Ratatouille

No, not the movie. There's been plenty written about the movie lately. This is the classic vegetable ragout more properly known as Ratatouille Nicoise, and perfect for this time of year, especially if you have all the vegetables growing in your garden.

But even if you don't, a trip to the farmers market and you will soon have one of the most succulent things that summer brings.

It seems generally agreed that a proper ratatouille should contain these vegetables: eggplant, red bell pepper, zucchini, onion, garlic and tomato. Yellow squash also is an option, and I've seen recipes from reputable authors also including green bell pepper, though to my mind the green pepper imparts a bit of harshness that the ratatouille can do without.

But where do we go from there? I have to admit, I'm no expert in ratatouille. Having made the dish a few times with my rudimentary understanding of it, I thought it was high time I boned up a little with some of my expert references. So there I sat this morning with my copy of Larousse Gastronomique, the Vegetables volume of the Time-Life series on French Food edited by Richard Olney, and volumes by Roger Verges and Madaleine Kamman.

As defined by Larousse, the word ratatouille derives from touiller, French for to mix or stir. It originates in Nice, but now is ubiquitous in the south of France. The method prefered by purists, according to Larousse, is to cook the vegetables individually in olive oil, slowly, before incorporating them in the final ragout.

Madeleine Kamman is her usual finicky and hilarious self. The vegetables should be cooked until very tender, "until there is only enough of the wonderful natural vegetable juices mixed together to coat them lightly." She continues: "If you want a crunchy ratatouille, then you don't want a ratatouille. Instead, take the same vegetables, less the eggplant, and make yourself a stir-fry."

Kamman also insists on two different kinds of tomatoes in her ratatouille, "the first for juice and sugar, the second for texture..."

I have been lightly browning my vegetables, draining them on paper towels, and then assembling them together at the end. But I think a classic ratatouille does not brown the vegetables in a skillet, but rather cooks them gently until tender in a covered heavy pot, even in the oven rather than on the stove-top.
Most instruct to skin and seed the tomatoes before chopping them, but I'm not sure that's essential either, unless you have a real problem with tomato skins, which are hardly detectable in the finished dish. As for herbs, I've been adding chopped basil and thyme, but the traditional recipes suggest a bouquet garni that is removed after the ragout is finished.

For four to six persons, figure a medium eggplant, a medium zucchini and one of yellow squash, a large red bell pepper, a yellow onion and a couple of cloves of garlic, chopped fine. The eggplant should be cut into large dice. The squashes can be cut into thin rounds, the bell pepper and onion into thin strips. Cook everything separately with salt and pepper until tender, then put everything together and bake with a bouquet garni or your favorite herbs in a 350-degree oven until the flavors are melded. Serve at room temperature with a grilled chicken or some such.

Bon appetit.

Fried Green Tomato BLT

Readers have probably detected that the best cooking in these quarters comes not from The Slow Cook but from his trusty sidekick.

So it is with this ingenious twist on the classic BLT sandwich, substituting fried green tomatoes. My wife drew her inspiration from a similar item on the menu at one of our neighborhood restaurants here in the District of Columbia, the St.-Ex.

My wife is a passionate baker but also has the magic touch when it comes to frying. Her crab cakes, described here recently, fit the very definition of sublime. She takes her time, is very methodical and has a steady hand around the fry pan, precisely what is required to achieve those golden crusts and done-to-a-turn insides.

These particular green tomatoes came from our garden where we have two heirloom varieties growing: Brandywine and Cherokee purple. They fried up big and meaty, no falling apart or leaking. Check your nearest farmers market if you don't have tomato plants of your own. Or maybe you have a generous neighbor.

Last year we planted our tomatoes late and had a bumper crop of greens when the first frosts hit. We turned most of them into green tomato pickles. But more about those anon.

For specific instructions on frying green tomatoes, my wife turned to the 'net. She rejected a recipe that called for soaking the green tomato slices first in a bowl of ice water for 30 minutes (I can only imagine that was to keep the tomatoes from overcooking while they were in the fry pan.) Then she landed on these instructions courtesy of Southern Living magazine.


Cut fairly thick slices of tomato, dredge them in flour, then in an egg wash mixed with buttermilk, then in a mix of flour, cornmeal and seasonings. Fry until golden in 1/2-inch of canola oil in a heavy iron skillet. Set the fried tomatoes on a wire rack to cool.


For the sandwich, we used slices from a rustic loaf we'd previously purchased at Whole Foods. Smear one slice with mayo and then lay on a couple of pieces of cooked bacon and some basil leaves. On the other slice, my wife spread some chili mayo that she'd made using a chili mixture we received over the winter in our subscription box from farmer friend Brett Grohsgal (Brett makes a number of different preserves and condiments for his CSA). Then she added the fried tomatoes and pressed the two halves together.


Originally my wife made these tomatoes for a cocktail buffet she was catering with my sister. These were the leftovers. They made a damn good lunch reheated.

Ode to Okra

Okra was a bit of a disappointment for me this year. I planted a different variety and it never reached the height of last year's crop. The pods seem to go woody before they are big enough to eat. But we do love okra. Here's a previously unpublished piece about our favorite Southern vegetable.

My guide to okra was none other than legendary food writer Craig Claiborne.

I mean his recipe in the New York Times Cookbook, of course. I’m from Chicago. What did I know from Craig Claiborne and okra?

There was only one problem. Once I tasted okra, I was hooked: I could not walk into a supermarket without checking the price of okra. Call it a passion, call it a fetish. Call it a willful disregard for normal. I became so attuned to the going rate for okra, I could give you the time based on the latest quote.

$4.99 a pound. A bit pricey. Must be January or February.

$3.59 per pound. Things are starting to thaw. March.

$2.99. I’m dusting off last year’s okra recipes. We’re in April.

$1.49. Memorial Day! Time for barbecue and a side of okra.

You’re thinking, Boy, this guy is weird. Well, not so weird as okra
itself.

This is a plant that can’t decide whether it’s a vegetable or a tree. This is the Yao Ming of the mallow family, growing to heights of 10 feet.

Some varieties of okra plants are so thick with prickly hairs, harvesters have to wear gloves to avoid getting stung. When they do start picking the fruit—a five-sided, pornographic looking green pod—the plant goes berserk and starts making pods like there’s no tomorrow.

The pods contain seeds the size of bird shot and, like something out of the movie Alien, only grow bigger—up to nearly a foot—if they’re not picked. Even more like something out of the movie Alien, when you cut into a pod it oozes a mucilaginous goo that won’t exactly burn a hole through the hull of your spacecraft, but does turn some people off. Other people think it’s just perfect for thickening soups and stews such as gumbo.

More fun okra trivia:

Okra loves hot, humid climates (but then, who doesn’t?), and just picks up steam when lesser flora are swooning in the heat. This may be why okra—originally from Africa--is so popular south of the Mason Dixon Line, as well as in the Caribbean, Brazil, India and Southeast Asia.

Okra tastes somewhere between asparagus and eggplant, even though its closest cousin is cotton. Okra also is a hibiscus and will, if left to its own devices, burst into ornamental flowers perfectly suitable for your home garden before it tries to take over with its strange pods.

The goo in gumbo is not from outer space, but rather a simple convergence of acetylated acidic polysaccharide and galacturonic acid common in mallow plants. But, you probably knew that. Trust me: It’s perfectly harmless.

Okra consistently ranks near the top of America’s least favorite vegetables, which may explain why the okra you see in supermarkets is often shriveled and covered with brown blotches. When fresh, okra is bright green, smooth and blemish free. Check your local farmer’s market or an ethnic market that appreciates good okra. Choose pods 3 to 4 inches in length. Bigger pods are tougher.

Craig Claiborne’s okra recipe called for marinating the pods in tarragon vinegar before cooking them in a skillet with red pepper flakes. Equally good is okra is stewed with corn, onions, green pepper and tomatoes. And you can hardly make an authentic gumbo without okra to thicken it (though some cooks try.)

Meanwhile, Southerners will jump through rings of fire to get fried okra. Simply trim the stem ends from the okra and cut the pods into 1/2-inch slices. Dredge these first in buttermilk, then in flour seasoned with salt. Fry the pieces in 360-degree oil, as you would French fries or onion rings. Drain on paper towels and serve hot.

Scourge of the Celebrity Chef

Here's a piece in a recent issue of the Washington City Paper that encapsulates fairly neatly my own feelings about why we should avoid celebrity chefs and pricey restaurants. For one, it's not real food...

Whither Local Food?

Anyone care to guess what this is a picture of? If you said people waiting for one of the bakery stands to open at our local farmer's market last Sunday, you would be correct. I was working on a magazine article about cooking with local produce and it was all I could do to avoid being swept away in the crowds. It was a mad house.

And this at one of the most expensive markets in the area, right in the heart of the District of Columbia. In August, no less. I thought everyone had left for the Hamptons...

This just points up the growing popularity of local, sustainably raised produce. New farmer's markets are popping up everywhere. U.S. agriculture officials report the number of markets was up to 4, 385 last year from 1,795 in 1994. So the number of markets more than doubled in an 11-year period. Meanwhile, the amount Americans spent on locally-raised food increased from $4 billion in 2002 to $5 billion. That's a 25 percent increase in four years.

While those figures may be heartening, it hardly shows that Americans are giving up their nasty food habits for healthy, local foods. Unfortunately. Keep in mind that the total annual food consumption in this country runs something like $900 billion. Local foods would therefore represent just a tiny fraction, something like one half of one percent. And 25 percent over four years is not a raging increase, not even a hiccup compared to all the money being spent at traditional grocery outlets, fast-food joints and restaurants.

But what concerns me more is that the infrastructure for a more meaningful shift to healthy local food production is just not there and is not growing but shrinking. The price of farm land is rising. Urban sprawl continues to gobble up prime acreage. Farmers are getting older. Some farmer's markets are now having trouble recruiting enough local farmers to fill all the open vending slots. And those farmers who do practice sustainable local agriculture can't fill the demand for their products.

Here is one narrative from a Vermont pig farmer who sadly cannot meet the demand from local restaurants. Are we nearing a peak in what local farmer's can supply? I have no way of knowing. Perhaps I am just seeing the glass half- empty instead of half-full. But I have a bad feeling about the big picture. I have a feeling that as a country, we don't care enough, we aren't doing enough, the leadership isn't there on the issues that really matter.

But do by all means get out and enjoy your local farmer's market. All those farmers working hard to provide us with healthy local products surely deserve our support this Labor Day.

Today's Breakfast

Sliced Brandywine tomatoes with shaved goat Gouda cheese, red onion and torn basil leaves.


Season with fine extra-virgin olive oil, course salt and freshly ground black pepper. Consume immediately.


Shopping time: none

Preparation time: about five minutes.

We have four varieties of tomatoes growing in cages in our garden: Brandywine, Cherokee purple (both heirlooms), plum and a golden cherry tomato. The Brandywine and cherry tomato plants seem to be the most productive at this point, and we are beginning to see quite a few coming to ripeness now.


Coincidentally, the basil plants are tall, bushy and vibrant. In other words, completely in synch with the tomatoes.

To my mind, there is only one way to eat a big, juicy, delicious tomato such as a ripe Brandywine, and that is just as I have described above, or maybe with just a pinch of salt now and then as you eat it whole, like and apple.

Saving the World's Seeds

One of the more pernicious aspects of modern agriculture is the manner in which most of the seeds needed to feed the world's population have fallen into the hands of a few chemical companies.

Monsanto, Bayer, Syngenta, Dow--these are the leaders. Fully 55 percent of the seeds used to grow the world's food are sold by just ten global firms.

And notice that these are not traditional seed companies but chemical giants. Their business is to modify the seeds in the laboratory and then patent the results, so that growers are prevented from saving the seeds and must purchase them over and over again, year after year, in order to plant them legally. Famously, the biggest and most aggressive of these companies is Monsanto, which has a team of lawyers at the ready to swoop down on any luckless farmer who might be found to have one of Monsanto's patented varieties growing in his field and sue the shit out of him.

(You can find examples of this on the lower right-hand side of this page under "Bad Things in Food.")

It wasn't always so. In the 10,000 years of the agricultural era, mankind has focused quite a bit of attention on breeding and cultivating plant species and setting aside seeds from the most successful varieties to plant the following year. Stores of seeds were guarded as the life source they were. But with the advent of industrial agriculture--certainly within the last century--plant breeders focused more and more on creating super varieties, those that produced the most under a range of conditions.

The corporatization of seeds has led to a kind of bio-diversity warfare among nations. The majority of food crops originate in Latin American and the Near East. Only about five percent originate in North America and Europe. Yet it was the northern countries that pounced on the idea of patenting seeds culled from the world's crop diversity, then selling the seeds back to farmers on a world-wide basis. The scenario is good for food production--and certainly good for shareholders--but establishes a kind of seed colonialism perpetrated on the world's developing nations.

Also lost in the age of industrial agriculture is much of the genetic diversity that previously existed. A survey in 1983 found the of the 544 traditional varieties of cabbage, only 28 remained. Carrots had dropped from 287 to 21; cauliflower from 158 to nine; pears from 2,683 to 326.

Fearful of permanently losing their heritage of plant genetics, countries around the globe have established seed banks. In the United States, a national seed repository known as the National Plant Germplasm System is housed in a Fort Knox-like bunker in Ft. Collins, CO. But many of the worlds seed banks are threatened.

During World War II, scientists in the Soviet Union actually starved to death amidst a bounty of seeds, determined to the point of giving their lives to pass the seeds to the next generation. More recently, the seeds in Afghanistan were not so lucky. That country's store--containing rare varities of almonds and walnuts, along with fruits such as grapes, melons, cherries, peaches and more--had been hidden away for safe-keeping. But after the Taliban was ejected, the seeds were found strewn on the floors of their stashes. Looters apparently wanted the jars in which the seeds had been stored.

Now an effort to store all of the worlds plant diversity in one place is paying off in the form of a doomsday type facility bored into a mountain on an Arctic island off Norway. Of course the world's nation's are not exactly pooling their seeds. Corporate seed companies reject any effort that might dilute their hegemony over the seed industruty. Rather, collections from each country are merely be house there.

You can read all about it in an excellent article in the Aug. 27 issue of The New Yorker. It really is a must read for anyone engaged in the subversive act of saving seeds, or even mildly concerned about the impact of corporate greed on the world's food crops.