Not Your Mother's Pomodoro Sauce

I dated an Italian guy once. His parents were off the boat, from the same town that gave us the Sopranos. They spoke Italian, had big Sunday dinners in Northern Jersey where the whole mishpocha would converge, and all that went with it.

He was American Italian, an Italian one step removed. But his dating rules were old school. Bada bing for a night with the guys: totally acceptable. A woman who cooks and expects her boyfriend to clean the dishes: totally unacceptable. We went nowhere fast, but not before I was able to learn a thing or two in his mom's kitchen.

One of my favorites: her salad dressing. Every Sunday she put out this bowl of salad, for 20. Basic greens and a simple vinaigrette. But something about this salad was uniquely delicious. A flavor I couldn’t place.

I finally got the courage to ask her about it one night while I was doing the dishes. She told me that she could share the recipe, but no matter how hard I tried I could never match the flavor. She pointed to her imported olive oil, some basic red wine vinegar, the salt and pepper, and held up her hands. “I toss with my hands. After cooking all day, they’re in the garlic, the herbs. That’s what gives the dressing the flavor.”

Now that’s a recipe. Basic, authentic, off-the-boat. It's everything you'd never see in a four-star restaurant, but it’s the absolute essence of home cooking. Thank god she makes the desserts days in advance, or we'd have some funky tiramisu.

My first introduction to Momma was on the telephone, after I made my signature tomato sauce for Luigi. I served it with al dente pasta, some nice garlic bread, and Parm to grate at the table. Simple, basic, classic.

When I called him to the table, he looked at it the pasta like he was going to make love to it. He had been smelling my sauce all day, and giving Pavlov's dogs a run. He took a bite, smiled at me, and said, “Call Momma.”

“You love it?” I said.

“It’s good, Allison. Good.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “It’s just not Momma's. Hers is perfect. Have her walk you through it so you can make it right.”

With that, he stood up, found a Godfather marathon on SpikeTV and ordered Chinese.

Though he was tucchus rested comfortably on my ejection button, my food curiosity got the better of me. I called Momma.

She vaguely but generously walked me through her sauce. It wasn’t hard at all, I just needed the fresh tomatoes that her husband gets in his garden, in late August, and a handful of his fresh basil. Well, first I really needed to skin the tomatoes, then put them through a food mill. Then I get that good garlic that her friend smuggles over in the plane from Italy, cut it paper thin, and give it a little olive oil. I cook the tomato puree until it’s perfect, Luigi can tell me when that is, and then just tear the basil and toss it in. Not too much, not to little. Salt, maybe. Depends on the season.

This nothing-to-it recipe came with produce I could never score, years of cooking experience I will never have, and a palate I couldn't please. Sounds like a great Sunday afternoon in the kitchen, no? Turn up the Puccini and let’s get cooking.

Or, you could try my sauce. It’s simple, replicable and can be made any time of year. It’s been tested on my client’s husbands and wives without fail, and has led to many a passionate evening (I’ve been told). And the best part of it, you can tweak it a million different ways, call it your own, and keep the recipe from your son’s girlfriend. Or share it. Up to you.


Ciao Luigi Pomodoro Sauce
By The Wooden Spoon
Inspired by Marcella Hazan

This recipe is fantastic with gnocchi, or a simple pasta topping. I also like it to dip with a nice loaf of grilled Italian bread for breakfast, or in addition to the classic olive oil at a restaurant.

2 28-ounce cans whole tomatoes (I like Muir Glen)
1 medium onion, peeled and halved
1 stick unsalted butter
Salt, red pepper flakes to taste

1. Put a large skillet or braising pot on the stovetop. Open the cans of tomatoes, and take the tomatoes, one by one, and squish them in between your fingers, discarding the tough part at the top which had been attached to the stem. The tomatoes may spray if you’re too aggressive; you might want to do this over a deeper bowl if your kitchen is getting messy.

2. Once the tomatoes are all squished, add the butter, and the onions, cut side down. Turn the heat to medium high, and add a few pinches of salt. Let the whole thing come to a simmer, and simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens, about 1 ½ to 2 hours. When it starts to look like a very thick, tomatoey sauce, give it a taste. The sauce should take on an intense, sweet, rich flavor, but be balanced with natural acids. Season with salt, and red pepper flakes if desired. Discard the onion prior to serving.

Christmakah: A Brittle Holiday

I’m up to my eyeballs in Chocolate Covered Cashew Brittle. I kid you not. I decided that it would be my signature holiday dessert this year because:

1) It’s super-easy.
2) It’s impressive and no one seems to make it anymore.
3) People like to eat it.

This brittle became my holiday party bring-along, my new client gift, and the holiday gift of several friends this year (who asked me to make it for them so that they could give it). My kitchen has turned into a regular production facility. Look, I’m not complaining, I’m just bellyaching, literally, because I can’t keep my paws off the brittle. It’s tasty.

On the flip side of Holiday ’05, I cancelled all Chanukah gifting with my immediate family. Maybe it was because I started hearing Bing Crosby in Starbucks on November 17th; maybe it’s because my clan is distributed along the East Coast and we won’t be celebrating together on a specific day; maybe it’s because I was raised Jewish but had my own hand-knit Christmas stocking and I’m just getting confused.

But most likely it’s because I’m alone for the holidays this year. Again. You see, my little brother is married in Baltimore, my parents are happily retired in North Carolina. Everyone has grown up, moved on, and are now creating new families of their own. I have a dog and a brittle production facility in a Brooklyn apartment that’s way beyond my budget. Any natural mid-thirties female nesting vibe I’ve got is being channeled into starting a business. A brittle woman, indeed.

My brother, called this year to find out what we were doing for our gift exchange. I told him that he and his wife should spend $50 on gifts for themselves, and I’d do the same. Then we could call in a few weeks and tell each other what we got. No muss, no fuss.

I could hear his eyes roll from 400 miles away. You see, he’s a great guy. The guy who played football and joined a fraternity. A financial advisor who runs his local golf tournament. He’ll help you move if you need a hand, and is likely to shovel your walk for you if you just ask.

I’m different. I take pride in doing my own things, my own way. I think I confuse my brother, who likes me, but isn’t quite sure what to make of me.

“Listen sis, that’s a little weird, and not in the spirit of things, but if it’s what you want, then fine.”

And then, a few days later:
“Hey, sis. It’s your brother. And I’ve decided I don’t like your approach to the Holidays.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I want to give you a present.”
“Oh, because our capitalist society tells you to? Because Hallmark has made it a requirement? Because it’s your civic duty to spend and spend, on credit, and go into debt?” At this point, I can only hope he took his ear from the phone. “Because, brother, I’m not buying into that mishigas! I’m not down with unnecessary expenditures this year, and your holiday knick-knack falls straight into that category. Oh, and in case you’ve forgotten, our Holiday is not a generic Holiday, it’s Chanukah. Chhhhhhhhhanukah.”

Another loud eye roll. “No, Allison, it’s not because I’m a capitalist whatever, but because you’re my sister. My only sister. I want to do what everybody does this time of year, because I want to remind you that I care about you and love you, and that you’re the only sister I’ll ever have. I want to let you know how important you are to me, especially because we’re apart and I know that you’re not near your family right now. I want to give you a present.”

There’s no amount of anti-consumerist propoganda that can harden my heart to those words from my little brother. They melted me. My coming down so hard, my bah-humbugging on everyone else’s capital-H Holiday was less about my anti-capitalist tendencies, and, truth be told, more about my fear of being left out and forgotten.

So maybe next year my brother will get me a gift certificate to Banana, or Ann Taylor, or Sephora, and maybe he’ll get a boxful of brittle. But he’ll have a hard time topping his gift from this year. Thanks, Bro. Happy Choliday and Merry Christmakah.



Chocolate Covered Cashew Brittle
By The Wooden Spoon

3 ¾ cups sugar, divided
1 16-ounce bottle light corn syrup, divided
1 ¾ cups water, divided
¾ teaspoon salt, divided
5 cups roasted, salted cashews, divided
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, divided
1 ¾ teaspoons baking soda, divided
2 11.5-ounce bags chocolate chips
Vegetable spray or silpat mats

1. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper and cover it with non-stick spray, or line it with a silpat. You will be creating two brittles; one that will become candy dust coating the outside of the official brittle, and one that is the official brittle. So pull out two pots, one small (2 quarts) and one medium) 5 quarts or so. Put the following ingredients in each pot:

SMALL POT
¾ cups sugar
1/2 cup corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt

BIG POT
3 cups sugar
1 ½ cups corn syrup
1 1/2 cup water
1/2 teaspoon salt

2. Cover both pots, and turn up the burner under the small pot. When it comes to a rolling boil (4 minutes), remove the lid. Meanwhile, combine the following ingredients in two separate bowls:

SMALL BOWL
1 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
¾ cup cashews

BIG BOWL
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 ½ teaspoons baking soda
3 cups cashews

3. Watch carefully until the caramel begins to color. Let it go, swirling the pan to distribute the color, until it becomes an attractive shade of light brown (just past the blonde color). Stir in the ingredients from the small bowl, and pour them onto the prepared pan. When the caramel begins to harden, place it (and the liner, not the sheet pan) into the refrigerator or freezer to hasten the hardening process.

4. Turn the burner under the large pot to medium heat. Follow directions as above (#2) to engage in the same process, realizing that with a larger volume of liquid, it will take longer to color. Cover the sheet pan with another piece of parchment and non-stick spray or another silpat. When the caramel has reached an attractive color, pour in the ingredients from the big bowl.

5. Meanwhile, take the hardened caramel from the small batch, and whiz it in the food processor until it becomes a dust. Chop the remaining 1 cup of cashews by hand, and combine the dust and the cashews in a bowl. Melt one bag of chocolate in the microwave, or by using a double boiler.

6. Pour the big-batch brittle onto the prepared pan, and smooth it out using a spatula, creating an even layer. When it begins to harden, layer the chocolate on top of the brittle. Sprinkle half the cashew dust over the top, covering the chocolate. Place entire sheet pan in the refrigerator to cool.

7. Melt remaining bag of chocolate. When the brittle in the refrigerator has hardened, turn brittle out onto another pan or other large surface that can be transferred to the refrigerator. Pour the melted chocolate onto the brittle, and cover with remaining cashew dust. Refrigerate until chocolate has hardened. Using the tip of a knife, break brittle into large pieces and serve on a platter (or package in a non-airtight container as a gift). Keep cool.

Puree: Magnum's Pablum

You know when you're first getting to know a possible romantic interest, and you find yourself interpreting every single thing about them? If you've ever been on an Internet date, you know exactly what I'm talking about:

THEM: So what kind of restaurants do you like?

ME: I absolutely adore Momofuku. Killer pork ramen. And those pickles...

THEM: I don't eat pork. Well, I do, but only in Chinese Food. Oh, and I guess I eat bacon, but only when I get a BLT at diners or sometimes my brother in-law's house (he's Protestant) because I keep kosher. 100% kosher...in the home. Oh, except I always keep a bag of shrimp in the freezer, but I'd never eat a bivalve.

ME: So you don't eat oysters?

THEM: God no. They are filth. In fact I'd never touch anything even resembling an oyster.

ME: (to myself) Oh really? I think we're done here.

And then there are the pleasant surprises. Like JChef. I've never dated a chef before, and I can't think of a single person who has and would recommend it. Insanity is a chef pre-requisite; which is (let's admit it) both appealing and not. A chef gets burnt and bloody, spending most of his day managing a motley crew of close-to-the-edge cooks, slaving away in heat and carcinogens while you're 10 feet away, wearing a fantastic new cashmere set, determining which might make the best pre-school for Jacob. The chef has spent years learning how to cook so that he can make 50 omelettes in a 2 hour rush every Saturday and Sunday (the first part of his 16-hour workday), while likely not making enough of a profit to afford to eat in his own restaurant. For every patron who orders from the bottom of the wine list, and thoughtful enough to send a glass back to the kitchen, there is another who returns dessert because "my girlfriend doesn't like those black dots in her vanilla ice cream."

A chef has to care, deeply, about his product and making it excellent. He'll be up at night wondering if the crispiest fries are bought pre-blanched and frozen (yes), or are made from scrach (no). Should they be fried in beef fat, pork fat, or peanut oil, and should they should come with ketchup, chipotle mayo, or both. That's a whole lot of caring about the experience of a room full of people he'll never meet. There is no ovation at the end of the night. Sure, there's the possiblity that a lonely woman at the bar might pass you her phone number, or a cute waitress might get close to you in the walk-in.

If you weren't crazy before you got into this business, you will be.

So on date 1 with JChef (whose own fondness for oysters causes him to salivate just thinking of thick green moss growing on the side a dock), we found ourselves locking antlers over a certain chef we knew in common, who I'll refer to as Magnum. He was an old friend of mine and I was to be flirting, I mean working, with him later that week. JChef had cooked with him during a kitchen trail years ago. While we both respected and enjoyed the man's food, JChef understood realized there wasn't a walk-in in the world that could accomodate the three of us.

I received an email not long after the date, but prior to my Magnum rendez-vous, with the last line:

"Have a good time with Magnum tomorrow. Ten to one you'll be preparing some kind of savory custard at some point. He's into that kind of pablum, so bring a straw. J"

What could be more fun for an interpreter than having her woo-er make use of an unfamililiar term? I had stumbled onto unfamiliar, urban-legend territory: a chef with a brain. Advantage JChef.

pablum
n 1: a soft form of cereal for infants [syn: Pablum] 2: worthless or oversimplified ideas [syn: pap]

Oversimplified ideas? Yee-ouch. JChef created a Magnum puree with one well-chosen word. As predicted, the following day I played with savory custards, flavored with butternut squash and truffle. Customers love these items-- Magnum's reputation is built around them. There's something about having that soft eggy, creamy texture that makes people go mmmmmm.

Which got me to wonder what exactly turns people on about a savory custard, and how can home cooks achieve that same yumminess with a similar texture and flavor and less water-bath drama?

Simple: a puree. Why do people go nuts for light, buttery mashed potatoes? It's that same baby food texture, exponentially improved with butter, cream and salt. Potatoes are good, but what if you could achieve that same texture, with a richer flavor, ie. roasted sweet potato or sweet parsnip? Any of you familiar with the Atkins or South Beach lifestyle will know what I mean when you hear these two magic words: cauliflower puree.

Whether it's Magnum's Frenchy custard or a simple puree, it's a not-too-challenging delicious-yet-surprising component of a meal. I've served it and taught it, and am always asked for seconds. A far more interesting option than mashed potatoes, IMHO, with all the benefits. Play with the components; interpret it for yourself. It's a charming call-back to what we've all loved from the beginning: baby food.



White Sweet Potato Vidalia Puree
Developed by The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4 to 6

Try this with a variety or combination of root vegetables (parsnips, celeriac, rutabaga), liquids (milk, stock), fat (butter, creme fraiche, mascarpone, cream), and acids (lemon juice, sherry vinegar). Add in fresh herbs if you'd like. Interpret it for yourself.

3 large white sweet potatoes, scrubbed
1 small vidalia onion
Olive oil, salt and pepper
1 to 2 cups milk or stock
1 tablespoon cider vinegar, optional

1. Preheat oven to 425F. Peel potatoes and cut into 2-inch chunks (to allow faster roasting). Cut onion into 1-inch wedges. Place on a baking sheet and toss with a few tablespoons of olive oil and salt; roast until very soft, about 35 to 45 minutes. Reduce heat or cover with foil if necessary to prevent browning.

2. Place in mixture food processor and add 1 cup liquid; puree until smooth. Add more liquid, as desired, for a thinner puree. Add vinegar if desired to perk flavor.


P.S. Regarding last week's JChef account, I'd like to thank you for your heartfelt phone calls and notes of consolation. The lucky duck is back; he's ended his man-flake. After 4 days of silence, speaking to him was like uncorking a bottle of champagne that had been lashed to the back of a motorcycle for a 10 mile trip on cobblestones. The man spoke without breathing; on and on about misrepresentation in my blog; the special he ran that weekend (as I guessed, it included cabbage); his newsletter and would I give him my opinion; his cat's challenging eating habits, etc. etc. Without saying it, he told me just how bad he missed me.

We met for oysters, tipped Luis well, and kissed a lot. To hell with New York dating convention; I'm giving this a go.

Crème Caramel: A Mating Call

JChef and I came to loggerheads about custard in the way two opinionated food lovers can on a cold December night in Manhattan. I had just come from a particularly delicious cooking class with a client where we made:

Caramelized Leek and Goat Cheese Tart
Coq au Vin
Celeriac Parsnip Puree
Crème Brulee

Now before I get into the JChef story, let me tell you about this class. As a teacher, I show students how to do things for the very first time. A deflowering, if you will. I teach them how to properly chop an onion, or sear a piece of tuna, and it thrills me. Remember that clip in the old Helen Keller movie where Anne is splashing water on Helen's hands until she understands how to sign "water"? That's the passionate eruption of understanding and communication I'm talking about. Teachers get this thrill when they take a student’s ignorance away, and it’s part of what makes teaching as much of an addiction as it is a noble occupation.

In this particular class the student had never created a brulee, or even held a vanilla bean. I put the bean in her hand, and showed her how to scrape the seeds and use the disassembled bean components to flavor the custard. After the crèmes were baked and chilled, we turned to the torch.

There is a naughtiness that accompanies women and their kitchen tools – the big old knives, the torches, the mallets and the cleavers. Watch an Italian Grandma take a cleaver to a veal cutlet and you’ll see just how cute little old ladies can be.

We ignited the torch and giggled, then taught ourselves the ins and outs of the safety lock when the thing wouldn’t reignite. (There was no way we were going to broil the crèmes– not nearly as much fun!). We covered their tops with sugar, and pointed the blue flame directly on the crystals. The crystals melted and bronzed, and her eyes popped. She insisted we eat one together, and we tapped the top with the side of our spoon. The brulee gave us a satisfying crack and we dug our spoons deep into the custard. She said what every cooking student says when I teach them this, “So really, that’s it? That was too easy.”

She grocked a new experience and now has a kinesthetic lesson learned for life. Which is good news for her husband, as he likes his brulee well done. (NOTE: If you see a pretty 30-something woman with long blond hair remove a small torch from her bag at any one of Manhattan's better restaurants and put a little extra brulee on her husband’s crème, say hello. They’re a lot of fun, and they’re likely to ask you to join them for a glass of wine.)

So I met JChef after this wonderful class and was blathering on about the joy of teaching crème brulee. He told me his absolute fave in the custard and burnt sugar category was crème caramel. I prefer flan, but he went on, kvelling about the caramel. I was pretty sure they were the same, and suggested as much, but then deferred, and demurred, and tried my best to act the part of a lady taken out on the town. He took me to The Mermaid Inn where we sucked down oysters and drank martinis and enjoyed an excellent grilled cabbage side dish that I'm sure is on his specials list tonight.

The date ended in a conversation about the fact that JChef is not looking to date anyone seriously right now; “it’s a timing thing”. And things were just getting going. This made me very sad, and is part of a larger New York City epidemic as far as I can tell. He left, with things clear enough that I've cancelled his birthday reservations for next week, but cloudy enough that I'm hopeful.

Waiting is not my specialty. When I want to be with someone and I can’t, I miss them intensely; I want a piece of them back. Sometimes I’ll reread old emails or romp around in a shirt that's been left behind.

For JChef, I’m making crème caramel.


CRÈME CARAMEL
Created by The Wooden Spoon

This presentation works best for a dinner party; one big creme caramel for everyone to share.

1 cup sugar, divided
1/4 cup water
2 1/4 cups milk
3 whole eggs
3 egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract, or preferably a scraped vanilla bean
pinch salt
hot tap water

1. Preheat oven to 325F. Prepare for a water bath by placing a 9-inch pie plate inside a larger vessel, like a large flat-bottomed skillet. Be sure that there is enough room in between the two containers so that you can add hot tap water in between them to insulate the creme (and keep it from curdling) during the cooking process.

2. In a small saucepan, combine 1/2 cup sugar and the water. Place over medium heat, and cover for 5 minutes. The sugar will liquefy; remove lid. Do not stir, or place any implements in the caramel; just let it be. It will starts to turn caramel color (should take about 5 - 7 additional minutes). Once the liquid starts to turn brown, keep an eye on it, as it can go from rich, deep caramel to bitter and burnt brown-black rather quickly. When it's a shade that works for you, pour it into the pie plate.

3. Meanwhile, bring milk to a simmer on the stovetop, and whisk together the eggs, yolks, remaining 1/2 cup sugar, vanilla and salt in a medium bowl. When milk comes to a simmer (don't let it boil over), slowly whisk it in to the egg mixture. Pour this into the pie plate, over the caramel. Fill the space in between the two vessels with hot tap water, and place in the oven. Watch the oven temperature, as the water should be hot, but never boiling. Cook for 30 to 45 minutes, or until the custard has set (test with the tip of a knife).

4. To serve, sit the custard in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes (warmer crème) or overnight (cold crème). Run the tip of a knife around the sides of the plate, and invert (over the sink, as you may have spillage). If the dessert has chilled for a while, the caramel may stocl tp the bottom of the pan. To warm the caramel, run your warm hands over the bottom of the plate, or submerge briefly in a plate of hot water. Invert, and serve.


NOTE: As mentioned above, there were a few minutes of debate as to which was better, crème caramel or flan. Well it appears that they're exactly the same; a custard made with whole eggs, yolks, sugar and milk (though some recipes also call for condensed or evaporated milk...). One's French and one's Spanish. A big Bronx cheer to JChef.

Collards from Long Island, North Carolina

My parents moved to North Carolina from New York five years ago. To build their own house, live on the water, retire, and have their next adventure.

For a Jewish couple from Long Island, rural coastal Carolina is not as big a change as one might think. For one, they live in a plantation (read: suburban development) that is largely habitated by other Northerners. In their growing group of local friends, one is hard pressed to find a drawl. For real live locals, one must venture outside the plantation. To the Varnamtown docks to buy fresh-caught shrimp from an eighth generation Varnam, or to Holden Beach to buy local fish from Holden kin.

One of my mom's favorite stories involves a newly-minted culinary school daughter looking to make a shrimp bisque. Cut to Holden Beach, where I could always find mounds of just-caught shrimp, peeled and deveined. I came in seeking shrimp shells which I would use to prepare a stock for the bisque.

"Excuse me, sir, do you have any shrimp shells?"
"Shrimp whut?"
"Shells."
"You mean the pee-uhl?"
"Yessir."
"Whut you want what with the pee-uhl?"
"I'm making a bisque."
"A whut?"

And on and on. Eyes rolled, colleagues were called out from the back room. I got myself good and laughed at, but I walked out with bags of shrimp shells. Crazy Northerners, indeed.

There's another Holden-owned operation that I visit regularly: the Holden Brothers Farm Market. On this particular post-Thanksgiving journey, I was drawn to the collards. They had leaves as big as umbrellas attached to rigid stems, collected at the bottom in a natural bunch. There had an intoxicating vitality, a natural strength that made me swoon.

Collards do it for me. Yes, they are physically imposing, but my passion for them goes beyond the physical. Collards are something that southerners eat, southerners know, southerners write stories about. It's a bond. Collards and grits are to Southerners what schmaltz and gribines are to Jews. Collards are not something that little white Jewish girls from Long Island should be preparing, especially if you're going to throw a ham hock in the mix. Something about cooking collards just feels forbidden and sexy to me.

Which is why when I'm in the south, in my mothers kitchen, I always try to cook them.

At checkout, the girl who rang us up took a moment to wax nostalgic about her Thanksgiving dinner, just two days old. This was the first year that she was asked to cook the collards.

"Really. And how did you do it?"
"Well, I'll tell y'all, there was nothin' to it. I gave em a wash, and sep-rated em from the stems, course. Then I just threw em in a pot with some pi-ig. Some baycon, or maybe a ham hock. Anyway, I put em all in with a little water, and cooked them til they were du-un. Then I went in there with a knife, cut em all up like thi-yis, and put em out. Evry-one loved em."

So I followed her recipe, with a tweak or two, and it was collards I had. The beauty of real Southern-style collards is that you cook the holy hell out of them, for hours, until they break down and get real soft. Of course, the army green color would make my culinary school chefs' heads spin, but hey, it's authentic. It makes this fantastic green-brown broth that is a few parts collard cooking water, a few parts pig stock, and anything else you decide to put into the mix. Pot Likker they call it, and if you find yourself one day with a hitch in your giddy-up, give it a try. It'll get you vital real fast.

Holden Farmstand Collards
Created by The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4 to 6

2 big bunches of collards
1 ham hock
2 tablespoons cider vinegar, or hot pepper vinegar
water
pinches of salt, grindings of pepper
a big pot
a few hours

1. Give the collards a good rinse, and pull the leaves off the stems. You can do this in two ways; either cut the leaves off with a knife, or simply pull them off, separating from the stem.

2. Roll up the leaves as if you're rolling a cigarette, but don't worry about rolling them tight. Cut the collards into ribbons about 2-inches thick. Put the whole mess in a pot, with a ham hock, the vinegar, about 2 cups of water, and turn the heat to high. When the water comes to a boil, reduce the heat; cover and let simmer for as long as you like, stirring occasionally. In 20 to 30 minutes you'll have bright, crunchy greens, just fit for a northerner. In 2 to 3 hours, you'll have it southern style, soft, mushy, army-green. Keep an eye on the liquid; you don't want the pot to go dry.

3. Before serving, retrieve the ham hock from the pot and shred the meat into bite-sized fingers, using your fingers (if they're made of asbestos), or a knife (if they're not).

4. Serve with grits, pork chops, Carolina hot sauce, and a drawl.