more than one in the same city.

Here’s a partial list for Rheinland Platz http://www.weihnachtsmarkt-deutschland.de/rheinland-pfalz.html Click on the brown lettering to get the dates for a specific market

And another partial list for Saarland: http://www.weihnachtsmarkt-deutschland.de/saarland.html

Click on the red lettering to get the dates for a specific market.

Weihnachtsmarkt is pronounced Vie-knocks-marked, but in English or German, it’s a wonderful tradition for the holiday season.

 

Unlike the United States, where anything suggesting religion is carefully scrutinized before being beheaded, the Germans are unabashedly fond of Christmas and its many celebratory reincarnations.  Nativity scenes are shamelessly displayed.  Join in the fun, or embrace The Grinch.

Remember, this is Germany.  No matter the occasion, the waft of roasting meats and baking bread lusciously fills the air.  Beer and wine flow freely and the click of heavy mugs lets you know you’re in the right place.  My kind of Christmas celebration.  Vendors line the streets.  Artisans display their wares, with everything from intricate tree ornaments to handsomely carved furniture, olive wood kitchen implements, homemade chocolates, and a thousand other things that suddenly look like a fabulous way to spend money and keep the snarling relatives at bay.

 

Roasting Chestnuts

Castle is in the far background

In the city of Saarbrücken (Bridge over the Saar River) you have a bunch of choices.  We picked the Weihnachtsmarkt in the plaza of the Saarbrücken Castle.  Is the castle historic?  Yes and no.  Lots of castles on this site, dating back to around 1000 A.D.  Dukes, Duchesses, wars, revolutions saw so many deconstructions and reconstructions that the history is difficult to follow.  The current buildings got a facelift and architectural changes in the late 20^th Century and are used as offices by the Saarland government.  Still, they stand straight, white, and with a certain majesty.  The cobblestones are a nice touch and it’s the perfect place for a market, which also wanders down the surrounding streets.

But, no matter which Weihnachtsmarkt I pick, I always find something different, something that strikes me as “Hey, never thought of that.”  In some cases I’m pleased that I never thought of that, but often I’m surprised.  

This time it was hot beer.  Glühbier, it’s called.  The thoughtful folks who provided this warmth on a chilly day in Saarbrücken were Belgian as was the Glühbier.

The beer comes out steaming!

Most of us have sampled Glühwein.  Wine with spices, and sugared, then heated.  You can also get it with a shot of this or that, which is always a good idea, but only if you’ve found another driver for the sleigh.   Even with more alcoholic infusions, I can only take one mug of Glühwein.  A bit sweet for my taste.  But, it does get better with age, so wait five minutes, then have another.

Glühbier is a different beast.  You may think fruit flavored beer is sweet.  Not if it’s Belgian.  They add the fruit flavoring before fermentation, so the sugar from the fruit morphs into real beer, with a fruit flavor.  Heat the fruit beer up and you’ve got Glühbier.  First time I tried it, I was ready for another.  Instantly addictive.  A side effect is that suddenly your other hand feels empty without a Brat.  Easily remedied.

Glühbier!  Succulent, with just a bare bite of bitterness.

One thing I really enjoy about a German Weihnachtsmarkt is the attitude of the people.  Happy.  Smiling.  Hail fellow well met!  You well may wonder about the origin of that greeting from medieval times.  Well, join me for a Glühbier, grab a Wurst and let’s talk about it…

Chipotle Sweet Potatoes - by any other name

Chipotle Sweet Potatoes

The holidays are all over us.  Difficult to believe.  Seems like just yesterday we wore shorts and bright sunshine ruled.  Now scarves ward off the chill.  We stomp our feet to keep warm, and every wanna-be-Santa is duded up in fluffy white and red, shaking a bell, and waiting for the tinkle of coins. Shopping blunts our thoughts.  Putting up the tree is our deepest concern. When?  Where?

Appetites have a way of keeping up with the seasons.  Right now, ribs are not on my hungry mind.  Leaning toward roast this and piping hot that.  Sure, you can do the expected, but that’s always the case, n’est pas? Dried out turkey.  Mystery veggies slathered in mystery, soup-can sauce.

I prefer to explore.  Keep my guests guessing.  Make their taste buds twist and turn as they gulp their way to toxic levels of alcoholic cheer.  

I’m flat out tired of candied sweet potatoes.  Baked, casseroled, dotted with marshmallows, or otherwise subliminally morphed from tuber to dessert.  Sweet Potatoes deserve more respect.  Come on, in North Carolina it’s even the state vegetable.  And all the time, I thought it was barbeque, of the genus grillus hogus.

The question always comes up:  Is a sweet potato a yam?  Yes and no.  Biologically speaking, no.  Food labeling speaking, kinda.  In the U.S., probably because the terms have grown to be synonymous, anything labeled yam must also be labeled sweet potato.  Have a thirst for knowledge?  Pondering more research?  Be my guest.  I wanna talk about cooking.

I rescued this recipe from Bobby Flay, through the internet; but never being content to simply follow a recipe, my wandering mind, like a dog searching for the perfect tree, fabricates my own touches, to try out on unsuspecting, famished friends, often to semi-rave reviews I might add.  Those few friends I have tend to rave a lot anyway.  And sobriety ranks right below celibacy on their what-not-to-do-in-the-nursing-home list.

Chipotle Sweet Potatoes

3 large, robust sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/8 inch thick rounds

4 cups heavy cream

2 heaping Tablespoons from a can of un-drained chipotle peppers

2 heaping Tablespoons minced onions

4 little triangles of white cheese

Salt to taste

The Sauce:

Put the cream, and chipotles in a blender.  Err on the side of chipotle caution.  Blend well.  Add salt to taste and more chipotle if you dare.

In a sauté pan, add a bit of butter and the minced onions.  Cook until limp.  Add the cheese and a cup of the cream mixture.  Stir.  After the cheese melts, add the remainder of the cream mixture. Stir well and warm.

Puttin’ It All Together:

In a baking container of your choosing, put down a layer of sweet potato rounds, then spoon on some sauce.  Add another layer of sweet potato and another layer of sauce, etc., until the baking container is full.  Pour extra sauce over the top.  Cover and bake for an hour to an hour and a half at 375ºF (190ºC).  Check from time to time.  You want the potatoes to be soft, but not falling apart.  Time will vary depending on your oven and how thick you cut the potatoes.

layering

Spreading the sauce

Sweet Potatoes after being covered and baked for 80 minutes.

Uncover the potatoes, increase the heat to 400ºF (200ºC) and cook another 30-40 minutes or until the sauce bubbles and just begins to turn golden.

Voilá!  Easy.  Don’t be surprised if you guests overdose.  You may want to pass out extra napkins.  You know how drunks are.  Just getting them to use forks is a dangerous experiment.