Eating in England

Until I was twelve, my English mother took me home every other year to see my grandparents, who lived in Bebington on the eastern side of the Wirral Peninsula, where we stayed for three months.

It was many years later, on February 12, 1964, that I saw four young men with long swinging hair—all with a connection to this peninsula—sing their hearts out at Carnegie Hall.

My Mother

We sailed from New York City to Liverpool on the M.V. Britannic—the last White Star liner built, and the last to carry the White Star flag. It was on that well-loved ship I learned to swim—in a pool filled with water piped in daily from the surrounding Atlantic Ocean and then heated. At the end of each day, the pool was drained, and the process began again the next morning.

On Board Ship

It was also where I first became aware of how much I liked to dine. We had breakfast in the dining room, then steaming cups of consommé on deck at 11:00 a.m., followed by luncheon at 1:00 p.m. and the 8:00 p.m. evening meal. I was never relegated to the child-friendly meal called nursery tea at 4 o’clock—often the final meal of the day for children—where simple foods like small sandwiches, omelets, soft-boiled eggs, and soothing sweets such as custard, blancmange, or little cakes were elegantly served on fine bone china.

My mother and I ate at second service. My favorite meal was freshly baked hard rolls with sweet butter, leg of lamb, peas cooked with mint, and craggy roast potatoes—confirming that only the Brits can properly roast a potato.

I ate caviar for the first time on the return voyage. I had just turned six and had learned to read while enrolled at the Rock Ferry Convent School during our stay. Seeing it on the menu, I ordered it myself. The steward got a funny look on his face, and my young and beautiful mother, in her most English accent, said calmly, “As she eats olives and anchovies, I imagine she will eat caviar. Please bring it to her.” It arrived on a plate with little pieces of toast and tiny cubes of aspic, which turned out only to be decorative. My mother was right—I happily ate the salty caviar on the dry, crunchy toast.

That year, I was in England when Queen Elizabeth II was crowned. Since I was enrolled in school, I attended several Coronation parties held for schoolchildren. We had lots of treats, including something called jelly cream—which reminded me of softly set Jell-O with whipped cream on top. I still have the mug with Elizabeth II’s picture on it, given to me at one of those parties. It sits on a dresser in my bedroom, holding bits and bobs—mostly earrings and safety pins.

My grandfather Charles was a pork butcher. At his house, the food was always simple and good. For tea, we had crumbly pale-orange Cheshire cheese, Hovis whole-wheat bread sliced thin by hand and gently buttered, eggs boiled softly after being plucked from under the bottom of a reluctant hen, green onions on their stems, and cherry tomatoes. Special sweets were only presented at the end of the meal when we had company, but in the kitchen there was always a sponge cake, a plate of hand-shaped triangular currant scones, and some gingernut biscuits available for the taking.

I am sometimes able to get Mrs. Appleby’s Cheshire cheese at my food store, and I do buy it when I see it. But mostly what I crave from those days are soft-boiled eggs—always good, but even better when I am able to get them from local hens. I eat them, as at my grandfather’s, in the early morning, with salt and pepper on the plate to dip my spoon into as I scoop up the lovely soft interior of the golden yolk.*

As a precaution, I no longer eat soft-boiled eggs: at the moment they may pose a risk of harboring avian influenza (bird flu), and I’d hate to pass anything along to my cat. Perhaps that danger will fade one fine day, but for now I’m avoiding soft yolks and any uncooked eggs.

I

Ten Years Later

Posted on the anniversary of 9/11, this is a letter I wrote to a friend just weeks after the attacks, reflecting on life in New York City at the time. It remains unchanged except for this opening paragraph, added when I rediscovered it years later.

I could not bring myself to watch the September 11th memorial services downtown, just three blocks from where I work. And I never want to reward the terrorists and re-live September 11th all over again each year. But this is the Tenth Anniversary, and it is impossible to remain passive today.

When we moved to our new office from West Chelsea at the end of October last year, I came across a file. In it was a copy of The New Yorker published on September 24, 2001, with a copy of an email I sent to a friend in California in response to his question how was I doing and what was New York like. I decided I would post it on this sad anniversary in a world that remains forever changed.

October 10, 2001, 3:33 a.m.

Hey, Friend,

Here we are, already four weeks later. I guess I have so much to say; it's hard to distill it all.

I had a lot of trouble sleeping the first two weeks, and I am still having bad dreams that wake me up. All of us here talk about it, talk about it, talk about it. Of course, the first day we were in the daze of horror. Then we were propelled by the adrenaline that gets you through the shock. We were all stopping each other in the street, "Are you okay?" which had a new and twisted meaning, being stunned all over again when you got the wrong answer, "I took my nephew's dental records to the family center because my sister just couldn't do it." "We're okay, but my girls lost five friends. You know, all these thirty year olds." Can you imagine, friend, all these young people your son's age? Then the good answers. "No, we're okay, and so are our friends. We all work in midtown." That was always good news - "We work in midtown. Our friends work in midtown. Our kids work in midtown." By the third week the total surprise was gone. Now the chilling realization has hit that "life as we know it is over" is not a sound byte. It's the real deal. The Holland Tunnel is still closed. Trucks and vans in and out of the City are stopped for inspection. And instead of its being a pain, it's a comfort. Yes, okay. We'll wait. Check it out. The National Guard is at the airport and on some street corners. Police are everywhere, and people stop at the firehouses, which are surrounded by bouquets of flowers and thank-you notes, to say hello and shake hands and drop off homemade cookies and have their little children meet real heroes. While we were eating lunch in our conference room yesterday, a plane flew over so loud and so low and so close, we all just stopped everything - talking, eating, chewing, swallowing - and looked at each other. When the noise faded, we said, "Oh, F16." Then the architect who designed our space stopped by and told us that the FBI has taken over a lot of space in a building right near our office to set up headquarters - he says now it's the safest neighborhood. People consider safety issues. Do I have comfortable shoes handy in case I need them? What will happen next? Is there anything I used to do that I shouldn't do now? But what I notice, again and again, is it's not fear that drives us. It's sadness. Sadness for those people lost, those families changed, our city brutalized, and the extreme sadness that a person in this century can inspire so much hatred that he can call for the annihilation of a group of people - the Americans, the United States - and summon a response.

As I sit at my computer at work, I look out the window at the Empire State Building. We left last night in the dark, and it's lit up Red/White/Blue. A girl who works with us was walking with us, and she said "Oh look how pretty the Empire State Building looks." She is right, and now it is amazing to see. There is a certain time of day, before sunset, when the sun somehow reflects a certain way, and our office all of a sudden has a golden glow. The light bounces off of windows outside and shines all over, and our space just shimmers. It is a beautiful time of day, somehow serene and peaceful, and it's a good time for me to stop, reflect, and in my own way say a little prayer and think how glad I am to be here.

I, like you, don't know how this will all play out and wonder and worry. So far, the response seems to be with clear thinking, planning, determination, and restraint. What I do know is that I have a different and revised appreciation for what my mother saw as an adolescent and young adult in wartime England. She spent most of her teenage nights sleeping in air-raid shelters. One of her classmates ran into a phone booth during an air raid and died when the booth crashed around her. Her mother, my grandmother who I never knew, went into the house to make everyone a cup of tea, leaving the protection of the back yard shelter, and died from implosion when a bomb fell on the house next door. My mother's next door neighbor's severed head, still in his air raid warden's helmet, was outside when she left the house one morning. One night, sheltered with a friend in the Underground in Liverpool, my mother's girlfriend had to pee, and there was no place to go; however, there was an empty Scotch bottle lying against the wall, which she used as a urinal. They left, and when they came back, discovered someone had stolen the bottle, leaving them helpless with laughter! I wonder, if she were alive, what my mother would think of all that's going on now.

You and I, we're from the "Hell, no, we won't go" generation and have never experienced these personal feelings of patriotism before. It's not like seeing the movie or reading the book The Right Stuff and feeling warm and fuzzy. To me, what everybody, especially those in the Arab world - to whom it probably came as quite a shock - learned on September 11th from those people whose plane crashed in Pennsylvania was that young, "indulgent" Americans also have some things they are willing to die for -- and do it with only minutes to think about it and plan it, not years and without the promise of 72 virgins waiting for them in Paradise.

A friend of mine told me that he has a friend whose son is in the Service on board a ship. His captain said they had received a request from the captain of a German ship in their area to arrange a rendezvous of both ships. So they pulled alongside the German ship, where everyone on board, in full military regalia, stood and sang The Star Spangled Banner. Stories like that make me cry.

Six paragraphs long,

Victoria

Eggplant Parmesan

Adapted from Melissa Clark, NYTimes

This is not the Eggplant Parmesan you would make if you were using Marcella Hazan’s recipe in Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking or eating in Italy. My guess is it’s a version of Eggplant Parmesan attributable to the Italian-American immigrants who arrived in large numbers between the 1880s and the 1920s.

My own grandmother was born in 1897, in her family’s apartment at 193 Mott Street, New York City. She was the youngest of eight children and the first to be born here, making her the first natural-born American in my family—since my mother was from England. “Nanny” was a good cook and made fried eggplant often, but I don’t remember her ever making Eggplant Parmesan.

Eggplant Breaded with Plain Dried Breadcrumbs

Melissa Clark wrote a piece for The New York Times called “Parmigiana Dishes to Warm Weary Souls.” She uses panko, but when I make Eggplant Parmesan—or any kind of schnitzel—I use 4C plain (unseasoned) dried breadcrumbs. Plain dried breadcrumbs are what recipe writer and cookbook author Rachel Roddy uses, and, as always, I follow her advice.

Notes

Here are some things I find helpful when making this dish:

– A breading set. The one I use is by Küchenprofi and is sometimes available on Amazon. I laughed at the idea the first time I saw it in a catalog, but when I used one at my friend Lamar’s house, I was sold. I ordered one immediately and now use it all the time—for schnitzel, chicken cutlets, anything that needs a bound breading. It’s a million times easier than using three plates and absolutely worth getting if you bread a lot of things.
– A Pyrex 11-cup casserole (I first found it in the grocery store) to bake it in.
– I grate the Parmesan with a classic Microplane.
– For the mozzarella, I use the large holes on a box grater.
– I use the medium strainer from a SALT set I bought years ago at Bed Bath & Beyond. It’s no longer available, but the mesh is just right for this: not too fine, so the eggs strain easily and the rope-like protein structures—which interfere with smooth breading—are left behind.

Serves 4 with leftovers

A little butter
1 recipe of Melissa Clark’s Simple Tomato Sauce
8 ounces fresh mozzarella
1 to 1½ cups grated Parmesan cheese (get the really good stuff—don’t skimp here)
6 large eggs (start with 4; add 2 more if needed)
Flour (I use Bob’s Red Mill White Rice Flour, not sweet rice flour)
Plain dried breadcrumbs (not seasoned)
Vegetable oil (I use grapeseed)
2 globe eggplants or 4–5 small Italian eggplants (not skinny Japanese)

Make the Simple Tomato Sauce and let it cool before layering, or make it ahead so it’s ready to go.

Beat the eggs and strain them through a not-too-fine mesh strainer into a small bowl. Don’t skip this step—it removes the chalazae (the rope-like protein strands) that make the breadcrumbs clump rather than adhere smoothly to the eggplant. It’s a small step that makes a big difference.

Wash and dry the eggplant; don’t peel it. Slice into rounds about ⅓ inch thick.

Set up your breading station with three plates: one with flour, one with the strained eggs, and one with breadcrumbs.

Season the flour generously with salt and pepper and stir to combine.

Dredge the eggplant slices in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs. Set the breaded slices on a platter as you go.

Shallow-fry the slices in vegetable oil until golden brown on both sides. Be careful not to let them burn. Transfer each piece to a fresh platter as it’s done.

While the eggplant cools a bit, grate the mozzarella and Parmesan into separate piles. Set out the sauce, cheeses, and eggplant so they’re all within easy reach.

Butter a deep casserole dish (about 3 inches deep). Begin layering in this order:

– Sauce
– Parmesan cheese
– Eggplant
– Mozzarella

Repeat:

– Sauce
– Parmesan cheese
– Eggplant
– Mozzarella

…and so on, ending with sauce and Parmesan. (Do not end with mozzarella.) By the time I’m done, I’ve used all the sauce and mozzarella.

Bake in a preheated 350°F oven for about 40 minutes, or until the dish is bubbling all the way through and the top is just starting to brown. Let it rest at room temperature for 10 to 15 minutes before cutting and serving.

Before Going into the Oven - Parmesan Cheese on Top

Creamed Lima Beans

I had a cousin, Bill, who lived in a small town in Illinois where I, a New York City kid, got to go for my childhood summers. It’s near the Mississippi, which really is mighty, and we spent many happy and carefree hours on that amazing river. On Sunday mornings we would head out early with a large basket filled with the fried chicken and coleslaw that Aunt Rita had made on Saturday night. My cousins Bill and Barbara and I would spend the day boating and swimming and picnicking. Pepsi, not Coke, was the drink of choice, and we were allowed to eat a whole bag of the always-forbidden-in-my-house potato chips.

The fields in the area are rolling and from the plane look like a patchwork quilt. The sky is big. The earth is black and rich and fragrant. There are family-owned pig farms in the area, and the air near those farms is strong and pungent, in a pleasing earthy way. Fried pork chop sandwiches are a regional specialty. The street is called Main, and the Post Office still had a WPA mural painted during the Franklin Roosevelt administration the last time I was there.

I hope it still is.

It is the Midwest of Carl Sandburg and Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln.

My cousin Bill loved good food. He grew up eating fabulous meals at home because Aunt Rita was a terrific and generous cook. 

I always thought he would like this recipe. I'm sorry I never got to cook it for him.

Recipe Notes: Even if you think you don’t like lima beans, try this. It goes with many things, and everyone loves it. If you make this once, I think you will make it again and again.

Maldon Salt is organic salt that is hand-harvested from the sea on the east coast of England. Instead of being in crystals, it is in beautiful flakes that you pick up and crush with your fingers over your food. I keep it in a small covered bowl on my counter because I use it all the time. I'm sure by now you've discovered Maldon, but if not, now is the time. 

This dish is excellent served with rigatoni topped with what I call Marcella's Miracle Sauce  - her justly famous tomato sauce made only with tomatoes, onion, and butter.  I usually serve them on the same large white dinner plate.  

Creamed Lima Beans

1 package frozen lima beans (Fordhook are best, but baby limas are okay too)
½ pint heavy cream
Salt for water
Maldon Salt to finish

Put the contents of the package of frozen lima beans into a 2-quart pot. Add as much water as you can, leaving room so the water doesn’t boil over. Salt the water lightly. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat, and simmer until about the beans are three-quarters of the way done. Taste like you would spaghetti or green beans to check for doneness. Drain the water when there’s just a little resistance to the bite.

Put lima beans back in the pan and add the heavy cream. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and cook at a steady simmer until the cream thickens into a sauce.

If you keep cooking, the cream will essentially “disappear” and coat the beans like butter. Don’t go this far. You really want them creamy. Add Maldon Sea Salt to taste by picking it up in your hand and crushing it a little as you sprinkle it on the beans.

An added bonus to this dish is that leftovers (if you have any) can be made into a delicious puree.

Just heat the leftovers in the microwave for one minute to loosen slightly. Then put into a food processor, and run while adding more cream until the puree reaches the desired consistency. Then put the puree into a bowl, and heat in the microwave. I assume if you put the puree through a tamis - or strainer - it would become silken rather than just smooth, but I have never bother to do that.

Lima Beans and Cream

Lima Beans with the Cream Thickening

Leftover Lima Beans in Cream Turned Into Puree

Amazon Links are Affiliate

Shrimp Cakes

Adapted from How to Eat by Nigella Lawson (John Wiley & Sons, 2000)

If I were hard pressed—I mean really hard pressed—to have only one cookbook in the world, I would have to seriously consider the 2000 American paperback edition of How to Eat by Nigella Lawson. I love this book for its soft feel, the deliciousness of the food inside the pages, for the sense memories it brings back to me as a child having spent so much time in England, for Nigella Lawson's interest in Italy and Italian food, and for the precision of the descriptions and the lavishness (not opulence) of what Nigella eats.

This is a recipe that is so much fun to make if you have a really good friend over and you're hanging around the kitchen quaffing down light white wine (think slightly frizzante low-alcohol Vinho Verde) or a couple of cold light beers—or (why not?) your favorite Champagne—and you want something yummy to munch on. If you try these little shrimp cakes, you'll come up with accompaniments of your own, which will depend on your eating preferences. But I think a tart green salad made simply from Boston lettuce to pick at with your fingers, while you dip these little puppies in a mayonnaise-y accompaniment as fast as they come hot out of the frying pan and pop into your mouth, would be good.

Nigella Lawson’s Shrimp Cakes

½ pound shrimp, minced
1 garlic clove, minced
2 scallions, white and green parts, minced
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons dry sherry
Neutral vegetable oil (I use grapeseed)
Mayonnaise-y Dip

Put the shrimp, garlic, scallions, salt, flour, sherry, and enough water to make a thick batter in a food processor. Turn the machine on, and process until a thick batter is formed. Put the batter into a bowl, and let stand, covered with plastic film, for one hour.

Put the oil to a depth of 2 inches in a pan, heat, then drop in the shrimp batter by the teaspoonfuls, and fry until golden brown, about a minute on each side. Drain on paper towels.

Mayonnaise-y Dip
Make homemade mayonnaise, omitting the Dijon mustard, substituting lime juice for lemon, and adding a handful of fresh chopped cilantro at the end. If you don't feel like making your own mayo, add lime juice and chopped cilantro to your favorite store-bought brand. It won’t be as good, but it will be good enough—because these morsels of shrimp can carry the day. If too exhausted even for that, just squeeze fresh lime juice on them and carry on.

---