The Jan/Feb 2016 issue of Blue Ridge Country magazine has hit the streets and it is bigger than usual. It’s the travel issue, telling you all about wonderful places to visit in our area. Call it our vacation planner issue. Anyway, my travel-themed column is ready for you online and I hope you enjoy it. It includes a recipe, a first for me. Of course, it’s a pie recipe. Y’all know me. Here’s the link.
http://blueridgecountry.com/newsstand/mill-creek-stories/the-car-wants-to-go-to-north-carolina/
To everyone traveling for Thanksgiving this week, I wish you a peaceful and safe journey. You have got to love a national holiday that has food and fat pants as part of its tradition.
My Grandpa Buck did not cook. He was up at dawn and out in the fields or the barn early and didn’t come back to the house until he smelled dinner or it started getting dark. As far as food was concerned, it was just something that magically appeared twice a day when Grandpa sat down at the kitchen table.
Every summer though, my Grandpa would pick buckets of peaches from the trees on the farm and make ice cream. He’s do the whole thing, start to finish, from the peeling to the churning without any help from Grandma at all. That was the only time I’d ever see Grandma eat more than one helping of anything. She always had at least two bowls and they weren’t delicate, tiny, lady-like bowls either. Everyone loved peach ice cream, but no one enjoyed it more than Grandma. It simply was not summer in our family until you’d had a bowl of Grandpa’s peach ice cream.
Like most of my favorite foods from my childhood, the peach ice cream recipe eluded me. I simply could not get a version that satisfied my nostalgia, no matter what concoction I tried. I blamed the lack of my own dairy cow, or a different variety of peach, or growing conditions, or pasteurization, or newfangled ice cream makers on the lack of peachy perfection. What was I doing wrong?
I still don’t know why Grandpa’s ice cream was so much better than mine, other than it was made by someone who loved me and always made time for me. That goes a long way towards making food delicious. I will fondly remember an expired tin of Spam if it was shared with someone who deeply loves me. Love is the ultimate seasoning, and don’t you forget it.
As far as the holy grail of peach ice cream goes, I have finally had my eureka moment. The good folks over at http://www.seriouseats.com put out a recipe for strawberry ice cream that I modified and it is completely wonderful. It honestly does my Grandpa Buck proud. I offer it to you so your summer can be complete. Go make your own wonderful memories. Life’s too short not to eat the ice cream.
Grandpa Buck’s Peach Ice Cream, Updated
Ingredients:
1 farm stand sack of fresh peaches, approximately a quart or 2- 1/2 pounds, does not have to be exact
2 Cups half and half
1-1/4 Cups sugar, divided into 1/2 Cup and 3/4 Cup
1/2 Cup light corn syrup
4 Tablespoons liquor, no more than 80 proof, vodka, bourbon, amaretto, or my favorite for this application, Cointreau, which pairs well with and enhances fruits
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, or more to taste
1/2 teaspoon of fresh lemon juice, if needed to counter sweetness
Directions:
Preparation:
Peel the peaches, remove pits, then slice enough into thin slices or small cubes to make 1 Cup. You need these to be small to avoid forming ice crystals which are definitely not fruitalicious.
Combine the tiny peach pieces in a bowl with 1/2 Cup sugar and the booze and let sit in the fridge for a minimum of two hours. I left them overnight. This is where the science happens. The alcohol prevents the fruit from becoming icy, hard, shards in the finished ice cream. You’ll thank me later.
Take the remaining peach chunks and puree in a blender at high speed until smooth. If you are using a different fruit, you may need to strain the mixture to remove seeds or fibers. The peaches did not need straining.
In a large mixing bowl, combine the remaining sugar, corn syrup, half and half, and peach slurry. Whisk until married. Taste mix and adjust with the salt and lemon juice as needed. Cover and chill in the fridge until very cold. I left mine overnight.
Making Ice Cream:
Take the chilled blended peach base (not the small bits) and churn according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.
When the mix is just about finished, take the peach bits out of the fridge and drain off the syrup but do not throw it away. The syrup is fabulous in iced tea, lemonade, margaritas, or daiquiris. Add the peach bits to the ice cream and churn no more than a minute.
Transfer ice cream to an airtight container and put it in the freezer for at least four hours to harden. I know, I know, that’s almost impossible for those of us who have impulse control issues, but it is important for the finished product. You’ve gone to all this effort, don’t slack off now.
Cook’s Notes:
Strawberries and mangoes also work well with this recipe. Have fun with it.
Also, don’t freak out about the corn syrup. It improves the texture. Calm down about the high-fructose whatever, you’re making ice cream, the best ice cream you’ve had in forever. Let it go.
So here’s the birthday cake I made for Gruff. When you say the words “birthday cake” to a diabetic, we automatically start thinking of how we can oomph it all up to there’s a whole lotta bang in a single serving. From the bottom of the slice on the left to the top on the right, you have chocolate cake, dark chocolate buttercream frosting, cheesecake (genius, huh), cherries, chocolate cake, and a thick smear of dark chocolate frosting. There was ice cream as an option, for anyone wanting to guarantee the evening would end in a diabetic coma. Boom.
This birthday cake has been brought to you by the makers of Lantus Solostar insulin, when you absolutely have to celebrate but your pancreas isn’t up to the challenge. Lantus, for people with the self-control of a mosquito.
In the South, we invite luck and prosperity to the new year by cooking certain foods on New Year’s Day. Here is my celebration meal: rice and Hoppin’ John for plenty to eat because as long as you have beans and rice you’ll be okay; collard greens, the color of money, to invite cash to visit your pocket; likewise, cornbread, the color of gold, to attract wealth; and fried chicken, because there is nothing better.
I wish you health, happiness, and good fortune in 2015. Good luck to us all, y’all!
There’s a saying here in the South that we do not like to admit is true. We like to think of ourselves as evolved, strong, dare I say even refined. Underneath our perfect pedicures, perfect blonde highlights, and perfect Talbot’s ensembles lurks a dirt road tomboy hungry for mama’s cooking. Yes sirreee, “It ain’t fit to eat if it ain’t fried.”
My weakness for fried food is hard coded in my DNA. I’m certain that I was weaned from mother’s milk straight to fried chicken as a toddler. Otherwise, I can not explain the visceral reaction I have to the smell of hot grease. My knees buckle a little and my mouth starts to water. The smell triggers genuine primal desire and woe be to anyone standing between me and the source of deep-fried deliciousness. This is why I have never, ever owned a deep fryer. I knew that I could not be trusted with one in my house.
My brother-in-law Bull got a deep fryer one Christmas. He wore it out. Broke it from overuse. Swore he wasn’t going to replace it. Somehow a brand new one managed to sneak into his kitchen as if the grease fairy had delivered it in the night. How did that get here?
Not to let an appliance go to waste, the new fryer got fired up and put to good use in no time at all. I have listened to Bull wax rhapsodic about fresh French fries at midnight, okra as snack food (it’s a vegetable you know), and hot doughnuts on Sunday mornings. If a man can love something with a plug, Bull is definitely engaged to his fryer.
I am what polite, artsy people refer to as Rubenesque. To put it plainly, I’m a big girl. I am also diabetic. I have no business even looking at deep fryers. Yet I found myself in Kohl’s department store one day in the kitchen section. I was holding a 30% off coupon. Small appliances were already marked down. I could have gotten a waffle iron, I guess. I could have chosen the sno-cone machine. I could have walked across the aisle to Women’s Shoes and gotten those adorable espadrilles I found. I think we all know where this is going. I bought the deep fryer. Cue Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls on the iPod for the occasion.
When I got home with my new favorite appliance, my husband Gruff could not believe it. I think his exact words were, “Woman, have you lost your mind?”
“But Bull just adores his fryer, and I had a coupon, plus it was already on sale!”
“Bull weighs less than one of your legs and he is not diabetic. What were you thinking?”
“I had a really good coupon and it was on sale and, and, and I wanted it, okay?”
“Fine. It’s your funeral. I suppose you want me to break down some chicken to inaugurate your new doomsday device?”
“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”
The deep fryer has been all I dreamed and more. Oh my God, the fried chicken! It’s been smack-your-mama delicious. Fish and chips so fresh and crisp, it would make any Anglophile weep. Peach hand pies, the filling sweet and the crust shattering with every bite. So good. Oh and French fries in minutes is like the best thing ever. I love crinkle cut fries.
After getting a couple meals out of the Ore-Ida sack, I was reading the empty package. It seems that the good people at Ore-Ida think their package holds 11 servings. Eleven? They are misinformed. There must be some problem on the production line that they need to be made aware of. Their bag only holds four servings. That’s misleading the consumer. Eleven servings. Please. You’d think my endocrinologist mandated those portion sizes to Ore-Ida. You know, I don’t think I’ll mention to my doctor that I am the proud owner of a new deep fryer. The news might just make her cry.
Gruff’s right. I have lost my mind. I’m insane. I am indulging in self-destructive behavior. I should be ashamed. I am a weak, pathetic woman. I am also a woman who’s having hot doughnuts this Sunday! Oh happy, happy, joy, joy!
Less Than Ladylike 