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My mother had a lifelong wish to go to Hawaii, and at long last had persuaded my father to indulge her desire. And so it was that my parents, my sister, and I ended up, long after dark, tired and hungry, tiptoeing into the kitchen of our bed and breakfast on Maui. We switched on the light and saw a basket on the kitchen table overflowing with tropical delights. My eyes greedily consumed the bright papaya, waxy starfruit, and stately pineapple.
But it was the aroma of a pale, brown-tinged, gray-green, oddly shingled, heavy rock of a fruit that grabbed and held me. I turned it over in my hands, feeling its solid heft and the softly yielding flesh under the scaly depressions in the reticulated skin. Then I brought it to my nose to breathe in the heavenly scent.
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With the exhale, I turned to my sister, who had spent a high school year among the tropical fruits of the Philippines, “What in the world is this?”
Her eyes widened with delight as she exclaimed, “Cherimoya!”
“Cheri-who?” I asked. But she had already sliced it in half, and words swiftly become superfluous as we dug in to the velvety ivory flesh studded with large black seeds. Our wholly inadequate attempts to describe the aroma and flavors, which included banana, pear, coconut, mango, pineapple, papaya and vanilla, faded to appreciative grunts and murmurs as we greedily spooned the custard-like flesh into our mouths.
Then I remembered my late-night reading before our trip. A fair number of famous authors have written about Hawaii — Robert Louis Stevenson, Herman Melville, Jack London, and, of course, James Michener — but I was fairly sure that it was Mark Twain who had waxed eloquent about the cherimoya.
Twain spent four months on what were then known as the Sandwich Islands in 1866, on assignment for the Sacramento Union newspaper. He was only 31 years old, but the 25 letters that he steam-shipped back to the mainland are still fresh and funny. The complete collection of Twain’s articles from the trip can be found in “Mark Twain’s Letters From Hawaii” (University of Hawaii Press). But it was in “Roughing It,” Twain’s 1872 collection of travel essays, that I found his description of the cherimoya.
“We had an abundance of fruit in Honolulu, of course. Oranges, pine-apples, bananas, strawberries, lemons, limes, mangoes, guavas, melons, and a rare and curious luxury called the cherimoya, which is deliciousness itself,” he wrote.
Cherimoya’s peak of ripeness
The next morning I saw a smashed cherimoya on the ground next to our rental car. Fulminating against the depraved person who wasted such a wonderful fruit, I picked it up and began shamelessly eating it straight out of the damaged skin. Then, looking up, I had a Sir Isaac Newton moment: The vandal in question was gravity, and the source of our midnight cherimoya indulgence was the very tree under which we had parked our car. The lush, low canopy of the medium-sized tree nearly hid the cherimoya fruits, but there they were, hanging like Flintstone-era footballs just above the car.
Then I understood why the previous night’s, and the current morning’s, fruits were so scrumptious. They were at their peak of ripeness, literally falling from the tree. A bit of research revealed that the cherimoya has little commercial production because of its short shelf life. Although it seems well-armored, it is actually quite a delicate fruit. The skin bruises and breaks easily, and the moment of perfection is fleeting.
My research also brought to light the origin of the cherimoya, which is not native to the tropics, but to the inter-Andean valleys of Ecuador, Colombia and Bolivia. From there, native peoples spread it throughout the highlands of South and Central America. After the conquistadores arrived, they shipped cherimoya seeds back to Spain in 1757, and to Hawaii in 1790, some 75 years before Twain encountered it there.
The first California cherimoya trees were planted in 1871, with seeds brought up from Mexico. By 1936, there were some 9,000 trees in the state, but most were killed by the hard freeze of 1937. A few small commercial orchards were reestablished, and the fruits were marketed locally, as they are today. Different varieties ripen from January through June, but in general March through May is the prime time for cherimoya in California. So if you are lucky enough to be there, and see a cherimoya, and it smells good, buy it.
I’ve seen recipes for everything from cherimoya ice cream to cherimoya salad dressing. But you can do no better than to peel back the skin and slurp the ripe flesh, or cut the fruit in half and scoop out the flesh with a spoon as I did on my virgin cherimoya indulgence. Deliciousness itself needs no embellishment.
Main photo: Cherimoya in Hawaii. Credit: Terra Brockman
I know spring has sprung when the hens start churning out eggs, and when the root vegetables from last fall start to sprout. And I know that now is the perfect time to use those new eggs and old potatoes in a classic Spanish tortilla, or tortilla Española.
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Before getting to this workhorse of Spanish cuisine, which according to Penelope Casas in her classic “The Foods and Wines of Spain,” “can be eaten at any time of the day or night, and transcends any conventional meal categories,” let’s visit the hens and potatoes.
Even while snow covered the ground in mid-March, the eggs started rolling in because bird brains and bodies respond not to temperature, but to day length. And when there are more than 12 hours of light, the hens kick into high gear. This makes sense when you consider that the best time to bring a baby chick into the world is when it’s a hospitable place with a smorgasbord of tender vegetation, worms and insects.
Potatoes don’t have brains (although they do have eyes), but nature has nevertheless made them wise, and they respond to both temperature and light. As long as it is dark and cool, they stay in a state of suspended animation. But introduce some light and heat, as I do when I periodically move potatoes from the root cellar into the kitchen cabinet, and before you know it, you have sprouts. Depending on the variety of potato, the sunward-yearning sprouts, with a burst of proto-roots at their base, can be white, pink or lovely lavender.
Don’t worry about those sprouts
Of course, “lovely” and “sprout” don’t usually go together when people talk about potatoes. If you buy non-organic potatoes, it’s probably been decades since you’ve had one sprout on you. Many people think a sprouted potato is one that has gone bad.
But what’s really bad is that the vast majority of potatoes in our food chain are sprayed with chemicals — usually chlorpropham or maleic hydrazide, under brand names such as Bud Nip or Taterpex. These plant growth regulators inhibit cell division so the treated potatoes won’t send up sprouts for up to a year after harvest. This is just the way growers, shippers and grocery stores want them.
But it may not be the way you want them. Many consumers prefer organic produce to food that has been treated with pesticides, synthetic fertilizer and other chemicals. While there are valid food preservation and economic incentives to use chemicals to prevent sprouting, it also makes sense to try to lighten our toxic load at every opportunity.
Many European Union countries have banned at least one of the common plant growth inhibitors, maleic hydrazide. Meanwhile, in the U.S., we hear little or nothing about sprout-inhibiting chemicals, and go happily on our way, believing that an un-sprouted potato is fresh and perfect, while the sprouted one is old and possibly dangerous.
It is true that the green-tinged potatoes, and in particular their sprouts, contain naturally-occurring glycoalkaloids, which are toxic at high concentrations. But once you pare away any green spots, and snap off any sprouts, you’ve got a perfectly good potato, ready to be married with some new eggs in a Spanish tortilla.
Simple ingredients combine for a spring Spanish tortilla
Penelope Casas writes that “A Spanish tortilla has nothing in common with its Mexican counterpart except its Latin root — torte, meaning a round cake.” There are fancier recipes to be found, but this five-ingredient version, adapted from Casas, is the truest and best I know. So get some fresh eggs and scoop those sprouting potatoes out of your cabinet. It’s springtime and that’s tortilla time.
Serves 4 as a main course, or 8 as an appetizer
¼ cup olive oil (or more to keep potatoes from sticking together)
4 or 5 waxy potatoes such as Yukon Gold (about 1½ pounds) sliced into ¼-inch rounds
1 medium Spanish onion, ¼-inch dice
Salt to taste
5 large eggs
1. In a deep 9-inch skillet, heat the olive oil. Add the potato slices one at a time and alternate layers of potato and onion, salting the layers generously. Cook slowly over medium-heat, lifting and turning now and then. You don’t want the potatoes or onions to brown, just to soften nicely. The potatoes should be tender, but not breaking apart or sticking together.
2. While the potatoes are cooking (15 to 20 minutes), lightly beat the eggs with a generous pinch of salt, and set aside. When the potato-onion mixture is cooked, gently drain in a colander set over a bowl, saving the oil for later.
3. Put the potato-onion mixture into a bowl, and let cool about 5 minutes. Then pour the beaten eggs over the mixture, and let it sit anywhere from 15 minutes to several hours. This step helps marry the flavors.
4. In a 10-inch non-stick pan, heat about a tablespoon of the reserved oil. Dump the egg-potato-onion mixture into the pan, as if it were a thick omelet. Cook about halfway through, until the bottom is golden brown. Most of the egg on the top should be almost but not quite set.
5. Using a large inverted plate set on top of the pan, carefully flip the omelet onto the plate.
6. Add another half tablespoon of the reserved olive oil to the pan, and carefully slide the tortilla back into the pan, to finish cooking, which will take only a minute or two. Slide onto a plate, and serve hot or at room temperature.
Top photo: Tortilla Espanola. Credit: Terra Brockman
A few years back, a woman called, begging to come out to my brother’s farm and buy 10 pounds of black radishes. We often get people asking for extra melons, or tomatoes, or even spinach, but someone desperate for black radishes, and a whole bag of them, was a new one. While the roseheart radishes sell themselves once we cut them open to reveal their bright ballgown-fuschia flesh, the sooty black orbs tend to languish like Cinderella in the ashes.
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When I asked the woman why she needed them so urgently, she explained that her son had a bad cold with a sore throat and cough, and she knew from prior experience that the best remedy was black radishes. This, too, bore further investigation, so when I met her and handed over the coal-black radishes, I asked what she was going to do with them.
Honey and black radish cold remedy
She described how she would slice off the top and tail, place the radish root side down on the counter and use a small paring knife to hollow out a depression large enough to hold a tablespoon or more of honey. Once that hollowed out spot was filled with honey, she placed the radish in a glass so that the roundest part fit snugly and held it suspended.
“Let it stand overnight, and in the morning, there will be honey-sweetened radish juice in the glass. Drink it and you will feel better!”
She mentioned that another way to make the same cold remedy in larger amounts was to cut the black radish into small cubes, put the cubes in a jar, and cover them with honey. Let it sit a day or two, and then take a tablespoon of the honey-radish mixture as needed for your cold or cough.
Of course this sounded like an old wives’ tale. But old wives’ tales exist, and persist, because they have at least a grain of truth, and often much more. A bit of research showed that one black radish has more than the recommended daily allowance of vitamin C, about 25% of the RDA for potassium, plus good amounts of magnesium, iron, sulfur and other nutrients. So the next time I found myself coming down with a cold, I prepared the black radish and honey concoction, and am happy to report that I am a believer.
Black radishes in ancient medicine
It turns out that the black radish (Raphanus sativus varieta niger L.) has a long history of medicinal uses. In ancient Egypt, it was considered sacred and used together with garlic to create a one-two punch to knock out just about any bad bug. In Ayurvedic healing practices, radishes are said to have cleansing effects, helping break down and eliminate toxins and cancer-promoting free radicals. Black radishes have been used as a remedy for respiratory problems in Asia for thousands of years, and in Europe for hundreds of years.
But black radishes are not just medicinal. Along with other winter radishes, they are quick and easy to prepare, and make for a light and lively, guilt-free side dish. Here are just a few ideas for starters.
- Put a slice of radish on a bagel, with or without cream cheese.
- Shred them with apples, pears, carrots and/or fennel, and then sprinkle with herbs, or nestle in arugula for a refreshing salad.
- Make a topping by grating the radish, adding finely chopped onion, salt, pepper and olive oil. Mix well and let sit for about an hour for the flavors to meld. Serve on crackers or toast.
- Grate the radish into scrambled eggs.
- Chunk up the radishes and braise in a crockpot with a roast or stew meat.
- Slice thinly, toss with oil and salt, and bake on a cookie sheet until crispy.
- Chunk up, toss with oil, salt and herbs, and roast with other root vegetables.
- Cut into matchsticks, and add to a stir-fry.
With their high water content, winter radishes are also a dieter’s delight, with only about 20 calories per cup. But in that serving is plenty of fiber, vitamin C, folic acid, potassium, magnesium, phosphorus and zinc to nourish your body and hydrate your skin.
And all that health and nutrition come in beautiful packages, from basic black, to classic white (daikon), to bright green (greenheart), to lovely lavender (Korean purple), to brilliant fuschia (roseheart, beauty heart or watermelon radish).
If you can’t find these radishes at your regular grocery store, try an Asian grocery, or a winter farmers market. When you do find them, you might as well get a big bag full, because in sickness or in health, you’ll find winter radishes to be versatile, nutritious and delicious.
Top photo: Black radish. Credit: Terra Brockman
“Knead until it’s smooth and shiny,” my mother told me, just as her mother had told her, as we made the egg pasta dough for the traditional fried dough dipped in honey treats my grandmother brought as a spoken recipe when she emigrated from southern Italy to the south side of Chicago as a teenager.
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“Smooth and shiny” echoes in my head as I make these Christmas treats with my teenage nieces. They never heard the voice of their Italian great-grandmother, Saveria Castiglia, never saw her twinkling blue eyes or felt her heavy tread on the steep stairs to her apartment. But they know exactly what she made for Christmas every year, and how she made it. Their hands roll out the dough just as she did, forming the circles and braids of cosi boni and the little pillows of cassateddi filled with nuts and raisins.
As I watch my nieces shape the dough, I see myself and all my brothers and sisters gathered around another kitchen table many years ago, rolling the dough, making the shapes, watching as Mom carefully slipped them into the bubbling oil, then later dipped each one in hot honey, before we ate one after another and licked our fingers.
And every Christmas we gather to make cosi boni and cassateddi again, and make new memories, which will become old memories, that will in time be passed down and become new again. And it occurs to me that traditional family recipes live forever as if inside an infinite set of matryoshka dolls.
Fried dough recipe makes it to paper
I’ve heard people say that if God had intended us to follow recipes, he wouldn’t have given us grandmothers. I would add that God gave us grandmothers to give recipes eternal life.
The recipes below were spoken recipes for many centuries before my mother had her mother write them down. As I searched for similar recipes online, I found infinite variations of fried dough dipped in honey or sugar, and various cassateddi or cassatelle recipes filled with chickpeas and cocoa, or ricotta and chocolate, but none using as simple a dough or a filling as my grandmother’s.
This is undoubtedly because my grandmother came from a very poor family in a very poor village. Once she left, she never went back. But the dialect (cosi boni, not the proper cose buone) and the recipe survived the hard life of an immigrant, and has now survived another three generations. Poor as she was, she created a rich tradition, a living family heirloom.
So whatever your family holiday recipes are, gather round the kitchen table and pass them on!
Cosi Boni (in Grandma’s dialect) or Cose Buone (in standard Italian)
Makes about 2 dozen pieces
Vegetable oil, enough to fill the pan at least 1 inch deep
2 to 3 cups flour, enough so the dough won’t be too sticky
Honey, enough to fill a small pan to about an inch deep
1. Heat the oil to 370 F.
2. Break the eggs into a large mixing bowl and beat lightly with a fork.
3. Slowly add the flour until the dough pulls away from the side of the bowl.
4. Knead the dough lightly until it’s smooth and shiny.
5. Pinch off small pieces and roll into ¼-inch thick ropes. Form into simple circles, braids, crosses, pretzel shapes, etc.
6. Gently drop the dough pieces, one at a time, into the oil. Fry in batches, and don’t crowd the pan. The dough will drop to the bottom, and then float to the surface. Turn so both sides are golden brown. Remove to a towel-lined plate.
7. When all the cosi boni have been fried, heat the honey just to a simmer in a wide, low-sided pan. Turn off the heat, and use a fork or tongs to coat each piece. Place in a mound on a serving platter.
Makes about 2 dozen pieces
For the filling:
1 pound raisins
½ pound walnuts
1 or 2 teaspoons grated orange peel
1 to 2 teaspoons allspice, or to taste
½ to 1 cup honey, warmed (use enough to have the filling just barely stick together)
For the dough:
3 or 4 eggs
3-4 teaspoons of water
3-4 teaspoons of oil
About 3 cups flour
Honey, enough to fill a small pan to about 1 inch
Vegetable oil, enough to fill the pan at least one inch deep
1. To make the filling, put the raisins and walnuts into a food processor, or chop roughly with a knife.
2. Add the orange peel, allspice and ½ cup honey to the raisin and nut mixture and stir to blend. The filling should barely hold together when you pick up a small ball of it. If it doesn’t, add a little more honey, but don’t overdo it. You don’t want the filling oozing out of the little pillows when you fry them.
3. To make the dough, beat the eggs lightly with a fork in a large bowl. Add the water and oil and beat lightly to combine.
4. Slowly add the flour, about ½ cup at a time, until the dough pulls away from the side of the bowl. Turn onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth. If it’s sticky, add more flour.
5. Roll the dough into a thin sheet. If it shrinks back as you roll it, let it rest for 15-20 minutes, then roll out again.
6. Heat the oil to 370 F.
7. Cut into circles or squares, put about a teaspoon of filling in the center of each, and fold the dough over the filling, using fork tines to seal the two edges of dough.
8. Gently drop the pillows, one at a time, into very hot oil being careful not to crowd the pan. Turn so both sides are golden brown. Remove to a towel-lined plate.
9. After they cool, or the next day, heat a pan full of honey and use a fork to dip the fried dough in the hot honey. Pile high on a serving platter.
Top photo: Fried dough from Grandma’s recipe. Credit: Terra Brockman
As befits the City of the Big Shoulders, the Chicago outpost of the food emporium Eataly, which opened last week, is the largest to date, with two floors totaling 63,000 square feet and containing some 10,000 products, 23 eateries, 21 retail areas devoted to specific products, two espresso bars, two wine bars, a Nutella bar and a fine-dining restaurant.
While Eataly is a huge space with an immense number of offerings, it’s quite the opposite of the alienating experience of mega-grocery stores. Instead of dutifully pushing a cart up and down sterile, fluorescent-lighted aisles, getting your nameless, faceless (and often tasteless) boxed and canned goods, you pleasantly wander past floor-to-ceiling windows and in and out of a maze of small eateries and counters. Each counter is dedicated to a specific item: vegetables, meats, cheeses, fish, olive oil, beer, wine and much more.
Bringing an Old World market experience to modern urban shopping
About halfway through my meander, it occurred to me that Eataly is the perfect marriage of old and new. It’s a place where the Old World 10-stop shopping experience (going to the fishmonger, the sausage maker, the cheese shop, the baker, and a half dozen other small shops), meets the convenience of the New World one-stop shopping experience.
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And there are plenty of eating and drinking opportunities to indulge in while you shop. You can stop at the pizza corner for a true Neapolitan pizza, the fritto stand for fried foods, the rosticceria for roasted meats or the panini shop for a sandwich. For drinks, there’s a beer hall and two cafes, one upstairs and one down. Wines are served in the central piazza area, which is crowned with a Hemingway quote: “Wine is the most civilized thing in the world.”
In fact, the Eataly Chicago is dedicated to Ernest Hemingway. This may seem incongruous, but Eataly’s founder, industrialist Oscar Farinetti, a great fan of Hemingway’s work, explains that the author was born and raised in the Chicago suburb of Oak Park and spent significant parts of his life in Italy. That he was also a man of large appetites is just icing on the cake.
I’ve been making pilgrimages to Eataly ever since the first one opened in 2007 in an old vermouth warehouse in the Lingotto district of Turin, at the far end of the Fiat factory. Farinetti’s brainchild is a paean to food that is “good, clean and fair.” These are the watchwords of Farinetti’s friend, Slow Food founder Carlo Petrini, who champions food that is delicious and untainted by chemicals. He also is devoted to treating farmers and food workers fairly. Farinetti and Petrini want shoppers to stop being passive consumers and instead become active “co-producers” by learning who produced what food, and how, and why that’s important.
In fact, one tenet of the Eataly Manifesto is “Eat. Shop. Learn.” Another tenet explains: “We feel that it’s not just important that we know everything about what we sell and serve, but that you also learn about the products we are so passionate about. We share with you the stories of the people and places behind all that we offer. The more you know the more you enjoy.”
Local sourcing and fresh produce at Eataly Chicago
In keeping with the precepts of Slow Food, Eataly Chicago has paid special attention to local sourcing. There is a whole section of canned and bottled goods made by Chicagoan Lee Greene’s Scrumptious Pantry, a selection of West Loop Salumi’s cured meats, pork from Bensmiller’s Farm in Iowa, Piedmontese beef from Toro Ranch in Nebraska and many more products from other Midwestern producers.
Among the can’t-miss features at Chicago’s Eataly is the vegetable butcher. As soon as you walk in the doors, you are greeted by a beautiful farmstand-like display of seasonal fruits and vegetables. You can then take your selections to the vegetable butcher, who will trim your artichokes, peel your carrots, shred your cabbage or do whatever you need for ease of cooking once you get it home.
The store’s Gelateria Alpina gelato bar offers favorites such as nocciola (hazelnut) and cioccolata (chocolate), as well as seasonal offerings. In addition to hand-scooped gelato, and unique to the Chicago store, are soft-serve gelato spigots!
As Federico Fellini says in a quote gracing a wall in Chicago’s Eataly, “Life is a combination of magic and pasta.” His words could just as well be applied to Eataly Chicago, that is, if you consider “pasta” a metonym for all great food. And great food makes us better. As Sophia Loren is quoted, in yet another Eataly sign, “Everything you see I owe to spaghetti.”
Top photo: Pasta for sale at Eataly’s newest location in Chicago. Credit: Terra Brockman
Corn has gotten a bad rap over the past 50 years, especially since it was genetically modified to resist enormous applications of herbicide, and then used primarily for ethanol and animal feed. That No. 2 Yellow Dent corn is a far cry from the delicious and nutritious staple of the Native Americans, who deserve to own the intellectual property of corn genetics for the simple reason that all corn is Indian corn, painstakingly developed by Native Americans from wild teosinte grass.
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Cultivation of maize began more than 8,000 years ago in the Balsas River Valley in what is present-day Mexico, and the plant was considered a sacred gift from the gods. Over the years, thousands of varieties were developed by native peoples throughout Meso-America, and then throughout North and South America, until there were varieties for every altitude and climate, and for every culinary and ceremonial purpose. The Indians categorized their corn by intended use: for flour, for hominy and porridge, for popping, and so on. Of the many edible gifts native peoples have given us, the most important is, arguably, corn.
This Thanksgiving, you can give thanks to Native Americans and recapture some of the rich heritage and rich tastes of corn by seeking out heirloom varieties such as Mandan Bride, and serving them as a side dish or as a gluten-free stuffing for your bird.
My first experience with true polenta was not in Italy, but in my own kitchen using my brother Henry’s freshly ground Mandan Bride cornmeal, water, salt and pepper. Until that silky, creamy, revelatory moment, I thought all cornmeal came in a yellow and blue canister blessed with a smiling Quaker. And I thought it tasted pretty much like the cardboard it came in.
The steaming bowl in front of me was something else entirely — complex, nutty, mildly sweet and altogether comforting. And it got me wondering who and what Mandan Bride was, and why I had lived for 50 years before tasting the earthy essence of corn.
It turns out the Mandan Indians lived in parts of what we now know as Minnesota and North Dakota, and they developed this corn specifically for grinding into meal and making into porridge. They bred it for flavor and nutrition, and quite possibly for beauty as well.
Every ear of Mandan Bride is different, the variegated colors ranging from deep burgundy to hazy purple to smoky white, with some kernels a uniform color and others striped. The ears are so beautiful that you may find it being sold as an ornamental. But after enjoying its beauty, you should do as the Indians intended, and make yourself the most amazing polenta you’ve ever had.
Searching for Mandan Bride
Mandan Bride and other heirloom cornmeals are hard to find from anyone but a small-scale, biodiverse local farmer. The plant’s relatively weak stalks and soft cobs make it nearly impossible to harvest mechanically, so farmers must pick the ears by hand, then hand shuck them, dry them to just the right point and then stone grind them in small batches. Because the whole kernel is ground, heirloom cornmeal is much more flavorful and nutritious than commercial cornmeal for which the outer hulls and inner germ (the protein- and fat-rich center of each kernel) are removed. But freshly ground whole kernels are perishable, and should be kept in the refrigerator or freezer.
If you can’t find Mandan Bride, look for Hopi Blue or Bloody Butcher. Or resolve to grow your own next year. Seeds are available from a number of purveyors who specialize in old varieties, and Mandan Bride is listed as one of RAFT’s (Renewing America’s Food Traditions) “culinary mainstays of the last three millennia.”
Perfect Thanksgiving polenta
Many polenta recipes call for butter, cream or cheese, but if you have freshly ground heirloom cornmeal, there’s no need for anything but water, salt and pepper.
Polenta can be made and served at a loose, custardy consistency using a 5-1 ratio of water to cornmeal, or it can be made with less water (a 4-1 ratio) so that it’s firm and easily shaped into squares or triangles, and then pan-fried or broiled, giving you great crunch on the outside and creaminess on the inside. Either way, polenta pairs perfectly with bold autumn greens like Brussels sprouts or broccoli rabe.
For a less stressful Thanksgiving meal, make this polenta a day or two ahead of time, then broil it just before serving.
Broiled Polenta With Heirloom Cornmeal
4 cups water
1 cup Mandan Bride or other heirloom cornmeal (if unavailable, get the best organic cornmeal you can find)
1 teaspoon sea salt
Freshly ground pepper
1. Bring salted water to a boil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Turn the heat down to medium, and add the cornmeal gradually in a steady stream, whisking constantly until it’s all incorporated.
2. Turn the heat to low and continue whisking for about 5 minutes to prevent any lumps from forming.
3. Continue stirring often for the next 15 minutes or until the water is absorbed. Reduce heat to low and continue stirring until polenta turns creamy and pulls away from the sides of the pot. Taste and add sea salt and freshly ground pepper if desired.
4. Generously coat a 13-by-9-inch baking pan with olive oil. Pour the polenta into the pan and let cool. Cover and refrigerate.
5. Take out an hour or so before you plan to serve it to let it come to room temperature. Set your broiler on high and grease a rimmed cookie sheet.
6. Slice the firm polenta into diamonds, wedges, or squares — or use your favorite cookie cutter. Place polenta slices on the baking sheet and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place on the top rack of the oven and broil for 8 to 10 minutes, or until polenta is crisp and brown on top.
Top photo: Mandan Bride corn. Credit: Terra Brockman