Christmas Stories
Originally Published in the Atlanta-Journal Constitution
World Eats: Almond-encrusted English Toffee Delights Sweet Tooth
People who make candy are, to my way of thinking, a particularly well-defined substrata of home cooks. They aren't the dessert people who show up at parties with scruffed-from-age Tupperware cake boxes. They aren't chocolate chip cookie people with their deep convictions about crisp vs. chewy. And they certainly aren't pot-roast people who cook with the beatific air of Mom's imparted knowledge. I think they're more hobby-minded. They're People Who Do One Thing Well, like those who make gingerbread houses or weave or keep iguanas as pets.
So candy-making has never had much interest. All it takes is a recipe that follows the progress of a burbly pot "until it reaches 268 degrees on a candy thermometer" for me to realize it is too persnickety by half. I cook by sight and smell, with loose measures and easily corrected mistakes. Chemistry should be kept in the lab.
I would have been happy never making candy until I developed a serious, well, fetish is the only word, for a certain brand of almond toffee.
Enstrom Candies of Grand Junction, Colo., makes a kind of butter toffee plumbed with roasted almonds, slathered on both sides with chocolate and then dusted in ground almonds. It is broken into irregular chunks, packed into the kind of thick, glossy cardboard boxes that Spanish language flash cards come in, and then mailed all over the country.
I never had to avail myself of this service because I used to live near one of Enstrom's few retail outlets in Colorado, where my need for toffee progressed from a embarrassing secret into a semi-serious health problem. (The recommended serving size is 40 grams, slightly over an ounce, and contains 230 calories of teeth-rotting energy potential and 40 percent of the recommended daily allowance of saturated fat; no one, particularly not me, stops after 40 grams.)
When I moved here, I discovered the money gin that is www.enstrom.com. A 2-pound box, which barely gets my family through a holiday weekend, costs $26.95, plus shipping and handling. Add in a few presents, and it became far too easy to drop a Benjamin on boxes of sugar.
Last Christmas season I undertook a little Internet sleuthing to find out what information was out there on English toffee. Few make any kind of deal about the European heritage or lore of this candy because, I suspect, no one wants to get in the middle of the ugly turf war between England and Scotland for bragging rights. (The Welsh pull their toffee into taffy and call it by the surely unpronounceable names ffani and cyflaith, so non-Welsh officially don't care.)
No, most postings were of the super-vague recipe message board variety, i.e., "Here's how you make toffee: stir butter and sugar until it turns brown, then coat with a bar of melted chocolate." I took this as a good sign because it meant that toffee makers are not, by and large, anal-retentive, thermometer-clutching, hobby-crazed Michael's shoppers but actual cooks.
I found enough suggestions in the various online recipes to devise a game plan. It seemed possible to push this recipe along with sights and smells rather than molecular chemistry, and though a number of recipes hinted at grainy, greasy failure for those who don't stir constantly, it all seemed doable.
A Feast of Fish in One Dish
The first time Ian Cox's family attempted the Christmas Eve Feast of the Seven Fishes – a beloved Italian holiday tradition – they prepared seven full-sized entrees and attempted to consume them one after the other.
"We couldn't eat them all, we got so full, " said Cox, a manager at the Wrecking Bar Brewpub in Little Five Points. "So over the years we fine-tuned it. Now it's more like seven tapas dishes spanning the globe. We always do raw oysters, and there's usually a tuna tartare in there."
Beth Hamilton, a stay-at-home mom in Atlanta, gets around the seafood surfeit by constructing her annual Feast of the Seven Fishes out of seven varieties of seafood rather than seven distinct dishes. "So if we have a seafood gumbo or soup with several different kinds of fish in it, then we count them all. Someone even suggested we do cupcakes decorated with Swedish Fish for dessert."
Hamilton's family began preparing the feast with good friends to create a tradition for their kids growing up. "We love the symbolism of it, " she says. "The seven fishes represent the seven sacraments of the Church, and the number seven is revered in the Bible."
The funny thing is that neither Hamilton nor Cox is Italian. The even funnier thing is that many Italians have no idea what you're talking about when you bring up this tradition.
"I don't know any Italians who prepare it, " says Riccardo Ullio, the Atlanta restaurateur who owns Sotto Sotto and Fritti in Inman Park. For good measure, he polled some Italian friends in Atlanta and couldn't find a one who has made the meal.
However, the tradition, which originated in Southern Italy as a way of observing Lenten-style abstinence from meat, is very widely observed among Italian-Americans in the Northeast and freely adopted by seafood lovers throughout the country.
It makes perfect sense, too.
A carefully prepared fish dinner on a cold winter night has a special kind of opulence. It is hearty without being overbearing – an indulgence that won't try to outdo the eggnog. I like to make a seafood dinner on Christmas Eve because I know the next day will involve a full turkey dinner, a plum pudding and far too much wine.
Oftentimes I prepare this seafood stew, which borrows a little from cioppino and a little from bouillabaisse, but it is really just something I've developed over the years to work with fresh Gulf and Atlantic seafood. It is incredibly easy to throw together and has a finished flavor that's grand beyond its ingredients. It makes clean, simple white wines come alive. Inexpensive Southern French or Italian wines (Picpoul de Pinet, Garganega, Gavi di Gavi) are what you want with the tomatoes and saffron in this stew.
It only contains five fishes, however. You could start, as we like to, with some oysters on the half shell or smoked salmon with crackers. That gets you up to six fishes. I suppose a Caesar salad, with its all-important anchovy, pulls you over the finish line.
Or you've always got those Swedish Fish cupcakes.
Hot Drinks for a Cold Snap
"Daddy, why are you microwaving ice cream?"
I glance over to find my youngest child and her two sisters staring at me with apparent concern. They've seen some mad scientist moments in the kitchen as I've tested recipes for this column. Now they're looking like they'd rather I just find a new career.
I am, in fact, following instructions from my favorite Atlanta bartender, Greg Best at Restaurant Eugene, for a simplified home version of his Frankfurt Froth cocktail. At the restaurant, Best uses handmade custard sauce that he warms and whisks. He promised I would get a similar result with melted vanilla ice cream, provided I use Haagen-Dazs.
The hot cream whips to a gorgeous froth and finds a soul mate (sorry, kids) in the bottle of Jack Daniel's I had secreted away. Not just any Jack, but one that has been infused with a cinnamon stick, three cloves and a pinch of Sichuan peppercorns for the past two weeks.
What a fantastic take on eggnog! Here's a drink that whispers the warming spice of the season but doesn't shout it like a scented candle. Or a bowl of potpourri. Or one of those creepy stores where a woman with candy cane earrings sells Christmas paraphernalia year-round.
Here is a seasonal hot cocktail of refinement and character – just what I've been searching for. Lately I've been thinking how nice it would be to invite guests over for a seat by the fire and a beverage that is both hand-warming and potent. Surely there are more such drinks to be had for the looking, if not the inventing.
But, first, I have two questions about the state of hot cocktails:
Whatever happened to them? You used to see toddies, Irish coffees and the like announce their presence with discreet cardboard tents placed on bars come the first cold snap.
Are there any exciting new ones out there? Now that creative bartenders (sorry, "bar chefs") are trading in their sour mix and blue raspberry schnapps for chamomile infusions and pomegranate juice, are they inventing exciting, fresh hot cocktails along with the cold ones?
These are questions for David Wondrich, the drinks columnist for Esquire magazine, who just wrote a book with a very long name.
In "Imbibe! From Absinthe Cocktail to Whiskey Smash, a Salute in Stories and Drinks to 'Professor' Jerry Thomas, Pioneer of the American Bar" ($23.95, Perigee Trade), Wondrich examines the life of the 19th century's most renowned bartender and finds in his story a long, rich and now ignored history of hot cocktails.
"They used to be a much larger part of the world of mixed drinks, " says Wondrich, "but now it's a sideline – almost a subset of cider, and I'm so sick of cider."
You and me both, brother.
So what hot drinks are the cool cocktail kids into these days?
"There's not much, " Wondrich sighs. "A few of the boutiquey cocktail bars are starting to bring back the Tom and Jerry."
This drink, in fact, was the signature libation of Wondrich's favorite subject, Jerry Thomas, who helped make it a nationwide sensation during the post-Civil War era. A distant member of the eggnog family (and still popular in the upper Midwest), it begins with a batter made from whipped egg white, whipped egg yolk, spices, sugar and rum. You ladle it into special cups that Wondrich calls "these porcelain shaving mug thingies" and douse it with hot milk or water.
"Then you ladle out plenty of excellent rum and brandy, and boy howdy!" enthuses Wondrich.
Other than the few hipster bars that have rediscovered the Tom and Jerry, Wondrich finds little to like in today's popular hot cocktails. "Most are still very heavy with the spices and the perfume, " he laments.
Ah, yes, the perfume. Know it well. That Eau de Pumpkin Pie that Christmas Store Lady dabs behind her ears before greeting guests.
"People have lost the technique for hot drinks, " says Wondrich, adding that few bars today have access to the equipment needed to create them.
This may explain why the clever ones enlist the espresso machine.
Lara Creasy, who keeps as cool as the cucumber in a Pimm's Cup behind the bar at Shaun's in Inman Park, always has one frothy, warm, fantastically boozy milk drink on the menu. Until recently it was the Imperial Cup, which, in fact, used Pimm's along with Bombay Chai tea, milk, honey and nutmeg.
The Imperial is a fine drink, but the one she calls Sleep Tight qualifies as simple perfection. Steamed milk, honey and a healthy shot of cognac: That's it. You'll sleep like a baby, or perhaps a skid row drunkard, after this one. It goes down like a calming coat of whitewash for the overactive mind – nursery pabulum for adults.
But as much as I like all these drinks, I want to plead lactose intolerance after a while. Creamy milk drinks are sometimes good the way mashed potatoes from KFC are sometimes good, but I'm looking for something that is both warming and invigorating. Is that possible, or is that just asking for a steamy mugful of contradiction?
Clearly it's time for a visit to Greg Best.
I like stopping by the corner bar at Eugene early in the evening when the thought of a cocktail still feels illicit and Best has time to fuss with his esoteric liquors, tinctures and infusions. He cuts a distinctive, bartenderish figure: close-cropped hair framing a shiny forehead, a vest over long shirtsleeves and various silver rings on his fingers and thumbs. You can't figure out whether in his other life he sings in a barbershop quartet or plays bass in a hard-core emo band.
Best assembles a Black Dragon, a drink that begins with a shot of blackstrap rum that he has infused with star anise, Sichuan peppercorns and fennel. He stirs in a shot of Italian bitter liqueur called Amaro Mio that is served as a digestif. He finishes the cocktail with hot black tea, crushed orange slices and just enough honey to keep this startling, bitter concoction from tasting like an experimental drug.
I like it. The more I sip at it, the more it perks up my brainpan with alcohol, caffeine and a swirl of personalities that seem to be looking for something nice to say. Before long, I have my own, simplified version of the Black Dragon made with infused Myers's rum, tea, a splash of Tropicana orange juice and a drop or three of Angostura bitters. Invigorating!
We're getting close, and I have a theory why. The tannins in the tea grate so pleasantly against the alcohol. When this happens, you have a canvas for all the flavors --- spicy, citrusy, flowery --- to play out. This explains why mulled red wine, filled with tannins, tastes to me like the soul of Christmas while mulled cider tastes like Renuzit.
It also brings to the table the most famous and tannic of all hot cocktails, the one that begat its own signature glass mug – the Irish coffee.
"As long as it's made properly, Irish coffee can be an excellent drink, " says Esquire's Wondrich. He advises starting with a top-shelf Irish whiskey such as Redbreast, barely sweetening it with brown sugar, adding no more than 4 ounces of hot black coffee and floating a spoonful of unsweetened whipped cream on top. When the drink's prepared this way – with restraint – you taste the character of the liquor.
So, is this it? Does my search for the best hot cocktail lead me to the obvious, to Irish coffee?
"Well, for me the greatest hot drink of all is the Scotch Toddy, " says Wondrich, adding, "This is a traditional drink, by the way. It's something you still see all over Scotland."
A proper Scotch Toddy starts with a good single-malt scotch, as peaty as you like. Add a splash of hot water, some raw suger and a strip of lemon peel, then dilute with more hot water as you and your liver see fit.
"It's a great cold cure, " adds Wondrich.
Cold cure, nothing. I'm having guests over. I'm lighting a fire. I'm buying some chocolates in fancy wrappers. I think this is the beginning of a new tradition.
Leg of Lamb: Leave Bone-In or Wield your Paring Knife
In today's world where supermarket meat cases are filled with pre-formed hamburgers and pre-cooked pot roasts, no one is going to suggest that you actually butcher your own leg of lamb. Isn't it enough to buy the darn thing, haul it into the oven and pray that you don't overcook it?
So, here goes.
When you go shopping for a leg of lamb, you generally have two choices. You can get a whole leg with its three major bones – shank, thigh and hip – intact. This is the holiday classic that Mom roasts with handfuls of rosemary, Dad carves at the table and everyone enjoys with electric green wiggles of mint jelly.
Alternately, you can get the same lamb leg with all three bones removed. The meat has been more or less butterflied then rolled and stuffed into an elasticized net. You can roast it as is, in its net. You can perhaps stuff some kind of filling – apples and walnuts, spinach and cheese –straight through its core. Or you fully butterfly it, rub it with spices and throw it on the grill.
The main difference between the two kinds of lamb, I think, is taste. The former gives off more of that muttony, lanolin smell as its fat renders and crackles in the oven, but it then rewards you with firm slices of meat and a sweet, clean, inimitable flavor. The latter has a tamer smell, looser texture and a milder flavor. It's inoffensive.
Bone-in legs are superior, though they don't offer too many options for a creative cook. You can sprinkle herbs on them. You can cut slits in the meat and shove in slivers of garlic. But then you're done – unless, of course, you're willing to debone the lamb yourself.
The process is actually quite fun if you take pleasure in life's daily puzzles – fitting all the suitcases in the trunk or unknotting the dog leash. You're simply feeling for the irregular contours of bone with your fingers, then separating the soft and easy-to-cut muscle that clings to it. Though I own and usually use a boning knife for this purpose, I tested the recipe with a small, plastic-handled paring knife I bought in a supermarket during the Reagan administration and had no problems at all.
When you debone your own lamb, you also get to create an actual pocket in the meat. You remove the hip and thigh bones, leaving the shank in place. You can stuff and close the cavity, then roast the leg with its shank in place like an elegant handle. You end up with a roast much like the Roast Beast in Dr. Seuss' "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" – a joint that cuts into gorgeous cross-sectional slices on one end and has a foot sticking from the other.
So what's the best recipe? I opt for the French classic bistro dish Gigot au Beurre d'Escargot or lamb stuffed with the garlic-parsley butter used to fill snail shells. Each cross section offers a stripe of green and fresh waft of the butter's sweet smell.
Here you will find very detailed instructions on how to debone a leg of lamb. And, of course, a suggestion to have your butcher take care of it.
Being a Grinch over Christmas Decorations
When you enter an interfaith marriage, you know you may encounter some differences around holiday customs. But if you are not the Christian in the relationship, nothing can prepare you for Christmas decorations.
"John, can you bring the box up from the basement?" are the words that kick off decorating season in our household, and they always come on the last Friday in November.
"The box" is a plastic tub, heavy and large enough to suggest it contains the bound and gagged body of St. Nick himself. In fact it holds enough tchotchkes to blanket our house in holiday cheer. Elves, reindeer, garlands, baubles, puppies in red stocking caps.
We have multiple creche scenes – so many in fact that the figurines eventually migrate from one manger to the next. After a couple of weeks, one table may display three baby Jesuses and a lone donkey, suggesting a disreputable day care facility. Another will have so many and varied creatures in military formation that it conjures Orwell's "Animal Farm."
"Why do we have so much stuff?" I plead, as I trip over the gilded chicken-wire sleigh stuffed with dusty presents that sits by our front door for, seemingly, just that purpose.
"You don't like Christmas decorations?" my wife asks.
"NO!" I think.
"Of course I do, " I say. "But there's just so much."
Jingle bells hang from our doors. All our doors. One cannot pass from room to room without being reminded of the season's tidings.
But of all the decorations, the one that drives me straight to Grinch Mountain is the figurine I call Pooped Santa.
Imagine, if you will, a brightly painted porcelain Santa splayed over a chair, puffing his pipe by the fire, his plump feet naked and resting in a bucket. Hovering by his side: a solicitous elf with a pitcher poised over the bucket.
Walk up to this thing, clap your hands and – Merry Christmas! – water starts pouring through the pitcher onto Santa's feet to the strains of "Jingle Bells." After 30 seconds of such merriment, the water drains back into its reservoir and the music stops.
The problem is, any loud or moderately loud noise sets it off. If a door slams or our dog barks it starts. Our dog barks, on average, 40 times per evening.
This year, as the battery ran down, the musical component of the show went silent. So all we heard was the sound of water splashing over Santa's feet. I can't tell you how many times I've thought it was a toilet running, or perhaps the dog was trying to tell us she really, really needed to go out.
Every year, as I tiptoe past Santa, I make the same lame Jewish-spouse joke – i.e., that I'm going to decorate the house for Hanukkah with garlands of potato pancakes, papier mache menorahs and figurines of Maccabees huddling in a cave over an oil lamp. It never gets a laugh.
Hanukkah has become a pretty tame affair in our house. The kids all get new pajamas on the first night because the big presents will come on Dec. 25. I make potato pancakes. We light the candles.
So that is how our interfaith marriage plays out for the holidays. My wife brings good tidings and joy to the holiday season. I offer flannel and food. Despite Pooped Santa and his posse, I suppose it's the best of both worlds.