My Fantasy or Yours: Grilled Corn with Chile Butter

Its almost summer in New York City, which means (for the five of us who don’t have Hamptons shares) it’s street fair season. The Italian booths have lemonade, sausage & peppers and fried dough; the Thai booths have chicken skewers drowning in peanut sauce, pad thai, and sweet tea if you’re lucky; the Mexicans roll out the grilled corn, fish tacos and churros with an array of homemade salsas.

The fairs are redundant; every week it’s a new street, same vendors. Although sometimes there are local vendors who participate but just for that one fair on that one street -- the restaurants that pay regular rent there, along with the clothing shops and what have you.

I wandered by Park Slope's Fifth Avenue Street fair at around 11AM, and saw that my friends at Stone Park Cafe had a booth. I made no secret of my carney aspirations, and asked if they'd let me hawk a bit. They hesitated; it was an odd request – shouldn’t I have something better to do on a Sunday? Apparently not. We all have things that we would happily do for free, and for me it’s hawking grub at street fairs.

The day was filled with memorable characters...16 year olds trying to score booze, lesbians and their broods, the local regulars who are quickly being gentrified out of their neighborhood...but the award for most memorable customer of the day goes to an eight year boy. He approached me with his freckly, messy and insistent vibe, cutting his way to the front my line and started barking questions at me:

“How much is that corn?”
“Two dollars.”
“The sandwich.”
“Ten dollars.”
“How bout a cookie”
“Two dollars.”

He looked behind me, craning his next to see what else I might be hiding. If he were fifteen years older, I’d push him to the back of the line, but the other patrons were as amused as I was. Just what was this kid looking for?

And then I saw it. In his grimey little grip was a crumpled dollar bill. My young friend was given a buck from his parents, or his recently-broken ceramic pig, or found it in a gutter during the fair or whatever, and now it was burning a hole in his hand. He couldn’t spend the thing fast enough.

I told him that beers were five and wine was seven (he did not see the humor in this, but my aside was well fielded by the groundlings). Sadly, there was nothing I could sell him for a dollar.

He was close to purchasing a stack of napkins, then asked, “Do you know any stand where I could spend a dollar?” I pointed him toward some other booths and away he flew.

But for the rest of the day, I felt terrible. I could have given him half a piece of corn, or a broken cookie, or heck, reached into my wallet and bought the other half for him. I suppose I could have devised a sliding scale for short men, the underaged, or something. Had I no heart?

Best yet, I could have had him “earn” the other dollar, and carneyed for me. For each new customer, I could have given him 25 cents a head. This was a kid, trying to have fun with his Washington, but I gave him no joy.

It's five days later, and I’m still self-flagellating for for my lack of generosity. Kid, I apologize. Here’s your grilled corn with chili butter, and it’s on the house.


GRILLED CORN WITH CHILI BUTTERServes 4

4 ears corn, in the husk
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
Coarse salt
1 teaspoon chile powder
1 chipotle, finely chopped


1. Preheat grill. Place corn in water to cover.
2. Meanwhile, prepare the chili butter. In a small bowl or mini-chop, combine butter, 2 teaspoons salt, chile powder and chipotle; mix well.
3. Place corn on grill, over medium-high heat, and roast until edges get grill marks, about 2 minutes per side.
4. Shuck the corn; fold the husks over (to use as a handle) and discard the silks. Brush with softened chili butter, sprinkle with additional salt, and serve.

It's Not You, It's Your Mother: Baby Artichokes

As far as I can tell, breakfast and non-alchoholic brunches are the domain of people who were once fun, but are currently compromised somehow. My friend Knirg fits squarely in this category -- an ex who used to eat half a pig for breakfast is now all about Green Tea and Chicken Apple Sausage. Glad I knew him when.

We rolled into Siggy's, the new organic place in town on a Tuesday morning around 11:15 and looked at the menu. It was a cold rainy spring day, and I figured I'd enjoy a few eggs. But no. The menu gave options for granola, cereal, and various cold, wet, crunchy concoctions. Where was the warmth, the organic love? For that, apparently we needed to show up on Wednesday through Saturday, because although the walk-ins were stocked, they don't do warm breakfasts on Tuesday.

I looked toward the Chef, and wondered exactly how much flirting would be required to get a warm egg in this place. He was on his cell phone staring me down, annoyed that he'd have to get to work. What's with the pathos in these health places? Perhaps if these folks ate more animal protein they'd resurrect the killer instincts they never had.

So I was already annoyed when two mommies rolled in with two babies, about 36 and 3, respectively. I knew we were in trouble when one Mommy, pushing the SUV of baby carriers into the already too small restaurant said, "If you scream one more time, we're going to have to leave the restaurant, Serena Pacific." To which the response was not one, but two screams, to which the response was nothing.

So the food would be mediocre and the sound would be unbearable. Knirg, in his day, had a razor tongue and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird. But today, sitting in mommy play group, he said nothing but, "Do you think I might like the turkey burger?"

Did he not hear the commotion? Did he have kids I didn't know about and was suddenly immune to this noise?

Then the tables turned (literally), and the children started behaving while these mommies started inflecting their voices up and down the vicadin perky scale in a way that could make the most hardened Mafioso turn rat. "Mommy is going to get some eggies for brekky." What, did she get a special menu? "Would you like an eggy, Sereny, like mommy? Or would you like yogurty like Daddy?" Or would you like the nice lady in the restaurant to smack your mommy with a skillet so you can avoid 20 years of therapy?

I turned to the oblivious Knirg and searched for something, anything, that I had to eat that couldn't be found in this place.

My tantrum subsided when Knirg strolled me into my local greasy spoon, and we filled the table with Gyro, Pita, Tzatziki and green tea (for me); fatty pork sausage links, eggs over easy, a grande freshly squeezed orange juice and more green tea (for him). Ain't he sweet, I knew my old pork lover was in there somewhere.

We smiled, we ate, and we didn't make any orphans that day. In fact, I even got to enjoy an adorable 4-year old sitting up at the counter munching on a grilled cheese. Flipping her legs, sipping her chocolate milk, and behaving as Eloise would have, had Eloise taken her morning vittles at a greasy spoon. Children I adore; undisciplined parents I do not.

Today's recipe has very little to do with that meal, but everything with the concpet. Artichokes are wonderful...tasty, filled with fiber, nutritious, interesting to look at, and fun to eat. The baby artichokes are even that much more wonderful than the adult version, and simpler to prepare, as they do not contain the fuzzy choke that makes you want to gag.


Braised Baby Artichokes with Minted Breadcrumbs and Olive Oil
Inspired by Sette Restaurant, Park Slope Brooklyn
Created by Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon

Recipe coming soon (I'm traveling again) but if you just can't wait, try this.

Martha's Minions: Pavlova

I am not a big alumnist and I am not a big joiner. I don't feel warmth when I reflect upon Cayuga's waters, and I don't regret the move to avoid all things sororital. You'll have to make a good case to get me to go to college reunion (though there's something I love about my high school reunions...maybe it's the fact that our bonds go deeper, into carpools and siblings, first kisses, loves lost, and those that might just rekindle if the guys could just lose the extra 50 they gained since they stopped playing soccer).

That said, I have a bottomless pit of alumni love when I think about my colleagues from the countries top finishing school for professional domestic artists.

Yes, we women and gay men of Martha Stewart Living have a special bond; some call it post-traumatic stress disorder, while others reflect upon our Omnimedimoment as the time when standards were lifted, inflated, gilded and varnished in the pursuit of all things beautiful and useful.

For a short but powerful 2 years, I was part of a team of people behind Martha, creating flower pot cakes, styling those lick-the-page photos, and figuring out how to create your own mother's day bonnet using licorice, dental floss, lilac blossoms and a glue gun.

Martha's White-on-White Birthday Cake? My friend Sarah made it! Ms. Stewart's Summer Berry Cobbler? C'etait moi! Perfect Petifores? Created by that smooth talker Johnny Beezers.

Martha (and by this I mean the company, not the woman) ventures up to RISD, various culinary schools, and the country of Brazil to handpick creative minds and hard workers who want to find an office where they can play hard. People who would have been just as happy churning butter, or sitting in a sewing circle, but have taken it to the next level.

People who work for Martha eventually leave the company, and go on to work for competing TV shows or magazines. Since Martha (the caterer, the media company, the brand) has been around for more than 2 decades, you can't show up at a new gig without there being at least one Martha person in the room.

I recently found myself on a shoot with a magnetic cameraman who had worked for Martha in the nineties. Though we didn't overlap, we knew the same people and the same culture, and could communicate in Martha-ese the way my grandparents spoke in Yiddish. This came in handy when I was fumbling my way through a short segment about an herb bouquet, and couldn't figure out how to bring it all together.

It was the first shot of long day, standing in the cold, and I was taking up valuable team time with my fumbling. Magno, increasingly frustrated, put down his camera, walked over to me and said quietly, "Allison: it's just a "Good Thing". You know what you're doing. Do it."

And then: an instant click, the way a jujitsu student can execute a move he's practiced a zillion times before without even thinking. Suddently I had the concept, the words, the cadence, the segment. And that was a Good Thing.


Pavlova
By Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon

Although Pavlova's roots are Australian, this feminine, dainty dessert always feels very Martha-like to me. Easy, elegant, but interesting with a varied texture and layered flavors, this dessert is built to be customized (vary the berry toppings with other fruits, the whipped cream with lemon curd, etc. etc.), and is perfect for Mother's Day, or Ladies Who Lunch.

Makes 10 to 12 filled cups.

For meringues:
4 large egg whites
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 cup superfine sugar
3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

For topping:
2 pints berries
Zest of 1 lemon
Sugar, as needed
2 cups chilled whipping cream

1. For the meringues: Heat oven to 200F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper or silpats.

2. In the bowl of a standing mixer, add egg whites. Beat on medium-low speed with whisk attachment until frothy; add cream of tartar. Increase speed to medium high, and when thick and voluminous, add 1/2 cup sugar and vanilla. Continue beating at medium speed until the mixture holds stiff peaks, about 4 minutes. Turn to medium-low and add remaining sugar.

3. Portion beaten egg whites by the heaping quarter-cupful, and dollop onto the baking sheets (approximately 5 to 6 per sheet). Use the bottom of a tablespoon to “hollow out” the meringues; bake 1 1/2 hours. Turn the oven off and let meringues cool for a few hours in the oven (this will continue to dehydrate the meringues).

4. Meanwhile, combine berries, lemon zest and sweeten with sugar, as needed. Set aside, for at least 15 minutes. Beat whipping cream until doubled in volume, and take to soft or firm peaks as per your preference.

5. To assemble: Just before serving (as the meringues will sog if they sit), place each meringue on a dessert plate, top with whipped cream and berries and serve.

Goetta-ing It.

This week I'm in Cincinnati, shooting that show I alluded to a few weeks ago. Discovery just sent out a press release, so I'll tell you a bit more about it. It's called Home Made Simple, and it will be on this summer, Sundays at 1PM EST, starting June 4th. I am a Guest Host, working on (quelle suprise!) cooking and craft segments. I am thankful to be a part of it. Check it out and let me know what you think.

In any case, this week I had the privilege to meet a wonderful family who introduced me to a local dish called Goetta. Goetta comes to Cincinnati via Germany, and is much like Pennsylvania's scrapple. Both are sausage-like, the former cut with oat groats, the latter cut with cornmeal. The recipe is incredible...it actually makes me feel good about eating sausage because instead of being straight meat and fat, it's about 3/4 oats. What better to scrub the fat from your system then a massive serving of the 'meal?

But the supercool thing about Goetta is that you cook the oats first, then add the chopped meat, so you never have a chance to drain off the fat from the 80 percent lean meat. And what does that mean? All that wonderful fat flavor soaks the oats, giving those oats a flavor they narrowly avoided their cinnamon-maple destiny to enjoy. Triple yum.

In any case, you can make a big ol vat of this stuff, freeze it, then slice and saute in your favorite fat (with all due respect, anything but lard is just this side of blasphemy).

Goetta is a uniquely easy sausage, and it gives me a good reason to eat more local (Like beauty, local is in the eye of the beholder. Someone else's local is just as local as that I find within my radius. Just as long as it isn't food handcrafted by 7-11, MacDonalds, Arby's or Starbucks, and someone gave me the recipe on an index card, I'm happy.). And if that isn't enough, I learned it in someone else's kitchen. My favorite kind of food.


GOETTA RECIPE -- not mine, so enjoy the link.
http://www.kitchenproject.com/german/goetta/