Ingredients
Our wine-making pal, Nan Bailey, is the local Tom Sawyer. At harvest time at her Alexis Bailey Vineyard we are all invited to lunch, but first we have to pick. Kids and bees are everywhere, and appetites build to farmhand stature by noon.
Everyone in the South seems to love cheese straws - the thin, crisp pastry sticks with the tang of cayenne and sharp cheddar - and they are always served at cocktail parties and church socials alike. They are almost mandatory at weddings: I remember receptions where the only fare was a silver compote of cheese straws, another of mints, and the wedding cake. Usually cheese-straw dough is piped from a cookie press and snipped into short lengths. Miss Lewis uses the simple technique of rolling out the dough and slicing off the “straws.” Cheese straws improve as the flavors mellow, so make them a day before serving, if possible. A tin of cheese straws makes an excellent hostess gift.
Spoon this jam onto Belgian endive leaves for near-instant antipasto. If we were in India, this jam would be called a chutney. It's done with an old formula that never lets you down. Brown onion; add vinegar, sugar and wine. Boil them down to a sweet-sour caramel, and blend in fruit.
If you're going to take on an ambitious dessert, it had better look and taste spectacular. This is one of those creations — a dome of cake filled with alternating layers of almond and pistachio mousses, fresh raspberries, and finished with billows of whipped cream. It comes to the table looking like a great white snowdrift studded with fresh raspberries.
In this recipe, Nicoise olives are marinated in flavorful rosemary oil with masses of rosemary leaves, a simple technique that imparts a wonderful flavor to the olives and seems to intensify their own. The rosemary is cooked in the oil, so it keeps its green color for several weeks. Packed into French canning jars, these olives look like they were homemade in Provence. They make a perfect instant hors d' oeuvre with chilled wine or cocktails.
These cookies taste like a mug of rich hot chocolate. The deep mocha-flavor is followed by a kick of cayenne pepper. Don't let the heat put you off; it only enhances the flavor.
These are my rendition of my grandmother's sugar cookies, the ones she used to make for us every week, sprinkling the tops of the cookies earmarked for my brother and me with cinnamon sugar and the tops of those meant for our parents with poppy seeds. Actually this recipe is a composite of grandmother recipes, from mine and my husband's (with an Aunt Bertha recipe tossed in for good measure), all of which were written on small recipe cards and fingerprint-stained long before they came to me.
At our house, we call this skeleton soup. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving weekend without the lush aromas of this broth filling the kitchen. My mother says she started making it back in the Depression. "We couldn't afford to waste anything. Besides, the soup is delicious." You could freeze the broth, to use later in homemade soups. But usually, it's so good on it's own, we finish it all up by midweek.
In our house, Chanukah means latkes, potato pancakes. All five of us love latkes. What's not to like about potatoes fried in oil? We always have them at least once on Chanukah; often more, as our kids clamor for them. Over the past decade, my husband, Jeffrey, became our household's chief latkemaker, in part, I think, in response to my tendency to try to make them a little healthier. "Lots of oil is key," he'll declare as I attempt to demonstrate that you can make "perfectly good" latkes with only a thin film of oil or, even worse, with cooking spray instead of oil. I have to admit that, while a minimal amount of oil does make "perfectly good" latkes, a substantial amount of oil makes perfect latkes.