C’mon. Surely I can figure out what to do with homemade bacon. I mean, it’s bacon. It’s salty, fatty, and comes from a pig. What’s not to like?

A lot, it turns out. I’ve been trying to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t thrilled about my homemade bacon since mid-February, the Charcutepalooza deadline. [...]]]>

C’mon. Surely I can figure out what to do with homemade bacon. I mean, it’s bacon. It’s salty, fatty, and comes from a pig. What’s not to like?

A lot, it turns out. I’ve been trying to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t thrilled about my homemade bacon since mid-February, the Charcutepalooza deadline. (You’ll have to take my word for it that the bacon itself was completed on time). Having both missed the deadline and made lackluster meat, I just about threw in the towel, but since then, I’ve taken comfort in the bacon befuddlement of my fellow Charcutepaloozers.

Oh, my bacon, my bacon! What went wrong? For starters, the pork belly had nipples. Now, seeing as how I grew up around hogs, I don’t know why this came as such as shock, but it did. And then there was the sheer quantity of salt. Then I skipped the nitrites. And last but not least, the fat.

Now, this wasn’t just your everyday fatty bacon. Look closely at that picture up top. Do you see any meat on that fat, whatsoever? No. I didn’t think so. It’s one thing to eat pre-sliced strips of bacon. Somehow, when it’s in pieces, you don’t necessarily notice that most bacon is at least two-thirds fat. When you’re looking at an 10″ x 6″ slab of pork belly with an inch of fat on top, on the other hand, it’s pretty hard to miss.

And guess what? Fatty bacon is salty bacon, as I learned from Grow and Resist‘s post about her nearly identical challenges with the project. And since she explained her disappointment in nitrite-free bacon so well, I’ll spare you my version. Let’s just say that it doesn’t taste like bacon.

What it does taste like is salty, roasted, pork belly. Once I wrapped my head around that, I was in a better position to figure out what to do with it. I hacked it into about a dozen 4-ounce chunks, tossed them into a Ziplock, and threw the whole thing in the freezer. Because it’s so, so, so fatty, there’s no need to thaw it before cutting it up—if anything, it’s easier to cut when it’s frozen. Since then, I’ve used some in baked beans, some in a Spanish rice pilaf, and some in a lentil stew. It’s surprisingly good in stir-fried Asian noodles. Since it’s nearly unadulterated fat, it makes a great addition to venison sausage.

So: all in all, not a bacon disaster, but not a runaway success. I may yet try again with nitrites. We’ll see.

OK: Exquisite might be a bit much. [...]]]>
What ho! Is that a chocolate torte? Why, no! It’s a persimmon pudding, a rare and exquisite dessert rarely seen outside of West Virginia, Kentucky, Southern Indiana, and Southern Illinois. Native persimmons don’t travel well, so you’re unlikely to encounter a persimmon pudding far from where the fruit grows.

OK: Exquisite might be a bit much. But it is my absolute favorite holiday dessert—and if you’re from the Ohio Valley, chances are, it’s yours, too. My story is pretty much the same as everyone else’s. My grandmother made a killer persimmon pudding from trees on her and her neighbors’ property. When she died, I ended up with her persimmon pudding pan, but somehow my pudding never quite turned out right. For several years in a row, I dutifully mixed up persimmon pulp (courtesy of my mother and trees near my folks’ farm), eggs, sugar, and various canned milk products, but instead of persimmon pudding I got persimmon glop. And nasty glop at that.

Enough’s enough, I decided. You can be loyal to a taste memory without being loyal to the recipe. Which is how I ended up at PersimmonPudding.com, a wonderfully earnest site dedicated to—you guessed it—all things persimmon. Never before have I seen almost two dozen persimmon pudding recipes assembled in one place. Most of these are community-cookbook style recipes, heavy on the sugar and evaporated milk. Look carefully at the bottom of the list, though, and you’ll notice an oddity: a recipe from Deborah Madison. Yes, that Deborah Madison, she of Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, right there alongside the Indiana Nut Growers’ Association and “relatives of Grandma Bertha.” Who knows what on earth she’s doing there, but it’s a fine recipe with just your basic ingredients: butter, persimmons, sugar, eggs, vanilla, milk, salt, flour, and baking soda (skip the cinnamon).

But just to make it interesting, I tried cooking this in the pressure cooker instead of either the oven, which was fully occupied with a Hanukkah turkey (don’t ask), or on the stove top (Madison’s recommendation, which I had never heard of). I had read somewhere that you could make steamed puddings and custards in the pressure cooker, and was anxious to give it a try. IT WAS BRILLIANT. Steaming a pudding in the pressure cooker solves many problems. Your pudding is guaranteed to cook evenly; you don’t have to worry about oven tetris; and it’s faster and uses less energy than stovetop cooking. I’m trying to convince my mom to try this this year for Christmas, though it will mean that we’ll have a bowl-shaped pudding instead of the round-pan version that’s traditional in our house. Whether she decides to take this route or not, I’m just thrilled that I have finally made a persimmon pudding worth sharing with my friends.

Deborah Madison’s Steamed Persimmon Pudding, adapted for the Pressure Cooker

1/2 cup butter
1 c. native persimmon puree (do not use Asian persimmons—see note)
1 c. sugar
1 egg
1 t. vanilla
1/2 c. milk
1/2 t. salt
1 c. flour
2 t. baking soda

1) First, confirm that you’re working with native persimmon pulp. Chances are, it will be frozen, but it will look something like this:

2) Melt the butter. Take some of it and very generously grease the insides of a pudding mold or bowl. I used a Bundt pan, but any heat-proof bowl that fits inside a pressure cooker will work:

3) Mix the wet ingredients in one bowl and the dry ingredients in another. Gently stir the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients. Pour the batter into the bowl or mold.

4) Place a steamer rack inside your pressure cooker, and pour in 2 c. of water. Tightly cover the mold or bowl with foil, and place it on top of the rack, like this:

5) Lock the pressure cooker lid, but don’t apply the pressure regulator. Turn up the heat and let steam escape through the steam vent for 15 minutes. CAREFULLY place the regulator on the vent. If you have an adjustable pressure regulator, use 10 pounds; if not, 15 pounds is fine. Bring to pressure and cook 35 minutes (for 10 pounds) or 15 minutes (15 pounds). When the pressure has dropped of its own accord, remove the lid and foil and test for doneness. A knife inserted in the pudding should come out clean.

6) Invert the pudding onto a serving dish and serve with generous dollops of whipped cream.

A note on ingredients: Don’t fret if you don’t have access to a native persimmon tree. The good folks at persimmonpudding.com have provided a list of markets that sell pulp, including some vendors who do mail order. Some of the recipes at persimmonpudding.com also include adaptations for using Asian persimmons, but I haven’t tried them. If you’ve successfully made one with Asian persimmons, can you please tell us how it turned out?

She was in town as part of her book tour for The Essential New York Times Cookbook: Classic Recipes for a New Century, and, through a long sequence of events involving Kate Payne [...]]]> Amanda Hesser arrived at my house last night wearing a giant fur hat and Chuck Taylors. How can you not love this woman?

She was in town as part of her book tour for The Essential New York Times Cookbook: Classic Recipes for a New Century, and, through a long sequence of events involving Kate Payne of The Hip Girl’s Guide to Homemaking and Marisa McClellan from Food in Jars, Marisa and I were hosting a meet-the-author blogger potluck. At my house. Now, the next time someone approaches you about the possibility of hosting a food-related event for a well-known food writer that involves her cooking in your kitchen, think very carefully about your relationship with cleanliness and cat hair. It turns out that my standards go way, way, up in those circumstances—I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time with vacuum attachments. But eventually, it was time to put the vacuum away, take a deep breath, and wait for the guests to arrive.

And they did! And they brought delicious food, all based on recipes (or receipts, if you prefer the 19th-century spelling) that appeared in the New York Times, including three versions of pimento cheese and two cheese straws. We also had a cheese ball, courtesy of Madame Fromage, and an eye-opening fancy mac-and-cheese with radicchio from No Counterspace. Apparently people really like cheese. I made a venison stew, adapted for the pressure cooker (instructions below). Marisa made a spectacular broiled lemon and spinach salad that I really, really hope she blogs about. The desserts were mighty fine, too. For her demo, Amanda made heavenly hots, a sort of cross between pancakes and cheese latkes.

And there’s even a video, courtesy of the Daily News, for those of you who couldn’t join us:

In short: a good time was had by all. And yes, I’d do it again in a heartbeat, even if it does mean cleaning my house. Also: the book is a gem and would make a great Christmas gift. And I’m not just saying that because Amanda Hesser liked my rhubarb liqueur. Cheers.

Venison Stew with Butternut Squash and Hominy

This recipe appears as “Border Town Hunter’s Stew” on p. 571 of The Essential New York Times Cookbook. The ingredients are the same (though I’m not sure how I feel about that cinnamon stick), but I’ve adapted it for the pressure cooker. You never know what you’re getting with wild venison (in this case, courtesy of Jilly’s husband), so I prefer to cook it in the pressure cooker to ensure tenderness.

3 lbs. venison stew meat, cut into 1″ cubes
Salt and pepper
2 T olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped
2 poblano peppers, chopped
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 medium butternut squash, peeled and cubed
3 T. New Mexico chili powder, or to taste
4 t. dried oregano (or about 1 T fresh)
2 bay leaves
1 cinnamon stick (eh. consider it optional)
1 12-oz bottle of dark beer (I used Yuengling Black and Tan)
4 c. chicken broth
Two 15 1/2 oz. cans white hominy, drained and rinsed

1. Season the meat with salt and pepper. Let sit 30 minutes. Meanwhile, chop your vegetables.

2. Pretend that your pressure cooker is a giant skillet and heat up the oil. Sear the meat in batches, removing to a separate bowl when done.

3. You should have some oil left in the pot, but if not, add more. Saute the onions and chiles, with maybe a dash more salt. Add the garlic and saute a few minutes more. Add the chili powder, oregano (if using dried), cinnamon stick, and bay leaves and saute a minute more. Add the beer and scrape up all the tasty bits.

4. Add the meat and the stock to the pot and stir everything together. Put on and lock the lid. Cook at 15 pounds of pressure for 12 minutes. Quick-release the pressure using whatever method is recommended by your manufacturer (I run the pot under cold water). Add the squash. Bring back up to pressure and cook another 3 minutes. Let the pressure drop of its own accord, or, if you’re in a hurry, quick release.

5. The stew will now be quite juicy and need to be reduced. Add in the hominy and bring to a boil (note that at this point you’re using your pressure cooker like a pot again, not a pressure cooker). Boil rapidly for about 20 minutes until it’s quite thick, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching. If using fresh herbs, add just before serving.

Notes: Try to find natural hominy, not the cheap stuff made with lye. I only used one can, and that seemed like plenty. This works very well as a pantry dish: the venison and the peppers came from the freezer; the squash and onions from the root cellar; and the oregano from the front yard. I also used ground dehydrated peppers instead of commercial chili powder.

I usually use Joy of Cooking as a reference for [...]]]>
I have no idea why, but I’ve been on a total pie kick this summer. This is the second strawberry rhubarb pie I’ve made, plus a cherry pie for a picnic. Perhaps I’ll look back fondly on the summer of 2010 as the summer of pie?

I usually use Joy of Cooking as a reference for both flaky pie crust and sugar/filling ratios. I generally cut back a bit on the fat. If I know I’m cooking for omnivores, I’ll throw in maybe a tablespoon or so of rendered bacon fat…but I wouldn’t suggest that for potlucks and picnics, where vegetarian friends might get tricked into eating pork pie. You’ll notice that I have a bit of trouble maintaining the integrity of a pie crust, but my feeling is that one eats a piece of pie for its taste, not its looks. And finally, rest assured that you can make this from fresh or frozen fruit.

I’m curious: how do you store your pies? My family always left theirs out on the table until someone ate it. Usually this would take a couple of days. Presumably one should refrigerate it if you’re planning on having it hang around, but what’s the turning point?

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

For the crust:

2 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 T sugar
1/3 c. unsalted butter
1/3 c. vegetable shortening OR 1/4 c. vegetable shortening + 1 1/2 T bacon fat
Pinch of salt (omit if using bacon fat)
About 1/3 c. ice-cold water

For the filling:

3 c. fresh strawberries, hulled and halved (see below for frozen)
2 to 3 c. rhubarb, cleaned and cut into 1″ pieces
1/2 to 1 c sugar, depending on your tartness preference
3 T cornstarch

1) Make the dough. Combine the flour, sugar, and salt. Cut in the fat, either using a pastry cutter, two knives, or a food processor. Add in just enough water to make the whole thing stick together. Squeeze it together, wrap it all up in plastic wrap, and refrigerator for at least half an hour. It needs to be good and cold to keep it from melting when you roll out the dough.

2) Preheat the oven to 425°F.

3) Divide the dough into two slightly uneven halves. Roll out the larger half into a circle slightly larger than a 10″ pie plan. Transfer the dough to the pan. Tip: Fold it in half, fold again, to make a little quarter. Put the point in the center of the pie pan and unfold.

4) Combine the filling ingredients and let sit no more than 10 minutes while you make the top crust.

5) Roll out the smaller portion of the dough into a circle large enough to top your pie.

6) Transfer your filling to the pie pan. Carefully cover with the dough for the top crust. If you have miraculously done this without ripping it, you’ll need to add some decorative vents. If you, like me, have created several little rips, use them creatively to begin a vent design. Trim the edges a hair beyond the end of the pan, and so that the bottom layer is slightly outside of the top. Fold over the bottom crust overhang over the top, then seal using your preferred method: crimping with a fork, your fingers, etc. Brush the crust with a little bit of milk and dust with sugar. Transfer the pie pan to a baking sheet (to catch drips) and put on a rack in the bottom third of the oven.

7) Bake for 30 minutes, then turn the heat down to 350°F and bake another 30 minutes. The crust should be golden brown, and delicious strawberry rhubarb goo should be spilling out of the pie.

To make with frozen berries: If using whole, individually quick frozen berries, just substitute them as if they were fresh. If using berries frozen in sugar, you’ll need an entire quart, and you’ll need to drain all but 1/4 c. of the liquid (Keep it! Strawberry syrup!). Add just a bit of sugar—say, 1/4 c.—and be sure to include the cornstarch.