Jump Right In: Grilled Clams with Mignonette

This Memorial Day weekend, I decided to push my luck. I roped and tied that hot young thing I've been seeing, threw him in the trunk of my Cabrio, and drove him to my parent's house in North Carolina. I've wasted enough time being sane & normal; I figured I'd hasten the inevitable and push this thing off a cliff sooner than later.

The Kid is a food maniac, so he made himself at home in my mother's kitchen, immediately. At the end of the first day, there was a gorgeously carved standing rib roast, mushroom pan sauce, grilled corn, caponata...he had her kitchen singing arias without so much as a grocery list.

But as if that weren't enough, Kid-alicious is a forager. He's a member of the mycology association, which is about as chess clubby as the food world gets. As soon as he saw the river out my parent's window, he started asking about clamming. My parents knew nothing about it because clamming would require a person to get in the river. River forays are as incomprehensible to my parents as finding a good man is to me.

But they'd seen locals clam, and oyster, so apparently they were there. My father warned him of the depth and speed of the river, and in a matter of hours, my parents and I found ourselves standing on the edge of a dock, waving him goodbye.

He lept into that muddy rapid with a heavy shovel and the courage of a warrior; we held our breath until he surfaced. He appeared and grew: That scary, allegedly alligator-filled river was all of three feet deep. He laughed at our Northern-ness, and spent the next 20 minutes raking the silt with his hands (for those similarly inspired: rakes work better than shovels), until we begged him to come in from the river.

I made a mignonette, scrubbed the silt from the clams, and threw them on a grill. There were more than enough for several meals. The smaller clams were sweet and tender; we reserved their hunky big brothers for a chowder.

Well, joke's on me. Turns out he's better than I knew, and everyone was scratching their heads as to what I'd done right this time. As I've been told, that's how it can be with a foray: you gotta open your eyes and look, because you never know what you'll find.

Grilled Clams with Mignonette
by Allison Fishman

I'm clearly not the kind of girl who is going to cover the flavor of fresh shellfish with an obscuring (though delicious) cocktail sauce; mignonette is more my style. I've always enjoyed its refreshing acidity and chunky pieces of shallot, but I've never made one. I winged this, and recommend you do the same. The sauce works well with clams grilled open, or raw clams shucked.

1/3 cup combined vinegars, definitely including red wine vinegar, and also cider, sherry, champagne, or rice wine
2 tablespoons minced shallot, red onion, vidalia, or a combination
2 teaspoons chopped tarragon and/or chives

2 or 3 dozen freshly caught small clams, scrubbed

1. Combine vinegars, onion, and herbs until you're satisfied with the flavor.

2. Place clams on a very hot grill until they open (no more than 3 minutes), or steam them open on the burner. Avoid overcooking; if you do, simply chop up the clams and save them for a clam sauce.
3. Served open clams with the mignonette.

Things Not to Say: Berry Cobbler

I'm slowly re-entering the dating world. Slowly for me has traditionally meant exclusive dating after the first good kiss. This go-round is no different; it's as if I'm incapable of learning.

Luckily, my first dance partner appears to have some staying power. This Friday marks the 10-week anniversary of our first smooch (not that I'm counting). Tick, tock goes the biological clock.

But even more luckily, this guy appears to be nice. I've decided that for this round of dating (Dating! Take twenty-three!), nice is on top of the list of desireable features (Eureka! Maybe she can learn!).

I, on the other hand could use some work in the nice department. Working and living alone has me too often saying things aloud that are best left unarticulated.

Like the other night. We were spooned-up, all sweet and cozy-like, and I said: "Do you think it's possible that biologically, humans manufacture the chemical that makes their brain think that they falling in love, simply because they're wrapped in someone's arms, whether or not they are actually falling in love?"

It seemed like a good question. Geeky, but interesting. And painfully unselfaware. He smoothed back my hair and said, "Please let this brain turn off." In five minutes, we were asleep.

It didn't seem like such a good question the next day; I was embarrassed for the gaffe. Now he's taken to asking, "Do you love me yet?" every fifteen minutes, the way children ask "are we there yet?" on a road trip.

But perhaps there's another explanation. You know how men often disassociate from their penises, explaining "It's not me; he has a mind of his own", or worse, referring to his penis by a pet name like 'Little Soldier'? I understand this now; I am starting to feel like I should no longer be held responsible for my heart, as my ovaries have taken over. They are crazy twin she-devils, bonding together and sticking pins in a voo-doo doll version of me, forcing me to fall in love with the nearest appropriately-sized thing, be it a mailbox or a man.

Now that's a bit glib, but my point is a fair one. Take modern living arrangements, where it's too easy to start playing house with someone you've known less than a hundred days, combined with a biological clock that has the subtlety of a sledgehammer, and finally, a big city filled with beautiful women; a human buffet for men.

You tell me what kind of a man doesn't want to return to the steam table and see if there's a little something to tempt him for dessert. All the while, we women fall in love, for reasons as depthful as, "he noticed my highlights; isn't he the sweetest!?"

At least in my parents generation, people got married first and asked stupid questions later.


Berry Cobbler
My new kissing partner and I have been cooking up a storm (I don't talk with my mouth full, thank god). We recently debated the best biscuits for topping a cobbler. He introduced me to Shirley Corriher's biscuits (good, light), which I recommend. Here's a tweak to her recipe, and then some.

3 (10-ounce packages) frozen mixed berries, thawed
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup stone-ground cornmeal
2 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup (or 1/2 stick) cold butter, cut into chunks
3/4 cups buttermilk

1. Preheat the oven to 350ºF and butter an 8" × 8" baking dish.
2. Place the berries (and their juice) in a medium bowl. Sprinkle with cornstarch and toss to combine. Transfer to the baking dish.
3. In a bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender the pieces are the size of peas. Add the buttermilk and stir to moisten. Drop 9 quarter-cupfulls of batter on top of the fruit.
4. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the topping is golden and the fruit is bubbling. Let stand for 20-30 minutes before serving to allow the sauce to thicken.