Ancient Grains for Modern Meals - Maria Speck [112]
While I like to blame my mom for everything, I’m pretty certain that my Greek grandmother laid the foundation for my penchant for stirring spirits into my cooking. I am certain that I have looked too deeply into my yiayia’s famed bottle of sour cherry cordial, or visino liqueur. Come harvest time, she would combine fresh sour cherries from the city market with cloves, cinnamon sticks, and a healthy dose of sugar. Topped off with a good-quality brandy, she would then set the bottles in a sunny spot to ripen for about four weeks, creating an aromatic concoction like no other. Yet I was never allowed even the tiniest sip, despite the fact that I was six years old and addicted—to the heavenly smell emanating from the crystal flacon locked away in her tall living room buffet. Only adults were given a small sweet shot, on special occasions, in tiny elegant glasses, while I looked on as they oohed and aahed over the ambrosial aroma.
We, the children, were consoled with a delicious sour cherry syrup she also made from scratch every year. Yiayia would pour us tall glasses of the thick, dark red syrup, topped off with chilled water from the fridge, on a hot summer day. Divine, yes. But I felt deep disappointment each time, having smelled heaven already.
My yiayia’s celestial whiff had a profound impact on me. The moment I moved away from home, I established a well-stocked liqueur cabinet in my first apartment and started pouring. A dash of orange liqueur into my first homemade chocolate truffles, a drizzle of Kirsch into a fruity dessert, and a little something into cookies and cakes. Now, to set things straight: while I may sound like a closet alcoholic, I drink little. I will sometimes have a small glass of wine with dinner, but rarely more than that. Still, I hunt for a good table wine with a passion, and my liqueur cabinet is always full. Tangy sweet limoncello, orange-infused Grand Marnier, deep purple-blue cassis, always ouzo, smooth Baileys Irish Cream. Plus sherry, Porto, and Marsala. Not to forget the vodka in my freezer, and at least two kinds of gin.
As a food writer today, I understand the powerful chemical reaction a bit of alcohol can impart to many a cooked dish. The volatile alcohol molecules carry subtle aromas to our noses, refining even the simplest of recipes and making them so much more attractive to eat.
I am thrilled that food culture in this country has changed much since my arrival in 1993. Today, my American friends do what I have always done: they deglaze a pan of mushrooms with a shot of wine, and refine a sauce with vodka or stout. And they will even try my German Rumtopf, literally “pot of rum,” which typically consists of many layers of summer fruit covered in rum. I prepare mine in the winter on a foundation of dried fruit. My Rumtopf is not based on any recipe; I just use the bounty of dried fruit in my pantry. I layer prunes, apricots, apples, and figs together with a few strips of lemon or orange zest, or both, in a ceramic jar. I throw in a cinnamon stick, cloves, honey or sugar, and, of course, enough rum to cover. I leave some space for the fruit to expand, cover the jar, and let the boozy concoction sit in a cool, dark place for at least one week. Voilà, a no-fuss holiday dessert! I spoon out a few of the macerated fruits, deeply flavored and ripe with rum, and serve them over ice cream or yogurt. Or with homemade chocolate pudding—and a dollop of whipped cream, naturally.
Strazzate (Italian Chocolate-Almond Cookies)
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