some kinda good

On Sunday, I picked a handful of figs from the tree in my back yard in Fredericksburg, Va. Usually, by this time of year, the figs are little greenish brown stones hanging from the fading tree, so this was a wonderful gift. They didn’t taste luscious like September figs, but they were soft, ripe figs, and they were mine for the picking.

Another beautiful surprise was that the caracalla vine, a tropical beauty that winters unattended in my basement, is still unwinding its fragrant helix blossoms. If you don’t grow one, consider it; it is well worth the effort. The story is that Thomas Jefferson grew it at Monticello.

I’m making biscuits for Charlie Borst this weekend as part of a dinner to accompany a viewing of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I heard Charlie was doing the cooking and offered to help. He had it under control, he said, but was pondering biscuits.

I’m serious about making biscuits. My mother was serious about making biscuits. My grandmother, who cured her own salt ham, was serious about making biscuits.

Charlie figured he needed about five dozen biscuits for this Southern soiree, so I called my mom. Don’t get me wrong; I make a good biscuit, but we just needed to talk about this upcoming biscuit baking. And, in the course of the conversation, Mom invoked my grandmother, whom we called Maw (really), and then she invoked Maw’s biscuit recipe.

That’s how food conversations go in my family. If it is something that’s a tradition, we have to get to the root of the recipe, then discuss how the recipe has evolved.

Maw made them with lard, then graduated to the thought-to-be-healthier Crisco. Mom used Crisco when I was a kid, I knew. She graduated to half Crisco and half butter, but these days, she said in a guilty stage whisper, she uses all butter.

My mother makes the best biscuits I have ever tasted. And, without a doubt, they are the very best biscuits in all of Fauquier County, and perhaps in all of Virginia. So, here is her recipe, as told to me by phone just last night.

Bobbie Trenis’ biscuits
makes about 10
preheat oven to 425 degrees F

4 T. cold butter, unsalted
——–
2 cups flour
2 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. sugar (optional, use 1 T. if you’re using for shortcake)
1/2 tsp. salt
——–
approximately 3/4 cups milk

Mix together the dry ingredients in a medium sized bowl. Mix thoroughly. Cut the butter into about 8 pieces (to make it easier to work in) and put in separate pieces on top of the flour mix. Cut the butter into the flour: you can use a pastry fork or two knives. I’ve done both and they both work well.

Cut in until the butter is the size of small peas.

When the flour mix is full of little butter peas, measure 3/4 cups cold milk.

Make a little well in the flour and pour in about 1/2 cup of milk. Mix lightly with a fork for just a few stirs. You want a moist and tender dough here, so quickly assess if you need more liquid. If it’s a dry, floury dough, add more milk, up to the full amount. Mix the dough fairly well, until there isn’t much dry flour mix in the bottom of the bowl.

Sprinkle a little flour on the counter. Turn out dough onto the surface.

Pull the dough together to make a ball, but don’t work the dough much to do this. Knead the ball by folding it over on itself and flattening it with the palm of your hand. Do this for 11 strokes — no kidding — only 11!

Pat the dough out with your hands or roll with a baking pin to a circle of about 10 inches in diameter. It’ll be about 1/2 inch thick.

Cut with a round cookie cutter, a tuna can with top and bottom cut off, or cut into squares with a knife.

Put on a lightly greased baking sheet OR on parchment on a baking sheet. I use parchment. Mom uses a little vegetable spray. Maw used an ungreased pan.

Put in a hot oven, 425, for about 15 minutes. I bake them on a double (insulated) baking sheet. The biscuits will be nice and brown when they are ready. You know what to do after this.

A couple of notes:
–Mom uses freshly ground soft whole wheat flour these days, unless company is coming.
–These are best eaten the day they are baked. If you eat on subsequent days, split and toast. Serve with butter and jam.
–These make nom shortcake, the kind you tuck under strawberries and cream. Add 1 T. sugar to the dough for this treatment. If you want for-company shortcake, dip the raw biscuits in melted butter, roll in sugar, and bake.

I know in Monroeville, Ala., they eat biscuits. But, if my memory serves from reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” while visiting Nell “Harper” Lee‘s hometown, Scout liked Lane cake, too. (“Miss Maudie baked a Lane cake so loaded with shinny it made me tight.”) That got me curious and hoping for the opportunity to try to make a Lane cake soon. I also plan to plant some camellias in my garden Saturday morning, before the “Mockingbird”showing, and I’ll be thinking of sending graceful blossoms as a gift, in a candy box.

[I added photos Monday, Oct. 26, 2009. Charlie's dinner was wonderful, but it was really Charlie and Elizabeth's. They made fried chicken (Charlie's -- buttermilk and quite perfect), potato salad with sweet and whites (not traditional but so delicious with capers), green beans, salt ham, cole slaw, Elizabeth's corn pudding (tres authentic and delish -- she said whipping cream is her secret), lemon bars, and pecan bars. And, chicory coffee and a real coconut cake brought in to celebrate a birthday. The movie was a delight. No one left hungry. I felt like I had been to a Catlett United Methodist Church supper, circa 1970.]

Riding in the truck to Richmond to pick up Richfood groceries for my uncle’s cash-and-carry had its rewards: grits at the truck stop. If you don’t “get” grits, think polenta. If you also don’t get polenta, then bless your soul.

Northern Italy and THE South share their love of ground dried corn. The Italians crafted theirs into polenta as well as sweets such as Venice’s zaletti and Mantova’s sbrisolona. Dixie belles whip up corn bread, spoon bread, hominy, and grits.

If you’re a polenta fan, you should be a quick convert to real grits. Virginians tend to pair grits with things porcine – bacon, sausage, country ham. In the Old Dominion, grits for breakfast usually involves the aforementioned plus eggs, sunny-side-up so you can use the golden yolks as a velvety sauce. The Richmond truck stop of my childhood served them with lots of butter and black pepper. My Alabama-born Italo-American daughter likes hers with cheese and more cheese.

South Carolinians are famous for their grits (made with cream) and shrimp. In the mountains of Virginia I’ve had delightful venison stew on grits. At home, I make an Italian-style venison stew with juniper berries that I have served on polenta or its American cousin.

At home, we sliced and fried leftover grits with bacon. Fry ‘em in olive oil, grill ‘em, melt cheese on ‘em – cheddar, Taleggio, American. Make a Sunday lunch cheese-and-grits casserole. Slip ‘em under an authentic ragu Bolognese. Don’t make no never mind!

My favorite grits come from Stratford Hall Plantation. Buy a bag of the coarsely ground white corn during a (highly recommended) visit to the birthplace of Robert E. Lee. The mill runs infrequently anymore, since miller Steve Bashore moved to Mount Vernon’s gristmill. Mabry Mill, just off the Blue Ridge Parkway in Floyd County, Va., mills delicious yellow grits, and is another great place to visit if you’re in that area. You might hear some good old-time music if you time it right.

If you’re not in my neck of the woods, try whole grain corn grits from the grocery store, and expect to wash them and then cook them for about 25 minutes. Don’t bother with instant or fast-cooking.

I follow my version of the directions on the Stratford Hall grits bag – wash the grits in a deep kettle or bowl in plenty of water to separate the chaff from the grain. For every one cup of wet grits, add about three cups of water to a pot, add the grits and salt to taste. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer. Simmer, stirring occasionally for about 15 to 20 minutes. When the grits start to be very thick, stir almost constantly. Total cooking time should be at least 25 minutes.

Once you get used to making grits, you won’t need to follow this recipe too strictly: use milk, broth, herbs, stir in cheese, jalapenos.

Nowadays, even Southerners don’t eat grits every day, and I don’t expect you to eat them every day, either. Just get to know the gal; you might like her.

An October Sunday breakfast: hot coffee, Papa Weaver's pork sausage, simmering grits, and fried apples

Couldn’t make it to the Mycolocial Association of Washington’s Eighth Annual Mushroom Fair today, but I’m celebrating by remembering last Sunday’s MAW foray in Prince William Forest Park. A small group of us met with foray leader Mitch for a couple of hours.

It was a fun and – thanks to Mitch – educational hunt for me, though I came home with few mushrooms. I found one golden chanterelle, a generous handful of cinnabar chanterelles, and a bolete that won the day for beauty and elegance.

Walking in deep shade, near a stream surrounded by beeches and some oaks, I noticed a dark sphere that turned out to be a black velvet bolete – tylopilus alboater. It was deep purple to black with the typical bolete shape of its famous cousin, the Italian favorite, porcino. It was covered by what looked to be thin black velvet upholstry. Mitch identified it, put it through its safety paces, and I was happy to drop it in the “edible” side of the basket by the yellow and deep orange chanterelles.

Back at home, I waited until day’s end to explore the innards of the black velvet; it bordered on too beautiful to eat. When it landed on the fire, it turned even deeper black. On the tongue it paled when compared to the smoky depth of a porcino, but its creamy texture was lovely.

At table, the golden chanterelle won the day for flavor, but looked peaked next to the velvet robed bolete. The cinnabar chanterelles won showiest in dish, turning a glistening deep orange against the skillet.

The day reminded me of why I love to hunt mushrooms; Mitch reminded me that learning from the learned – with a good book in hand – is the way to get back into the art of the foray.

In the kitchen: I don’t have a recipe, really, but here’s what I did to sauté the mushrooms in butter and serve with pasta:

Don’t be shy about washing chanterelles. The false gills hold LOTS of dirt, even in the tiny cinnabars. Soak ‘em, use your fingernail, use a brush, but gently get the dirt out or you’ll taste grit, and it will ruin your dish.

After you’ve washed the chanterelles, leave them whole on a towel until they’ve dried a bit. I didn’t dunk the bolete, but it got a good washing, too.

Chop a few shallots, chop the mushrooms, find a nice sprig of rosemary, take out the bottle of Madeira (or a similar sherry), and put the pasta water on to boil. Make sure you’ve got butter and heavy cream. Grate some Parmigiano-Reggiano.

We’re cooking wild mushrooms here, so take a no-butter holiday if you find yourself with a similar windfall.

Sauté two or three small shallots in butter.

When the shallots become translucent, add the mushrooms and sauté until they’re darkened and soft. Throw in a sprig of fresh rosemary and add a bit of salt. Add a nice splash of Madeira and simmer on a medium flame until most of it has evaporated. You should have enough butter in the pan that the reduction is creamy and light nut brown.

Add some cream, let it simmer on medium heat until thick; take off the fire.

Cook the pasta in lots of salted boiling water until just under done – it should be a little hard. Back in the skillet, turn the fire back to high on under the mushrooms. Drain the pasta, but don’t drain it well. Put the uber al dente pasta in the skillet with the mushrooms (still on high heat) and toss for a minute or so. Turn off the fire, add salt and pepper to taste. Remove the rosemary stick. This is where you have your way with this dish – add pepper flakes, herbs, top with fresh basil – just don’t forget the butter.

Serve with grated cheese.


The catch of the day
Left to right: Cinnabar chanterelle – cantharellus cinnabarinus; Golden chanterelle – cantharellus cibarius; Tylopilus alboater – black velvet bolete