A Delicious Day is More Than Food

What makes a day delicious?

It goes way beyond serving food that merely tastes good, and it has nothing to do with whether each leaf has been tweezed into place.

My friend Kathryn went to visit her mother in Lexington, Kentucky, not far from where her grandmother—known as Granny and about whom family legends are spun—and her people came from, about an hour southeast of the city on Spencer's Mountain. It was a place where, no matter what your family's circumstances were, there was always music being played and biscuits made with White Lily flour coming out of the oven.

Kathryn's mother (l) and grandmother.

Granny knew who made the best liquor on the mountain, and what proper series of words must be spoken to get it, how to play a mean guitar and handle a gun, and how to warn off hussies who might be making a play for her man with a simple, "I wouldn't do that." Her passing a few years ago left a big hole in the heart of the mountain.

Whenever she visits, Kathryn accompanies her mother on the rounds of her beloved thrift stores, always working in a stop to pick up a ham to bring back to Portland. This time it was a Burgers' Smokehouse Brown Sugar Cured Country Ham that caught her eye, an 18-pound beauty in the case at Critchfield Meats in Lexington.

Biscuits ready for the oven.

Yes, I said 18 pounds, loaded in a purchased-for-the-occasion thrift store suitcase along with several pounds of White Lily flour, Weisenberger's grits and cornmeal mix to get her family through till the next visit.

On arrival, the cloth-bound, 100% TSA-approved ham was ceremoniously hung in a closet in the basement to await its date with a liter of Coca-Cola and a house full of guests. On Wednesday the "Ham Baby," as it was be-monikered, was removed from the closet and its cloth suit and set in a pot of water to soak out some of the copious amounts of salt used by Burgers to cure its hams.

The Ham Baby and proud parents.

For three days the baby bathed, the water changed daily by its dutiful attendants, and on the third day it was removed from the briny water and submerged in the fateful liter of Coke and more water, to simmer until its internal temperature reached 155 degrees. Removed to Kathryn's butcher block table, the ham was then deboned by her husband Jeff and tightly wrapped in plastic wrap so it would cool completely in one piece, the easier to slice it just before their guests arrived.

Friends were gathered the next day with beautiful flowers, jams and fresh butter on the table to celebrate summer and each other and the holy ham, which had been sliced wafer-thin to be served with baskets of those cloud-like White Lily biscuits.

And here's what made it a delicious day: the laughter and stories, the appreciation for the food and the strong women of Kathryn's family whose traditions had made it all possible.

Southern Style: Succulent Shrimp and Grits

My friend Kathryn is a Southern gal through and through. The lilt of the Kentucky hills is still there in her voice, despite growing up moving all over the world as an Army brat, then living in Saudi Arabia as a young woman and finally settling on the West Coast. Her mom still lives not too far from the family's place on Spencer Ridge, playing a mean guitar, manicuring her lawn with a hatchet and making what are rumored to be some of the finest biscuits on the planet.

Kathryn often returns from her trips there with souvenirs like a several-pound whole Southern ham or bags of White Lily flour stashed in her luggage, which must make the drug-sniffing dogs think twice about their careers and the TSA agents scratch their heads. Booty from a recent trip home included bags of Weisenberger Mills stone-ground white grits, "milled from NON gmo White Grits grown in Hardin Co. Ky at the Rogers Farm," one precious bag of which she graciously brought as a hostess gift when they came for a catch-up dinner at our house. Lucky me!

And lucky again because it gave me an excuse to ask Kathryn for the recipe for the shrimp and grits we'd had at her home on a previous occasion. It's not written down, of course, one of those family recipes that's "a bit of this, a handful of that," but she patiently walked me through the process, putting up with my "how much?" questions.

After two attempts I'm still working on perfecting the grits—apparently Sean Brock of season two of the excellent The Mind of a Chef series says to soak them overnight before cooking—but the shrimp in its roasted tomato sauce more than makes up for any of my indiscretions on the grits end of things.

Shrimp and Grits
Adapted from Kathryn Madison

3 Tbsp. olive oil
1 onion, chopped fine
2-3 tsp. red pepper flakes, depending on your fondness for heat
6 green onions, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 qt. roasted tomatoes
1/2 c. white wine
1/2 lb. (or more) large fresh shrimp, shelled with tails on
1/2 c. parsley, chopped fine
Salt to taste

Heat olive oil over medium-high heat in deep-sided skillet. When it shimmers, add yellow onion and red pepper flakes to skillet and sauté until the onion becomes translucent. Add green onions and garlic and sauté until green onions wilt. Add roasted tomatoes and white wine, reduce heat and simmer for one hour.

Make grits according to package directions. Just before serving, add shrimp and parsley to tomato sauce and simmer until shrimp is cooked, about 5 minutes or so. Add salt to taste. Serve over grits.

Simply Delicious: French Onion Soup

The lunches of my youth, growing up as I did in a small town in Central Oregon, where the annual summer festival celebrated the potato and crowned a potato queen, were a typical smorgasbörd of the times: bologna sandwich on white bread alternated with tuna fish, with cottage cheese and potato chips on the side.

Soups, which occasionally made an appearance at lunch or dinner, were from the good folks at Campbell's, usually chicken vegetable or Scotch broth (my mother's favorite). Dave wooed me with his doctored canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I didn't learn to make a pot of soup until college, when I ran a coffeehouse in the basement of the university's Koinonia center. Mind you, I didn't cook the soups, but had a crew of volunteers I'd wrangled from friends and staff who would make the day's offering in a five-gallon pot.

The soups—and the price, which was just a couple of bucks for a big bowl of soup and a slice of "peasant" bread—attracted a large, regular following, running the gamut from Jane's potato-lentil to Ed's split pea to Mike's startlingly good beer cheese. Robert's French onion was always a huge hit with its rich, beefy stock and chunk of cheese-topped bread. I had a file of all of their recipes, since on occasion I had to pinch hit as chef du jour when one of my cooks couldn't make it in due to colds, flu or a raging hangover (it was college, after all).

I still make my favorites now and then, and have added a killer black bean soup, curried squash and a few chowders to the mix. My friend Kathryn recently reminded me of my soupy beginnings when she mentioned a particularly amazing yet simple French onion soup she'd made recently from a recipe by Jacques Pepin. Since we've no doubt got a few days left of rain, I thought it might be appropriate to share it.

French Onion Soup
Adapted from Jacques Pepin

1 lb. onions, quartered lengthwise and sliced thinly crosswise
2 Tbsp. butter or margarine
8 c. chicken stock
3-4 cloves garlic, minced fine
3 sprigs fresh thyme
Salt and pepper to taste
3/4 lb. Emmenthaler, Gruyère or Jarlsberg cheese, grated
Baguette, sliced crosswise into 1/2" thick slices, toasted

Preheat the oven to 425°. Place 6 small oven-proof crocks (1 1/2 c. capacity) on a cookie sheet. Place 2-3 slices baguette in each crock. Sprinkle 1 or 2 Tbsp. cheese on top of bread.

Melt butter or margarine in Dutch oven or soup pot over medium-high heat. Add onions and sauté till golden brown, stirring frequently so they don't burn, about 15 min. Add chicken stock, garlic and thyme and bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 10 min. Remove any twigs of thyme and add salt and pepper to taste.

Fill the crocks to the brim with the soup. Sprinkle each crock with 1/2 c. cheese, pressing the cheese onto the rim so that it will form a crust. Put the cookie sheet in the oven and bake 30 min. until the cheese is golden, puffed and crusty.

A Company Dinner That's No Lemon

We had friends over for dinner the other night, one of those evenings where the main dish sang, the sides were in perfect harmony and the wine was perfection. That's when I suddenly realized everyone was talking about food…a memorable restaurant meal, a dish their mom made for special occasions, a favorite recipe. Not that it's an unusual occurrence, at least around here, where a wonderful meal seems to conjure memories of other flavorful experiences.

So when Jeff and Kathryn mentioned a chicken dish his mom liked to make for company, my ears pricked up, especially since his mom and step-dad are both fantastic cooks. And when he mentioned that the dish called for roasted lemons, a personal weakness of mine, I was on board big time.

A few nights later I pulled out the Meyer lemons I'd had stashed in the fridge and whipped it up. While it takes a little prep, it's basically a one-dish dinner for four, or you could add a couple more breasts and a few more potatoes and it'd easily serve six to eight. Toss some broccoli rabe in olive oil, salt and pepper and roast it in the oven while the chicken cooks, or just tear up some butter lettuce and sprinkle with olive oil and lemon and you've got all your bases covered.

Chicken with Roasted Lemons and Rosemary
Adapted from Michael Chiarello, Tra Vigne

1 1/2 lbs. small new potatoes
2 large lemons
Extra-virgin olive oil for brushing on lemons, plus 1 Tbsp. salt and freshly ground pepper
4 boneless chicken breast halves, skin on
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
1 c. chicken stock
1 tsp. finely chopped fresh rosemary
1 Tbsp. finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 Tbsp. unsalted butter or margarine (optional)

Put the potatoes in a pot of salted cold water and bring to a boil. Cook until just tender, about 20 minutes. Drain and let cool, but do not peel. Cut in half and set aside.

Preheat the broiler. Cut a small slice off both ends of each lemon, then cut in half crosswise. Arrange the lemons, flesh side up, in a flameproof non-reactive baking dish, brush with olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Broil 6 inches or more from the heat until browned and soft, about 10 minutes. Let cool. Squeeze the lemon halves over a sieve suspended over a bowl. Push and stir the pulp through the sieve with a rubber spatula or wooden spoon. Discard the lemon shells.

Preheat the oven to 450°. Season the chicken with salt and pepper. Heat the remaining 1/4 cup olive oil in a large ovenproof sauté pan over medium-high heat until hot. Add the chicken, lower the heat to medium, and cook, turning once, until brown on both sides, about 5 minutes. Remove to a platter.

Return the pan to medium-high heat, add the potatoes, season with salt and pepper and cook, stirring and tossing, until brown all over, about 5 minutes. Drain off the excess oil. Arrange the chicken breasts on top of the potatoes and place in the oven to reheat and cook through, about 10-20 minutes. When done, remove the chicken to a platter and put the pan with the potatoes over medium-high heat. Toss well so the pan juices are absorbed into the potatoes. Scrape the potatoes out of the pan onto the platter around the chicken.

Return the pan to medium-high heat and add the garlic. Sauté briefly until light brown. Immediately add the reserved roasted lemon juice (this final flash of heat will cook off any residual acid flavor), stock, rosemary, and parsley. Stir and scrape up all the browned bits that cling to the bottom and sides of the pan. Season to taste with salt and pepper. If the sauce tastes too lemony, stir in the optional butter. Pour the sauce over the chicken and potatoes and serve immediately.

A Really Great Day

The e-mail's subject line was enough to grab my attention: "Oink oink."

Turns out my friend Matt Berson, winemaker under his own Love and Squalor and Behemoth labels, had bought half a pig from Chris and Amy at Square Peg Farm and was looking for some moral support. He'd observed a couple of other butcherings, and taken the hands-on pig butchering class from Melinda at Portland's Culinary Workshop, but this was his first solo effort.

I told him I'd only butchered a pig once under close supervision, but he said the company would be helpful, so I was (more than) happy to come and lend a hand. I climbed the stairs at his friend Matt Johnson's Secret Society and up to the kitchen where Peg the pig (named after its former home) was waiting on a long table.

After consulting a couple of online resources, Matt set to work cutting it into the large primal sections, leaving the leg in a single piece for prosciutto. The jowl came off, then the belly, a nice long slab of bacon-to-be. We threw scraps of meat and fat into a bin for sausage, then after removing the backbone and dividing the rib sections, I had to leave Matt to do the rest of the piecework since I was meeting my friend Kathryn for a lunch date.

Kevin was just turning the "CLOSED" sign around as I got to Evoe, so I grabbed two seats at the prep table, the better to observe the chopping, shaving and mixing of the ingredients that makes this place my personal choice for the best restaurant in town. By the time I'd perused the chalkboard with the day's offerings, Kathryn had arrived and we promptly ordered two house-made elderflower spritzers and the pickle plate.

Knowing as I do that Kathryn's appetite for Kevin's food is as prodigious as mine, despite the fact that she is (quite astonishingly) petite, we set about ordering. Nettle dumplings with cream (left) were the essence of spring, three light-as-a-feather quenelles arranged in a dish of cream and briefly set under the broiler to warm and brown.

To follow that we chose a light salad. Kevin has had a way with butter lettuce salad since the early days of Castagna, and we knew this one would be the perfect mid-meal break with lightly dressed whole leaves tossed with chopped anchovies. The culmination of lunch was duck confit (right), a whole leg that had been sitting in duck fat for several days, which was then toasted to crunchy, crusted perfection and served with a spoonful of thick applesauce. After that we considered splitting the spicy pork sandwich for dessert, but decided that might be a bit too much even for us.

Dave came home that evening in the mood for a martini, so while I cubed up some of the jowl from Roger the pig that he'd cured and smoked the weekend before, he shook up a couple of his house specials. In Italy a cured, unsmoked jowl is called guanciale and, when sliced, looks a lot like bacon with ribbons of fat streaked with meat. It's used in dishes like carbonara and pasta all'amatriciana, and since I had a couple dozen of Clare's amazing eggs, I decided to go with the carbonara, a fitting tribute to Roger's home and an appropriate end to a spectacular day.

Spots Before My Eyes

Not to brag, but I've made some pretty spectacular paellas on the grill in the last several years. The heat from the wood fire, the smokiness it lends, the bitter edge and dynamite color from the saffron…there's really nothing like it.

But I think the one I made last night for my sister-in-law's birthday might have been one for the record books. The recipe remained pretty much the same, though with homemade fish stock instead of chicken stock, and piquillo peppers, a few baby shrimp left over from the appetizers and chopped green beans from the garden. I'd gone by Newman's Fish Market earlier in the day to pick up the usual pound of mussels, but they were sold out. Same with their clams. I was about to turn and head out the door when the tattooed young fellow behind the counter asked, "Did you see these spot prawns?"

One glance told me that I had my solution. I'd heard about these lovelies up in Vancouver, BC, where they hold an annual Spot Prawn Festival at the beginning of May to celebrate this northern Pacific coastal delicacy. Though certainly not cheap compared to the ubiquitous pink shrimp, these were big and fat and packed with deep red-orange roe, which I'd never seen before. My new friend with the tats said to put them in the paella at the very end of cooking, for only five minutes or so they wouldn't overcook.

I nodded and ran out the door with my package. When I got home I pulled off the legs and scooped out the roe, leaving the shells on to add a little extra flavor to the rice. Then just as I was pulling the paella off the grill, I sprinkled the roe in the center so it would warm up ever so slightly.

So there you go. I've given away my secrets again, but seriously get some of these beauties if you see them in the case. They'll send whatever dish you put them in right over the top!

Thanks to Kathryn for snapping the photo at top before the crowd demolished it!

Going In Through the Garden

I've already confessed to being a nosy parker. Using the excuse that I have to walk the dog, I'm always peeking and peering over fences and through shrubbery in daylight and gazing in brightly lit, uncovered windows at night. I'm not out for lascivious thrills or gathering dirt on the neighbors, just boring stuff like how they paint their houses or landscape their yards. Really.

Which is yet another reason I love this time of year, when neighborhood homes, gardens and even chicken coops are thrown open to the prying eyes of the public. So I want to remind you about one garden tour in particular that's coming up this weekend that, appropriately enough, benefits a new landscape being done by dedicated volunteers at the West Slope Community Library.

It features seven gardens, including the almost completely edible garden of the Oregonian's Vern Nelson and his partner, Mary Sherman. A friend described it as having "one of the largest raised beds I’ve ever seen, side yards with strawberries, onions and garlic, a greenhouse, a trio of black ducks quacking, chickens laying, espaliered fruit trees and a new doorway Vern is installing to ornament the entry to their good friends and neighbors directly behind them. Plus a recently expanded covered back porch/living room with a roof extension with skylights and the beginnings of a new earth oven in progress."

With warm, sunny weather predicted, this is a can't-miss opportunity for garden lovers and snoops alike. You can bet I'm going!

Details: Raleigh Park Garden Tour. Sat., June 4, 10 am-3 pm; $15 advance, $17 day of tour; tickets available online. Pick up tickets and map the day of the tour at Raleigh Park Elementary School, 3678 SW 78th Ave.

Season of the Nosy Parkers

Nosy parker: a person of an overly inquisitive or prying nature.

Home tours, garden tours, tours of chicken coops, wood-burning ovens, beehives…it seems we can't get enough of peeking and prying, of oohing and aahing and pointing. And brave are the souls who open their gates and doors, not to mention their hutches, to the public. I am way too timid to undergo the scrutiny of anyone other than my dearest friends, who are apt to forgive (or at least not mention) my messy house, unswept cobwebs and half-finished projects.

But luckily there are those who willingly go where I cannot, with many worthy causes benefiting from their largesse. Like the West Slope Community Library, an important community hub in its neighborhood, which is seeking to renovate its aging perennial garden into a more structured garden with year-round interest.

My friend Kathryn's garden club is leading the charge to raise funds for the project, and has convinced seven neighborhood residents, including two of the city's most renowned gardeners, to open their personal gardens for the cause. Internationally recognized author Barbara Ashmun,known for her books on garden design, will be participating, as will the Oregonian's Hungry Gardener, Vern Nelson.

So grab a friend and your best binoculars and be prepared to satisfy your nosiest needs. You might even get some ideas to take home to your own garden.

Details: Raleigh Park Garden Tour. Sat., June 4, 10 am-3 pm; $15 advance, $17 day of tour; tickets available online. Pick up tickets and map the day of the tour at Raleigh Park Elementary School, 3678 SW 78th Ave.

Perfect Basmati Rice

There are good things to be said about growing up in a middle-class American family with all the white bread, WASP-y sterotypes that conjures up. Parents who stayed married till death did them part, family camping trips in the station wagon with my brothers fighting in the back seat, tuna casserole on Fridays (though it's my understanding that the Episcopal church left the fish-on-Friday tradition behind when Henry VIII divorced his first wife).

Adding the ground saffron salt to the boiling water.

But it's hard sometimes not to envy people who had a more adventurous path. Like my friend Kathryn, the child of Southern parents and an Army brat who ate her first cornbread and beans in Japan. She eventually married and spent several years in Saudi Arabia where, interestingly enough, she learned to cook Indian food like a native.

The holes, boss, the holes!

I've admired her saffron rice on several occasions with its perfectly cooked individual grains of golden rice. It's the idea match for all kinds of Indian dishes and is an aromatic accompaniment to anything braised. So when she offered to not only share her recipe but also show me how to make it, I was ecstatic.

Kathryn's Perfect Basmati Rice

2 c. basmati rice*
2 3/4 c. water (for cooking)
1 Tbsp. salt
Large pinch saffron (about 1/8 tsp.)**

Rinse the rice in several changes of water until the water is no longer cloudy. In large bowl, cover rice with water and let it soak for one hour. Drain.

While rice soaks, in a small mortar and pestle combine salt and saffron, in Kathryn's words "letting the salt do the work for you" and grind it to a powder.

Bring the water to a boil in a large, flat-bottomed pan. Add the saffron salt and return to a boil. Drain soaked rice and add it to the pan (top photo). When it returns to a boil, reduce the heat to medium and watch for holes to appear in the rice. When there is no visible water on the surface of the rice, turn down heat to lowest setting and cook for 12 minutes. Turn off the heat, take off the burner and fluff the rice with a chopstick or fork (left). Cover pan with a soft cotton tea towel, place lid of top of towel and allow to rest for 5-15 min. Serve.

* This recipe also works with jasmine rice.

** Great quality saffron is available for a very reasonable price at Rose International Market.

A Gem Sparkles in Sellwood

It happened right in the middle of slurping a steaming bowl of noodle soup. Not that I couldn't have been anyplace doing just about anything, since the feeling comes over me all the time. It could be my friend Kathryn who simply must go to a particular gift shop tucked away in a downtown highrise. Or a bar that my brother (ha!) hadn't yet managed to find and blog about. But in this case I instantly knew I had to take my son to have a bowl of the steaming deliciousness.

In this case the must-share discovery was a little noodle shop in Sellwood where April Eklund (on right in photo at left) and her immensely talented mother, Cuong "Lucy" Eklund, have opened Jade Teahouse. Lucy bakes the bread for the banh mi sandwiches and makes the noodles for the udon and rice noodle soup fresh every morning. She also bakes all the picture-perfect desserts in the display case that look as though they've come straight out of a shop on the Ile Saint-Louis.

The Jade version of banh mi (right) is reason enough to go, with chewy, golden baguettes stuffed with thick slices of barbecued pork and the requisite pickled daikon and carrot with sprigs of cilantro. Need I mention that Lucy makes the sweetly tart pickles, too? And if pork doesn't ring your bell, they also have drunken chicken, tofu, turkey and Vietnamese meatball versions of these tasty sandwiches.

But the soups are what really shine here. We had the udon rice noodle soup with chicken and shrimp (left), the noodles thick and toothsome with plenty of chicken and large pink curled shrimp playing hide-and-seek in the broth, the crispy fried onions sprinkled on top that give an extra depth to the whole dish.

My wonton soup with spinach, pork and shrimp (top photo) blew me away with the tender, almost ethereal noodles enclosing a succulent bit of ground meat. The dumplings floated in the broth almost like some kind of sea creatures waiting to be brought to the surface. I've always wanted to try the Chinese specialty called xiaolongbao or soup dumpling which, when you bite into one, squirts out an incandescently flavorful broth surrounding its meaty center. Jade's wontons seem almost as luscious, and the baby spinach and those crispy onions make this an entirely satisfying meal.

So gather up your posse and head over to this little jewel. After all, what are friends for but to share with?

Details: Jade Teahouse & Patisserie, 7912 S.E. 13th Ave. 503-477-8985.