Retro Recipes and Traditional Fare

Most people look at an artichoke and think: "What do I do with this?" But artichokes only look intimidating, they're actually easy to prepare once you know how. Originally from the Mediterranean, artichokes have a history that dates back to Roman times. There are countless cultivated varieties, especially in Italy, where artichokes are enjoyed in many different preparations including raw salads, stuffed and baked, steamed, grilled, etc. In the States we have just two varieties: the large globe and small baby. The simplest way to prepare artichokes is steaming. Not only is it easy to do, the method also retains the subtle flavors that make artichokes so revered.

Artichokes make a fun party food since they require a hands-on approach. Each leaf is removed one by one and nibbled on. Once all the leaves have been removed, and the choke has been scraped away, only the heart remains. The heart and the stem have the most flavor. The leaves are not entirely edible, so you need to use your teeth to scrape the bit of flesh from each leaf. Typically steamed artichokes are served with melted butter or hollandaise, but I like to dip into Dijon vinaigrette, which is much lighter. Serve steamed artichokes as an appetizer for any occasion.

I have a large collection of both vintage and current cookbooks with many favorites, but my heart skips a beat when I come across one of those local PTA, Church Auxiliary, American Legion, Junior League or Private Club cookbooks - usually in a spiral binding! Heaven! Where else can one find so many venerable variations on the great American cheese ball, guacamole, bean and sour cream dip, or anything made with dried onion soup mix – Laugh! (Ha-Ha) but the best comfort food in the world comes from these unpretentious, homey books!

My darling husband, Bill and I summer on Martha’s Vineyard (true Heaven) and while there, my favorite go-to references for comfort food are STAR-SPANGLED RECIPES from the American Legion Auxiliary General George Goethals Post #257, Vineyard Haven, MA, and my newest, THE WEST CHOP COOK BOOK.

From Star-Spangled Recipes comes Island Lobster Stew, Lasagna for 150, and Spaghetti Pie. Yes! I used to make re-fried spaghetti pie when I secretly raided the fridge as a young child! Well, actually my dish was re-fried spaghetti sandwiches on white bread with mayo. Yum. Their pie has neither white bread nor piecrust but it does have cottage cheese, and while I haven’t tried it (the name alone satisfies me) I have the recipe near by for any potential nostalgic hunger fits. There is a saying on the island, “Summer People – Summer not!” When I cook from this book, I am no longer a summer resident but … An Islander!

I can never tire of a rustic dessert, especially one made with fresh, perfectly ripe peaches. Fruits like these when at their peak always make the difference, turning a ho-hum dessert into a spectacular one. I'd like to think that peach desserts are an American specialty, particularly a Southern one. There is the traditional peach cobbler, peach crisp, and peach crumble. There are also the peach pie and tart. But when simply baked on a pan with the edges of the dough turned over, you have what the French call a galette and the Italians a crostata. An extra crispy crust sets the galette or crostata apart from pies and tarts.

This crispiness is achieved by baking at high temperature and can not only be attained by professional bakers, but by home bakers too. Preheat the oven with a pizza stone and after adequately heating for a half hour, bake the galette in a pan placed over the stone. This is the foolproof method for the crispiest crust, but what if it's sill soggy? The French secret to keeping the crust from getting soggy is a thin layer of ground nuts between the dough and fruit. The Italians use amaretti crumbs. The nuts or crumbs absorb the excess liquid from the fruit and create a thickened consistency. They almost go unnoticed in the finished dessert.

I felt my big toe push a hole through my fishnet stockings as I stepped on the gas and drove south on Fairfax. I nibbled on the broken corner of my dark red thumb nail and made a right turn onto Pico Boulevard.  I thought about lighting a cigarette to calm myself but didn’t.

I was driving to see “Vertigo Road”, a band that my recently ex-fiance and I knew quite well and my social fears were getting the best of me.  They were playing at a bar with one of those anti-esoteric names I can’t remember exactly, like “The Place”, or “The Gig”, or “The Thing”. 

It was an unseasonably cool night for Los Angeles in early September so, when the closest parking space I found was 8 blocks from the bar, I knew I wouldn’t mind walking.  I flipped down the mirrored visor to check my lipstick and stared at my reflection for a moment.  I hadn’t seen many of these people since the break up and I knew they would search my face and demeanor for clues as to how I was doing.  I wanted to look amazing.  I wanted to seem like I had it all figured out.  I knew that was going to take some effort.  I applied more lipstick.

When I turned off my Honda, it suddenly sounded like I had parked in a war zone.  Sirens screamed and glass shattered.  I was overtaken by the smell in the air.  It was luscious and earthy and charred.  I shut my eyes and gulped the aroma down for a moment and then walked quickly toward the commotion on Pico.  It was a fire.  A big one.  And as mesmerizing as the flames were, nothing could compare to the smell.