The P.C. Sandwich

Too bad the Fourth Earl of Sandwich (1718-1792), for whom the bread-and-filling construction he unwittingly invented was named, never knew its impact on the eating habits of mankind. Wouldn't he have been proud - or, possibly, envious - of his twentieth century descendant, the Eleventh Earl, who is very much alive, masterminding the slapping together of those slices of bread with the good stuff in between, at his Disneyland eatery in Florida. One wonders if the lunch crowd down there, lining up for the popular semi-melty, caprese sandwiches, would actually "get" the name of the place (appropriately enough, The Earl of Sandwich), without the explanation undoubtedly printed in menus and handouts designed for bringing the serfs up to speed on their history. But one does show one's upper-crustiness by such shameless snobbishness, doesn't one?

Mowing for Cookies

Along the edge of my place, where the grass turns scruffy and mingles with wildflowers, the snowy carpet of dainty Quaker ladies (known to botanists as bluets) is tuning up. As it is when the fat lady sings, it's just about over for those dear little bloomers.

Every Thursday, Jeff mows my lawn. This amiable young man drives his customized mower like a kid on a scooter, standing on the back running board and "pumping" with one foot when a little oomph is needed to help the rig climb a slope. A rain-or-shine kind of guy, he'll mow in a downpour. I have come to understand that the structure of the universe will tilt, and the planet will orbit in reverse, if lawn mowing doesn't happen every Thursday, without fail. Jeff is one dependable guy who wants to get the job done.

Marshmallows, Then and Now

Among those of us who enjoy working in the kitchen, the ecstasy of it all can sometimes break out in agony. I'm talking about recipes that flop.

There were the eggs that curdled in three tries at the same recipe. That recipe had such promise - it sounded so good, it worked so well until the part about curdling - that I had to keep trying, until I was finally defeated. It was something baked, that's all I remember, because I wanted to forget. Not knowing what it was, I can't be tempted to try it again.

Then there was the two-ingredient dessert, an elegant, delicious, surprisingly simple thing I learned from my mother-in-law, a gourmet cook long before everybody with a pepper grinder claimed that status. She grew artichokes. She pickled walnuts from her own tree. She entertained. Who would ever guess that her Coffee Jelly (a fancy rendering of "gelatin") consisted of one pound of plebeian marshmallows melted in two cups of strong coffee?

In my young-wifey days and later too, I made Coffee Jelly to crown many a meal of, say, Austrian Veal Goulash and Noodles, Paprikasalat, and some side dish or other; I was a devoted disciple of this mother-in-law and tried to imitate her dinner party triumphs.

But time passes, and products change. After sharing that recipe in print recently without retesting it first – I hadn't made it in ages, but how could one go wrong with two dumb ingredients? – I was horrified to hear that the wondrous dessert had morphed  into a gummy, icky-sweet creature that nobody liked. Eventually we learned from the marshmallow manufacturer that those puffy little critters are now made by an extrusion process that requires a different formula.

So we retooled too, told everybody to cut the marshmallow component to ten ounces and leave the coffee at two cups. Now they're happy. But for me, that dessert is a thing of the glorious past, when marshmallows were molded, not extruded. It's all over between us.

Karyl Bannister writes and illustrates the newsletter Cook & Tell, published ten times a year.   

True Brit

Last month I was guest speaker at the meeting of the local chapter of a women’s club. After I told them everything I knew about my newsletter, Cook & Tell, in the allotted thirty minutes, a woman of advanced years stepped up to tell me about her husband, the baker of the family. In an English accent that always endears me to the speaker, no matter what he or she is saying, she told me her husband makes Welsh Cakes for church functions, funerals, and celebrations. “He makes thirty-six dozen at a time,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Oh, Welsh Cakes! I love them. I have a recipe for them in my book, and here was a true Brit with a live-in Welsh Cake baker. I’m guessing he was resting up from filling a major order of the cakes for a church celebration of St. David’s Day, March first, David being the patron saint of Wales. But the baker’s wife was moving along quickly, and I didn’t have a chance to find out how to get his recipe to see how it may have differed from mine. Mine had been sent to me from a friend, in the very early days of Cook & Tell. It was surely as authentic as the one this woman’s husband used; my friend’s friend was as British as he.

Just before the woman slipped out, we did exchange a few words. “I bake them in an electric skillet,” I said, thinking it might seem to her a novel way to cook them. Just to sound super-savvy, I added, “and I turn them a couple of times.” With the voice of authority, she said, “Set the pan at 350º and turn the cakes once. Turning them more than once makes them tough.”

They never seemed tough to me, but what do I know? And who would challenged a Welshman who knocks off 432 little cakes in one fell swoop? The next time I make them (and I'm not waiting until next St. David's Day), I'll be drafting somebody to stand beside me and slap my wrist if I make a move to give the little devils a second flip. 

They're cookie-like but more substantial; like biscuits, only much better than biscuits, and I don't mean British "bikkies," which correspond to our cookies. If the foregoing makes any sense to you, you may pass "GO" and pick up $200 - or this recipe, whichever comes first:

Welsh Cakes

1 c sugar
1/2 c (each) butter and shortening
3 1/3 c flour
1 1/2 t baking powder
1/2 t baking soda
1 t (each) nutmeg and salt
1 c currants
1 egg, slightly beaten
1/2 c milk

Cream the sugar, butter, and shortening. Sift and add the flour, baking powder, baking soda, nutmeg, and salt. Add the currants. Mix the egg and milk together and add, blending well. With floured hands, pat the soft dough flat on a well-floured board and gently roll to 1/3 " thickness (not thin, like cookies). Cut with a 2" round cutter. Bake on an electric griddle or skillet, turning twice to brown. I use a 250 degree setting. Our British friend suggests 350 degrees and turns them once, 3 minutes per side. The recipes makes 60 cakes. Only 372 to go!

Karyl Bannister writes and illustrates the newsletter Cook & Tell, published ten times a year.   

Still Quirky After All these Years

Cook & Tell here (it's really just me), unloading a bag of groceries with one hand and balancing a tray of good cheer and chatter with the other.  Now in the hands of subscribers, the March issue of Southport's Fastest Growing Almost Monthly Kitchen Newsletter (Southport pop., c.700) is growing old (the March issue, not the population.  We never grow old.)  Navigating the shoals of recipe testing for the April issue - that's the Cook part - while riding the waves of actually writing the thing - the Tell - allows only a tiny slice of time for reliving the past (which, in Cook & Tell lingo, means last month's issue).  But there's only so much space in the newsletter, and there's always more to say.

In anticipation of Maine Maple Day, March 23, when folks can visit sugar houses and watch sap turn into syrup, C&T's Chocolate Chit-Chat column for March put some maple syrup and chocolate in the same room along with bonding ingredients such as eggs, butter, and flour, and invited readers to watch it all turn into Maple Pecan Brownies.  I don't make up the recipes; I field the ones that readers send in, unsolicited, combine them with clippings from my own files that might work for a given month's issue, and narrow down the mass of printed, handwritten, and e-mailed offerings to a manageable pile of possibilities. That chocolate recipe was yet another serendipitous occurrence:  What are the chances of actually finding a certain recipe you clipped probably 20 years ago and stuffed somewhere in any one of a number of oddly labeled folders, paper bags, or shoe boxes - or pasted in one of your scrapbooks, under, what?  Chocolate?  Maple?  Brownies?  Bakery?  I can't even say I went looking for it.  I just found it.  Yellowed newsprint, just as I had remembered.