Better than milk and cookies

A tall glass of cider and a few ginger snaps

Although I like aspects of all four seasons here in New Jersey, there is something about the fall that is most enjoyable. The winding down of the yard work that by Labor Day has become more chore than pleasure; the late season bounty of the farmer’s markets; and those brilliantly clear days when the colors of the changing leaves pop against the blue sky.

And is there anything better on an Indian summer afternoon (such as we had this past weekend), than a refreshing glass of ice cold apple cider and a couple of ginger snap cookies?

It’s the yin and yang of the season; a taste of both outdoors and indoors. A good cider will reflect all the best qualities of the apples used to produce it. It will be crisp and refreshing as a hike in the October woods.

The cookies are redolent with ginger and cinnamon and sugar. Spicy wafers that hint of fresh from the oven pumpkin pies and candied yams of not too far off Thanksgiving.

Refreshing and comforting at that same time, cider and ginger snaps are a simple, seasonal pleasure.

Fresh is best

Each fall, as schedules allow, a group of us guys gather in Montauk, NY for a couple of days of fishing and camaraderie.  And some excellent dining.

Even though the rendezvous was originally a tent camping trip and meals were prepared over the fire, on the grill or with the Coleman stove, the quality and sophistication of some of the meals has always been remarkable.  

The first year I went, we were treated to some fish in a puttanesca-style sauce. Another year, we decided to crush up some of the wasabi peas brought along as a snack and use them to crust a striper fillet.  And then there was the year I modified one of Emeril Lagasse’s recipes for potato crusted halibut wrapped in slices of prosciutto.

Challenging ourselves to prepare “dinner party” quality fare in a rustic setting was as much a part of the fun as the pre-dawn rides out to the fishing grounds on the charter boat or the lively conversation while imbibing pre-dinner Manhattans around the campfire. The move to more comfortable lodgings of a borrowed house and a real kitchen three years ago has neither raised nor lowered the quality of the food presented.

As with any cooking, it was the freshness of the ingredients that really made the meals spectacular.  You cannot best a properly cooked piece of fish that is just hours out of the water. Proof of this became readily apparent the first year I participated in this trip. 

While the primary quarry of our fishing trips is striped bass, there is an almost unavoidable side catch of bluefish.  I was surprised at how readily I enjoyed the bluefish caught and cooked the same day, where as a rule I would avoid that fish.

So it has become the standard that each dinner prepared on the trip features both striper and blue.  And each evening’s meal presents cook and diner alike with opportunities to expand on the repertoire of striped bass and bluefish preparation.

This year’s trip, my first since 2006 due to work conflicts, was no different.  As usual, there were at least as many ideas on how to serve the fish as there were fishermen at the table. The dinner menu after the first day’s fishing reflected the input of those present:

The first dish came from Chris Schlesinger’s book “Big Flavors of the Hot Sun” by way of fishing buddy Kevin O’Connor who couldn’t wait to get this dish on the table for our evaluation.  {Kevin’s notes — “Needless to say, the main ingredient is bluefish, caught that day, preferably by the cook!  Best if you use a sauté pan you can place in the oven. Experiment, and enjoy with a cold IPA…“}

• Make a rub of 1 part cumin, 1 part smoked paprika, 1/2 part kosher salt, 1/2 part fresh ground black pepper.
• Rub the bluefish fillets.
• Sear both sides (briefly) and set aside.
• Chop one large yellow onion and sauté in olive oil for 5-6 minutes until clear. Add minced garlic (2 or 3 cloves). Sauté for a few more minutes.
• Coarsely chop up a tomato or two.  Add to the sauté pan. Add 3/4 or 1 cup of OJ, juice of two limes, 1 tbsp ground cinnamon, some fresh oregano if you have it (not much), a few chipotle peppers minced, and a handful of raisins. Organic golden raisins, if you have them.
• Bring to simmer, place crusted fillets back in pan and finish in oven at 350 degrees – 10-12 minutes or until fish is just opaque.

Next, I prepared a pasta dish inspired by a lunch I had in Florence, Italy.  Bite sized pieces of nicely cooked tuna were tossed with spaghetti. For the Montauk version, I used a bluefish filet and improvised the rest:

• Empty one can of anchovy fillets and their oil into a large skillet along with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil
• Place pan over low heat and stir occasionally until the anchovies start to dissolve into the oil.
• Add four finely chopped garlic cloves, some black pepper and a pinch of red pepper flakes (optional).
• In the meantime, have your water for cooking the spaghetti started and at a boil. Add pasta to water and cook until al dente.  (NOTE: I used a multi-grain variety for a more hearty flavor and texture)
• Cut bluefish fillet into roughly one inch cubes and add the bluefish to the skillet
• Stir occasionally to prevent sticking and cook until fish is just cooked through.
• Drain pasta (you can add a couple of spoonfuls of the pasta water to the skillet if you like) and place in serving bowl.  Pour contents of skillet over the pasta, toss and serve.

The last item on the menu was the simplest.

We took a large striped bass fillet and prepared it for grilling: salt, pepper, a splash of white wine.  Unfortunately, the grill ran out of propane just as we were ready to put the fish on to cook.  So we quickly fired up the oven and baked the fish at 325 degrees until it was just done. In the meantime, in a small pan on the stove top I melted 3 ounces of white truffle butter.*  The fillet was removed from the oven and placed it on a serving platter, then drizzled with the melted white truffle butter.

While we had the relative luxury of indoor accommodations and a working kitchen, any of the dishes we prepared this trip could easily have been accomplished in our make shift camp kitchens of previous years.   

Inside or outside, it doesn’t really matter as long as the fish is fresh.

*D’Artagnan produces both white and black truffle butters that can be found in many higher end grocery stores or specialty food shops.  Or you can do as I did and soften a stick of sweet butter and blend in a few drops of white truffle oil to taste. Place the flavored butter on a piece of plastic wrap, roll it into a small log shape, seal tightly and refrigerate until ready to use.

Making ends meet

It’s been a hectic week. 

Sunday through Wednesday, I was off on a trip to Montauk, NY with the guys.  We ostensibly went to fish for striped bass and bluefish.  Truthfully, the conversation and camaraderie are the real attractions. 

And the food.

One of the hallmarks of this annual trip has been the outrageously wonderful things we do with the catch of the day.  I hope to get to posting some of those dishes soon.

Meanwhile, back at work yesterday and today, I have been playing some serious “catch-up” (not catsup as in Heinz) in the office.  Both days, I didn’t leave my desk until about two in the afternoon and only then because I had to run to make a deposit at the bank.

Today, I also ran home for a quick bite of lunch.  You see, I only live a few blocks from the office I work in and the company’s bank has a branch that completes a neat little three-block triangle.

I was trying to think of something available at home for a quick, satisfying bite as I left the bank.  In my mind I was running through the inventory of items

I knew were available to me at home when inspiration struck.

I had taken a couple of bacon ends to Montauk with me with the intent of dicing them up, frying them off and then tossing with some fresh, late season green beans for dinner one night.  As the successive waves of provisions were loaded into the fridge at the borrowed house, the bacon got lost in the shuffle, only to be found when we were packing everything up to return home. 

Also in the fridge was a piece of bleu cheese…two different kinds, actually.  A piece of gorgonzola and a piece of stilton; the former had been served with cocktails one evening and the latter with honey as dessert.  Somehow, I had inherited them both when we broke camp.

There was a rustic country loaf I had baked sitting, untouched on the counter.

Suddenly, I had a plan.

Upon entering the house, I made straight for the kitchen.  The cheese and the bacon were retrieved from the icebox.  A small frying pan was placed on the stove over a medium flame and in went the pork.

With the pork fat slowly rendering out of the bacon, I turned to the bread and cut off the heel far enough in to get then carve off two sandwich size slices. (I confess I ate the heel with a hunk of the bleu cheese).

After turning the bacon over in the pan, I cut two very thin portions of the cheese and laid one each on the slices of bread.

At this point, the aroma of the sizzling bacon roused the dogs from their afternoon nap.  Kirby had gone out into the backyard to patrol for squirrels, but Jackson stayed in the kitchen to supervise me.  His diligence rewarded with a taste of the cheese.

When the bacon ends were fully cooked, I removed them to a cutting board and broke them down into bite-sized pieces.  Placing the bacon on top of the cheese on one piece of bread, I inverted the remaining cheese adorned slice on top and pressed down!

Sandwich of bacon and bleu cheese

Voila!  Bacon and bleu cheese sandwich.

(Just don’t tell my physician, ok?)

Crop circles

We were the recent beneficiaries of some neighborly largess.  Seems their weekly farm share delivery contained a couple of items that they just don’t eat and we were blessed with a gift of some sweet bell peppers and a couple of heads of cabbage.

Finding a use for sweet peppers is not a problem around here: diced up for pizza topping, sliced for salads, roasted for sandwiches are just a few possibilities that come quickly to mind. They are considered a staple in this house.

Cabbage, on the other hand, is not something we use a lot of at home. 

We seldom ate any cabbage when I was growing up.  Occasionally, coleslaw or sauerkraut would show up on the table, but never cooked cabbage (at least not that I can recall.)  It’s a pretty safe bet that Ann’s family never ate much cabbage either. I really didn’t have a specific use in mind for the cabbages and didn’t want them to go to waste.

Taking a cue from our benefactors, we passed the cabbages along.  One head went to my mother, who sautéed it up with some bacon for dinner one night.  The other went to our friends up the street, the Stradlings.

That, I thought, would be that.  Excess produce taken care of.

Then I got an email from Mark. It seems my gift had triggered a response in the Stradling household that could not be denied. 

“Be prepared for an onslaught of galumpkis,” I was warned.  “Many will be made, and they will be shared.“

If you are not familiar with the term, galumpkis are leaves of cabbage rolled around a rice and meat filling and slowly braised in a tomato based sauce.  Some folks know them as “pigs in the blanket” or simply “stuffed cabbage.“  Somehow, although aware of this Polish/Eastern European specialty, I managed to get through my formative years without ever trying one.  And, I continued to avoid consuming galumpkis into my adult years.

It was my father’s sister, Joyce, who got me over my resistance to eating stuffed cabbage.

We were at a family picnic about 15 years or so ago and she’d brought a huge pot filled with the stuffed leaves. 

“Aren’t you going to have one of my stuffed cabbages?” she asked with just the slightest implication of hurt feelings should I not.  “I spent all day yesterday making these; someone has to eat them.“

Not wishing to cause any hurt feelings, I cued up for a taste.

I placed one of the cabbage rolls on a paper plate and sat down to sample it.  Cutting into it with my plastic fork, I took a tentative taste.  “Hmmm. Not bad,” I thought.  I finished off that one and had a couple of more.  Bingo!  New item on the “I eat that” list!

Although I’ve never tried to make galumpkis myself, I almost never turn down an opportunity to eat some when available to me now.  This fact came as a surprise to my mother when, at a banquet we both attended a few years ago, I made sure to get some stuffed cabbage for my plate. 

Now, because of the generosity of two neighbors, I have a supply of galumpkis in the freezer.

And because of the gentle persistence of my late Aunt, I appreciate the bounty of the season and just how food, even a humble head of cabbage, connects us all.

Galumpkis recipe courtesy of Susan Stradling

• 2 lbs. ground beef
• 1 lb. bulk pork sausage
• 1 large egg
• 1 medium onion, diced
• ¼ cup catsup
• 1 cup rice (NOT instant)
• salt and pepper to taste
• 1 large cabbage, some of the core removed
• 1 28 oz. can of tomato sauce
• 1 lb. sauerkraut, drained but not rinsed

Mix together the ground beef, sausage, egg, onion, catsup, rice, salt and pepper.

Rinse the cabbage and place in a large pot, core side down. Add water to cover cabbage about halfway and bring to a boil. Remove the leaves in layers as they start to soften. (You are NOT cooking the cabbage at this point, just softening the leaves enough that you can work with them.)

Let the leaves cool for a few moments after you remove them. If the outer leaves are large you can remove the thick part and cut the leaf in half lengthwise, giving you two leaves from what was one leaf. As you get down to the smaller leaves, just trim the thick part even with the bottom of the leaf.

Save all the trimmings and about three inches of the water in which the cabbage cooked. Chop the trimmed cabbage.

Roll cabbage by taking a leaf and putting a generous tablespoon of the filling in the center. Fold up bottom and fold over one side. Roll up and tuck in remaining side. Repeat for rest of leaves.

Place the cut-up trimmings in the pot (there should be about three inches of the cooking water in the pot) and add a layer of cabbage rolls, some sauerkraut and some tomato sauce. Repeat layers and add enough water to just cover.

Cover, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and let simmer for about 90 minutes.

Serves: Many

BACON!

It’s gray and chilly in Trenton today; foreshadowing the dark and dreary days to come.

Fortunately, I had off from work and I had some “chores” to attend to that included turning the gas grill into a smoker and finishing the job of making bacon out of a thick piece of pork belly.  It is a perfect day to spend a few hours tending a fire and inhaling the aroma of selected wood chunks as they gave up their essence to flavor the pig.

This was just the latest in my home study of the art of curing meat (and fish and fowl).  The adventure was launched several months ago after buying a piece of pancetta in the supermarket that was just too damn salty for my taste (not that it kept us from using it all up mind you).  I got to wondering if it was possible to make pancetta at home and started searching the internet for advice and information.

Now, if you aren’t familiar with pancetta it is simply cured and seasoned pork belly that is usually rolled tightly and allowed to air dry.  It is, essentially, un-smoked bacon and is used similarly to season beans, greens, sauces and all manor of savory dishes.  Good pancetta is essential for proper pasta carbonara (although we have made it with everyday, common American bacon).

Apparently, I wasn’t the first and only person to want to make pancetta at home.  I found a number of blogs and forums that contained information about making pancetta at home.  One thing that I noticed right away was that many entries referred to the book “Charcuterie,” by Brian Polcyn and Michael Ruhlman. 

I continued my research to the point where I convinced myself that I needed to add a copy of this book to our already overgrown cooking library.

So I did.

In reading through the book, and continuing to read the blogs and forums, it appeared as though there really was nothing more to this meat curing business than having the right ingredients on hand, minding some simple sanitation procedures and using a dose of common sense.  Before I knew it, I was at the local market procuring a half a pork belly (about 6 pounds).  I had already mail-ordered in the more exotic ingredients…some curing salt (sodium chloride with a trace of sodium nitrite added) and some juniper berries.  Everything else, black pepper, bay leaves, nutmeg, brown sugar, etc. I had on hand.

The process, as outlined in the book, is straightforward enough.  Mix up your cure and apply it to the meat.  Let it rest, refrigerated, for a week; turning it every day and massage it to ensure even distribution of the curing/flavoring mixture.  After seven days, rinse, and dry well.  You can then roll it tightly and tie it or leave it flat and wrap it in cheesecloth.  I opted for the latter because I wasn’t confident enough in the process and my skill to challenge the botulism bug that can show up in too loosely rolled pancetta.  And somewhere along the way I picked up the tidbit that the traditional Florentine method of making pancetta was to hang the “flat.”  That was good enough for me.

I won’t go into the whole song and dance here, but I sort of screwed up that attempt at pancetta.  First of all, I picked the hottest, most humid week of the summer to hang the dang thing in the cellar.  This gave me cause to worry.  When the suggested amount of hanging time was up, I unwrapped the meat only to find several spots of mold on it.

Into the trash it went.  And I was a little disappointed. (Several weeks later I was reading the FAQ on Ruhlman’s website and discovered that mold is not uncommon.  The procedure is to cut/scrape it off and wipe the meat down with vinegar or wine.  And then proceed.   Oh well. Live; Learn!)

Fortunately, at the same time I started the pancetta, I also brined a beef brisket according to the recipe in Charcuterie.  Once the brisket was cured, I smoked it and then steamed it for a very successful pastrami dinner with friends.  This, despite being a little heavy handed with the peppercorn and coriander seed for the crust, kept my confidence intact.

Chalking the failed pancetta experiment up to bad timing, I went on to try the gravlax (cured, but not smoked salmon) recipe from the book and bided my time for the onset of autumn and cooler weather.

October came and I could bear it no longer.  I ran off to the Food Bazaar and dashed to the meat service counter.  Scanning the case, I was a little worried because there were no hunks of pork belly in the customary spot.  This market, part of a small regional chain, caters to the various ethnic groups found in urban areas and actually sells fresh pork belly on a regular basis (take that Whole F***s and W*****’s!).  It took a little finagling to get them to sell me 1/2 of a whole pork belly back in August so I was prepared to persevere!

When the counterman asked what he could do for me I stated I wanted some pork belly.  He looked puzzled at first, glanced at the case and then back at me.

“How much?” he asked.

“A whole one,” I answered.

There was another pause and a confused glance before he dutifully trotted off to the walk in. 

Returning a moment later he “thunked” a large slab of skin on pork belly onto the scale.  17.78 pounds of pig heaven were mine to play with!

The next day I made up two batches of cure.  One, the basic dry cure that can be used for any number of preparations and the second a specific blend of salt, sugar and spices for the pancetta.  Then I set about assembling my mise en place: knives, cutting boards, extra large freezer bags, scale, etc.  I took the cryovac packaged pork belly out of the fridge and over to the sink.  I slit open the plastic, removed the doubled over pork belly and unfolded it. 

Surprise!  There was still a rack of spareribs attached to the belly!  BONUS!

I successfully, if not deftly, removed the rack from the rest of the belly (Hey! I am not schooled in meat cutting!).  I trimmed and cut the belly until I had two nice slabs of meat, one for pancetta and one for bacon.  The trimmings I later cut into large cubes and cured for salt pork.

I removed the skin from a section of belly, applied the cure for the pancetta, slipped the pork into a plastic bag and popped it into the fridge.  Next came the bacon-to-be.

The basic dry cure was applied and it too was slipped into a bag and placed in the refrigerator.

This morning, seven and a half days after starting “the cure,” I rinsed both slabs of meat and dried them off.  The piece destined for the smoker was placed on a rack in the fridge for a few hours to form a pellicle (a sort of tacky skin that helps hold the smoke flavor).  The piece designated for the pancetta was given a dusting of crushed black pepper on the meat side, swaddled in cheesecloth and hung in the cellar to dry for another week or so.

By noon, I had fired up the smoking burner of the grill and applied some chunks of apple, maple and oak that I’d soaked for the purpose.  The slab of soon-to-be-bacon was set on the grate next to the wood box and the smoking commenced.  Keeping the temp at right around 200 degrees F, I fed more chunks of wood into the smoker as needed.  Just a tad over three hours later the pork had achieved the target temp of 150 degrees F.  I brought it in from the grill and, while the fat was still warm and soft, removed the rind (skin).

I trimmed off the edges of the slab and tentatively tasted one of the pieces.  I’d followed the directions carefully; the meat looked like a slab of bacon; it smelled like bacon.

SCORE! It tasted like bacon!  I quickly put the rest of the trimmings into a small frying pan and browned them off.  Yup. Bacon!

Let’s hope pancetta version two works out as well!

Is everybody going to Gino’s, again?

Gino’s was the place to go.

Back in the 1960’s and early 1970’s Gino’s Hamburgers chain gave the famed Golden Arches a run for the money in the mid-Atlantic region.  The Sirloiner, and Gino Giant mirrored the Quarter Pounder and Big Mac respectively, but Gino’s also had the exclusive distribution rights to Kentucky Fried Chicken in its area. (You can read a brief history of the restaurant chain here). 

I worked at Gino’s for about a year while I was in high school.  At the time, I was told our store on South Broad Street in Trenton was the busiest Gino’s in NJ by sales volume.

Gino’s was where I got my basic food service training (although a few years before this, I worked several shifts at a family run food stand at the New Jersey State Fair where I just waited on customers at the counter…no cooking involved). 

At Gino’s, I started off working the fry station and eventually learned the system for manning the grill where, except for special orders, burger runs were done in multiples of six.  You had to toast your buns, flip your patties, add cheese, dress the bun tops and move the patties from grill to bun for wrapping.  It was a ballet of efficiency and quality control.  I occasionally worked the counter and even learned the procedure for making the Colonel’s Chicken.  It was a good experience.

One tidbit I learned while there was the importance of filtering the deep fryer grease everyday and changing it out before it started to leave undesirable flavors in the product.  At the time, Gino’s never kept the grease for more than three days. Each day, the used shortening from the third vat in the fryer was discarded.  The fat in the second vat was filtered into the now empty third; the shortening in the first vat was filtered into the second.  Each morning we’d melt a 50 pound cube of vegetable shortening and put it into the first vat, fresh.

There was also a protocol on what products could be fried in what vats.  If I remember correctly, fries and apple pies in the first vat; fries and maybe the fish for the fish sandwich in the second.  And fish and, if needed, fries in the third.  Don’t quote me…that was a long time ago!

The point was, to not let the older fat impart off flavors to the more delicate product and not extend the use of the shortening beyond the point when it started to break down and oxidize.  That impressed me. 

To this day I pay close attention to the flavor of any fried foods that I consume to determine if the frying medium has been properly cared for or allowed to deteriorate past the point of usefulness.

Gino’s became extinct when Marriott bought the chain in 1982 and folded it into its Roy Rogers properties.

Or did it?

A couple of days ago, a former co-worker of mine at Gino’s posted a notice on Facebook about the possibility the brand was being revived.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

While I did prefer Gino’s over MacDonald’s, and not just because I was a “company man,” back in the day, I’m not sure if the comeback is a good thing.

With my general aversion to chains and franchises, will I be tempted to revisit my youth and eat at Gino’s once again?

If so, will Burger Chef be far behind?

White or yellow?

When sweet corn hits the stalls at the local farm markets, we seek out those vendors that are selling yellow corn.  It has been a life long preference because to our palates it tastes better.  

“Yes,” we say, “white corn is sweeter; but yellow has more flavor.”

Our long held belief was challenged and changed this year.

I did some online research on this and came up with the fact that personal preference aside; there is little difference between the tastes of yellow or white corn. What matters is the type of corn as defined by the level of sweetness.

Starting back in the 19^th century, seed companies and corn growers started applying scientific methods to breeding improved varieties of corn.  Sugary is the standard sweetness, Sugar Enhanced is sweeter; Supersweet is sweeter still and then comes Sweet Breed, which is a combination of Supersweet and Sugar Enhanced.

The sweeter varieties have a longer shelf life of a week or so from harvest. Increased sugar in the kernel takes longer to convert to starch, allowing the corn to travel to markets further from the field and still maintain a palatable level of sweetness and flavor. (Never the less, everyone agrees that nothing beats corn cooked and eaten as soon after picking as possible).

While there are marked and recognizable differences in taste between the Sugary, Sugar Enhanced, Supersweet or Sweet Breed of corn, there is reportedly no discernible difference in flavor between white, yellow or bi-color varieties of the same sweetness level.  Some credence may be given to corn grown in one location tasting better than the same variety grown elsewhere, but I haven’t seen any reliable documentation supporting this.  Regardless, I stand with those who say Jersey Sweet Corn at its peak is the best that can be had anytime, anywhere.

State pride aside, Ann and I opted to give the white/yellow debate a casual and impromptu taste test last month.  We picked up three ears of each color from a favored vendor at the Trenton Farmers Market.  Back at home, we shucked the ears and boiled them for five minutes.  Then we took turns tasting; Ann closed her eyes and I held an ear of white corn up for her to nibble on.  I repeated this with an ear of the yellow.  Then we reversed roles and she offered me tastes while I kept my eyes closed.

The result was we could not correctly identify the color of the corn we had eaten in the order we tasted it.

While far from scientific, it is a pretty good indicator that there is little taste difference between the colors of corn.  What I can say in favor of yellow corn is that it is nutritionally better for you as a source of vitamin A.  White corn has little to none.

White or yellow, the local corn season is winding down.  But before your local corn is gone completely, you owe it to yourself to try this recipe for Baked Buttered Corn from Michael Ruhlman’s blog. It’s simple and oh so delicious: corn cut from the cob, seasoned with salt and pepper, dotted with butter then baked. 

Just the perfect dish to help transition you from summer to fall.

For openers

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to talk of many things:” — Lewis Carroll

And so it begins.  Welcome to “Dj’eat?” A blog about food, cooking, and anything related that might strike my fancy.

Do we need another food blog?  Probably not.  But at the encouragement of others, I hereby offer up these thoughts on food.

We’re into the “R” months, the start of the traditional season for oysters. While they are available year round, conventional wisdom dating from the time before there was reliable refrigeration suggested only eating oysters in the months with an “R” because , in the northern hemisphere, they were the cooler months of the year.  There is also the fact that our eastern oysters spawn in the summer, thus making them less plump and delectable from spending their reserves procreating.

And so it was that friend Mark and I ushered in this “time of the mollusks” by making a run to Bivalve Packing Company in Port Norris, NJ.

We make these pilgrimages, not just to stock up on a favored shellfish, but also to visit this nearly forgotten corner of New Jersey.  Tucked along the Maurice (pronounced Morris) River in Cumberland County, Bivalve, Port Norris and Shellpile are reminders of the once great oyster industry that thrived here. (check out some of Mark’s photos of the area here)

From the time the first European settlers arrived on this continent, the plentiful oysters of the eastern seaboard fed the gentry and hoi polloi alike.  The Delaware Bay at its peak produced over 2 million pounds of oysters a year.  The packing houses and oyster sloops employed many people and essentially created the towns of Bivalve, Shellpile and Port Norris.

In the 20^th century, deteriorating water quality, overfishing and disease nearly wiped out oyster harvesting from the Delaware estuary, but the towns survived and the watermen persevered.  Today, the industry is doing better and we love supporting our hardworking friends on the Bay Shore.

 “He was a bold man that first ate an oyster.” – Jonathan Swift

I can’t remember when I ate my first oyster.  I remember as a child eating clams at summer picnics, but I can’t pinpoint the date of my introduction to the ritzy cousin of the little neck.

More difficult to open than a clam, oysters seemed an exotic and somewhat exclusive food to me.  I only ate them in restaurants or raw bars or purchased them at the market already shucked.  The latter was good if you were making oyster stew or another dish that didn’t require service “on the half shell.” 

The convenience factor of being able to buy a couple of pints of oysters enabled me to take the fixings to work where, in the office’s communal  kitchen/lunch room, I would prepare a batch of oyster stew to share with a coworker.  Each November, we’d take an extended lunch break to enjoy some non-work related conversation and a couple of bowlfuls of oysters swimming in a warm, buttery bowl of cream flavored with the oyster liquor, Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of Tabasco.

Then I caught an episode of Julia Child’s cooking show on public television.  In an offhand, totally “Julia” moment, she advised us viewers that a plain old-fashioned beer can opener (church key) could be pressed into service as a tool for prying open an oyster.  That little tidbit of news freed me from being dependent upon others to shuck my oysters and suddenly opened up a new world of oyster preparation and consumption.

At about the same time, a neighbor and some of his friends made a trip down to the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay.  At one of the small towns, they visited a packing house and brought back sacks of oysters fresh from the bay and at an incredibly cheap price.  I purchased a few dozen from them for my own consumption and, using the clever trick of Ms. Child’s, opened and ate them accompanied by horseradish, Tabasco, lemon juices and the obligatory Original Trenton Cracker (OTC’s).

I was elated with my new found skill. I could now enjoy oysters anytime and anywhere I found them available to me, shucked or not. 

A few years later a chance conversation with one of the owners of the company I was then working for revealed that he had recently bought some oysters and took them home only to realize he didn’t know quite how to go about opening them.  We discussed this further which led to the picking of a date for me to provide a lesson in oyster shucking.  The day came and I brought a cooler loaded with oysters, ice and some Guinness* to the office.  In the middle of the afternoon I left my desk for the kitchen and started shucking and serving oysters to the staff and clients, paired with a nice glass of stout for those who desired it.

The periodic runs my friends made to Maryland for oysters morphed into runs down to Port Norris, NJ and the Bivalve Packing Company.  Before too long, I started making my own trips down once or twice a year to buy plentiful, cheap, local oysters to feed my (and my friends’) need for these delectable mollusks.

Broiled oysters

Now it’s an accepted part of the cool weather seasons.  Up early on a weekday morning when we have off from work, we jump in the car and head south to Port Norris.  After picking up the day’s order (usually at least two, often more, boxes of 100 each), we’ll poke around the area a little before heading to the Maurice River Diner for a late breakfast before heading back home.

This last trip, I had it my mind to coax the diner staff into preparing a Hangtown Fry for us.

 This dish is said to have originated in the town of Placerville, California (formerly known as “Hangtown” for the number of hangings that took place there) during the gold rush days of the mid 19^th century.  The story of the genesis of the Hangtown Fry follows two main threads.  The first claims that a miner who had recently struck it rich strode into the main hotel in town and demanded to be fed the “most expensive meal in the house.”  On hand were the following ingredients: bacon, expensive because it had been transported from the east coast, eggs (presumably produced by local hens) and oysters brought in from the San Francisco Bay some 100 miles to the west…a costly endeavor before motorized transport and mechanical refrigeration.

A second story centers on the “last meal” wish of a man condemned to die in the noose.  Asked what he wished to have, the clever fellow is said to have asked for bacon, eggs and oysters knowing that it would take time to procure the ingredients and thereby prolong his execution by a day or two.

Since there is no clear determination as to which, if either, legend is the truth it is not surprising that the recipe for the Hangtown Fry is itself debated.  Some say the eggs are scrambled with the oysters and served over two crisp rashers of bacon.  Others suggest it should be more of a bacon omelet with breaded, fried oysters folded into the middle.

It all proved moot when we inquired of our server at the diner if they could whip up a version for us.  Seems this establishment infrequently offers oysters on the menu and so didn’t have the key ingredient.

Not to be deterred, the next morning I shucked a half dozen oysters and made my own version of the Hangtown Fry.

I started by slowly browning off two slices of thick cut bacon. 

Bacon

Once they were done, I removed them to drain on some paper towel and removed all but a couple of tablespoons of the bacon grease from the frying pan.  Into the pan I poured three eggs I’d beaten together with some salt and pepper and started making a basic omelet.  When the eggs were about half done, I tossed in the shucked oysters, drained of their liquor.  As the eggs continued to cook, I broke the bacon up into pieces and sprinkled it over the omelet just before folding it over and sliding it onto the plate.

A grand start to the day and a great start to oyster season!

*Stout, particularly Guinness, and oysters are a great pairing.  I spent half our trip to Ireland seeking just that combination and finally found it at the Old Stand Public House in Waterford.