Nathalie's Musings

parmiagiano reggiano rounds

2007-10-16T13:01:00.001-07:00

Hooray! I have found a wonderful use for parmiagiano reggiano (parmesean) rinds -- I usually put them in vegetable soups, until they get soft, and then smear the soft part on toast or bread and eat the rest. But today I baked them on a silpat on a baking sheet at 400 degrees for 20 minutes, turning them once when the bottom browned. When I removed them I cut into little crisp croutons and will add them to my soup! Best, Nathalie

Parmiagiano Reggiano Rinds

2007-10-16T12:52:00.000-07:00

For years I have saved my rinds from Parmiagiano Reggiano -- adding them to soups, particularly minestrone-like ones -- removing them when they were soft and either smearing them on toast or eating them as a "cook's treat". Today, however, I baked them at 400 degrees while I was baking something else, so it was maybe twenty minutes. (They were on silpat.) I turned them once, because the bottom was browning. I removed them, and cut them into crouton size squares. Absolutely delicious! Now I'm going to try to add them to soups. Or I might just eat them.

September 10, 2007

2007-09-10T08:38:00.000-07:00

The Charleston Food and Wine Festival is gearing up, and we are all eagerly anticipating the chefs and celebrities that are coming. The best thing, however, is the celebration of food we have.

From the opening night party, where everyone puts out their best, to the Sunday night barbecue, it is an exciting weekend. Go to CharlestonFoodandWine.com and sign up now!

democratic presidential candidates wives with Don Fowler of SC Democratic Party

2007-07-28T15:46:00.000-07:00

presidential wives

2007-07-28T10:44:00.000-07:00

This past Monday Charleston hosted the Democratic Presidential candidates in a debate. Debate is rather a loose word for what transpired -- it was unique in questions being asked by "new media" submissions to CNN that were aired on a screen for the candidates to answer.
Earlier that day, there was a luncheon hosted for the spouses of the candidates. From now on, I'll say wives, as Bill Clinton wasn't expected. (I think he's the kind of man who wouldn't come to a spouses program when I was doing a cooking demonstration, either.)
I was impressed. I had wheedled my way into the luncheon by getting an assignment from the Charleston Post and Courier. Although I was early the room was already hopping when I arrived. I circulated a bit, meeting Mrs. Biden and Mrs. Richardson and asking to see them after the program, then sat at a near-empty table with Mrs. Dodd.
My first husband's last name was Dodd, therefore so was mine for a year, and I always liked the name. She was a lovely woman, trim, highly intelligent, very interested in being a good mother. They two children, both under five. She's a mormon, he's a catholic (although married years before, once.) Children are a main force in their lives. She says their religions are no problem. I didn't ask how the children were being raised, as they are so young. It'll be interesting to see, however, how they are -- which religion they ultimately expouse.
They live in a converted school house. It was the second school house in the
town, Nathan Hale being the teacher at the first. For a large part of the luncheon I felt she was giving us the kind of answers one has given over and over again, and invariably use as conversation with new people. Children's names, how old, the house, her job before she married him, her interests (she worked on the Hill but met him on a vacation elsewhere.), etc. But she did talk about her marriage being delayed, perhaps, by his involvement with Senator Biden when they were on a Foreign Affairs Subcommittee. She said he traveled constantly with that job, and commented on how little he was there. They have "been together" twenty years, married just over eleven.
It was interesting to be at one table with her, looking at her friend, Mrs. Biden, at the next. Both were attractive, blond women. Mrs. Dodd was in a pale blue Carlyle suit and I marveled that she could eat in it and not drop a thing on it. Mrs. Biden was in a black lacy-like dress that could take a few drops if need be. Mrs. Dodd said she wouldn't mind if her children messed up her suit -- that they were in the hotel with them and when she left and they gave her a hug she wondered if they had.
As the luncheon went on I thought about a time during the l959 election when I was canvassing my neighborhood for voter registration or Kennedy. Can't remember which. Many of the women who came to the door told me they were voting for Nixon because they felt Pat Nixon was the kind of woman they wanted to live next to.
Mrs. Richardson and Mrs.Edwards both had wonderful senses of humor. In fact they all seemed to be able to laugh at their husbands, and themselves.
When they were taking the group photograph and I was trying to get a picture, too, for my blog, Mrs. Edwards worried that I didn't have a flash. I hadn't spoken to her yet. She walked up to me afterwards and introduced herself to me and involuntarily I reached out and hugged her. It struck me how far I was from being able to do that with, say, Jackie Kennedy, or Hillary Clinton (when she was the president's wife and I met her). Lady Bird Johnson had some of that quality. The few times I met her I felt like I knew her. But why I hugged Mrs. Edwards is beyond me. Was it her cancer? Her kindness? Her personality? Who knows. I just did.
As I have been thinking about these women all week I have realized -- I would love living next door to any of them.

Here's the article I submitted to the Post and Courier. You can see their edited version on line at Charleston net.

"Leave it to South Carolina to host the Democratic candidates’ spouses in a way that other cities haven’t. For the first time, they were entertained together. They were in high cotton at High Cotton on East Bay Street in Charleston, eating an unbelievably good lunch.

Grace was the order of the day. It happens to be Chris and Jackie Clegg Dodd’s daughter’s name, but it was also the way these women operated. The six spouses (who I will call wives from now on, since Bill Clinton wasn’t able to attend, nor was Mrs. Obama) who were present at the lunch spoke only good things about each other and Charleston.

Jackie Clegg Dodd, a slender a lady, said “Charleston is a dangerous place to visit, as I know from times past visiting Peatsy and Fritz Hollings. You can put on 25 pounds in a few days if you don’t watch out, the food is so good.” She was nearly as funny a lunch companion as she claims her husband is. She wouldn’t choose who was funnier, Chris Dodd or Fritz Hollings, saying Fritz is the raconteur of the two, but that her husband has kept her laughing for the twenty years they have been together. Her pale pink suit remained immaculate through a She-crab soup laden with crab and a touch of cream and sherry, succulent grouper and a lemon dessert that she, like most of the wives, ignored.

In all unfairness, the dessert arrived as the wives were introduced to speak in alphabetical order by Don Fowler, husband of South Carolina Democratic Party Chairman Carol Fowler. (They didn’t have a chance to touch it, even if they were willing to spend the calories.)

English teacher Jill Biden was wittier – and prettier – than my English teachers ever were. She quoted Blanche Dubois in Tennessee Williams’ “Streetcar Named Desire: I have to depend on the kindness of strangers” to elect my Joe. Her beautiful hands were a pale contrast to her black eyelet dress as she spoke passionately of her husband’s battle against adversity many times in his life. Those who tease about him speaking too much at times have probably forgotten he stuttered as a child and overcame it.

Elizabeth Edwards, quoted her daughter about seeing her in a smashing black outfit as well as black tights, “Are you becoming a Goth?” Her three piece black outfit was smashing. She loves her food (and perhaps was most politically astute) enough to congratulate the chef and staff of High Cotton before saying anything about her husband. After speaking about his crusade on poverty, she spoke about the group of wives gathered there today – “They are,” she said, “A splendid group of women. It is a pleasure to be here with them all, and if my husband can’t win, I hope one of the other Democratic candidates will.”

Whitney Stewart Gravel, in pale blue that emphasized her eyes and stunning gray hair, said it was the first time she had ever spoken at a campaign event. If that was true, she is a natural speaker, holding us rapt as she spoke of her husband’s ardor about public health.

Elizabeth Kucinich, with vibrant long red hair and four inch high heels, was adorned only with a small pin saying “Peace.” She decided on her second date with Dennis she was going to marry him, and they were married three months later. A very moving speaker, she said when she was growing up in London, England. “America was the hope of the world..” She concluded her speech with, “Where is America?” Privately, she said she was eagerly awaiting her American citizenship.

Barbara Richardson, whose first trip to Charleston was on a vacation thirty years ago, gave some of the best laugh lines, expressing gratitude for all the wives being together at the luncheon. “Usually, when the candidates’ wives enter the room, we are separated as if we will be in a cat fight.” She spoke about what it means to all of the women be a spouse of a candidate. “We have traveled together, campaigned together, laughed and cried together, private women in public lives. People come up to us and say, ‘Your husband is SO wonderful.’ When ‘Mr. Wonderful’ is out there campaigning, WE are STILL schlepping at home.” “The women in this room,” she said, will unite behind whoever is the candidate to bring back the White House, no matter who wins.” Later, she told me, “All these women come from diverse backgrounds, juggling their private lives. All bring something valuable to the table.”

It seemed to me it was a lot of grace."

Food for life

2007-07-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

This evening I found out a third person I knew well passed on this week. I'm home with one of those nasty summer colds, and all I can really do is write. Perhaps it is dangerous to write on a blog when sad...but then, what are blogs for, anyway? The last news was of the death of Wendy Burrell, a publicist in New York who was also a member of Les Dames d' Escoffier, of which I am a member as well.

One year Wendy convinced the people that own Lucini Olive oil to donate a trip to Tuscany to be auctioned off. I bid the most, and won. Later that year, Wendy called and asked if I would rather take a trip with some other media people, and I agreed. What food we ate! I was already a fan of Lucini -- which means light in Italian -- a name the owners come up with, and which describes it so well. One of the days that comes to mind is when we visited a small olive grower -- a family of women. The sisters, elderly, were retired wives of diplomats. One had been married to an American diplomat, the other to an Italian. The daughter of one of them was there, and worked on the estate, as well. It was a perfect day, not too hot, not too cold, and my friend Marilyn Harris of Cincinnati and I sat and talked to the women the whole day, learning about their lives, learning how to tell a good olive oil, and just enjoying ourselves. Wendy wasn't a big eater -- she was as thin as a pencil -- but she did love her olive oil and her balsamic.

Another person that died was Doug Marlette, a brilliant Pulitzer prize winning cartoonist. He, like Wendy, was younger than I am. He died in an accident, which was as untimely as David Halberstam's. What a waste of talent. He had much yet to contribute. His character, Kudzu, was a favorite of mine, bringing home to me my own foibles. He wrote a musical of Kudzu, and was on his way to working with a group that was putting it on in Missippi, where we saw it years ago.

And, finally, Lady Bird Johnson. I only met her a few times, but the time I remember the most was a fund raiser for Chuck Robb the last time he ran for office, when ever that was, in Virginia. My husband and I were there for the weekend, and were tucked into the party at the last minute. Lady Bird was already afflicted with the macular degeneration that she had for the last years of her radiant life. You would not have known, she was so gracious, so poised, so kind, interested in everything around her, it took me aback. Jack Valenti was there that night as well. He never missed a trick, knew everything. His wife had whispered to him that she watched me on television, so he dashed over and pulled me over to meet her. He, like Lady Bird, was charismatic. His charisma was vibrant, hers serene and sure.

She was such a profound influence on my life. To learn that choosing just one thing -- in her case wild flowers, although, of course, she did so much more than one thing --but to dedicate oneself to one thing and to work at it all of one's life and to see that it is not a small thing, but that in fact, one changed a country by bringing flowers into every ones' life, what a gift. I admired Jackie Kennedy, but over the years, I realized the real person that influenced America was Lady Bird. How wonderful God gave her to us!

My throat is sore, and you must be wondering what I've been eating to comfort me. Peach bread pudding, actually. The soft bread and custard slide right down. Who needs soup when there is bread pudding? If I were to go to any of their funerals -- which I won't -- I would bring bread pudding for those who were alive to comfort them.

Thanks for your notes to my posts. Sorry for any mis-spellings.

Happy days tomorrow. Nathalie

A Brooklyn Wedding

2007-06-30T10:57:00.000-07:00

July 1, 2007

Just back from New York, where my husband and I attended a Lubavitcher (I think I spelled it right, but don't hesitate to tell me if it is wrong!) wedding. The wedding itself was great fun -- it was in Crown Heights, and absolutely fascinating to me, this Southern Christian girl. So many things I didn't expect, although I had been to one before.

This time, we walked down Eastern Avenue -- a beautiful street, I might add, with wide parks down the center, old homes that beckoned, and well maintained gardens. It was hot this week in New York, and we felt hot, too. I dressed all wrong -- or so it seemed. I knew I had to cover up, so I wore a black long sleeveless outfit with a light black long top over it. Not the thing to walk down two blocks on Eastern Avenue at 4:00 on a June afternoon. I ached for one of my Charleston hats.

We stood in front of the Rebbe's house, a hoopa was brought out, and the marriage proceeded. We stood on the expansive sidewalk and watched. It was hard to see, actually, as the platform was small and there were what seemed to be a dozen black clad men there. The bride was blindfolded before the walk to the house was started, and guided by her mother and grandmother (my husband's sister) and her mother in law. I knew those black-clad men were hotter than I was.

The bride was and is stunning, sweet and smart. The food was good, but not worth enumerating -- the dancing, more fun than I've had in a long time! The women dance with the women, the men with the men, divided by a low wall. We shared the music...and danced and danced. At a boy-girl dance, it is so hard to get the boys to dance -- at this, who needed them? We danced with each other!

We had enough fun to not mind the blackout in which we were stuck, or the cancelling of our flight after hours in the airport. Midnight, and no where to go. We found a place, but trust me, you don't want the name!

I did have the chance to eat at Jean-Georges with my friend Alice Fixx and had many memorable dishes. The most memorable, however, was the foie gras (I say it with fear and trembling...will I receive a barrage of complaints about eating it?) which was perfect. It had a crisp, caramel sheet on top -- burned caramel, not even dark brown. The two textures, as well as the strawberry sauce, were delicious enough to make me remember them now.

Jack and I had another memorable meal -- at the Conde Nast building. We had a long meeting with Ruth Reichel, one of my heroettes, in hopes of getting her to Charleston for our food and wine festival (see Charlestonfoodandwinefestival.com). Then we met Jack's cousin, Rick Hertzberg, and his wife Virginia, at the cafeteria. I'm afraid Jack and I went wild, getting a greek lemon chicken, salad, two chocolate chip cookies each, and a chocolate pastry.

All in all a fattening two days.

catfish picture

2007-06-25T13:00:00.001-07:00

I'm determined to learn how to post a picture. And, besides, I forgot to tell you to go to catfishinstitute.com for the recipes. Look for Barbecued catfish.

Catfish and me

2007-06-25T12:50:00.001-07:00

I'm presently on a media tour for the Catfish Institute -- promoting the use of US farm-raised catfish. Its easy for me to do, because I believe in it anyway. US catfish tastes very fresh, and light, has no antibiotics, no suspicious feed, and is a safe product. Asian catfish is .... well, maybe the opposite?

Any way, we are barbecuing catfish, and it is truly a pleasant product. Easy to eat, pretty, and, mostly, quick, quick, quick!! It doesn't flake on the grill, and has no fishy taste or odor.

Here's a picture of me at one of the stations in Birmingham, Alabama, taken today.

2007-06-06T18:06:00.000-07:00

Spoleto is in Charleston, and it is a jam-packed town. I've been to two operas, one symphony, one play and one ballet in 10 days. Plus I went to Virginia for my class reunion. It is amazing how people change -- and stay the same -- over 50 years. Only, perhaps, more layers, and more weaving. For some of us it was a welcome opportunity to be grateful we DIDN'T marry anyone we were in love with when we were young. For others, it was a welcome chance to clear up old tensions between friends. Mainly, it was good to feel comfortable in a rare way -- with people who "knew" you, even if they hadn't seen you in many years. One person that struck me that way was my friend Barbara S. She has moved all the way across the U.S., to Oregon, but she is the same person. I was delighted to see her.

My time at the Cannes Film Festival

2007-05-19T14:10:00.000-07:00

Cannes Film Festival

There are some things that anyone can do if they know how to do them. One is the Cannes film festival (the other is Ascot, and the Queen’s Garden party, but that is another story). I went, once, and had a glorious time.

This particular trip to France my friend Barbara and I rented a house to share with a couple and a few of their friends. The house, we were told, was a large one, a short distance to Cannes and Nice, in the countryside outside Bridget Bardot’s home town. It had a swimming pool and tickets to the Cannes film festival for one night. We would be able to shop in the markets and cook. It cost a modest sum compared to the Hotel d’ Cap, where I had stayed several years before. The dollar was king, with the franc at an all time low.

The reality was we were given basement rooms, next to a diesel heater that had a terrible odor. May and June in France are rarely sun-bathing times, the weather cooler than the US – certainly cooler than Charleston. We had two sun-bathing days, one at the pool next to the house, which was rimmed with 5 feet high rosemary bushes just outside its gate. The other we drove to Bridget’s home town and froze to death.

Finally the day arrived when the household was to go to the festival. We put on our very best duds – brought over for the occasion – and drove down the winding hills to Cannes.

Our host, the tickets’ holder, directed us to park behind them on the street some distance from the water. We walked fifteen minutes in a drizzle to the restaurant, which was on the main drag a block from the theater, and abuzz with celebrities (like ourselves, perhaps) we didn’t recognize. We ate sumptuously, wonderful seafood.

The maitre d’ was a flirt, as is frequently common in France, and pinched my derriere lightly as I was returning to our table from the ladies room. I was startled. “Ah, Madam,” he said, “some back when you have some flesh on you and we will have a wonderful time.” (I weighed about 125 at the time.)

When it was time to leave, he repeated his invitation. Our host hustled us together. “We need to find a taxi,” he said.

“A taxi?” We were incredulous. We had walked fifteen minutes in a light rain, after all. He looked at us, equally incredulous.

“Do you want to arrive on foot?”

We realized walking was déclassé and ducked our heads in shame. A taxi it was. We caught a taxi and drove a block. The theater’s steps were draped in red carpet. There were stanchions with ropes between them on either side of the aisle. There were crowds standing behind the ropes, and a hundred photographers standing at the foot and sides of the stairs.

Our host, a balding real estate broker from St. Louis, emerged first. The crowd viewed the penguin-like man and cheered loudly. His wife, an equally substantial woman, emerged next. The crowd cheered ever louder. Her zircons dazzled in the glow of the lights. My friend Barbara, slim and lovely, slid out of the taxi and the crowd cheered even more. She had no trouble holding up her bare-backed dress, even though it was freezing and by rights she should have had her shawl on at least. Finally, as dusk became night, I emerged. The lights and my hair were just enough to make me look vaguely like Barbara Streisand. The crowd went berserk.

We dashed to the curb of the theater, and up the stairs, lights and cameras flashing from the dozens and dozens of photographers. We gave waves to the crowd as we went up, and paused at the top so they could get a good shot of each of us.

Once inside, our host said, “Our tickets are downstairs.”

Looking at our quizzical faces, he said, “No one goes to the theater in Cannes without going up the outside stairs.” Right.

And so we went downstairs. It was an Argentine movie about a tragic father-daughter situation with French sub-titles. We didn’t understand a thing except that they kept the local pound and had dozens of curs surrounding the daughter every time she left the house.”

A few minutes before the end, our host said, “We have to leave now.”

It didn’t much matter, because we weren’t truly engaged by the film, but we did want to know why we had to climb the inside stairs again when there was an exit to the street.

Once again, he sighed and explained to us as if we were not-too-bright children, “Because,” he said, “they will want to take our picture when we leave.”

Sure enough, as we walked down the red carpeted stairs to the cheers of the crowds, our eyes were dazzled by flash bulbs of the paparazzi intent on seeing us. US. We beamed and smiled the way down, and then caught a passing taxi.

You, too, can go to the Cannes film festival. Just buy tickets to an Argentine film with French subtitles from a shady looking man selling tickets on the street a few days before the airing of the movie. Our host did.

2007-05-08T16:58:00.000-07:00

IF you want to see the winning recipe for the National Chicken Cooking Contest,or
you want to win $100,000 YOURSELF next contest, here's the information:

The 48th National Chicken Cooking Contest will be held in 2009. Recipes to that Contest may be submitted starting January 1, 2008, until October 15, 2008. Information on entering the 48th NCCC will be available on the chicken industry Web site, www.eatchicken.com, starting January 1, 2008.

Recipes of all state finalists are available in a new edition of The Chicken Cookbook, available for the first time at the Contest. Also included in the 128-page paperback are winning recipes from previous Cook-Offs, and chicken recipes from popular Birmingham chefs and restaurants.

The cookbook may be ordered at a special price of $2.95 (check or money order; no cash), sent with name and complete mailing address to:

Chicken Cookbook
Department NCC
Box 307
Coventry, CT 06238

Chicken, Fava Beans and Asparagus

2007-05-08T09:05:00.000-07:00

This has been a whirl wind week. I've been to Birmingham, Alabama, to view the National Chicken Cooking Contest. The winner, who was there for the first time, won $100,000.00, which really is a fabulous amount for a chicken recipe, when you think about it! It has Thai overtones, and may be viewed on line.

While we were there, we ate at Frank Stitt's wonderful restaurant, Bodega. Yum. I've never had such a wonderful meal served to 100 people at one time. You know, its really hard to do that -- get everything the same, perfect, out to everyone simultaneously. But Frank is a master restauranteur, and it was, indeed, all perfect. The first course was a souffle -- but perhaps a custard? -- it was deliciously, scrumptuously light, surrounded by a buerre blanc, and drizzled with fava beans, asparagus pieces and a few English (green) peas. I remembered it when I got in bed, which is a real compliment. The chicken breast, pounded thin into a paillard, and VERY difficult to do en masse, was equally delicious. It had a lovely sauce with just a bit of tomato conserve (see my book New Southern Cooking) And, finally, the dessert, a lovely cake with honeysuckles sprinkled around. It turns out that honeysuckles make a lovely flavoring for a sauce. Frank takes a handful (stripping off the leaves first) and infuses milk, cream, etc. with them.

That was not the last time I had fava beans this week. I thought they were local Alabama ones, but was a bit puzzled, as we don't normally get our butter beans until later in the summer. But there they were, in New York, at the restaurant Butter on Lafayette Street and 4th. The restaurant allowed a group of 30 Southerners -- the Southern mafia, I think of them -- to reserve the restaurant. We ate at a big long table, and were served family style. I sat next to our James Beard Nominee, Mike Lata, of Fig Restaurant. (Alas, he lost, but to a masterful chef, Scott Peacock of Atlanta.) The fava beans were a highlight, as was the baby baby baby rockette and arugula salad. There was a meltingly succulent beef dish, sliced thin, in an asian sauce. I had to leave to catch my plane so, sadly, didn't get dessert!

chef contest

2007-04-30T13:14:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a one way trip to Hilton Head, South Carolina, to judge a cooking contest for Lowcountry Literacy. It was a well organized event, with many capable volunteers. It was interesting, as always, to see what the chefs created.

Maybe I'm a funny judge, but I really don't like it when contestants use very special ingredients that the other contestants don't have. (In this case, each one was allowed to bring several ingredients -- including their own stock.) But really, the challenge is to use what is there. That's what I have to do at home, for instance.

Surprisingly, we saw three crepe desserts, two of them "Suzettey" -- i.e., with orange liquor. I wonder if they are coming back. Not one of them tried a pastry (although to be fair there was no refrigeration on the floor -- they would have had to run it back to the space set aside for the volunteers, where there was a freezer and a refrigerator.

Saturday I went to our farmer's market and really binged, buying all sorts of wonderful produce. Frustrated at not having time to use any of it, I just tucked a blueberry/raspberry cobbler in the oven. Its my old lazy girl cobbler, which is a simple thing to assemble and make. I always start to crave it when the fresh fruit starts coming. Granulated or brown sugar can be used. Self-rising flour is a must. A like a larger baking dish rather than a smaller because I like the crispy edge where the butter comes up around. Yum.

Lazy Girl Cobbler

1 stick butter
1 cup each milk, self-rising flour, and sugar.
2 cups berries or peaches

Preheat oven to 350@. Put the butter in a baking dish and let it melt in the oven. Meanwhile, whisk together milk, self-rising flour and 3/4 of the sugar. Add the other 1/4 cup of sugar to the berries and toss gently. When the butter is melted (about 5 minutes) remove the dish, pour in the batter, and top the batter with the fruit and any juices. Bake until brown and cooked through -- half an hour to 45 minutes, depending on the dish.

I did buy fresh eggs at the market, and sauteed them in butter for dinner last night after I returned from Hilton Head at nearly seven. They were just perfect and Jack and I sopped them up. I had mine sunny side up where Jack's I turned over easy. He doesn't love the runny yellow like I do. Fresh eggs taste so much better than store-bought. The yellow holds together more and makes it a beautiful painting in the pan.

Making biscuits

2007-04-26T17:55:00.000-07:00

I've been working on biscuits lately, including an article published yesterday in the Charleston Post and Courier, that gives ideas an recipes.

Whenever I write about biscuits, I am flooded with emails and phone calls from people saying they are so grateful to have some information on them. There are dozens of kinds of biscuits, since no two families make them the same way.

The truth is, however, that biscuits take practice. Considering this, an earnest biscuit maker will spend less time making batch after batch, until they are perfect,then they will on a baseball or football game where their team loses! After all, they are just flour, fat and a little water. The easiest fat is Crisco, followed quickly by lard -- but duck fat can be fun and so can butter.

Angel biscuits are the easiest to make and practice on, because they contain yeast, which keeps them tender and more roll-like. Once you can make an angel biscuit, you can move on the other ones. Angel biscuits freeze beautifully, too, and the dough keeps at least a week in the refrigerator.

So go read up on Nathaliedupree.com, and let me know what you think!!

MY MOTHER'S COOKING

2007-03-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

My mother was a terrible cook for the most part. Before she had children, she said, she cooked a lot for dinner parties and my father's guests. But after us (the three monsters) she lost heart, and after my father left, she really lost heart. I used to wonder, what is there to eat if you don't eat chicken on Sunday, spaghetti on Monday, Tuna Fish Casserole on Tuesday,Dinty Moore Stew out of a can on Wednesday so Mother could go to Church (alternates were a turkey frozen dinner and chicken pot pie.) Thursday was something like chipped beef on toast, Friday fish sticks, Saturdays pork chops maybe, and then it was Sunday. When I found out there was more food in the world than that I was amazed!!

Charleston food and wine festival 07

2007-03-09T18:36:00.000-08:00

The Charleston Food and Wine Festival was a success if numbers count. In some ways, it was not as much a success as we wished. We would have liked to have had the lines flow smoothly, people be able to eat and drink at the right times, and have everyone happy all the time. Tylor Florence and Tom Collichio were a BIG hit -- and so was the Culinary Village, except that was where the lines were the worst, on Saturday, right at lunchtime. An unanticipated calamity in that people were kept, waiting, and wanting...Food is a control issue, and when people can't eat, they get unhappy. But Charlestonians seemed to take it in stride, and only a few complained. What a gracious city.

One of the most interesting events was the discussion between Mimi Sheraton, former restaurant critic for the New York Times, Jenifer Lang, Rozanne Gold (she has a column on entertaining for Bon Appetit)and Rozanne's husband, Michael Wiseman, who started Windows on the World (both times) and The Rainbow Room, working with Joe Baum. Their subject was the rise of American Food in New York, and they zipped right through it. George Lang had pneumonia and was unable to be with us. But Jenifer had all these great slides reminding us of the old and the greats, from The Quilted Giraffe to The Forum of the Twelve Caesars.

Curtis Aikens flew in just for Sunday and gave a spirited demonstration, full of laughter.

Chef Walter Royal of the Angus Barn in Raleigh did a fantastic job of the gospel brunch on Sunday -- with a fantastic cheese grits souffle, among other things like oyster pie and quails. Amazing food.

The barbecue on Sunday night was another great hit. The band added to the spice of the food -- people were dancing in the aisles on the non-too-level floor of the big tent. What fun. And What ribs!

Next year I'm sure more kinks will be worked out -- this is only the second year.

Charleston Food and Wine Festival

2007-02-26T19:56:00.000-08:00

Marion Square in Charleston is a mix and tents and co-eds. The co-eds were all stretched out getting sun tans amidst workers putting up the white tents while ogling the co-eds. I wonder if the work moved as quickly as it would have without the College of Charleston damsels.

The festival's 2007 tickets are moving along -- there are plenty of tickets available for the Culinary Village, but none for the dine around and most other high ticket events. All of which is very exciting for the festival as well as the city. The chefs are reved up, having put their annual fund raiser for the food bank behind them, and looking toward this weekend.

The opening night party is Thursday night, with people arriving all that day. Friday, we have the free seminars. And so it goes.

Nathalie's Notes

2007-02-17T15:06:00.001-08:00

Welcome! This is my first attempt at a blog, so I'm feeling as clumsy as a beginning cook learning how to boil water.

LET’S PRETEND was a radio show I listened to as a child. In fact, my sister and I once were taken to see the show live, and were terribly disappointed. While listening to the radio we were able to conjur up all sorts of fairy godmothers, ogres, princesses and the like. Alas, during the live show actors stood up to the microphone and read aloud, holding their scripts in front of their faces. They wore day clothes, not even dress up clothes, or Sunday clothes, and were all ages. Imagine a 70 year old princess being woken up from a sleep by a twenty year old prince.
By when we listened to the radio, the magic lasted.

LET'S PRETEND

My happiest memories as a child revolve around the times before I started school, when my mother had the time to linger over meals and spend long hours with us. Saturdays were a special time. My sister and I got up early to help squeeze oranges. Standing on top of a chair, we pressed the orange halves mother cut. We put them cut side down on top of the juicer bottom, pulling down the rounded top of the machine over the rounded half of the orange and yanking down the handle that pushed the juice out of the spout into the glass pitcher. At the end there was a big pile of orange rinds. We would turn them inside out, using our teeth to tear out the tasty filament that stuck to the white of the rind, considering it as much a treat as a child of today would candy.
As soon as we could, we turned on the radio for the wide range of children's programming. We sat cross-legged in front of the huge Magnavox, a dark brown wood cabinet that reached to the top of my head. Fabric covered its front, its thin wood lattice peeled off over the years, perhaps with the help of curious little hands. From this shrine came stories of princes and princesses, fairy godmothers and other fantasy creatures, the world of a popular program, "Let's Pretend."
Around that time, Mother started making the breakfast. On bad days, it was oatmeal - a much-scorned Saturday breakfast. On the good days, bacon and eggs, or, best of all, French toast.
The fork would beat the eggs and milk together, making a steady beat, just as we would smell the butter browning slightly in the iron skillet, Mother poured a little of the browned butter into the batter before she added the bread for a brief soak before she slipped it into the hot buttered pan. She turned the bread over with its flecks of brown and gold when it was crusty around the edges. After a little while she forked the cooked French toast onto a plate she kept in the warm oven. She stacked piece after piece until she had enough for us to dig into.
On birthday mornings or some special occasion, we might eat on the floor, with the plates on a tray in front of us - after admonitions to be careful - so we could continue listening. Other times we would sit at the table, covered with a snowy white cloth, and eat silently, our ears tuned to the next room and the end of the tale.
Breakfast was prolonged as much as possible, the dishes to be cleared and washed when our radio time was over. Then my sister and father, who didn't like opera, would gleefully go to do outside chores together, and my mother and I would turn on the opera and listen together, one washing, the other drying, as we entered an operatic fantasy world.

Here are some breakfast ideas:

French Toast Serves 2
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk, light cream or heavy cream
Salt to taste (optional)

Dip each slice of bread in the batter and turn to coat, Fry the bread over medium heat until very lightly browned, turn. Remove when second side is cooked. Keep the cooked slices warm in a 250 F oven while frying the rest in the remaining butter. Serve warm, sprinkled with butter, confectioners’ sugar, jam or syrup.

Crisp Bacon

Crisp Bacon is best produced by baking in a preheated oven. It also removes the need for constant attention. Spread the bacon out, seperated, on a non-stick or easily cleanable baking or cookie sheet that has sides. Move the baking sheet to a preheated 350 oven. Set the timer for 10 minutes, check the bacon, remove the sheet from the oven and pour off any excess fat into a can or jar, mop up any spills, turn the bacon and return the baking sheet to the oven. Set the oven for five minutes and check to see if brown. If not, set for five minutes again, repeating until done. Drain on a paper towel and serve. Since ovens are so variable, if the bacon is not crisp and brown, next time preheat the oven for 375 degrees. If overbrown, reduce the heat.

Enjoy!

Tips:

There are a couple of books I use for easy reference when I need to find out about a basic cooking subject in depth. One is the Joy of Cooking and another is The New Good Housekeeping Cookbook. I used both of them for reference in these tips:

Waffle irons have different patterns and depths. The deeper “pockets” were originally for Belgian Waffles (which were traditionally a yeast waffle), but work for all kinds.

2. Waffle irons and griddles or pans for pancakes should always be preheated. Heat is of the essence. Without the right heat, pancakes and waffles may stick. If waffle irons or griddles are well seasoned -- i.e., not previously rubbed with an abrasive or left to rust – you may not need additional butter or oil to cook them. I like the color a little butter gives, however. The first one is always a test one. Plan to discard or give to the dog.

All waffle batters have to include some fat or they stick, so don’t try to omit it entirely. The Joy of Cooking recommends four tablespoons butter for a reduced fat waffle, eight tablespoons for a classic light and fluffy waffle, and sixteen tablespoons (that’s eight ounces, or two sticks) for a crunchy delicious waffle.

To keep waffles warm and crisp so all may be served at one time, spread out on a single layer directly on the oven rack. They will keep for about twenty minutes at 200 degrees.

To keep pancakes warm and tender, use a sheet of aluminum foil or a ovenproof plate or pan, layer the pancakes up as they are done, covering loosely with foil, and keep in a 200 degree oven for twenty minutes. For a phenomenal pancake, brush each side with a little butter before layering. (The same thing is true for reheating frozen pancakes – a little butter brushed on the ones reheated in the oven makes them truly special. Obviously this will not be appropriate for a toaster.)

The first side (down) of a pancake is always the prettiest. To tell when the pancake should be turned, look for the bubbles coming to the surface of the pan, then turn until the second side is done.

Determine how much waffle or pancake batter is appropriate for your needs. One half to three fourths cup batter is the norm for waffle irons, One third cup is the norm for an average pancake. Size of pancakes can vary, of course, from very small to extra grand.

If your batter is too thick, add more milk and/or butter. If it is too thin, caarefuly integrate more flour.

Batters can be made and stored, covered, in the refrigerator for twenty four hours. They produce a more tender pancake than those that are made from a recently mixed batter.

Basic Pancakes About 10 six-inch cakes

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons granulated, light or dark brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups whole, skim or lowfat milk
3-5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2 large eggs, beaten to mix

Preheat the griddle.

Sift or toss together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. In another bowl, whisk together the milk, butter and eggs. Whisk the wet ingredients gently into the dry ingredients, At this point you may add 1/2 cup of berries, nuts, bananas, cheese, bacon, etc. This may be kept in the refrigerator for 24 hours, covered tightly. Stir well before using, and thin if necessary to achieve desired consistency.

Test the griddle with a little water to be sure it sizzles. Ladle or pour 1/3 cup batter onto the griddle per pancake, pushing it into rounds if necessary. If they run together, you can cut them when they are done. Cook until the top of the pancake is sprinkled with large bubbles, some of which are bursting, then turn and cook until the other side is lightly browned. Keep warm as directed above, or serve immediately. Continue with the rest of the batter until all is gone.

Buttermilk Waffles

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 cups buttermilk
1/3 cup melted butter or salad oil
2 eggs, beaten to mix

Preheat waffle baker.

Sift or toss together flour, baking powder, soda, and salt. In another bowl, mix buttermilk, melted butter and eggs. Whisk together and beat until smooth.

When waffle baker is sufficiently hot, ladle or pour the batter directly into the center of the lower half until it spreads to one inch from the edges. Cover and bake as directed. Do not lift cover during baking. Steam will escape from the sides of the waffle baker, so take care not to get burned.
When waffle is done, lift cover. Loosen waffle with fork. Keep warm in oven as above or serve immediately. Meanwhile recover the waffle baker to reheat quickly. When ready, pour in next waffle. Thin as needed with more buttermilk.

For Sweet-Milk Waffles

Use 1 tablespoon baking powder
Substitute milk for buttermilk.