Weeknight Cooking:
Hoppin' John with Andouille

"Eat poor that day, eat rich the rest of the year.
Rice for riches and peas for peace."
– Southern saying on eating a dish of Hoppin' John
on New Year's Day






How Hoppin' John, a Carolina low country dish with Carribbean / African roots, found its way on the pages of the "Weeknight Cooking" section of Food Network's magazine might not be as unusual as it first looks.  Beans, rice, and super food greens are trending upward on the American culinary scene at

a fast rate.  Beans, legumes, rice and greens add complex nutrients to our diets while also providing in some cases fairly substantial proteins.  What used to be eaten as a festive southern dish thought to be bring good luck for the coming year, now offers the eater a dish of great variety, health and substance.  At the base of the dish is a combination of black eyed peas, a 10-oz bag of frozen okra, white rice and celery; at the top of the plate is the sausage (I chose Polish as a family-friendly option, but recipe calls for the more spicy Andouille), cut into 1/4

inch thick pieces (I cut the slices into quarters, which spread the sausage out nicely), and two plum tomatoes, seeded and chopped.  To begin, the sausage and okra is cooked together in a pan, just long enough so that browned but remembering that when okra is cooked too long it becomes gooey as it

contains soluble fiber.  Set aside, then cook a diced yellow pepper, scallions and three stalks of celery in skillet.  Add three minced garlic cloves, a pinch of thyme, salt then 1 cup white rice to coat.  Stir in black-eyed peas and two cups of water, allowing to boil then reduce for around 18 minutes.  Once you re-top this panful with the sausage and okra, even though it resembles something like a true hodgepodge of ingredients, the result is a sort of comfort food stew which is dynamically textured and 'hops' with each forkful of sausage.

On Useppa

"Just before it was dark, as they passed a great island of Sargasso weed that heaved and swung in the light sea as though the ocean were making love with something under a yellow blanket, his small line was taken by a dolphin."
     – Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea






The ten thousand islands were but a hundred in reality, but as you navigated them yourself, in among the mangrove inlets, past the hundreds of dune beaches, it felt as though you might very well be at all times floating just above land.  This was because the ten thousand islands used to be the continent land of Florida in ancient times.  Sea levels had risen and turned land to islands, floating mangroves, mere tufts of sand four feet deep where now the catfish, pinfish, pigfish, rays, sharks,

oysters, whelks, conchs, and clams thrived in the slow beating churn of the milky blue waters.  Here we can see the huts of ancient natives spred along the upper coastline.  A young boy might be handed

the curved and safe bottom of a whelk axe, ground down to a sharp edge over time by the tribal craftsman, digging out the center line of a recently upturned stump for a canoe to fish or hop islands.  The natives leave quahog clam-shell anvils; chert tools; hammers, buried burned wood, and later, A.D. 500-800, Belle Glade pottery showing sophisticated manufacturing and communication among tribes.

Nature Journal

"When the glacier came down out of the north, crunching hills and gouging valleys, some adventuring rampart of the ice climbed the Baraboo Hills and fell back into the outlet gorge of the Wisconsin River. The swollen waters backed up and formed a lake half as long as the state, bordered on the east by cliffs of ice, and fed by the torrents that fell from melting mountains.  The shorelines of this old lake are still visible; its bottom is the bottom of the great marsh."
Leopold, from "Marshland Elegy"



24 Jan


Speeding along the beltline highway in Madison, you pass the Leopold Pines at Seminole Drive without really noticing. The old pines were planted there back in the 30's by Leopold himself and a few other UW Arboretum pioneers.  On the other side of the pines is the Curtis Prairie, the largest restored prairie in the world, where Leopold used to test his controversial notions of the prescribed burning of the landscape for the sake of natural rejuvenation. Walking trails criss cross the now frozen long prairie grasses, then duck and weave into the woods back behind the nature center and old WPA barracks and organic raised garden.  The Gallistel Woods houses a turkey feeder ten feet tall and from there endless rows of turkey feet stamped across the snow like hieroglyphs.  They trudge across the Longenecker woods, we assume seeking more seeds or handouts from passers-by and circle around every species of tree imaginable.  Each tree is metal tagged, listing species and year planted.  Alders are grouped by alders, lindens by lindens.  River birches of all varieties spiral up out of their trunks and seem to sleep alone in these artful rows. We crossed the road at the far end of Longenecker to a trail that we hadn't seen before at Lake Wingra where we came across open water not yet frozen.

We later found out that these series of two or three open inlets are natural springs.  At one, small ripples came bubbling up from under mossy rocks; at another, the water came out of the shale

underground layer underneath the roots of an old oak.  The water wasn't warm to the touch but warm enough to keep the ice off.  Vibrant green duck weed floated around the springs. We took a deer trail out into the marsh beyond the spring where giant deer beds had formed in a cove of cattails that glowed golden under the falling sun.  When we laid down in the cattails the wind seemed to stop.  The sun warmed the grass, the ice but another layer of insulation for the creatures of the night.

From the Galley

Captain Merle might not be able to sail a dinghy across a windy pond, but he could cook like a galley pirate.  In truth, you could say he gravitated toward sailing not merely for the wind and water but for the sloop kitchen, a dazzling little teak box full of more gadgetry than a James Bond Lotus Esprit.

As chef Nanou began to demonstrate her coq au vin he felt the curl of pesky questions form at his lips.  They stood around the kitchen workspace and watched as chef systematically dismembered a chicken into its useful parts.  "What is the key with coq au vin," she would ask over and over again, so to make sure each step was remembered.  "Edible art is as great as you would like it to be.  Why not just pan sear and fry the chicken with some vegetables and be done with it?" As she asked this, Captain Merle  could still see the faint images of Her Bounty beached just down the lake.  God, what might become of her by now?  Would the anchor hold in the sand?  Is there such a thing as beach police, would they slap a parking ticket on her, unmanned as she was?  He slightly expected three men dressed in police garb to storm the kitchen doors looking for him.  "Are you the proprietor of Her Bounty, the forty foot sloop wobbling around the public beach just down the lake," they would ask before they slipped on the cuffs.  He smiled and nodded at the chef, having made this French dish himself many times, his own peculiarities already built into the process.  "Now, normally you want to let the chicken sit in a pan overnight to absorb your marinade of

garlic, carrots, leek, mushrooms and diced onion, a good red wine.  Don't forget to use half of the cut onion to stud your cloves into.  One bay leaf, fresh thyme is mandatory. Tonight I have already done this for you." The ladies of the group, despite their very obvious cooking experience by now had turned the volume dial up from hushed murmur to full cackle.  Merle had been in demos before where drinking was strictly forbidden until the finished product resulted, for fear of flaming shish kabobs or fish left in the pan still swimming unfried.  Merle slipped another swig of rum and wished for both the images of the boat and the cackle to sail away.  Madam Nanou was a soulful teacher, both brisk in her calculated execution of vegetable cuts, but always able to provide an appropriate story to go along with the food being dissected.  "When your chicken and bacon fat go in the pan along with the vegetable and reserved red wine marinade, I want you to then fill up the pot to the very top of the chicken with your best chicken stock. That itself will be another demonstration altogether.  And voila," she said, pressing down the chicken along the sides and then placing the large dutch over a medium heat, simmering, as the concocted aromas drifted in among the copper pans dangling overhead, "that is  your coq au vin."

From the Galley

The captain walked into the quaint, inset front door of Chez Nanou, still a sealed bottle of Rum stuffed in his front pocket, and he could hear the jolly murmurs of what must have been created by at least

four bottles of opened red wine, passed around the room, sipped, repeated.  He approached the small group of six women and one man, who himself looked to be part of the instruction, standing at the corner of the soft wooden bar, welcoming guests, bottle opener handy and by now well lubricated from use.  Monique, the famous proprietor of Chez Nanou, was, appropriately, speaking in a deep French accent something of her childhood spent in Brittany on a small farm, "In the spring, when Maman decided to make her coq au vin, or chicken in wine, my

siblings and I knew we had a long morning ahead of us.  Among the flock of around fifty chickens that roamed freely throughout the courtyard and barn area, Maman picked out exactly which hen she wanted to go into the pot.  It was always an old hen, too old to lay eggs but ripe with rich flavor that would seep into the sauce as it cooked.  Once Maman marked her quarry...." and Monique briefly

hesitated to acknowledge the Captain, "bonjour, mon ami, I see that you have brought your own quarry, oui?"  The rum had already been passed along the edge of the bar, tipped back like pirate sailors who have just set foot on the beaches of Nassau for the first time in three months, thirsty, hungry.  As the captain looked out the back window facing towards the water of Lake Monona, the happy sails of rainbow colored sloops stitching across the horizon, Monique picked up the bottle and took a good long swig.  "Ah, a bit sweet, non? she said without a blink, "but, we will be able to use some of this for the chicken later, oui?  As I was saying, "it was up to us children to capture the hen before lunch.  The chase was on as we tried to distinguish the honored dinner guest from her scattering sisters, every chicken taking off in separate directions to avoid being caught.  Woe to the child who tried to pass off a substitute hen from the one Maman wanted! Inevitably, after a morning of scrambling up haystacks or crawling through the woodpile to find the hiding place, the old hen was caught and brought to her just reward." Chef Monique opened to a wide grin, her ruthless cook's eyes widening, "Our just reward came the next day, as a pot of savory coq au vin proudly took center stage on the dinner table."

From the Galley

And all of this for a cooking class! Before Captain Merle's eyes flashed the four ways he was briefly taught to stop on water.  As the instructor went through these, he could remember the faint smile on his mustached mouth when he confirmed the fact as best he could that a sailboat is not a car with brakes.  In fact, he said, one of the little pleasures of sailing is knowing that the only way you can really keep control is by maintaining some speed, otherwise, by definition of water and wind, you are no longer in charge.  Capt. Merle tried his damnedest to navigate a series of S-turns, creating drag from the rudder, as he hauled in toward the beach at however many knots.  By the time Her Bounty first felt the (thankfully) soft undersand of the beach, it was angled and landed at the starboard beam. He clenched his body, looked up, avoided the random swinging of the beam, and the sails had only luffed, not yet completely collapsed.  He looked up to his nonchalant neighbors in the boat across the dock, notched his cap, gave a sailor's smile, then dug out the anchor dutifully, yet as red-faced as a beach bum who forgot his sunscreen for a day.  He desperately wanted to make his jaunt now up the road to

Chez Nanou in order to tell his tale over a shared bottle of vintage Caribbean Rum, but he felt along the pockets of his shorts only to realize that the square lump otherwise known as his wallet was still sealed down on deck below the helm.  He tucked his head back down into his chest, gave another nod to his more skilled boatmen, then dashed up the aluminum ladder – it dangling half cocked onto the sand, digging a small pit slowly to emerging water – then shuffled back toward the street carrying not only his wallet but precious cargo of sealed rum.  As he approached Chez Nanou, the quaintest little French Bistro this side of the Siene River, he could see the collection of grandmothers and girlfriends already tipping large glasses of thick red wine through the window.  His watch was back on the boat, but by

the look of the position of the afternoon sun, he was at least fifteen minutes late to class...yet how many others here had wrack a boat and shun a dock to get here?  All the others, cars, bikes, buses, with wheels that adhere to the street and stop on command.  How silly such ease!  The small white folded sign outside the door read today's class full: Coq Au Vin!

From the Galley

Racing Her Bounty past the broad bright structures of the Monona Terrace would be the first – and nearly the last for some time – feather in the cap of the newly outfitted Captain Merle.  He had caught the 15 mile

per hour gusts directly in his main and headsail temporarily and knew for certain, with his supreme lack of skill, that one false chugging of wind rushing down the deep alleyways of Martin Luther King Dr. from the capital would likely swat his rigging to a full list and he would be left with a desire for six arms instead of two, trying to devise a more potent way to sail alone.  If he had already devised a way to break down his mast so to motor below the Yahara bridges, it seemed only slightly logical that to devise a sailboat that adjusted its own luffing and reefing and jibbing or whatever '-ing' action word, could also devise a self-sailing device that simply tested the fickle winds and moved right along with them in unison...much in the same way a real captain did it, just a little more sweat and tears.  Yet here was the very flash of the city moving past him in a blur and his center line was sturdy.  Even the lowly seagull had to squawk

upward at the itching of the topping lift at the mast.  There were a few problems ahead, however.  There were other objects in the water.  Some rocks seemed to form to port like a bulwark against his very vision for speed.  Ripples had dropped over a grand patch of the blue water ahead and all of those
impulses towards the next move reduced him to a looseness in the knees that crept upwards towards the stomach and stayed there like a churning pit.  His half day on the water down at sailing school at Captiva Florida, although on the sea, did not prepare him for other moving objects about the water!  A beach lay ahead to the west.  By god, a dock.  Where did that come from?  Like the lost isle of

paradise.  He sullied up the inner drama of a true captain and prepared to "Jibe Ho" by lowering the centerboard, then sheeting the main, turning the helm slowly to bring the stern through the wind.  Luckily the wooden dock ahead held only one boat, just now coming down off the landing on the other side, for with this speed he would, god forbid, have to beach Her Bounty.  If there was one ultimate disaster known to all sea men, veteran or virgin, worse than capsizing in the middle of a body of water at the threat of a squall, it would indeed be the seemingly out-of-nowhere speedy rush of a sloop diving its nose perpendicular to an otherwise placid beach.  He would beach her, let the sails drop, set a roped anchor, then lurch off into the city at Williamson Street smiling like a thief in the night who has just received a diamond for free.

From the Galley

The captain of Her Bounty found a way to collapse the main mast, tucking it down in segments so that the sloop could motor down the Yahara under the cement bridges.  It's not that the lakes took that much wind anyway, he figured, so even the small motor on back could direct the boat over any of the largest of the open patches of water if necessary.  And, oh well, he wasn't a real captain anyway, so that when he found himself in the awkward position of trying to explain his contraption to real sea-men, he could merely send it off with a wink and a nod and distract them with one more toddy at high breeze.  Near the end of the river a small cove appeared where a peninsula formed one of the oldest parks in the city.  He had committed himself to sailing the contours of both Mendota and Monona two years ago as a mere lark, having no Naval background, no understanding of the ways of water other than the raw intentions of feeling the wind and knowing water like dreams themselves.  One day Her Bounty would graduate to a sea yacht he hoped but for now it was all about the mind of blue and white and the food aromas creeping up from the compact galley below.  He sailed alone. He cooked for himself.  The lake chain was like a new living room so that when he saw the next sailboat swap from jib to Genoa in his direction, he set a counter sail and took the cross wind the other way and skimmed past the bright white architecture of the Monona Terrace like a racer dodging buoys, only the wings of gulls able to keep up.

10 January

The sandstone rocks stand frozen at the ridge line
like battleship stacks defiant against attacking wind.
Ancient oaks bend and stagger their old bones,
nearly leafless, lifting their empty lanterns
over the cold horizon to the crisp white sea.

Weeknight Cooking:
Glazed Chicken with Dried
Fruit and Parsnips

The end product of this fairly easy recipe is the most wonderfully textured chicken dish I have yet made.  For a couple of years now, I have tried to figure out the fine art of roasting chicken.  For the most part, simple chicken roasting comes down to buying a good batch of chicken thighs and considering using whatever fresh vegetables you might have on hand.  Almost anything will do: carrots, celery, potatoes, onions, toss in some peas, other roots vegetables, whatever.  For classic roasting I chop up the veg and let them roast on their own in some olive oil at something like 425 in the oven to soften while I brown the thighs in the skillet.  Place the thighs in with the vegetables, place in the oven, and wait for it all to cook and you have one of the great stand-byes possible.

The glazed chicken had some real similarities, but in this case it was the fruit that made all the difference and turned what tends to be a more crisp meal into one that is nearly creamy.  The recipe starts with a sauté of shallots and four diced parsnips, softened and browned but not yet fully cooked.  For cooks new to parsnips, think zingy potatoes, to the point that the root vegetables take on entirely new meaning (may be my own favorite vegetable).

On the side, meanwhile, whisk together good apricot preserves, some whole grain mustard, a pinch of ginger and cumin in a bowl, then essentially dredge your salted chicken pieces (thighs and half breasts) in the apricot glaze.  Eventually, it is the potent zing of the mustard up against the softness of

the fruits that makes this a special roast.  At this point, scatter cut dried apricots and cut dried prunes into the skillet with the parsnips and shallots; place the chicken on top along with a bit of water until it boils and cooks for six minutes.  Place this full skillet in a 425 oven for around 25 minutes.  This is one of those kitchen recipes that fill the house with an aroma that is both hard to pin down yet succulent.  Is it the sweet of the apricot, the root of the parsnip, the grain of the mustard, or the skin of the chicken that you smell at minute twenty of roasting in the oven?  The bottom layer in the pan is a sort of cooked jam, the chicken pieces blistered brown from the oven.  Spoon up parsnips over the chicken. Serve with rice, a good bread, on a crepe?

Snapshots from the Caribbean 

The floating skyscraper behind us at the pier in Haiti, where the cruise line has turned the back side of the island into both a water playground and pristine sunning beach.  Most of the kids weren't interested in just laying out, so we eventually found snorkels and patrolled the seashore in what must have been close to seventy degree water.

The beaches at Haiti were very fine sand and although a bit rocky right at the waterline, the bays here were protected by natural shoals which cut down the waves and made wading very easy and pleasant.

Teenagers and sleeping on the beach we found out go together very well.

Back on the boat, a variety of pools.  This one at the quieter end, directly above our cabins up on level 11.  A small bridge over the backside of the pool.

The Royal promenade is the centerpiece of the ship, at back end of level five, the shopping district and leading to the main dining room.  This is family snapshot city.

At the cupcake store, teenagers get a chance to decorate (then eat) their own creation.

For the more adventurous, a surfing machine at the very end of the cruise liner, and a climbing wall just up the hill.