Good luck pickles

I spent a sizeable portion of my childhood in the house my great-grandfather built, where my Nan lived through the Depression, where my father grew up on sardine sandwiches. When my sister and I were young we'd sit by the window in the entryway and watch as the cargo ships moved like slugs across the river. I haven't stepped foot in that house in years, but I remember the noise the wooden floorboards made against every step, the roar of the furnace, the sound of the off-key grand piano.

It's the place where I learned to paint with watercolours, ran amok through the cornfields with a few stray cats and picked wild apples, inspecting each one for worms. I grew my imagination on a large collection of old books with dusty hardcovers, listened to classical music and ate bologna sandwiches on white bread with yellow mustard and pickles. I snacked on sun-ripened rhubarb straight from the garden and observed as the Queen Ann's Lace came up annually, covering the estate in white flecks.

My Nan was not a good cook, but there's three things she made well: sausage rolls, which my father and I still mention nostalgically with a twinkle in our eyes; fruit salad; and, in my opinion, a combination of sliced field cucumbers and onions, gently pickled in a water, vinegar and sugar solution.

I can't say I was wild for onions, but those cucumbers were delicious. Perfectly crisp and tangy, they satisfied my deep-seated obsession for all things acidic. Perhaps you grew up on moist blueberry pancakes or peanut butter and jelly, but for me, among other notable things, it was pickles and fermented foods. A plate of olives at Christmastime. Someone's homemade pickled purple beets. Sweet pickled cucumbers, pickled cauliflower, pickled pearl onions. Tangy sauerkraut piled atop the crisp casings of a smoked bratwurst.

My adventures in pickling came about by accident, though in retrospect it hardly seems that way. While living in Tallahassee, my partner at the time and I would make the trek to Plant City every so often and stop at a stand with the best, most ridiculously inexpensive produce. I remember the ten pound bags of oranges and grapefruit, still green, and eating the first strawberries of the season one late February day, juice running down my face. And I remember the cucumbers -- field, English, mini -- abundant and cheap.

At first I pickled them as my Nan had done, sans sugar and onions, and snacked on them in the afternoons as I read novels, wrote articles, scanned through volumes about wine, and waited for work. I decided that if I was going to live south of the Mason-Dixon, I'd learn how to cook up a pot of cheesy grits, gorge on peel and eat shrimp slathered in melted butter, beach-comb for the prettiest shells while dodging the jelly fish, make sun tea, and figure out how to pickle cucumbers.

I first made this recipe a couple of years ago for Canadian Thanksgiving while I was living in the south. I put out a dish on a whim -- I liked them well enough, and having no other pickles, decided they'd work. Suffice to say, the dish vanished almost as if by magic. What I love is that I made them, and then a boyfriend of a good friend of mine made them, experimenting with hot peppers. I brought a jar to a dinner party I attended on New Year's Eve, where the host asked for the recipe.

 

I don't know that food is the great equalizer as they say -- I think it illustrates economic divide awfully powerfully, to be honest. But I do believe in the power of a recipe to connect us, in the practices that have the ability to unite us. In that recipe there's the girl who ran through cornfields at eight years old, who boarded a plane for another country, who moved to a city hoping for change. My recommendation for 2012: go with the gusto. Move to the rhythm of your own life, especially when it scares you. Keep your heart open: no one can enter a locked door. Don't try to own or control people; not much that's alive thrives in captivity. Be good to people, especially to those who are good to you. Make time for dinner, wine and conversation with loved ones. Try the recipes you've been handed. Visit your Nan. Laugh until your face hurts.

Happy New Year, dear readers.

Refrigerator Dills
Yields approximately 2 quarts, or 4 pint-jars

Headnote: I use a vinegar and water ratio of 1:1. This yields a pretty sour pickle. If you'd prefer less sour pickles, use 2 cups of vinegar and 4 cups of water here. Also, don't skip the steps leading up to the actual pickling; it's important you treat the cucumbers before you begin in order to end up with the best product.

You can serve these the day you make them, though I like them best after about 2-3 days in the refrigerator.

1.5lbs mini cucumbers

3 cups distilled white vinegar (5%)

3 cups water

4 cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed with the back of a knife

4 tsp brown mustard seeds

2 tbsp dried dill

2 tsp kosher salt, or to taste, plus more for treating the cucumbers

Equipment:
1 medium-sized pot
Glass jars/containers with lids (I use mason jars)

1. Soak your cucumbers, whole, in an ice bath for at least three hours to overnight. This helps crisp them up, especially if you're using older cucumbers from the supermarket.
2. Drain and dry the cukes and cover generously with a thick layer of kosher salt. This will help draw out any additional moisture.
3. Shake the salt off the cucumbers and slice, lengthwise, into fours.
4. Prepare your brine by adding the vinegar, water, mustard seeds, dill, and salt to the pot and bringing it to a boil. Once it begins to boil, lower the heat and simmer for another 2-3 minutes, allowing the flavours to meld together.
5. Rinse the jars in warm water to prevent cracking.
6. Pack the jars with the cucumber spears, adding about two cloves of smashed garlic per quart jar.
7. Carefully pour the hot brine over the cucumbers. I like to do this over the sink for obvious reasons.
8. Allow the brine to cool, cap, and refrigerate for at least six hours before consuming. Consume within 30 days (if they make it that long!)

Recollecting on a Thursday

It's Thursday. Somewhere in Northern Florida, a group of girls is getting together to catch up over wine or cocktails. Maybe someone will host a potluck. I know it, because Thursday is girl's night.

If not this week, then next week. I don't know what I expected when I boarded that plane for Florida. I know I was mentally exhausted, so I doubt I was thinking much of anything. I remember being excited for the months ahead. I also remember being petrified for the months ahead. I wish I could go back in time and tell that girl, Hey, relax. It's all going to be fine. I didn't expect what would happen next -- Kudzu vines that threatened to eat the South, hoards of Spanish moss, that rainy day at St. George when the wind whipped at my ears and I found a fully intact conch shell, my feet covered in wet sand. I didn't expect so many tall trees, or a winter that felt like fall, or a coffee shop that serves up the best chai lattés around. I didn't expect to learn the way to the the local food co-op like the back of my hand, or that I'd come to regard the hard cider sold there as the best cider that has ever crossed my lips. We carved pumpkins for Halloween at Nat and Rory's, and drank Vampire wine and candy corn cocktails. We might've played video games into the wee hours of the morning. If you're desperately searching for the sugar high of your life, those cocktails fit the bill remarkably well. 

And I made a handful of friends worth cherishing. That's the most unexpected part of it. 

I remember the first house party I went to because it was the first weekend I spent in Tallahassee. I drank someone else's Maker's Mark straight up and spent a long time talking about writing and teaching and trying to get everyone's names straight. So this is America, I thought -- stories of husbands hiking in cowboy boots in Greece, a big pot of chili simmering on the stove to which someone had added spaghetti noodles, because that's how they make it in Ohio. A bottle of bourbon with a waxy red top and everyone involved in everyone's business. Accents of all kinds, sweet tea, entire grocery aisles devoted to barbequeu sauce, and gorgeous weather. When you step south of the Mason-Dixon line, prepare yourself for some serious hospitality.

I developed my own routines. I listened to motown and country on the radio. I shopped at Winn-Dixie and Target. I visited the turtles at Lake Ella and checked out all of the farmer's markets. I even invited Kim and Matt over for Canadian Thanksgiving, and I threw together a turkey dinner on the fly complete with homemade refrigerator pickles and local sweet corn. I made Julia Child's turkey and garlic-dill mashed potatoes. There was cranberry sauce and clumpy gravy (not exactly my strong suit), and salad tossed with a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. We ate cheese, baked fruit and homemade, three-ingredient peanut butter cookies for dessert, and saw The Invention of Lying. It was okay, as far as movies go, but made better by the cheap margaritas we drank afterward at Cabos. I will always remember that Thanksgiving -- my first (and only) away from Canada and the first (and only) I've ever cooked.

There was also girl's night. Every Thursday, a group of women would get together for dinner and drinks. I miss those Thursdays, and wish I could start something of that nature in Toronto -- low-key, a cluster of friends sitting around at a bar or at someone's apartment, shooting the breeze and relaxing together (preferably with appropriate libations, naturally.)

That's how I met Leigh. On the first girl's night I attended, Leigh made a pot of her mom's Beer-Cheese Soup and kindly accommodated my dietary restrictions. On one of my last days in Tallahassee, we got together for an amazing lunch and shared this blueberry-ginger cheesecake. I still remember that cheesecake because it must be the best I've ever eaten. And on one occasion in particular -- when a ribfest was being held -- she brought a lemon artichoke pesto that everyone raved about. I couldn't have any, but I bookmarked the recipe for future use. Leigh is a woman of discerning taste, after all.

I finally made the pesto, and I have three words for you: artichoke, artichoke, artichoke! I dare you to say it three times fast. It's the culinary equivalent of Beetlejuice, no? No dead artichokes will rise from the graveyard, fortunately, but there's enough garlic in this recipe to ward off the vampires. It is pretty fantastic. While I find basil pesto fairly versatile, I'll venture to say this one is even more so, at least to my mind. It's great on pasta, of course. It would be fantastic slathered on chicken breasts, or tossed with shrimp. It would be wonderful on toasted bread or with corn chips. It makes a lovely spread on sandwiches or on pizza, and I think it would be delicious mixed with quinoa or roasted broccoli. The recipe doesn't require much tinkering, and freezes well -- the easiest way is to fill ice cube trays and pop the pesto out once it's frozen. I then toss the cubes into a freezer bag, and take out as necessary -- it'll give you a little taste of the unexpected. And better yet: try it with friends, huddled over a coffee table, with a bottle of wine in front of you. Maybe even on a Thursday.

As can be expected, the quality of ingredients will effect the quality of the final product. I'd recommend using your favourite olive oil and real parmesan cheese here. In regards to the artichokes, I used a generic canned variety and washed them well of their brine -- they worked just fine for my purposes. 

Lemon Artichoke Pesto
Adapted from Allrecipes.com

1/4 cup (packed) fresh cilantro, finely chopped
6 garlic cloves, minced
3 tbsp fresh lemon juice
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1 cup walnuts, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup grapeseed oil (or other vegetable oil)
1/2 cup (or more) good-quality olive oil
8oz artichoke hearts, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano, grated
Salt and black pepper, to taste

Toast the walnuts gently in a dry skillet or in the oven, about five minutes, until fragrant.

In a food processor, combine the first eight ingredients (including the toasted walnuts) and pulse until mixture forms a very thick paste. With the motor running, drizzle in the grapeseed oil, followed by the olive oil, until desired texture forms. If you intend to freeze, you can also do as I did; I used only half of the oil called for and I drizzle in a little more when I go to use the pesto. I also tend to salt liberally in order to preserve the flavour. Refrigerate immediately, or freeze in an ice cube tray for future use.

"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know." 

- Ralph Waldo Emerson