Night on Pie Mountain

Sometimes an image explains things faster than words. How can you tell when your fruit pie is ready to come out of the oven? When it looks like this (which happens to be blueberry, baked for my dad's birthday).

The crust is half rye flour and half all-purpose flour, which accounts partly for the darker color. I also use butter or lard every time I can, and they brown better than crusts made with vegetable shortening (which a lot of the bakers I know here in Southeast Ohio use exclusively; I feel it results in a pasty, wan crust, but I will still gladly eat their pies). 

Gather Ye Ramps While Ye May

Like nearly all highly coveted foods, ramps have a crevice of calendar days when they appear in titillating abundance. Their delicate green fronds rise from the leafy detritus of primeval forest floors, signaling spring. And thus the mania begins. Every year, those wise in the ways of ramps take to the woods, seeking their precious, restorative quarry.

ramps on slope.JPG

A ramp is as slender as the most refined pinkie. It shyly pokes its head from the ground from late March to April. They grow in fertile, shady woodlands all over the eastern United States and southeast Canada, though I think of them as particularly Appalachian. It’s possible to cultivate ramps, but they are finicky. The majority of the ramps harvested every year are foraged. These alluring wild mountain leeks have grown for centuries, so if you are rolling your eyes and thinking how very 2011 it is to extol the many culinary and spiritual virtues of ramps, you may be dismissed. Only those pure in heart can enter the magical portal to this pungent Brigadoon. It’s been a hell of a winter. Go gather ye ramps while ye may.

That the heartbeats of an entire group of humans—young and old, hillbilly and hipster—can quicken so at the mention of an untamed vegetable that shares a prosaic name with a simple machine perplexes many. My husband, for one. He does not object to ramps; in fact, he will gladly eat them. What he does not get is the mighty ruckus people like me raise over a feral edible plant. The concept of combing the hillsides in search of elusive alliums and then investing dirty hours on hands and knees extricating their slender roots from the chilled spring soil holds little appeal to him. And since the treasure hunt is half of the point, he’s only experiencing a shadow of the ramp when he ingests it.

ramps with brown.JPG

Appalachians pride themselves on their self-reliance. To glorify the ramp is exquisitely Appalachian. To glorify the ramp is to recognize the generally unnoticed wonder that quietly rises up from deep, dark, ancient hollers where living mindlessly is not advisable.

So ramps are not just a food or a fever of spring. They are an emblem and a practice and an edible manifestation of a tribe. You don’t need to live in a shack in the woods to belong to that tribe. All you have to do is get why there’s a tribe in the first place.

And yet the flavor of a ramp offers enough stinky-breath allure to pay off the emotional hype surrounding it. Ramps are scallion-esque, but not oniony. Their emerald fronds are herbal, but not chive-y. There’s some garlicky assertiveness in the white root, but it’s not as sharp. That’s what’s foxy to a chef about a ramp. It’s an aromatic and a cooking green all in one, familiar in concept but and exotic in spirit.

The Appalachian tradition hinges upon having access to heaps and heaps of ramps. Heaps, literally. This amount is known colloquially as “a big mess of ramps,” or even more colloquially as “a messaramps”. A messaramps shrinks dramatically when exposed to heat, and the result is somewhat like very pungent cooked spinach: green, but zingy with that good stink.

These cooked ramps are often served alongside cornbread and beans at church fundraising ramp dinners, where many hands make faster work of the digging, sorting, cleaning, and cooking. A common way to prepare the ramps is to first blanch them; it’s fast, and it’s said to tame these little buggers. I prefer to chop the white root ends into segments about a centimeter long and saute these gently in a big skillet filmed with olive oil. After a few minutes of this, when the roots are good and aromatic (they won’t become translucent as chopped, cooked onions do), roughly chop the greens and throw them in. They will wilt yieldingly. Season this with salt and a few light grinds of pepper; now you can enliven a frittata, risotto, pizza, sandwich, omelet, quiche, home fries, et cetera.

A raw ramp is an entirely different beast from its mellower cooked sibling. Raw ramps emit vapors that intoxicate some and polarize all. If you have only a dozen or so precious ramps to in your hot little hands, I recommend using them as crazy-intense herbs. Make ramp aöli, or mince them and gently knead them into a hamburger patty with a dash or two of Worcestershire sauce (and then serve it with ramp aöli). Or chop up your scant little bundle of ramps, flash it in a little olive oil, and cook eggs sunny-side-up right on the rampy nest.

The only way to go wrong with ramps is to disrespect them. When you find a patch in the woods, don’t go decimating the whole thing like a heathen. Dig up a few ramps here and a few ramps there, allowing the patch to maintain its numbers from season to season. And it’s best to leave some of the root end in the ground, if possible, to facilitate next year’s growth. I sense that the trendiness of ramps in urban markets peaked last year, but there’s still a need to preserve, not deplete, the wild rampshed.

Should you not be privy to the secreted lands where ramps thrive, take heart. Certainly there’s something else equivalent in your life. If not in flavor, in essence. Ramps present themselves to those who choose to be aware of what surrounds them. You can’t enter Brigadoon by looking for it directly, but you can’t enter it without wandering, either.

Mash up a big, rich pot of potato-ey ramp champ to enjoy some rib-sticking spring fodder. 

This post originally appeared on Food Riot, where I am a contributor.

Ramp Champ

Champ is an Irish dish of creamy mashed potatoes and scallions. Colcannon is an Irish dish of mashed potatoes and cabbage or kale. What follows features ramps in the scallion role, with cabbage invited along, too—I like how the sweetness of the cooked cabbage sidles up next to the mellowed-out cooked ramps. We don’t call this Ramp Colcannon because Ramp Champ is obviously the better name (it's also our pub trivia team’s default moniker). A little grating of lemon zest is nice, as is fresh dill, but don’t go too crazy, like I did, or they will overpower the ramps. Yes, correct, overpower the ramps. For a vegan version, use tons of olive oil and either non-dairy milk or a generous splash of reserved potato-cooking water.

You may serve ramp champ as-is, or with a fried egg on top. The night that we dug up these ramps, we griddled fatty, flavorful burgers seasoned with minced raw ramps. I think the only way to outdo that combo is to fry an egg and serve all three together: patty, egg, and ramp champ. 

Makes about six servings

  • 1-1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, scrubbed but not peeled, cut into 2-inch chunks
  • As many ramps as you like or have—about 30 would be ideal—cleaned, roots trimmed
  • One to four tablespoons butter or extra-virgin olive oil, divided
  • ½ medium green cabbage, cut into shreds about a centimeter in diameter
  • 1-2 cups of milk, sour cream, or half-and-half
  • 1-2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme, dill, or parsley, optional
  • ¼ teaspoon finely grated zest, optional
  • Lots of salt and freshly ground black pepper

Put the potatoes in a large pot and cover them with cold water. Add lots of salt, cover, and bring them to a boil over high heat. Immediately uncover the pot and lower the heat to a simmer. When a fork easily pierces a potato chunk, drain the potatoes and mash them up (I like them chunky, with an irregular texture). Put the lid on there to keep them warm.

Meanwhile, cut the white root ends of the ramps into segments about a centimeter long. Roughly chop the leaves of the ramps and set them aside.

Melt a tablespoon of butter in a large skillet over medium heat and add the ramp roots. Cook, stirring occasionally, until they are aromatic and softened, about two to three minutes. Then add the chopped leaves and cook, stirring, until they are wilted. Season the ramps with salt and a little freshly ground black pepper. Scrape them into a bowl, wipe out the skillet if necessary, and return it to the heat. Melt another tablespoon of butter, add the cabbage, and cook until it’s soft and sweet, about ten minutes (it’s okay of the cabbage browns a little).

With a big wooden spoon, stir the cooked ramps and cabbage into the mashed potatoes. Add the remaining butter (if you like, and you should; ramp champ is at its best when it’s good and rich) along with the cooked ramps and cabbage and enough milk or half and half to make it smooth but not loose. Season the heck out of your ramp champ with more salt and black pepper. If you’re feeling edgy, add a little chopped fresh herbs or lemon zest, but don’t overdo it, or you’ll negate the ramps, and the ramps are the point.

When Julia Gives Advice, Take It

We all have our “if only”s.

If only I hadn’t used the word ‘ass’ during that job interview with the editor at the giant publishing house.

If only I remembered to wear a padded bra when I was on that jenky HGTV show so my nipples didn’t stick out on camera.

If only during my culinary school instructor audition I didn’t mention the time I gave myself food poisoning.

Just when you think you’ve put an “if only” to bed, it leaps up to menace you. So you can’t put it back to bed. You have to cut its head off.

Fourteen years ago, Julia Child gave me the best career advice on earth. And I was too concerned about the poison oak above my upper lip to listen.

The poison oak was a big, gross deal. It seeped and crusted and itched and was impossible not to pick at. If only I hadn’t gone off the running trail to pick blackberries. If only I hadn’t stood in a cluster of poison oak as I ate blackberries. If only I hadn’t wiped the sweat off my upper lip with the back of my poison oak-tainted hand. The breakout was in full force when I flew down to San Diego to cook for my aunt’s 50th birthday blowout.

Freshly delivered from cooking school in New York, I churned with a powerful yet unfocused ambition to make it as a writer. My wonderful aunt, always one of my biggest cheerleaders, took me to a Julia Child event at a bookstore. Julia was promoting Jacques and Julia Cooking at Home, and we gleefully clutched our brand-new copies as we waited in the snaking line of admirers.

My intention was to have Julia sign my book. And then to get the heck out her way. I wanted to express my adoration of her by not being a nuisance. But as my turn with America’s greatest culinary icon came, my aunt burst forth. “Sara’s just graduated from the CIA and she wants to be a food writer!” she gushed. I blushed, rendering the skin under my festering rash a blotchy ruby shade. I felt like a giant neon sign flashing “DISEASE!” buzzed right above my mouth.

Julia didn’t miss a beat. “Wonderful, wonderful,” she said, utterly indifferent to my gruesome facial blisters. “Here’s what you’ve got to do. Join the IACP, the International Association of Culinary Professionals.” Then, to the bookstore staff: “Does anyone have a piece of paper I can write on?” Multiple store employees scrambled and quickly obliged. Julia wrote “IACP” on the paper and handed it to me. “It’s very important to connect with your professional community. And keep on writing. Don’t give up! Just do it, do it, do it!”

Back in my new home of Sonoma, I glued the paper in my journal. I didn’t give up writing, but I didn’t join IACP. I figured I’d get around to it once I was real. Once I had more articles in pretty magazines. Once I had my name under a well-respected masthead.

Just this past fall, I did join. It took me thirteen years, during which I had my name under several mastheads and a handful of articles in pretty magazines. My writing won a few awards, and my skills as a chef deepened (even though I really did give myself food poisoning once–I know, I know). Yet all that time, I didn’t let myself think I was good enough to run with the big dogs.

The poison oak appeared on my upper lip, but the real affliction was inside me, a pox upon my confidence. I just got back from the 2014 IACP conference, and everyone there saw me as the dynamite writer and chef I know I am, because I finally told the poison oak to fuck off.

When a successful, caring person is generous enough to give you advice, don’t just savor it. Act on it. Otherwise, it’s only an “if only”.

This post originally appeared on Food Riot, where I contribute.

Bigger Fish to Fry

“Fish fry” was not on the list when we moved to Ohio. This list, often amended, had two columns: PORTLAND and MARIETTA.

PORTLAND:

  • Mt. Tabor
  • Quince trees
  • Excellent drinking water
  • Winco
  • Family
  • Friends
  • Big, dirty river

MARIETTA:

  • Aldi
  • Cheaper rent
  • Even cheaper water bills
  • best homegrown tomatoes ever
  • Ramps
  • Family
  • Friends
  • Big, dirty river

I grew up here, in Marietta, but I never went to a fish fry until moving back over a year ago. Catholic churches have them as fundraisers on Friday nights during Lent. My parents had been raving about the St. Mary’s fish fry for ages.

The key to an optimal fish fry experience is acid. Bring half a mangled Meyer lemon and a nearly empty jar of herbed mustard from home. Squeeze the lemon all over the fish, stir a generous dab of mustard into the plastic cup of tartar sauce. Eschew the roll and the baked potato. Focus on the fish, the exterior of which is crispy and salty and greasy but not oily. The flaky flesh encased in the light batter steams when you bite into it. The church volunteers tell you it’s pollock. The baked fish option is not pollock, but one does not attend an all-you-can-eat fish fry for the baked fish.

There’s a table with desserts, crumbly and dry sugar cookies from the grocery store topped with brightly colored globs of icing. Do not go to this table. For dessert, eat more fried fish. Your husband may suggest to sneak in a beer, but that’s making it too complicated. Drink the beer at home, later, for your Hobbit-like second dessert. At $8.50 per adult, the fish fry is not only a steal. It is the best dinner in town that does not generate from my kitchen.

The PORTLAND/MARIETTA list plagues me. Portland—that Portland, the one in Oregon with its own quirky sketch comedy show—thrums with vitality and creativity. It’s a slam-dunk food town, with its zillion food carts and photogenic farmer’s markets and hidden pockets of ethnic restaurants. We lived there in a succession of little rental houses, where I tended gimpy garden plots and cranked out frugal dinners on electric stoves. I had an engaging job with an acclaimed public library system and a free transit pass.

But. There was the rain, so much of it, over and over again. There was mud, and unpaved streets with no sidewalks, and warped windows in our various bedrooms that the heat seeped through. Nine months of the year I was chilled to the bones, no matter how many sweaters I wore or how much hot tea I drank.

I wanted to love Portland, and I did. I wanted to love being there, and I couldn’t. Years passed; my mood darkened. Portlanders adore their city, and for a fellow Portlander not to feel the same way doesn’t compute to them. I felt isolated on our sodden, potholed street far off from the trendier neighborhoods where our friends lived.

We moved to Ohio just when things were looking up: I was in line for a promotion, my husband was finally getting calls from his oft-circulated resume. But I insisted.

It’s a small town, Marietta, in one of the whitest regions in America. Instead of the meth teeth I spotted on many Portland library patrons, I see Mountain Dew teeth. Our rental has, once again, an electric stove, but the house’s insulation is excellent, and we keep it toasty warm without sky-high utility bills.

The St. Mary’s fish fry is just blocks from this house. In Portland, we never would have pulled our little daughter in a wagon to the Catholic church fish fry on a Friday night. We never would have been excited to see a bulb of fennel at the grocery store (clumsily labeled “anise”). Our heartbeats would not have quickened at hearing a language other than English.

It’s unreasonable to compare the two cities, the two places, the two lives. And yet. I do, compulsively, measuring out our gains against our losses. The happiest glimpses of our time in Portland were when I was incredibly in the moment, soaking up goodness without overanalyzing it. Picking raspberries with Frances, walking to the playground across the street from our shitty house, drinking beer on a patio in the sun. Same goes for here. Same goes for anywhere, really. You find the joy you find, even if it’s not the joy you’d pick out for yourself. Even if “fish fry” is not on your list.

The St. Mary’s All-You-Can-Eat Fish Fry runs through April 11. BYO Meyer lemons and herbed mustard.

This article originally appeared on Food Riot, where I contribute regularly.