and I don't care

To fry chicken:

Marinate for a day or two (in buttermilk with or without hot sauce, sriracha, or Old Bay, or in undiluted Louisiana hot sauce).

Put a mixture of flour, self-rising flour, cornmeal, and seasoning in a sack -- I never measure, but I can tell you it's not more than a few spoonfuls of cornmeal and that there's more flour than self-rising flour.

Heat oil in cast iron.

For each piece of chicken, go through this procedure: shake in the sack until well-covered.  Let rest on a plate for twenty minutes to hydrate the flour.  Shake again right before putting in the oil.  Cook for about 8-10 minutes depending on size, flip over and cook for that amount again.  (I tend to cook one or two pieces at a time, and don't use a huge deep fryer with gallons of oil -- because if I did, I wouldn't get around to frying chicken very often.)  Let rest ON WIRE RACK with plate underneath to catch the dripping oil.  Fried chicken will retain heat pretty well, but even apart from that, this particular fried chicken is good cold or room-temp.

Remember when deep-frying -- even "shallow" deep frying like I do -- that the first thing you fry will not be as good as the third or fourth.  Oil has a lifespan, and it doesn't do its best work in infancy.

Thighs here, drumsticks in the country captain.  You might could guess leg quarters were on sale.

To make "fresh grits":

Scrape corn kernels from cob.  Pulse in Cuisinart until pulpy.  Fry up a little bourbon bacon in a pan, with some chopped tomatoes.  Add corn and cook for 2-3 minutes.  Salt and pepper.

With sweet corn, this is a very sweet side dish -- in fact, I made it to use up some Mirai corn that'd been sitting in my fridge over a week, and it's still very sweet.

City chefs call this "fresh polenta," but fuck them.

at last

It had been a terrible, dismal season, stormy and misfortunate.  Too little sun and too much damp.  Time and again we had been denied the crimson bounty.  The crew had near given up hope, when at last we spied it --

A tomato.

Ripe on the vine, not yet split by rains nor wracked by blight.

We set upon it like jackals.

Tomato sandwich, bourbon bacon, pepper.  The tomato isn't from my garden, but from my mother's -- my tomato plants were almost completely destroyed by blight this year.  The tomatoes I can get aren't nearly as good as last year's, but they're still better than the tomatoes that'll be available the rest of the year.

Things that benefit the most from using good fresh tomatoes: tomato sandwiches (pointless any other time of year), tomato pie (prebake a pie crust; add sliced tomatoes sprinkled with salt and pepper, top with a mixture of shredded cheddar cheese, optional dry mozzarella, and enough mayonnaise to make the cheese stick together; bake for 30 minutes), tomatoes and okra, tomatoes and scrambled eggs, pasta with minimally cooked tomatoes, and presumably tomato juice (of which I'm not really a fan).

There is also the classic hamburger:

My prescription for a good hamburger is very simple: add little or nothing to the meat (though ground bacon mixed in with the beef is a good variation), knock it off with the enormous patties, salt the surface of the patty, cook it on hot cast iron to develop a good crust, let it rest for a few minutes before putting it on the bun (Martin's potato roll) or, in a pinch, the bread.  George Motz is right -- mustard is better on hamburgers than ketchup, even if you love ketchup.

If you have some tomatoes that aren't as great -- or just too many great ones -- you can make homemade Catalina dressing, too: puree and strain the tomatoes (the straining is optional) and cook down until they start to thicken like a pasta sauce.  Add equal parts sugar and vinegar, season with salt and Worcestershire sauce until slightly too salty, add a good dose of smoked paprika, and then toss in the Cuisinart and slowly add oil until it's the consistency of salad dressing (expect to add about twice as much oil as vinegar).  Ideally, refrigerate for a day or two before using.

Underused tomato condiment: soy sauce, especially the lighter Japanese style soy sauce used with sushi.

And of course, there is the simplest tomato sandwich in the world: split a baguette, butter it, broil it, and rub a split tomato on the broiled surface, squeezing the tomato guts onto it.  Top with coarse salt.

some who succeeded and some who suffered in vain

Isn't the Punt e Mes logo a lovely thing?

I actually discovered cocktails, real cocktails, in Indiana of all places.  After I'd rediscovered whiskey at the Irish pub in Bloomington, I started paying more attention to the drink menus, and ordered a Negroni because I didn't know what it was, and reading the ingredients -- Campari, gin, vermouth -- didn't exactly enlighten me.

Oh Campari.

You little devil.

I don't know how to explain Campari to you if you haven't had it.  Have you had Sanbitter soda?  Well there you go.  But most of you just said no, so like I said, I don't know how to explain it to you.  It's bitter.  It's sweet.  It's red.  It's too strong -- both too bitter and too sweet -- to drink straight, though dammit I'll do it if I have to.  Gin cuts it wonderfully, and I've made a ton of vermouth-less Negronis in the past, which aren't Negronis at all, but whatever, I was out of vermouth.  

I always tell people you need to try Campari three times before you decide what you think of it.

A Negroni made with whiskey instead of gin is a Boulevardier.  So this drink -- more or less equal parts wheat whiskey, Punt e Mes vermouth, and Campari -- is basically a Boulevardier, but Punt e Mes deserves special note.  Just like Campari did.  And the whiskey, yesterday.  This cocktail is all about special notes.  I should call it the Mezzanine instead.

Vermouth is a fortified wine, meaning you start with wine and add distilled liquor to it, like port and sherry.  Unlike those, vermouth is seasoned with herbs and spices.  Forget anything you've heard about using epically small amounts of vermouth in a martini ("tap the bottle against the glass," those vermouth misters, etc), it's all horseshit.  Vermouth is good.  If you want a glass of gin instead of a martini, ask for one.  If you want a glass of vodka, go screw.

Punt e Mes is an especially bitter vermouth, and is different enough from my usual vermouth selections -- Noilly Prat or Lillet Blanc (Lillet isn't vermouth, but it's similar enough that I sub it a lot) -- that to me, using Punt e Mes makes a drink distinctly different.  Maybe not enough to need a different name, but it's definitely noticeable.

By the way, the burnt peach garnish (which seemed to suit both the drink and the weather) will slide down the rim of the Mason jar and bump you in the face, turns out.  Sorry about that.  This is why I don't monkey around with that sort of frippery very often.

oh captain my captain

It's dim, rainy, and chilly today, and country captain seemed like the perfect remedy.

Country captain is the curry of the South, a dish that owes its origins to the spice ports of the Low Country.  I've always seen it made with tomatoes or a tomato sauce, though I don't think that's universal.  For me, though, it's chicken on the bone, browned in a pan and then braised in a sauce of tomato, curry powder, onions, and raisins.  Everything else is optional.

Lately, for curry powder I've been using the Vadouvan blend from the Spice House.  You're probably a big fan of Penzey's for your mail order spice needs.  I totally understand.  I love Penzey's, and their curry powders, especially the rogan josh, are among their selling points.  I placed an order to the Spice House instead -- run by the brother of the owner of Penzey's, if I have that right -- because they had cassia buds and Penzey's didn't, and I've stuck with the Spice House since.  Their white truffle salt is a welcome addition to my kitchen, and the chili con carne seasoning is excellent.

So the sauce is garden tomatoes, pureed and strained and cooked until thick, with onions, a few cayenne peppers from my yard, Vadouvan curry powder, golden raisins, and a couple additions -- chopped sweetened dried hibiscus flowers, and chopped fresh apricots.  The tomato-raisin combination has always made country captain a sort of sweet/sour dish for me, so the additions add to that.  Some fresh peas and scallions would have been a good addition; I didn't have any.

Trader Joe's, where I got the hibiscus, is a good source for dried fruit.  Because of their "discontinue everything that isn't a bestseller" business model, anything you see today may not be there tomorrow, but they always have SOME kind of dried fruit (they did not have any more of the hibiscus last time I was there), often things you won't find other places -- dried orange slices, freeze-dried rambutan (terrific), dried dragonfruit, etc.

sexy girl air freshener, snacks and a pinwheel

To make corn caramel:

1: Fill a lobster pot with corn cobs, corn silk, corn husks, etc., figuring there is no point wasting any part of the buffalo.  Let simmer for a day or so to make a nice strong corn stock for chowder and so on.  Reduce the resulting stock, and in so doing, notice how sweet it is -- far too sweet to use in chowder or any other soup except in conditions of serious dilution.  So sweet that the reduction freezes like an icy sorbet.

2: Think hmmm.

3: The following year, do that again.  Let it simmer for two and a half days instead.  Reduce it down slowly -- there's no choice but slowly, the stove doesn't like keeping an uncovered lobster pot hot -- while you write some articles for a science encyclopedia, until it's reduced enough to fit in a container for the fridge.

4: Once you get a day off, restrain that reduction into a pot.  Taste it.  It's dark-brown, the color of porter, but it still tastes like fresh corn -- not that terrible creamed corn taste, thank God -- a very vegetal taste, thanks to the silk and cobs.  And it's very noticeably sweet.  You could make soda with this.

5: Bill, stop, don't make soda with this!

6: Add a hunk of butter to the pot and twist the knob to high.  Come back and check once in a while.  Note, observer, that there is no added sugar.  All the sugar came from the corn.  This is just reduced corn stock and butter.

7: Pour it into a pan and cool it.  Sprinkle some salt.

It's a chewy, soft caramel -- it could've been a little harder, but this is pleasantly chewy while cold, a little too soft when warm, could probably be heated up for an ice cream topping or swirled into something (goat's milk ice cream would be swell).  The flavor is like a cross between familiar caramels and burnt popcorn, in a good way -- not bitterly burnt, but those slightly more-cooked kernels you get in a batch of decent stovetop popcorn.  It's very very dark, and definitely stands out -- you wouldn't mistake this for some other caramel.  You'd know something's going on here.

sandals in the snow

I know I know, you want to know what the mystery fruit is.  I didn't mean to leave you hanging.

This is a quenepa, which is called a million different things in different places.  It's a tropical fruit which looks a little like a lychee here, but what looks like a luscious solid fruit is actually a thin coating of fruit pulp around a thick seed that can be roasted like a chestnut (though I haven't done that).  You peel the fruit open (easily done, just like with lychees and similar fruit), pop it into your mouth, suck the pulp off, and spit the seed out.  Though there's very little pulp in the fruit, it's so flavorful that you don't notice -- it's as sweet and tart and intense as passion fruit, with a sort of "tropical punch" flavor.  I have, naturally, added a bunch of it to vodka to make liqueur.

As for this mystery?

Fresh dates.

Dates go through various stages of ripeness, and at the khalal stage, they're crisp like apples -- though tarter and noticeably astringent.  Tasty, but you're not going to eat a bowl of them on their own.  These are specifically Mariana dates in the khalal stage.  They continue to ripen on their own, hitting the rutab stage, at which point they become so soft they're almost liquid, and melt in your mouth, tasting a lot like vanilla caramels.  I assume if I leave them long enough, they'll become the dry dates you're familiar with from the supermarket.

As for why I bought fresh dates, well.  That's what I do.  That's how I learn to cook.

oh whiskey, you villain

In my glamorous work as a writer, I sometimes say that I know more about science than most humanities people, but less than actual science people.  That's the position I'm in with regards to cocktail coverage on this blog.  There are some fantastic cocktail blogs out there; before I started reading them, I learned about cocktails from Chuck Taggart's occasional cocktail posts on The Gumbo Pages (see the sidebar on this page) and Ted Haigh's "Dr Cocktail" column (there is an Amazon link to the second edition of Ted's ridiculously great and groundbreaking cocktail book at the bottom of this page).

I know much more about cocktails and liquor than most people, even most other cooking-oriented people.  But I know significantly less than many of the people who maintain cocktail blogs (and many who don't), particularly those of my age or older.  (Looking through blogs linked by blogs linked by blogs linked by blogs I read a couple weeks ago, I found a cocktail blog that went on and on about recently available but still obscure ingredients and molecular gastronomy notions, before coming to a post about how the author had never had a gin and tonic.  While it was sort of interesting to see someone come at the idea of a gin and tonic from that perspective -- as something new and exotic to their palate -- it made me feel so distanced from the blogger that, rightly or wrongly, I didn't feel there was much we had to say to one another on the topic of drinks.)

There are a few factors limiting my expertise, aside from simply "other people know more than me":

1: I rarely have more than one drink, maybe two.  I'm not saying this is a bad thing or anything, but it means it takes me a week to try even basic variations on a drink, so my learning curve is slowed.

2: I even more rarely go to bars.  I've never understood this collegiate nonsense about drinking at home, by yourself or otherwise, being stigmatized.  It comes close to suggesting there's no reason to drink except to get drunk, which is like saying there's no reason to eat except to get fat.  I don't object to bars, I have no problem with bars, but for $20 I can get a bottle of premium liquor, or I can get two or three premium drinks, depending on where I am.  Come on.

3: For the last three years, I've lived in New Hampshire, which has state-run liquor stores and restrictions on alcohol shipping.  Though the shipping restriction only (I think) requires the shipper to have a state-specific permit, and though the state has the highest per capita alcohol sales (because the prices are low and Vermonters and Massholes bordercross to take advantage of them), it's only very recently that it's been possible to order cocktailian ingredients by mail -- and none of them are available in the liquor stores.

I see people online talking about how allspice dram, for instance, is already "over," and meanwhile you can't even buy maraschino liqueur in New Hampshire.

I buy things in Massachusetts or online -- drinkupny.com has been good to me -- and I certainly give the NH stores their share of business.  Whiskey is good and cheap here, as is any domestic liquor.  It's been years since I've bothered with bottom shelf college kid bullshit.

So that's my cocktail background, my cocktail situation.  Right now I'm going to talk about whiskey, about three whiskeys of my recent acquisition -- none of these are available in NH: Bernheim wheat whiskey, Old Gristmill corn whiskey, and Baby Bourbon aged corn whiskey.

What I know about whiskey

Like beer, whiskey starts with fermented grain mash -- barley, rye, wheat, corn, there are a lot of possibilities.  Unlike beer, whiskey is then distilled, and usually aged.  Aged whiskeys are generally aged in oak barrels.  Aging in oak involves a flavor exchange -- the wood soaks up some things, and imparts others into the liquor, including vanillin, a flavor compound found in vanilla beans, roasted coffee beans, maple syrup, and oatmeal, and generally used in "vanilla flavoring."  (One reason vanilla flavoring is so weak compared to vanilla is because the real thing contains so much more than just vanillin.  It's like trying to express "chili con carne" with cumin.)

There is a LOT of variation within the possibilities laid out by that description, but whiskeys tend to fall into specific categories.  Bourbon whiskey, for instance, must be distilled from a mixture of more than half corn, aged in new charred oak barrels.  It doesn't have to be from Kentucky.  The mash generally includes wheat, rye, and malted barley in addition to the corn, and bourbons are often referred to as "wheat type" or "rye type" according to which is most prominent.  One of my standard household bourbons, for instance, is Bulleit, which is so heavy on the rye it can practically substitute for a rye whiskey in cocktails.

Rye, wheat, or corn whiskeys are whiskeys made with a mash dominated by that grain, by a minimum amount determined by labeling laws.  None of these are all that common, though rye whiskey is the most common -- you can find Old Overholt, Jim Beam rye, or Wild Turkey in most states.  Canadian rye is not the same thing as rye whiskey -- "rye" became the word for "whiskey" in Canada long ago, and is used synonymously there, but Canadian whiskeys are usually blended (meaning that the whiskey flavor has been diluted by adding neutral grain spirits).

Unaged whiskeys aren't found very often, though these days, as microdistilleries become the new microbreweries, you can sometimes find them sold locally by distilleries that need a way to generate revenue while they wait for their aged product to be ready for market.  The one type of whiskey often sold unaged is corn whiskey -- often called moonshine, though moonshine wasn't always made with corn.

If you tour a distillery in Kentucky, you'll get the chance to sample the unaged product after it's been distilled, on its way to the barrels.  It's interesting stuff, but harsh, and the flavor profile hasn't developed as much as it will in the barrel -- at least that was my one experience with it.

Okay, so that's whiskey.  It's a broad category.  

Bernheim Wheat Whiskey

This is, as far as I know, the only wheat whiskey in existence, and although I was curious how much it would stand out -- there are plenty of wheat-type bourbons, and the wheat pretty much overpowers the corn in them -- the difference is certainly there.  Oh, in a blind taste you might think it was bourbon, if only because "wheat whiskey" just isn't a category in your head.

What's interesting about the difference is how smooth and light and clean this whiskey is, almost crisp -- this, in an age when differentiating your product so often means going to Flavor Extremes.  It's nice.  It's very pleasant.  I'll be honest, I don't know if nice and pleasant are enough to get me to pay mail-order prices on it a second time, but it's a good sipping whiskey, so the fall may change my mind on that.  It's certainly very very drinkable.

Old Gristmill Corn Whiskey

This whiskey, good lord.  I am such a fan.

This is an unaged corn whiskey made from New York corn at Tuthilltown Spirits, one of the only (THE only, maybe? I don't know) distilleries in New York.  I've had several Tuthilltown products now, having bought one of their apple vodkas for a Remake The Appletini project I'll blog about in the fall when it's appropriate.  I'm hugely impressed.  Their stuff is expensive, especially by New Hampshire standards, so I'm trying to force myself to go slow ... but honestly, when I head into the bar part of the kitchen to make a drink, if I don't already have something specific in mind, Old Gristmill is one of the first things I reach for.

Though unaged, this is very unlike the white dog I'd sampled at Buffalo Trace a few years ago, and that may partly be because it's 100% corn, or it may be because the Buffalo Trace product wasn't meant to be drunk unaged.  There are probably proof differences, too -- I'm sure they told us the proof of the Buffalo Trace stuff at the time, but I didn't make a note of it.  Old Gristmill is 80 proof, about standard for a base liquor.

It's extremely flavorful, with a sweet nose that reminds me of cachaca more than whiskey, and of the few vodkas I've liked.  The flavor is slightly sweet, and not harsh at all, with surprisingly little burn.  I guess because of what it is, because of the moonshine associations, I was expecting something hotter -- but after all, it's 80 proof, not 151.  There's a fruit-like character to it which made immediate sense because this time of year, New England has finally given up the goods, and the farmstand has corn on the cob sweet enough to eat raw.  Raw liquor that hasn't had the flavor distilled out of it tends to have an earthiness to it, a funkiness, and that's what I get here.

I love this stuff.

Hudson Baby Bourbon

Another Tuthilltown Spirits product, this is an aged corn whiskey which I assume starts out the same as the Old Gristmill.  It's "baby" bourbon for three reasons: it's aged for only three months, in small charred new oak barrels, and sold in 375ml bottles (which cost more than I usually pay for 750ml of bourbon, so this won't be a frequent purchase).  

Unlike other bourbons -- every other bourbon, as far as I know -- the Baby is 100% corn, and that alone would be enough to make it markedly different.  This is one of those little conceptual pockets produced by labeling laws: bourbon must be at least 51% and aged in charred oak.  Corn whiskey must be at least 80% and, if aged, cannot be aged in charred wood.  Corn whiskey aged in charred oak, then, must be bourbon, provided it follows the other minor provisions (which have to do with the proof to which it's distilled and whatnot).  The smaller barrels make the most of the brief aging -- by increasing the ratio of surface area to the volume of the aging liquor -- which pushes the flavor profile pretty far from Old Gristmill.  

This is actually less smooth than Old Gristmill, believe it or not, which might in part be the higher proof (92 instead of 80).  There's a hint of burn, and lots of barrel flavor, but it's still mellow.  Not mellow like the Bernheim, but you certainly wouldn't guess this baby was only a trimester old.  There's caramel and pepper, some citrus flavors -- it's a very good bourbon, and though I've been having it mostly straight or in whiskey sours, I'm looking forward to trying it in cider when the weather turns cold.

I'd like to see more from Tuthilltown in the future.  They have a rum and several whiskeys I haven't tried, so that'll keep me occupied.  I'm hoping they have some longer-aged spirits in the works, and I'd definitely try unaged rye or multi-grain whiskey if it were available.

Whiskey cocktails

There are a million things you can do with whiskey, but there are a few standbys I always come back to, and use when trying out a new whiskey.

The Old-Fashioned

One of the oldest cocktails around, this gets fucked up all the time by people adding a handful of fruit and topping it with soda water.  That just isn't this drink.  The benefit to this drink is it's a good way to explore a new whiskey or a new bitters.  It also doesn't use anything fresh like citrus, so when you're out of everything, you can usually still make an Old-Fashioned.  Trust me on that.

Add a little icewater to a rocks glass.  Add a little sugar to it and swirl until it's dissolved.  Add 2 ounces of whiskey and 2-3 dashes of bitters.  Add ice.  Add a couple cherries -- either fresh tart cherries or alcohol-preserved cherries.

The Whiskey Sour

Still one of the best drinks around.

about an ounce of fresh lemon juice

a little sugar dissolved in the juice, to taste (I never measure this, you can figure it out)

2 oz whiskey

Shake with ice and serve on the rocks.

The Last Word variant

Normally this drink is made with gin, but you can sub in just about any other base liquor and you've got something nice.  It's a great example of an "equal parts" cocktail that manages a really fine balance.  It's also the reason I'm almost out of Chartreuse.

Maraschino liqueur, in many ways the central figure of the cocktail revival, may need an explanation.  Don't confuse it with maraschino cherries -- they're related, but don't taste anything alike (and maraschino is "mar a SKEE no").  Maraschino liqueur is made with Marasca cherries, the crushed pits of which contribute a funky almond-like flavor (almonds, like cherries, are members of the prunus genus).  Maraschino cherries, on the other hand, are in most cases made with sweet cherries that have lost most of their flavor and been partially candied in a dyed and artificially almond-flavored syrup.

Old Gristmill is especially good in a Last Word.  The Bernheim wheat whiskey becomes a little lost to the Chartreuse.

1/2 oz whiskey

1/2 oz fresh-squeezed lime juice

1/2 oz green Chartreuse

1/2 oz maraschino liqueur

Shake with ice, strain.