Literary Spring

Of course the Epitourists love to eat, but we also love to read. May’s gathering on Wolfe Island was a melding of food and literature welcoming the green of spring.

Menu

Spring Soufflé with Creamy Mixed-Cheese Sauce

2016 Alsace Pinot Blanc L'ami des crustacés classique

Kaarina's Sprout Salad and Elizabeth on the 37th Crab Cakes

Kunde Chardonnay from Sonoma County

Rhubarb Spritz

Chinese Pork and Shrimp Dumplings with Scallion-Soy Sauce

Madeleines



Caroline

The bones of my dish came form Jamie Cooks Italy / Spring Soufflé with Creamy Mixed-Cheese Sauce. I struggled with which spring vegetables to use. His recipe includes asparagus, peas, mint and sadly, zucchini. At my first attempt, I included the zucchini and found that it made things watery (besides, save the zuke for fall!). I excluded it the second time around. I must admit that Oliver’s spring trio of choice makes for a lovely mix: asparagus, peas and mint. But when Emilio-the-forager handed me a kilo of freshly picked fiddleheads, things changed again. Would a trio of fiddleheads, peas and mint work? No doubt it would.

We wait for them with excitement: Ontario grown asparagus! Upon seeing my first bunches “…tinged with ultramarine and pink, finely stippled in mauve and azure…”, I couldn’t resist: asparagus, fiddleheads and spring onions it would be. Forget the peas. And without peas, what’s the point of mint?

We wait for them with excitement:
Ontario grown asparagus

What makes this soufflé SO delicious is the sauce served on the side for pouring over. I chose whole goat’s milk, parmigiano reggiano and taleggio cheese to make mine. Divine! I paired my dish with a Pinot Blanc 2016 from Alsace: L’ami des crustacés classique.



Le soufflé et sa sauce!

 “…but what most enraptured me were the asparagus, tinged with ultramarine and pink which shaded off from their heads, finely stippled in mauve and azure, through a series of imperceptible gradations to their white feet–still stained a little by the soil of their garden-bed–with an iridescence that was not of this world. I felt that these celestial hues indicated the presence of exquisite creatures who had been pleased to assume vegetable form and who, through the disguise of their firm comestible flesh, allowed me to discern in this radiance of earliest dawn, these hinted rainbows, these blue evening shades, that precious quality which I should recognise again when all night long after a dinner at which I had partaken of them, they played (lyrical and coarse in their jesting as the fairies in Shakespeare’s Dream) at transforming my chamber pot into a vase of aromatic perfume.” — Marcel Proust In Search of Lost Time: Swann’s Way

My Spring Soufflé with Creamy Mixed-Cheese Sauce



3 spring onions

3 tbs olive oil

250 g asparagus

250 g fiddleheads

6 tbs pinot blanc

6 large eggs



Sauce

1 1/2 tbs unsalted butter

3 tbs all-purpose flour

2 cups whole goat’s milk

100 g parmesan cheese

freshly grated nutmeg

100 g Taleggio cheese



Preheat oven  to 350 F. Finely chop the onions and asparagus. Place in a large frying pan on medium-high heat with 2 tablespoons of oil. Cook for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the wine. Cook for 5 minutes.

 For the sauce, melt the butter in a sauce pan on medium heat. Stir in the flour until combined, then gradually whisk in the milk until smooth. Simmer for 5 minutes. Finely grate in 75 g of the Parmesan, nutmeg and Taleggio. Season to taste. Pour half the sauce in with the vegetables and mix, then leave to cool to room temperature. Put the remaining sauce aside for now. 

Separate the eggs, stirring the yolks into the vegetable mixture. Beat the whites until stiff then fold through the vegetable mix. Generously butter 4 ramekins and divide soufflé mix. Garnish with blanched asparagus spears and one fiddlehead. Sprinkle with the remaining 25 g of parmesan. Bake 25 minutes or until golden and puffed up. Warm the remaining cheese sauce and serve on the side for pouring over.

Kaarina



The Book Of Negroes by Lawrence Hill inspired my crab cakes. Sam Fraunce prepared them for Aminata when she arrived in Manhattan on the first leg of her journey to freedom.

"He said the way to make a decent crab cake was to roll just a touch of bread crumbs, melted butter and cream into the crab meat. It was so good that you wanted to treat it tenderly.
 (...) 'Crab is not something to overpower with energetic spicing,' he said. 'Crabmeat wants to melt quietly on the tongue.' "

I’ve never forgotten that advice.
 I rejected dozens of crab cake recipes trying to find one that met Sam’s exacting standard. My crab cake recipe is based on one from a Savannah, GA restaurant — Elizabeth’s on 37th.

The challenge is keeping the crab cakes from falling apart. I can never do it. Now I just push them back together to reshape and serve. I’d rather preserve the taste and texture than the shape.



In a salute to Wolfe Island spring, we picked dandelions from Laura’s Back 40, where just that morning I spied four deer grazing on the dew-kissed grass. The dandelion leaves added a bitter kick to the sprout salad accompaniment to the crab cakes.



The dandelion leaves added a bitter kick to the sprout salad

Kaarina's Sprout Salad

1 tsp garlic finely chopped

1 tsp fresh tarragon finely chopped

1 tsp honey

3-4 tbsp champagne vinegar

1⁄3 cup (125 mL) canola oil

Salt and pepper to taste
3-4 cups of sprouts (such as pea and radish) and bitter greens (arugula, dandelions, escarole, watercress

3 green onions, thinly sliced

A dozen violas for garnish (optional)



MEASURE the first  6 ingredients into a small jar and shake hard to emulsify (or use a blender). Toss with greens.



A lightly oaked or unoaked Chardonnay, such as the Kunde from Sonoma County, pairs well with the crab cakes. And a rhubarb Spritz is just the ticket if lunch runs into cocktail hour!



Rhubarb Spritz

 (from our very own mixologist, K)

1 tbsp rhubarb compote

1 oz Hendricks gin

2-3 oz Prosecco

In a champagne glass, stir rhubarb compote and gin. Add 3-4 ice cubes. Top with Prosecco. Stir.

Rhubarb Spritz

Laura

“Back home, I told the cook girl to boil enough pots of water and to chop enough pork and vegetables to make a thousand dumplings, both steamed and boiled, with plenty of fresh ginger, good soy sauce, and sweet vinegar for dipping.” – The Kitchen God’s Wife, Amy Tan

I love dumplings! They’re easy to make but time-consuming. The filling and pleating is relaxing when you have a chunk of time to devote to the process.

Dumplings and Scallion-Soy Sauce

And no literary feast is complete without a nod to Proust’s madeleines.

A perfect end with madeleines!

Literary Feasts

 From Diane's blog.

The theme for this month's Epitourists started with spring and then morphed to literary greens and settled in nicely to literature.

I was trying to decide on the dish I would bring to Wolfe Island when I realized Rob and I also had a commitment to visit friends in Ottawa/Quebec. Darn! I know this will be a great feast and it would be wonderful to see the Island greening in the spring.

Still I have been participating in spirit and trying to choose my dish.

Green eggs and ham? A tea party, à la Alice? Dare to eat a peach?

One of the first literary foods that sprang to mind was from David Eggers book A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, when he wrote about slicing the circles of an orange and placing them on his younger brother's plate, to brighten up a canned food dinner and add some vitamin C. Funny how that image has stayed with me for so many years!

In my research I came across a book called Pleasures of the Table, A literary anthology compiled by Christina Hardyment, and spent a few hours at virtual feasts: Roman bacchanals, domestic dinners, picnics with Peter Rabbit. A "spare feast! a radish and an egg" savoured by the fire in The Task by poet William Cowper.

Memorable: MFK Fisher writing in Serve It Forth about the secret pleasures of crisped tangerine sections:

Almost every person has something secret he likes to eat.
...It was then that I discovered little dried sections of tangerine. My pleasure in them is subtle and voluptuous and quite inexplicable. I can only write how they are prepared.
In the morning, in the soft sultry chamber, sit in the window peeling tangerines, three or four. Peel them gently; do not bruise them, as you watch soldiers pour past and past the corner and over the canal towards the watched Rhine. Separate each plump little pregnant crescent. If you find the Kiss, the secret section, save it for Al.
Listen to the chambermaid thumping up the pillows, and murmur encouragement to her thick Alsatian tales of l'intérieure. That is Paris, the interior, Paris or anywhere west of Strasbourg or maybe the Vosges. While she mutters of seduction and French bicyclists who ride more than wheels, tear delicately from the soft pile of sections each velvet string. You know those white pulpy strings that hold tangerines into their skins? Tear them off. Be careful.
Take yesterday's paper (when we were in Strasbourg L'Ami du Peuple was best, because when it got hot the ink stayed on it) and spread it on top of the radiator. The maid has gone, of course - it might be hard to ignore her belligerent Alsatian glare of astonishment.
After you have put the pieces of tangerine on the paper on the hot radiator, it is best to forget about them. Al comes home, you go to a long noon dinner in the brown dining-room, afterwards maybe you have a little nip of quetsch from the bottle on the armoire. Finally he goes. You are sorry, but -
On the radiator the sections of tangerines have grown even plumper, hot and full. You carry them to the window, pull it open, and leave them for a few minutes on the packed snow of the sill. They are ready.
All afternoon you can sit, then, looking down on the corner. Afternoon papers are delivered to the kiosk. Children come home from school just as three lovely whores mince smartly into the pension's chic tearoom. A basketful of Dutch tulips stations itself by the tram-stop, ready to tempt tired clerks at six o'clock. Finally the soldiers stump back from the Rhine. It is dark.
The sections of the tangerine are gone, and I cannot tell you why they are so magical. Perhaps it is that little shell, thin as one layer of enamel on a Chinese bowl, that crackles so tinily, so ultimately under your teeth. Or the rush of cold pulp just after it. Or the perfume. I cannot tell.
There must be someone, though, who understands what I mean. Probably everyone does, because of his own secret eatings.

And this recipe from the 1770s, To Raise a Salad in Two Hours, from The Art of Cookery made plain and easy:

Take fresh horse dung hot, lay it in a tub near the fire, then sprinkle some mustard seeds thick on it, lay a thin layer of horse dung over it, cover it close and keep it by the fire, and it will rise high enough to cut in two hours.