fava beans

Even though there is still snow on the ground here in Vermont, and we have had wickedly cold nights, the sun during the day feels hot on the skin, and the snow banks are getting smaller. The melt has started and there is a fine sheen on the snow as it becomes more like ice than snow. It is perfect weather this year for sugaring, the warm days and the cold nights, and the sugar houses are going full steam, the smoke from the boilers curling out of their chimneys.

This time of year also brings the tease of spring. Baby artichokes and aparagus start to make appearances in grocery stores and on restaurant menus, and even though they are not growing here now, it is too difficult to turn away from their spring promise. And of course there are the fava beans, their broad pods that pull us into the next season.

Fava beans. Horse beans. Broad Beans. Field Beans. Tic Beans. Faba Beans. The vicia faba, more commonly known as the fava from the Italian are native to north Africa and southwest Asia, but have been grown in old world agriculture since as early as 600 b.c. Along with lentils, chickpeas, and peas, they have long been staples in eastern Mediterranean cuisine. While used for food, they are also used as a winter cover-crop because they prevent erosion, and as a legume, theyadd nitrogen to the soil. They are also rich in vicine, isouramil, and convicine, organic compounds which can cause hemolytic anemia or “favism” in people with a hereditary blood condition. It is believed that the favas origins correspond to malarial hot spots as the anemia resulting from favism acts as a protection from malaria because the protozoa cannot feed off of blood lacking in iron. Evolution at work.

Fava beans should be eaten young when they are tender and have a slightly bitter-sweet and nutty flavor. They can be steamed, dried, and mashed. Fried, causing the skin to split open, and then salted and spiced is a popular way to eat them in China, Peru (habas saladas), Mexico(habas con chile) and in Thailand where their name means "open-mouth nut". In Egypt, fava beans are shelled and dried, then cooked by adding water on very low heat for several hours. Egyptians add oil, lemon, salt and cumin, then the mixture is eaten with bread and onions.

In ancient Greece and Rome, beans were used in voting; a white bean was a vote yes, a black bean was a vote for no. In Ubykh culture, a nomadic horseback tribe originating in the Caucasus, casting beans on the ground and interpreting the patterns they make was a common method of divination, also known as favomancy, and the generic term for “bean-thrower” in their language has become a word for seers and soothsayers. In Italy, favas are traditionally sown on November 1, All Saints Day. In celebration, small cakes are made in the shape of favas and called fave dei morti, “ beans of the dead”. In Sicily, fava beans are placed on church altars on Saint Joseph’s Day because according to legend one year all the crops in Sicily failed, except for the favas, and the beans kept the people from starving and thanks were given in honor of St. Joseph. Some people carry a fava bean for good luck; some believe that if you carry a fava, you’ll always have what you need in life.

In ancient Greece and Rome, beans were used for food for the dead. In Portugal, they make a cake baked with a fava bean inside called Bolo Rei at Christmas time. Dreaming of a bean is said to be a sign of impending conflict. Some say planting beans on Good Friday during the night brings good fortune.

At the restaurant, we make risotto with artichokes, favas, and asparagus, or crostini with mashed fresh favas, shaved Pecorino, cracked black pepper and drizzled with olive oil. The best, of course, is just shelling them fresh like the Romans on the first day of May, eating them with a good Parmigiano, or Pecorino Romano, the spring green taste on the tongue tempered by the sweetness of the cheese.

--Deirdre

the day of

Early Monday morning, Caleb and I go to the flower market in New York. Last year, when we came down to the city to do our James Beard dinner, the house florist had given us the name of a wholesale florist up on 27^th between 6^th and Broadway. He said to ask for Paul, and to tell him Joey had sent me. We go see Paul again this year, and become seduced by the purple lilac, the flowering quince, ivy berry resembling clusters of grapes, white snaps, tight buds of pink peony, and an armful of white tulips. Miraculously, we get a taxi right outside Paul’s door and take our booty into the solarium at the James Beard House. Caleb begins to sort through the kitchen. Our friend Sean, a talented chef with his own restaurant outside of Philadelphia ( Alba in Malvern) arrives, and Lindsey, our current apprentice and daughter of cheese makers John and Janine Putnam of Thistle Hill Farm and the famed Tarentaise, arrives. Interns from local culinary institutes arrive. Mr. Beard’s small teaching kitchen feels cozy and abuzz. Everyone looks smart in their chef’s whites.

Mr. Beard’s kitchen is one of charm if not complete professional ease. The walls are papered with maps of the world, and old copper pots. Gleaming, they hang waiting to be used. There are grills and stoves and ovens and warming ovens. There is a meat slicer that has to be brought up from the basement below. The little countertop mixer has seen better days, and Caleb and crew have to whip all the cream by hand for the dessert. There is a very efficient dish-washing station. It is not the exact set-up as in the days of Mr. Beard’s tenancy, but it is enough to feel that he is a kindred spirit very present in the space.

Mr. Beard’s house, which hosts a countless number of visiting chefs from all over the world with an event taking place almost every day of the year within its walls, is quirky and intimate. A classic lower west village townhouse, it boasts a terraced garden for the warm weather, a solarium to take sun in the cool, a gracious reception room where Mr; Beard’s close companion Clay holds reign and greets you when you enter. Upstairs, there is a mezzanine that over looks the solarium space down below which still features his shower. Mr. Beard bathed in the open space overlooking his garden, and his neighbors overlooking him. The dining room is an elegantly proportioned space which is where he did his living. This main room boasts a fireplace, high ceilings, and 40’s Murano glass fixtures and long French windows on the streetside. The walls are a deep olive and terracotta. Near the French windows is a small nook with dias which houses a table for six. This is where Mr. Beard used to sleep.

In his time, Mr. Beard rented out the two upper floors as apartments. Now, they are office space and conference room for the busy staff of the foundation. The energy is lively in this house, and it spills down from those upper floors and buoys those in the kitchen. Components of the dishes we will present are in process all afternoon long. Seating charts are arranged, and serviceware for each course chosen. Wines are tasted, bottles opened. The uber-professional waitstaff and maitre d’ begin their own magic of setting tables and pumping up the energy.

I steal a moment of solitude at a visitor’s desk in one of the offices. I take a moment to collect my thoughts about the wines and the dishes we’ve chosen for tonight, how to try and accompany with words the story that will be narrarated between the food and the wine.

Downstairs, Caleb prepares staff dinner, and after we have a staff meeting. The kitchen is ready and waiting. The photographer wants to know why we are so relaxed. He tells us our calm makes him nervous. The candles in the solarium have been lighted for the hors d’oeuvres hour, and the music starts. Guests arrive.

The solarium is packed with well-wishers and old friends meeting again, and new friends being made. Trays of crostini float through the room: the warm toast with shrimp, bread crumbs, parsley and garlic, littles slices of bread with smoky speck and an apple-horseradish sauce, and another topped with pine nuts, raisins, capers, and prosciutto. They are accompanied by a lightly sparkling wine from the region of Campania in Italy, greeny-gold in the candle light, made from Fiano and Aglianico, two native grapes from that area. The wine-maker is a jazz aficionado and the name of the sparkler is Selim, Miles as in Miles Davis backwards. All his wines have some kind of jazz reference. The pineapple, tangerine, and pear flavors play off the crostini, and everybody wants more.

When we run out of food and run out of wine, the house lights are dimmed up and down as if we were at a theatre. Diners are ushered upstairs to their tables, and the solarium is broken down from hors d’oeuvres service, and built back up with a large round table set for more dinner guests who can’t all fit upstairs.

The wine flows, the dishes are served. While Caleb is down in the kitchen expediting, I go from table to table in the dining room to talk about the wines and our choices for pairings. There is a plate of bresaola, paper thin slices of air-cured beef rich with flavor served with wild arugula and a shaved cheese called Grana Padano, similar to the aged nuttiness of Parmigiano. We serve an organic Gewürztraminer from Kofererhof (who hopes to soon be certified) that is floral, and herby with a lime-like finish. Everyone is surprised that Gewürztraminer is originally from Italy, not Germany, Austria, or Alsace.

A full-flavored cabbage soup made with a chicken and veal stock, served with a pyramid of rice in the center, and garnished with the nutty and slightly sharp Tarentaise, a local cow’ milk alpine cheese made by Thistle Hill Farm. The waiters pour a certified organic wine by Pratello in Lombardia, a Manzoni Bianco that is well supported by oak with notes of honey, wild rose, and nutmeg.

To follow is a moist filet of trout roasted in red wine with rosemary and juniper. Many diners are surprised that we are serving the trout with a red wine. But I explain. The red is also by Pratello and is the very light varietal called Groppello that is particular to that area of Lombardia on Lago di Garda. The fish is cooked in the same red wine, and the wine has a taste of almost ripe plum and cherry pit, and the nose reminds me of standing on the shore of a large lake and a breeze blowing a slightly saline scent across the water.

Caleb sends out the roasted pheasant next, seasoned with nutmeg, allspice, clove, cinnamon, a touch of cacao, and fatty rind from the speck. The notes in this dish hark back to the nutmeg of the Manzoni Bianco and the smokiness of the speck and apple-horseradish cream crostino. The wine paired with this is the Cantina Rotaliana’s Teroldego Rotaliano. It is medium bodied with fresh fruit on the nose, and a spicy finish redolent of wild iris. This is the first US pouring of the ’06 vintage.

To finish, there are Bartlett pears poached in vanilla and served with chantilly cream and sprinkled with crumbled amaretti. The Marzemino, also from the Trentino, is all candied violet, vanilla and almond, and smells of a pastry shop.

The evening has run smoothly, and the guests are full and happy. As diners leave, there are handshakes and hugs, good wishes and cheer, and hearty congratulations. Exhausted we and our crew pack up what’s left. We somehow fold the huge flower arrangements into the car. We wend our way farther downtown to a little gastropub that stays open late called Ditch Plains. We eat simply and ravenously. Hamburgers, fish tacos, and hot dogs and fries, all with glasses of beer.

--Deirdre

dispatch on the way to New York

Five months ago, we created a menu with wine parings that we sent off to the James Beard House in New York City for a dinner we would present this March. For printing and pr purposes, they need to have a finalized menu so many months in advance, but it's somewhat of a bane to the chef who cooks by what looks best at the market. But after cooking so long, you get to know what’s available when, and you cross your fingers that no blights or unexpected freezes, hailstorms, or drought will wreak havoc on the arugula, or the oranges, or the della cotta squash.

Over the last three weeks, we have arranged for the wines, arranged for donations of materials as dinners at the James Beard House are fund-raising events for the foundation. We have made detailed lists of ingredients needed and prep schedules, copied out wine notes, made copies, designed the menus and printed them up. But today, on the Saturday before out dinner, we pack up the car, nervous the whole time that we won’t be able fit all the food, three bodies, and three bags into our Subaru. We have friends who are coming down to the city tomorrow, and their car is held in reserve in the event the we can’t wedge in the six and half gallons of soup made a few days before—so it would have time to talk to itself and become richer and more complex in flavor—into the back seat.

Surprisingly, we fit it all in, and drive in torrential rains through Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and finally, into New York. In the evening when we arrive, the rain has stopped and the sky clears, and a balmy southern wind whips around the buildings and blows down the streets of the lower west side. We can even see stars. We unload the car at our host kitchen at Great Performances, a long-standing New York catering company that offers support to the James Beard Foundation by providing kitchen space for visiting chefs. A kitchen that holds about 40 cooks and pastry chefs who start at 6:30 in the morning and wrap up their day at about 3 pm. This is where, tomorrow, Caleb will spend the day chopping vegetables, mixing bread, and preparing pastry cream.

It is good to have made it to the city, the first and most difficult part of the journey complete. We reward ourselves with a simple dinner at a favorite haunt, Cubana Café on Thompson. We order very fine mojitos and eat shrimp quesadillas, black bean soup and various dishes of pulled pork. Dessert is a light moist chocolate cake, a flawless flan, and a dreamy tres leche cake that tastes of almonds and milk.

--Deirdre

winter citrus

Oranges. Tangerines. Clementines. Grapefruit. A true luxury to eat citrus in winter. We especially love that wild-rose-pink grapefruit that is both sweet and acidic and brightens the palate when everything is so gray. A luxury for those of us with snow on the ground, yet citrus is by nature a winter fruit. It grows in the winter months in Florida, Spain, Italy, Morocco, California. I think of the big, fat lemons in the terraced groves on the Amalfi Coast, or the thick-skinned bergamot that grows along the Jasmine Coast of Calabria. Bergamot used mainly as an ingredient in perfume until the hearty Calabrians peeled it, dried it, and candied it.

For us in our snowy hills, we delight in it for breakfast, or toss it in a salad of wild arugula and shaved Parmigiano. It’s also a perfect highlight in a plate of bresaola and fresh mint, the air-cured meat a foil for the juiciness of the fruit. For a hot dish, quail roasted with pink grapefruit and Marsala is one of the tastiest quail preparations we’ve ever had. Paired with wine, pink grapefruit can be magic. Alois Lageder’s brilliant Moscato Giallo from the Alto Adige in Italy is a truly perfect pairing with that Bresaola, ruby grapefruit, and mint. And we found much to our happy surprise that Vermont’s own FreshTracks Farm Frontenac Gris makes a happy match with the arugula-grapefruit salad. The wine is semi-sweet upfront, but finishes with a pretty, clean citrus note. A country pate with candied orange peel also comes readily to mind…..

--Deirdre

road food in winter

The March thaw and freeze and thaw has arrived. Sugarhouses show signs of activity, though I’m sure everyone is waiting until after Town Meeting day on the 4^th to fire the boiler. The damp of the thaw leaves our driveways slick and our bones cold, and the sky is somewhat dreary. It looks like rain.

Such a day calls for an outing. Any kind of outing to banish dreary thoughts. It is a day off, and we’ve heard about a general store not far from our village that is owned by a Frenchman and his wife, and words heard at post offices and dinner parties praise his omelets. We take our turn voting at our town hall, then take a break for lunch and drive over the Tunbridge Village Store.

Neat and clean and cozy, the village store boasts a kitchen and a small grocery. Judy and JeanPierre have been running the store for almost a year. They found themselves in Vermont because of their love of horses. Both come from an impressive background in hotel restaurant and fine dining service, cooking, and management. The Ritz. The Four Seasons. Two of their own restaurants. JeanPierre’s mother is Florentine, and his father is from Nice, and JeanPierre has a passion for making pasta.

We are too late for the omelet, but there is French onion soup, and pulled pork. We order both along with with a plate of imported bufala mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil (a hopeful dish leading us to look toward warmer, brighter days), and house-made sweet potato fries. The menu is small, which we like, and there is a good selection of deli meats, and some simple prepared dishes. We buy a bottle of local Vermont wine from Fresh Tracks Farm in Berlin, to taste a Vermont Frontenac Gris. We have the same grape clambering up our pergola.

We drive home and are able to get on with our day; we are thankful for having a new little village store to lead us out of town. We drink lapsang souchong tea all afternoon, and wait for the freezing rain they say will come by nightfall.

--Deirdre

pantry no. 2: cornichons

Another snowstorm, another day. On this March 1^st, the storm stops short of projections, and the sky begins to clear, the clouds evaporating to blue. Out on the ski trail around our field, the sun feels hot. Even though we have a few feet of snow on the ground, the season is changing, and we strip off our coats to forge the trail. A bird sings in the distance.

After our ski, we know we can sit in the sun on the porch protected from any Ides of March. The air is scented with woodsmoke curling from our chimney. There is a tray loaded with olives, dried salame, two glasses of white wine, and a local cow’s milk cheese which tastes like a winter stream and grass. And there are cornichons, those little vinegar-cured pickles that complement just about everything.

A good pantry should always be stocked with a jar of cornichons. We buy nine pound cans of Trois Cochon from one of our purveyors and store them in our pantry. Nine pounds seems like a lot, but we go through them much quicker than you might think. They are perfect for quick hors d’oeuvres, but they also are good with so many other dishes as well. We use them with smoked salmon, or trout, and in a Russian or potato salad. In deviled eggs. On sandwiches. They are a must alongside a good country pate.

Cornichon is simply the French word for gherkin, meaning a small cucumber that’s been picked at about 1-3 inches long, then brined in vinegar, possibly along with other spices. Gherkin is a word of Persian origin, angārah, passing through Greek and Polish, and coming into English usage from early modern Dutch in which the diminutive gurkkijn or agurkkijn describes a small cucumber. The word “pickle” also comes from Dutch, pekel, which is a salt or acid preserving liquid. In Swedish, they say gurka which actually means cucumber. The Germans say gurke.

It’s believed that the fruit originated in India, and our can of Trois Cochon holds pickles harvested from India. Ancient Mesopotamians feasted on pickled gherkins even before the 3^rd century BC. Gherkins can also be found in food references from ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome. The English diarist Samuel Pepys mentioned the “girkin” in the 17^th century. It's thought that Gerkhins may have come to Western Europe from the Middle East in the course of the Jewish Diaspora.

In America, the first reference is by a Mr. Minton Collins in Richmond, Virginia who was offering them for sale in the Virginia Gazette in 1792, and they apparently were a favorite food of Thomas Jefferson. Initially, curing gherkins was a domestic activity, then the jar of pickles became a commercial product in France as early at the 1820’s.

So, one hundred and eighty-eight years later, we stock our pantry with a can of French packaged Indian cornichons. While we are devotees of local food, we are thankful for the luxury of imported staples that we cannot grow or raise here in the colder climes of Northern New England. While our local food allows us to taste where we are, the pleasure of eating a cornichon, or olive, or hot sweet African pepper allows us to step for a moment on the ground of another country reminding us that we are one small part of a very large, miraculous universe.

--Deirdre