Part One of the Sausage Files: This Ain’t No Camp Northstar Weenie!

There’s a scene in the movie Meatballs where Larry “Fink” Finkelstein faces off against “The Stomach” from Camp Mohawk in a hotdog eating contest, with a pile of boiled hotdogs between them. Just before the contest begins, Bill Murray’s character, “Trip”, gives the chubby Fink a peptalk:

“That's right, Fink. Look at those steaming weenies. And you know what they're saying, Larry? They're saying, ‘This is the year that Fink beats The Stomach.’”

As the contest begins, the fans on the sidelines yell,
“Come on, Fink!”
“This is weenie war! Eat!”
“Stretch that stomach, Fink!”

Fink would go berserk in a Luxembourg deli section. It is an altar to the glory of the pig. There are cured sausages like salamis, cooked sausages that just need heating up (like hotdogs), and raw sausages. And that is to say nothing of all the other fascinating cured meat products.

I have always liked hotdogs, though their quality varies widely in the U.S. With a hotdog, you don’t worry about Upton Sinclair and The Jungle, with its tales of sawdust and fingers going into the grinders. That’s (pretty much) in the past, despite cringeworthy reporting from Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation. You just need to grin, bite and enjoy.

One problem I have with American hotdogs is the “hotdog water” flavor. You know when you boil a hotdog, there is a strangely chemical scent to the water? What is that, nitrates? Something else? Though that is part of the hotdog, it is a part I don’t like.

Here in Luxembourg, there are several sausages that fit the description of “hotdog,” though they taste markedly different. Two of these I tried recently are the wiener wurstchen and the edamerwurst. Either of these could easily be the best tasting hotdog in America. I am blessed that on any given night, either one (or both!) could be draped across my plate, vying for my attention and flirting with my affection. Both taste natural, without any artificial hotdoggyness.

Wiener wurstchen is the most hotdoggy of the two. It has a creamy smooth texture and a delicious fatty texture. I haven’t tried boiling it, because hotdogs need grilling. In Luxembourg all the sausages are grilled; boiling a sausage is an offense akin to waterboarding. I'm sure it happens somewhere, but nobody wants to know about the details.

Edamerwurst is manna in a casing. Lightly grilled, it is heavenly and like manna, won’t stay around for long. It is the most luxurious sausage I have ever eaten. The inside is bursting with little pockets of indescribably rich flavor. The secret? Tiny pockets of Dutch edam cheese spread throughout the sausage. Once heated, they melt into a beautifully creamy and juicy texture, like that of a triple cream French cheese such as Explorateur. Like any good sausage, I want to eat more of them than I possibly can.  

These two sausages can be eaten plain with no regrets. A touch of stone ground mustard makes them come alive, however. The Luxembourgers slip them into a toasted baguette roll, crispy on the outside and soft inside. The spices that make each what they are are still a mystery to me. I will update this if I ever discover a viable recipe.

If you visit us in Luxembourg, we can sit on the balcony with our “wursts” and a local beer. With our feet propped up on the railing and the sun setting, we could reminisce about the American hotdog and other staples of the American diet. We might even sing the Meatballs camp counselors song:

“We are the CITs
So pity us
The kids are brats
The food is hideous
We're gonna smoke and drink
And fool around
‘Cause we’re Northstar CITs.”

But not for long. The sausages might get cold.

Hot Potato Fritters On A Cold, Cold Night

The last Saturday in November the Chastain family strolled into Luxembourg City’s old town center for the Christmas Fair. The night was clear and very cold, which seemed to accentuate the clarity of the Christmas lights strewn everywhere. Along with handmade decorations, Christmas gear of all kinds, and a live children’s brass band, were food booths. Asian noodles, mulled wines, grilled sausages, fresh oysters that seem to do very well in the below freezing air, and a tent with three dozen wineries pouring cremant samples. The longest lines, however, were for gromperekichelcher (aka Luxembourgish potato fritters). 

I wondered what the big deal was, since I had seen the same long lines during Schueberfouer (Sheep’s Fair), but hadn’t wanted to stand in them. This is a fair that has taken place every fall since 1340, when John the Blind, Count of Luxembourg and King of Bohemia, started it with the goal of establishing Luxembourg as an international trading center. 668 years later, it seems to have worked. 

So I finally stepped up to the (paper) plate and gave it a try. Boy howdy! Or as they say in Letzebuergish, “Yowzah!”. (Just kidding). The fritter was crispy like a hash brown on the outside, with an exterior of golden brown shredded potato. Inside, it was creamy and tender in texture, with delectable potato flavor. But there was also something else going on. Leeks? Parsley? Nobody was talking. 

Fortunately, I found a couple of Luxembourgish cookbooks, one of which had a recipe for gromperekichelcher. Culinary Luxembourg is a wonderful resource for those interested in exploring traditional Luxembourg cookery. Written by Georges Hausemer and Guy Hoffman, and published by Editions Guy Binsfield, it is full of beautiful photography, background about the people and country of Luxembourg, and most importantly, delicious recipes. It’s a worthwhile investment, and can be purchased at www.editionsguybinsfeld.lu.  

Gromperekichelcher

1 kg yellow or red potatoes

3 onions

2 shallots

Parsley (to taste)

4 to 6 eggs

2 tablespoons flour

Salt

Pepper

Oil for frying

Wash, peel and coarsely grate the potatoes. Put into a cloth and press out the liquid. Add to a mixing bowl. Chop the parsley, shallots and onions, and add to the potatoes. Add the beaten eggs. Salt and pepper to taste. Form into flat patties about 1/2 inch thick, and dust them with flour. Heat the oil in a pan until very hot. Fry the patties until golden brown on both sides. Serve hot.  

Please Come To Dubai

“Please come to Boston for the springtime
I'm stayin' here with some friends and they've got lots of room
You can sell your paintings on the sidewalk
By a café where I hope to be workin' soon
Please come to Boston
She said no, would you come home to me”.

The seventies had a lot of cool songs, apart from the dreck that makes up the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, which is how too many remember the decade. I wouldn’t say that Dave Loggins was a one-hit wonder, since he did have a greatest hits album, but if you were to try to name one of his songs, “Please Come To Boston” from 1974 would be it. His cousin Kenny certainly hit the big time more than Dave. But as we sit in our Luxembourg living room watching CNN--the only English language TV station we get!--it is Dave who comes to mind.

“Why, on earth,” you might ask, “does Dave Loggins come to mind as you watch mediocre TV?” Because of the plaintive commercials that plead with us to go somewhere else.

Far and away the most numerous commercials on CNN are pleas to visit other countries. The tend to come in three categories. The first is what I call the Boston Vacation. There are a lot of these, and they typically show smiling beautiful people snorkeling, mountain biking, petting rugs in carpet bazaars, laughing in quaint cafes. They are usually surrounded by beautiful mountains, lakes or seas. The city scenes are bustling and exciting and never dirty. Here are some countries with their alluring slogans.

Ukraine. Beautifully yours.
Love Cyprus. The Year Round Island.
Poland. The Place to Be.
Armenia. Noah’s route. Your route.
Montenegro. Experience wild beauty.
Azerbaijan. European charm of the orient.
Incredible India.
Malaysia. Truly Asia.
Uzbekistan. Young Uzbekistan opens its doors to the world. 


And last, not least, and certainly not known for its subtlety--China. One commercial demands that we “Discover the mystery of China.” But my favorite slogan plugs Guilin, China: “Let’s go to Guilin now!”

The second grouping means Business. It is almost a holy mantra that there is no more important thing one can do than to visit their country for meetings, to make sales, and most important of all: to buy things. These countries center around the Persian Gulf, not so oddly. Because that is where the money is. Two of the most prominent are: 

Qatar. At the heart of business.
Business Friendly Bahrain.

The third group wants you to actually move to Boston, or in this case, Dubai. The Al Zorah housing development sponsors the single most common commercial. The city fathers are burning a lot of Euros trying to get English-speaking professionals to move to a desert city with a fringe of lush man made greenery. As a distinguished looking gentleman who could pass for Omar Sharif talks to the camera, shown behind him are numerous amenities, such as luxurious shopping malls, a utopian city skyline, golf courses, waterfront houses, wildlife preserves. Barely visible in the distance is the vast Arabian desert. Al Zorah has taken Dave Loggins message to heart more than any place else. Perhaps they are looking for the professional expat drifters of the world who have the deep pockets to add to Dubai’s bottomless pockets.

By the way, the chorus of the song goes:


“And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Boston ain't your kind of town
There ain't no gold and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee.”

Ironically, there’s a TON of gold in Dubai. Whether or not Dubai has anyone like the homegrown American girl in the song is questionable. If so, they probably work as cocktail waitresses in the Burj Al Arab, the sail-shaped hotel that is the world’s tallest.

But maybe America gets the last word. The most interesting commercial to me stars Jeff Daniels extolling the business opportunities, the natural beauty, and the charms of living in Michigan. Yes, that Michigan. According to Daniels, Michigan is “The Upper Hand.” Is that because it’s advantageous in financial way, or because it’s shaped like a mitten? Apparently, Dubai ain’t your kind of town, but Detroit is. Who could have guessed?

We're Not In Twizzlerland Any More, Toto!

I'm sure many of you have slugged it out, hopefully only verbally, in the faux-licorice wars: Twizzlers versus Red Vines in sticky battles.  

"Twizzlers have that elegant twist and are slightly more chewy, more...grown up, you know." 

"Yeah, but Red Vines taste better. They have a more natural strawberry flavor." 

And so the argument would go, back and forth, until both brands were gone with nothing left but red teeth and sticky fingers. I have a confession to make: I was never a fan of either, because I always loved black licorice. Black teeth, black tongue, strange breath--it didn't matter because the original licorice was weird and wonderful. 

Luxembourg's original name was "Lucilinburhuc", which means "little fortress." It might as well mean Licorice Land. Or Licorice Heaven. I'm not sure to which of the nine spheres of heaven Dante would assign licorice lovers, though I'm sure I deserve to be there somewhere. The licorice itself is of widely differing flavor and quality, I was surprised to learn. One thing I am not able to figure out yet is which products are from the licorice plant, and which are from the anise plant. 

Some licorice is absolutely delightful, some is odd and interesting, and some is absolutely shudder-inducing to my tastebuds. This is, of course, a completely biased and subjective analysis. There are plenty that are just okay, that fall through the cracks and aren't listed here. Let's begin with the delightful, shall we? 

Yummy Anti-Twizzlers

Kookaburra

It's not local, being from Australia, though it holds up nicely to the many European brands. Soft and almost juicy, with a balanced licorice flavor and very pleasant. The little inch-long twists are handy to nibble as well. 

Schwarze Eulen

The "black owl" of the family, this German owl-shaped licorice is also very pleasant in flavor and soft-textured. Our son Trevor holds these as his favorite. (An example of positive child rearing in action: Trevor has never had red licorice).  

Odd and Interesting

Salty Herring

That is what it translates to in Dutch, anyway. The licorice flavor is very pronounced. Sharp, almost like anise extract, and less sweet than most licorice. It is soft textured, coated with grains of sugar and salt on the surface. It's also supposedly shaped like a herring. Since most of the herring I have encountered was reposing in sour cream, I'll take their word for it. 

Boogie Nights

That's right. "Boogie Nights" licorice, made in Holland by Red Band. For those of you who saw the movie, the candy pieces are NOT shaped as you might imagine. There is nothing tumescent about them. I picked up the bag in Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport because I had a licorice hankering on a layover and because the name got me giggling in the airport candy store, to the consternation of those around me. As would "Showgirls" gumdrops or Gummy Strippers.  The flavor starts out a little lemony, a little salty, then gets floral like violet. Finally there is a sweet and salty licorice sharpness, with a molasses aftertaste. Interesting, but that's not the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it, uh huh uh huh. 

Gonna Make You Hurl

Ricard Pastis

Baffling to me, over 130 million liters of Ricard Pastis are sold every year in France. In Luxembourg supermarkets, it is common to see people wheeling out magnums of the foul stuff. Pastis is an aperitif made in Marseille, that is essentially absinthe with the wormwood removed. The primary flavor is anise or star anise, with numerous other flavors added. It is herbal and vegetal and, to me, altogether unpleasant. France banned absinthe in 1915, and Ricard reformulated it without the wormwood. Pastis was the result. Having nibbled once on a tiny piece of raw wormwood, I can assure you that it's absence is probably a good thing. "Vermouth" originally contained wormwood, and it's name actually derived from the German "wermut", or wormwood. Although I like ouzo, anisette and Sambuca (and most licorice products), I couldn't finish Pastis. 

There you have it--a brief introduction to some of the products of Licorice Land. There is plenty more out there; this is but a sampling. 

Apple Carts Need Some Upsetting

Having lived in Washington for the last dozen years before moving to Luxembourg, one would think I would be jaded about the "pomme". Not so. Though perhaps a little bored. Non-Washingtonians might imagine that we are awash in a cascade of fresh, tree-ripened, locally grown and superior tasting apples. That's also not so. My erstwhile Seattle supermarkets have the same apple lineup as most of the U.S.: juicy yet flavor-challenged Fujis, mushy or cardboardy Red Delicious, dry and tart Granny Smith, mushy and bland Rome Beauties, and a few more that can be found pretty much anywhere. 

The root of the problem is that the Washington crop is expected to last for an entire year, until next year's harvest comes in. The result is that apples are picked slightly green so they can be manhandled and refrigerated in nitrogen flooded warehouses. Granted, Washington farmers markets have better alternatives than these, though the pickings can be slim. 

What brings this to mind is my visit recently to the Apple Festival in Steinsel, a community just a few minutes north of Luxembourg City. Although  we got there mid-morning, there was almost nobody there, and the morning fog hadn't burned off yet. The trees were skinny little things, saplings really, layed out in efficient orchard rows. They were so laden with fruit that the branches shouldn't have been able to hold all that weight.

Given the option of picking our own, or just going into the sales tent and digging through the bins for what we wanted that was already picked, we chose the latter because the "U-pick" option hadn't started yet, we had two small children whose energy levels rise and fall like that of energetic hummingbirds, and mostly because the already picked apples looked really good. It was hard to choose among the varieties, so we got a handful of each. 

In the photo at right, clockwise from the top left: Braeburn, Spion, Cox, Golden and Boskoop. The Golden was huge and yellow-green, and tasted like a cross between a Golden Delicious and a Pippin. The Boskoop was a russet apple that balanced sweetness and tartness beautifully, with bursting juiciness. It was distinctly perfumey and featured a slight tropical fruit flavor akin to a green mango. The Spion was red and green, also very crisp and juicy. The Cox was a small red russet apple with pleasing tartness. The Braeburn, one of the flavor stars in Washington supermarkets, was crunchy and tart but not very juicy. It was very solid with an astringent finish and a grainy texture.

The majority of the apples picked had a date with the cider press. We bought a couple bottles of apple juice that had been pressed that morning. It was light brown, very slightly cloudy, and tasted absolutely alive. Nothing Treetop about these apples. They also offered bottles of lightly pasteurized juice. These tasted similar, though slightly less raw and alive.

To add to the shopping festivities, also available were bottles of homemade distilled brandy, or eau de vie, made from apples and pears. We had to buy a bottle of each. 

It is hard to determine what the best use of an apple is. Is it baked apples in a pastry? Apple butter or chunky apple sauce? Served crisp on a platter with some creamy gouda? Or is it applejack? I sampled a couple drams of apple brandy. It was grappa-esque, though with a softer and more pleasant bite. Letting it sit in a barrel for a few years would add to its resonance and elegance. 

Bringing the booty home (this being piratical booty, not something to be shaken or called), the first thing I did was to make an apple crisp using five apples, each variety making one layer. A little cinnamon and sugar, some crumble on top, and time in the oven--it was a delicious and warming treat for a chilly afternoon. Especially when accompanied by a pot of English Breakfast.    

Keeping Malaria and Scurvy At Bay

To make this posting (and the rest of Baklava Java) meaningful, one needs to know that the Chastain family moved from Seattle to Luxembourg in August 2008. We will be here for two years, for Cammy's work assignment.

When we got here, it was hot for Luxembourg, which is to say it was similar to a Seattle summer. Around 80 degrees Fahrenheit and kind of muggy. Having spent summers in the primordial swamp that is southeastern Ohio, and having played softball at high noon in 100+ Texas August heat, a Luxembourg summer isn't that bad in comparison. However, we were looking for thirst quenching refreshment almost constantly. We tried the usual suspects: Coke, Cherry Coke, Pepsi. They all tasted different than we were used to, and somewhat...diminished. They seemed to be less fizzy, less sweet, possibly with less caffeine or phosphoric acid. Something.

Then we discovered the Schweppes Holy Trinity: Bitter Lemon, Indian Tonic and Agram'. Not wanting to risk blasphemy, I'm not going to line them up against the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, but they were life changing.

Bitter Lemon was the early favorite. Americans hate bitter, so a drink with "bitter" in the title would never sell in the U.S. However, it is crisp, balanced and delightful in a grown up way. It has a natural lemony flavor, so unlike the candy artifice of 7Up and Sprite. One can almost taste the zest and lemon oil. It finishes with just a touch of quinine.

Indian Tonic (what Americans know as Tonic Water) is the perfect mixer to go with a good gin. As the originators of Tonic Water in 1870s India, Schweppes knows their way around a malaria fighting cocktail. Although I enjoy martinis, a finely crafted gin and tonic is the perfect cocktail, in my unhumble opinion. Mix the Indian Tonic, a squeeze of lime and a decent gin and you get a cocktail that grabs you by ears and gives your head a shake. Something about the combination of bitter quinine, tart lime and the juniper aromatics in an icy swirl of sweet carbonation produces something more more refreshing than anything else I know.

Back in my college days at Colorado, going to Folsom Stadium to watch the Buffs play was the prime way to spent an autumn Saturday afternoon. To get great seats, my circle of friends and I would traditionally camp out in front of the ticket office at the beginning of every season. Another widespread tradition was the smuggling in of gin and tonics. The correct way to do it was to start with a plastic gallon jug of supermarket spring water. After dumping out the water, shove a couple handfuls of ice cubes into the narrow mouth of the jug. Add most of a bottle of gin, a couple sliced up limes and Schweppes tonic water. All that remained was to devise a creative way to get the cocktail jug into the game (and there were many).

Finally, Agram' is a lovely grapefruit soda. It is a little like Squirt though less sweet and with more zest. It is delicate and fragrant and more approachable, since it lacks the quinine of the other two.

I know how good each of these tasted. What I didn't know was how well they worked: we haven't come down with either malaria or scurvy. I am still a little concerned about beri beri. I am following a rumored preventative I found on the Internet: single malt Scotch, especially from distilleries around the Spey River. I'll keep everyone posted on how it works....

Baklava Meets Java, Part 2

The Java part of this blog pays homage to one of my favorite beverages, to which I have been cheerfully addicted since I was eight years old, the age at which I started stealing sips of my mother's coffee. Coffee has been the guiding force in my life's journey to becoming a sane, functioning member of society in the style of Jeffrey Lebowski the Smaller (who once remarked so memorably upon being shoved into a car, "Hey, careful, man, there's a beverage here!") What White Russians made him, coffee has made me. It has also been the secret behind my burgeoning intelligence, as one can deduce just from looking at the photo to the right. Were I to stop partaking of the morning cup, I would probably end up as Charlie did in "Flowers For Algernon."

Although my love of coffee was self driven, my knowledge of coffee I owe to the years I spent slurping and spitting for Starbucks in Seattle. I enjoyed them very much, partially because I was paid to start every work day tasting numerous coffees--some good, many bad, a few absolutely fantastic. I was also blessed to work with some talented, passionate and extraordinarily funny people. The tasting skills I learned there carried over into the rest of my life. I couldn't just eat a fish taco from a roach coach any more--I had to analyze the salsa and the masa (to the ongoing annoyance of my wife, who just wants me to enjoy the meal and be quiet about it).

There has been a lot of rhapsodizing about coffee, much of it of dubious value. It can be identified by its purple prose and in the way it flings weighty descriptors such as "redolent", "luminous" and "supple" around with abandon. I promise never to stoop so low in this blog. The poems have been particularly egregious. Agatha Christie penned a decent murder mystery drama about poisoned coffee. J.S. Bach wrote his cringe worthy Coffee Cantata in the 1730s, though who knows if it has been performed since. Worst of all, a century's worth of coffee advertising has heaped an enormous amount of effusive praise on crappy brown water whose origins hailed from a can.

There is something both foolproof and fragile about coffee. It is foolproof in that hot water and coffee grounds will devolve into a hot brown liquid that can wash down any parched dessert. The fragile part is in making coffee that is as delicate and delicious as the dessert it is paired with. (In this case, baklava). There are two schools of thought: brew a straightforward dark roast to contrast with the sweet baklava, or brew something with flavors similar to the baklava. The former is fail safe; the latter could either succeed beautifully or clash disappointingly.

I ascribe to the "black tie" philosophy of dessert coffee. Just as an elegant black tuxedo complements a colorful ballroom gown, a crisp roasty cup of coffee showcases a beautiful dessert better than a fussy, foppish brew. Baklava is the fragrant beauty in her ball gown. The coffee is her beau, there to guide her around the dance floor, temper her sweetness and highlight her deliciousness. In other words, baklava is the work of art; coffee is the picture frame. Okay. Enough rhapsodizing. Now for some practical brewing stuff.

To start with the simple, coarsely grind one measuring cup of coffee beans, preferably a dark roast like Italian or French roast. Put in the carafe of a clean "12-cup" coffee press. Bring fresh cold water to a boil. Let it sit for a ten-count to let the temperature drop from boiling to a little below. Pour 50 fluid ounces over the grounds to fill the carafe. Let it extract for about four minutes, then place the plunger on top and press it down. There you have it: easy, perfect coffee.

Espresso is more complicated. Without getting into the complexities of choosing an espresso blend, grinding, tamping, adjusting water temperature and pressure, which are covered in exquisite detail by other blogs and websites (such as http://www.coffeegeek.com/), brew a doppio shot of high quality espresso and serve immediately with the baklava. Once could add a little frothy steamed milk to make a macchiato without incurring the wrath of any beverage gods. Lastly, wrap your hands around your favorite mug. Inhale the supple aroma, redolent with campfire smoke, and allow the luminous flavors of caramel and treacle wash over your tongue.... Crap. Nevermind....

Baklava Meets Java, Part 1

This blog is titled "Baklava Java" for one great reason (and possibly a handful of lesser ones). It is named after my most perfect dessert experience. It wasn't just one single experience; there have been nearly countless times I have enjoyed that lovely Middle Eastern couple. The beautiful Baklava, with her exotic perfume of rose, lemon and pistachio. The strong, dark and bold Java, with his crisp cologne of charcoal, lemon and honeysuckle. When they joined us for dinner, all eyes watched them, coveted them. They were dessert royalty.

I first met them in the early 1980s, in Pasadena, California. On Lake Avenue, near the intersection of California Boulevard, hides a small restaurant called "Burger Continental". It's a crappy name for a memorable place with wonderful food. Sort of like the old nickname truckers would give a truck stop: the choke 'n puke. Behind the restaurant was a garden area open to the stars, with lights wound through the tree branches, and tables and chairs set up. On a shirtsleeve Pasadena evening there wasn't a better place to linger over a glass of wine. They had a dinner there called the Armenian Feast, which featured a first course of Armenian salads and breads. Taboulis, olive salads, dolmas, pickled cucumbers and more covered the table.

Many were the neophytes and foolhardy who thought this was the Armenian Feast. They looked uneasy when the table was cleared. they looked dismayed when the main course arrived: various grilled meats (lamb, chicken, beef) layered over the top of a mound of rice pilaf, all covered by warm pita bread soaking up the delectable meat juice. Dismay would turn to chagrin. Then chagrin to just grins. By the time all this was eaten, most diners would just look for a soft place -- perhaps a pile of uneaten pitas -- to lay their head and nap. But this was where things got interesting for me. Because I had a secret weapon: a dessert stomach.

Not everybody is blessed with one. Oh, most people have a rudimentary one that kicks in once a year, somewhere between the sage dressing and the pumpkin pie. It lies dormant, much like their subconscious. For me, no matter how full I am, there is always room for dessert. Especially if dessert is baklava. (Or pie, but that is another posting. Stay tuned....)

The Burger Continental's default dessert was a white sheet cake. You had to actually request the baklava. After nibbling on crisp baklava and sipping strong black coffee under the stars just once, you never went back to the sheet cake. Back then all this came to about $12 a person. Now it's just under $20. But it's been a quarter century; they're entitled.

Years passed, not all of them in Pasadena. Regretful of not having authentic baklava at hand, and resistant to paying $2 or more for a tiny diamond of often not very good pastry, I started making my own. Thanks to a childhood friend, Beth, and her foolproof recipe, I never had a bad batch. I don't know the recipe's provenance, but she named it "Baklava That Will Make You Cry". And it does.


Baklava That Will Make You Cry
The Sauce
3 Cups sugar
1 ½ Cups water
2 Tablespoons lemon juice
2 to 3 teaspoons rose water

Combine all ingredients in a large, heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat. Once mixture boils and sugar is dissolved, do not stir or syrup may cloud or crystallize. Cook, uncovered, over medium-low heat to 212-218 degrees F. (100-102 C.). At this temperature, syrup dropped from a cold metal spoon will fall in a sheet. Remove from heat. Add two or more teaspoons rose water (optional, but that's what makes the baklava good). Cool. While it is cooling, work on the Dry Ingredients.

The Dry Ingredients
3 Cups finely chopped walnuts
1 Cup finely chopped pistachios
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground allspice
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground clove
¼ teaspoon ground cardamom
¼ Cups sugar
40 filo sheets (about 2 lbs.), refrigerated
2 Cups unsalted butter, clarified

Lightly butter a 13 X 9 baking pan. Set aside. In a medium bowl, combine nuts, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, clove, cardamom and sugar. Set aside. Stack filo sheets on a flat surface. Trim to fit pan. Cover with plastic wrap or a damp cloth to prevent drying out.

Clarify butter by heating until melted, either over a low heat or in a microwave. Skim milk fat off the surface and discard. Also discard butter sediment on bottom of container.

The baklava will have five layers of multiple filo dough sheets, between which will be four nut mixture layers. Layer 10 filo sheets in a baking pan, brushing each sheet with clarified butter. Spread one cup nut mixture over layered filo sheets. Top with 7 more filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Spread one cup nut mixture. Layer 6 more filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Spread one cup nut mixture. Layer 7 more filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Top with 10 remaining filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Brush top sheet with remaining clarified butter.

Cutting all the way through pastry, cut into diamond shapes approximately 1-inch wide, without removing from pan. Bake approximately 30 minutes at 350 degrees F. Reduce heat to 200 F. Bake approximately 30 minutes longer or until golden brown. Pour cooled syrup over warm pastry. Let stand several hours before serving, to let liquid mixture soak into pastry. Serve at room temperature.

Next, pastry meets coffee. Romance ensues.

Food and Music Don't Always Mix

Porcupine pie.
Vanilla soup.
The fruity blue cheese.

Neil Diamond was one of my very first rock and roll idols. I sense your snickering. But this was before he started down the soft, spongy cabaret path, before he stopped bringing Barbra Streisand flowers. Certainly before the movie "Saving Silverman", hysterically funny though it may be. Back in the early seventies he used to actually rock, when he could shake that Hot August Night hair and belt out "Shilo" like he meant it.

Which brings me to the first three lines of this blog. Food and music are meant for each other. The common denominator they share is poetry. Music is always an ingredient when I cook (and even when I'm washing dishes). So why do the lyrics from Neil's "Porcupine Pie" trigger my gag reflex? Maybe it's the Chicken Ripple Ice Cream in the final line. I don't intend to explore it deeply. Or at all. I do intend to make Baklava Java interesting and filled with food, drink and music. And I promise never to post recipes for any Neil Diamond dishes.

Why "Baklava Java"? That will be explained in the next posting. In the meantime, put in your earbuds and tuck in you napkin.