Fruit

Anybody who’s ever seen me on Pitmasters knows that Crown Royal is my drink of choice. Students who come to my classes bring me bottles; folks who come up to my rig at barbecue contests bring me bottles, too. I’m grateful, because after a long day of barbecuing I always relax with a little Crown and water—because every king can always use another Crown. But on occasion, I like to surprise my liver with something different. This is as Georgia of a drink as you can get, with a little help from our Canadian neighbors.

If I’m working, which is to say I’m not drinking anything strong because I’m focused on winning a competition, I don’t drink anything besides sweet tea. I love sweet tea, truly. It’s the drink of the South, the drink of my home. Here’s how we do it.

I love a chicken salad sandwich, but I like the chicken salad itself to be full of flavor and not plain and boring. So when I make chicken salad, I start with a whole chicken because I like both white and dark meat, and because I want to have a lot of chicken salad to go around. Then I put pickles, apples, grapes, eggs, and pecans in it, so that it’s a rich, filling salad that’s great on its own with Ritz or saltine crackers, or on a toasted English muffin, or on other bread as a sandwich. Should you have any leftover barbecue chicken (see page 31) or smoked chicken (see page 40), you can scale down this recipe based on what you have and make a smaller amount of the chicken salad with the leftovers.

Cold fruit salads like this one are an old-fashioned piece of Americana. You can find recipes for stuffed canned peaches and pears and other so-called salads like this one in historic Southern cookbooks and of course in classics like the Joy of Cooking and The Settlement Cookbook. You don’t see them much around anymore, which is a shame because this salad is cool and refreshing—a great thing to serve for a summer lunch or as a first course for a dinner party. It may seem weird nowadays to serve canned pears with mayo, but would I waste my time with something that wasn’t good as hell? I didn’t think so.

There’s no better side dish for a barbecue on a hot summer’s day than this layered salad, which is sweet and salty all at once. If you like Hawaiian pizza, with bacon and pineapple on it, this salad is for you.

I may be from a small town in south Georgia, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy some fancy food, too. And just as I don’t expect people to turn their noses up at cheap pork shoulders that are delicious smoked, I don’t turn mine up at lobster tails. They’re expensive, but, man, are they good—especially if you cook the tails in the smoker. Try it.

I decided to make lobster the last recipe in this book so I could give myself the gift of a lobster dinner to celebrate. My father’s family in Montpelier, Vermont, were all passionate lobster-lovers. Being in an inland state, cut off from the sea, only made them more avid for a good lobster dinner, and they frequented The Lobster Pot on Main Street for every kind of celebration. My aunt Marian, after she became a widow, would often stroll down to The Lobster Pot to have dinner by herself, and it was there that she taught me the ritual of eating a lobster—sucking the juices and little morsels of flesh from each leg, and always saving the big claws for the last, because to her they contained the most delicious meat. So, for my treat, I stopped at Citarella’s in Manhattan and asked for a 1 1/4-pounder. The fishmonger held one up to demonstrate for me how lively the little lobster was as it wriggled and pawed the air with its tentacles. I was even asked whether I wanted a male or a female, and of course I said female, so I could enjoy the roe. But when I got it home, there was only the tomalley—the green-gray loose substance that is the liver; there was no roe. I looked in Julia Child’s The Way to Cook and realized that I should have checked first for the little swimmerets under the tail: the male’s are “clean and pointed,” whereas the female’s are “fringed with hair”—a test that is not easy to execute when the creature is wriggling desperately. I have always preferred steaming to boiling, because that way the lobster doesn’t get too immersed in water, and the small amount of steaming water becomes more intense. So I hauled down my largest pot, and arranged a collapsible steamer inside it.

I’m sure every cook who loves Italian food has a special recipe for osso buco. But I’m not so sure that anyone has a recipe to serve one, because it’s not the sort of thing you make for just one person. But it’s simple to reduce. The crucial factor is the pot; you need that heavy 4-cup pot with its own lid, so that your shank piece just fits into it and the liquid level stays almost to the top of the meat while it is simmering. That way, you don’t require too much cooking liquid, and the flavor develops intensity. I sometimes make this on a Saturday afternoon, when an Italian opera is playing on the radio, and just hearing the singing and smelling the osso buco as it perks away on the stove heightens my anticipation of a lovely meal to come.

I realize that not everyone has two gooseberry bushes growing right outside his or her house, but I do, and so I give myself over on a long summer afternoon to making gooseberry jam. I never have nearly enough (and I usually double the recipe below), because I use it on so many things during the winter, always reminding me poignantly of summer days, and my friends and relatives like it so much that they all get some for Christmas. So it’s worth the effort of topping and tailing the berries and watching the pot anxiously as the berries boil. I always feel so good when the jam is finally all tucked away in jars. The gooseberries should still be green when you pick them (or buy them at a farmers’ market). If they’ve turned pink, they are too ripe and have lost a lot of their tart flavor. The jam turns mysteriously dark rose red as it cooks, so the final confection is a handsome color.

I learned from Claudia Roden, who brought the secrets of Middle Eastern cooking to this country in the 1960s, how to make this invaluable preserve, which adds zest to so many dishes. I even find that you can use a little of it in place of fresh lemons to perk up a dish.

Another of the treats of summer was making ice cream, cracking up the big block of ice and taking turns with the crank—hard work that was rewarded by getting to lick the dasher when the ice cream was ready. Today we can buy convenient small ice cream makers that allow you to put the freezer bowl into the freezer so there’s no chopping of ice and the churning goes much faster. I particularly like making my own ice cream because I can use pure ripe seasonal fruits and berries and pure cream, without all the additives of candies and cookies that go into the commercial varieties today. Also, it’s a good way to preserve berries if I’ve been tempted to stop at a nearby farm where you can pick your own—and I inevitably pick more than I can eat up.

I can’t resist making this special tart for myself when my Duchess apple tree in Vermont is laden with the most flavorful apples I’ve ever tasted. I’ve never sprayed the tree, so, yes, there are what we call wormholes, but I peel around them or dig out the dark tunnels with the point of a knife. If you’re using a frozen portion of your own tart dough, remember to take it out in the morning and let it defrost at room temperature. If you’re making up a new batch, be sure to make extra to put away for a repeat performance.

Try to get good country apples—firm, juicy, and with a tart flavor. This version of a baked apple includes some indigenous Northeast Kingdom products.

Every summer, I get my share of the syrup from my maple trees in northern Vermont that my cousin John taps in the spring. I particularly like the dark syrup he produces, and I devise ways to use it in old-fashioned desserts like this one. I also use the tart apples from a Duchess tree that embraces the house. So I consider this dessert a gift of nature, and I hope you’ll find your own good sources for its ingredients.

I always remember my childhood summers in Vermont as a procession of summer puddings made with raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, or currants as they came along. This old-fashioned dessert couldn’t be simpler to put together, and you can do a single portion in a small cup mold. You can even make Summer Pudding in winter when you may have bought from the local street stand more berries imported from South America than you can eat up.

Crisps and crumbles—they are one and the same—were always a favorite in our family, and I miss having them on a regular basis. But I found it’s very easy to make just one portion in a small casserole dish (I use an onion-soup bowl).

I find that most store-bought oatmeal cookies can’t touch the rich homemade variety I remember from my childhood. We used to get them at the old Schrafft’s stores, and when I asked Jim Beard if he remembered those cookies and, if so, could he give me the recipe, he immediately called the head of the company and got a formula for producing a huge amount. Jim helped translate some of the unfamiliar ingredients and reduce the recipe to a manageable amount. I have been making this oatmeal cookie ever since—now in small amounts. Double the recipe if you have children around.

I usually make these in the summer, when berries are plentiful and bursting with flavor. I gather the berries and put all the ingredients out the night before, and it takes but a few minutes to whip up the batter. Then there’s time to go for a swim and work up an appetite while the muffins bake. If you have family and guests around, just double the recipe. This more modest amount will give you a dozen mini-muffins, which I prefer, plus two regular-sized ones that I bake in small Pyrex cups. If you don’t eat them all, they freeze well.