I am suddenly turned on by the thought of graham crackers. And that is just the sort of attitude that would make Reverend Graham turn in his grave, since I am undoing all of his good work. Not Billy Graham. He's still (barely) alive, though he also may not approve. I'm talking Sylvester Graham, the inventor of the eponymous cracker.

The graham cracker was created in tandem with the Graham Diet, which advocated fresh fruits and vegetables, whole wheat, and lots of fiber, and denounced meats, alcohol, and spices. Dairy was to be used sparingly. A forefather of Dr. Kellogg and his cornflake-fueled sanitarium, Graham firmly believed that a bland diet would prevent people from having impure thoughts, therefore preventing masturbation (which Graham believed lead to blindness and insanity).

Yes, that is correct. The graham cracker was originally invented to curb sexual desire. I think that is a lot to ask from a cracker, don't you?

Small wonder graham crackers play no major role in my adult life, save at the bottom of the occasional pie or cheesecake, but they were an ever-present staple in my household throughout my childhood. It's enough to make me think my crafty mother was fully aware of this cracker's mystical, anti-inflammatory powers.

How clever, too, the scoutmasters of this country for popularizing the s'more. Leaving a group of adolescent boys out in the wild seems to be asking for trouble, but stuff them with enough graham crackers and parents can rest assured that the only sticks those boys will be rubbing together will be to make a campfire.

If you uncover any more graham cracker-related conspiracies, please contact me. I need to know.

If the heat of summer has got you all sweaty and lathered, I propose cooling your jets with some homemade graham crackers. For extra measure, substitute saltpeter for cinnamon in the topping as listed in the recipe below.

Graham Crackers

Everyone seems to be in agreement that Nancy Silverton's recipe for these beauties is the very last word, so who am I to argue? Here is her recipe, more or less. Mostly more.

Makes about 10 4" crackers or 20 2" ones. The math is easy.

Ingredients:

2 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons unbleached pastry or all-purpose flour. Unbleached. Dr. Graham loathed bleached flours, so please bear that in mind.
1 cup dark brown sugar, lightly packed
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes and frozen
1/3 cup honey (mildly flavored, like clover)
5 tablespoons whole milk
2 tablespoons vanilla extract

For the topping:
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Preparation:

1. In the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade, combine the flour, brown sugar, baking soda, and salt. Pulse just enough to incorporate the ingredients. Add butter and pulse until mixture is the consistency of coarse meal.

2. In a small bowl, whisk together the honey, milk, and vanilla extract. Add to the flour mixture and pulse until the dough just comes together. Don't worry, it's supposed to be sticky.

3. Turn dough onto a lightly-floured work surface and pat the dough into a rectangle about 1 inch in thickness. Wrap in plastic and chill until firm; anywhere from 2 hours to overnight.

4. Prepare the topping by combining sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl. Set aside.

5. Divide the dough in half and return the unused half to the refrigerator. Sift an even layer of flour onto your work surface and roll the dough into a long rectangle about 1/8" think. The dough will still be sticky, so flour as needed. Trim the edges of the rectangle to 4" wide. Working with the short side that should be facing you, cut the strip every 4 1/2". (I chose to make mine 2" wide, but that is a personal preference.) Place crackers on a parchment-lined baking sheet, sprinkle with topping, and refrigerate. Repeat rolling and cutting actions with the second half of the dough. If you are frugal and not lazy, gather the remaining dough scraps, re-form, refrigerate and repeat. The crackers should chill to firm for another 30 to 45 minutes.

6. Preheat your oven to 350º F and adjust the oven racks to the upper and lower positions.

7. Make a vertical line through the middle of the crackers, being careful not to cut all the way through the dough. Score them. That's the better word. Prick the dough in decorative rows. But not too many. Mine look rather like dominoes.

8. Bake for 25 minutes, until browned and slightly firm-to-tough. Rotate baking sheet (or sheets, depending on how many you are making) half way through baking to ensure an even doneness.

9. Let the them and your passions cool, put on a nice Andy Williams album, place a cracker or two in the unhairy palm of your hand and enjoy with a wholesome glass of milk.

As California's road trip season begins, it's time to pull out that list of foods that are worth a detour or two. If you're passing by or through tribal land, allow time in your day and space in your stomach for a stop at roadside stalls offering fry bread or, even better, Indian tacos. Many of us are all a-twitter about the mash-up of Korean bbq and tortillas. But this much quieter and long established blend of taco toppings on soft, still-hot flatbread is better than anything I've tasted from digitally hyped menus.

For the taco aficionados among you: Do not pepper me with hate comments about what constitutes a "real" taco. Take it up with the Indian Nations. For the politically minded, I acknowledge that the physical and cultural repercussions of making refined white flour a daily staple, is not something to celebrate, especially in communities stranded both literally and figuratively in the middle of vast food deserts. Like many foods we love, from latkes to lumpia, eating more isn't eating better.

But for those who are open to the culinary creativity of everyday folks, then this is food worth savoring. During your summer travels, look for stands located on busier strips near post offices, grocery stores or tribal councils. For the best fry breads, plan on arriving earlier in the day, as they will sell out. Peek around and see if there are cast iron pans at the ready. Each round of dough should be patted by hand and fried to order, and if it's your first time, order a plain one to enjoy fry bread at its humblest. If you like funnel cakes, doughnuts, angel wings, or those little bits of leftover pie dough that your mom fried up just for you, then you'll be right at home.

Many give Navajos of the Southwest the blue ribbon for making the best fry bread, but tribes all across the country have perfected their own versions. Some use baking powder; others have developed yeasty variations. Big or small, round or square, thin or hefty -- everyone has their favorite way of making it.

I wish I could say that fry bread has a happy history. Stories that includes broken treaties, prison camps and reservations, surplus commodities and starvation are not the ones usually passed around while we're stuffing our faces. But like bitter parsley and unsalted bread, times of suffering are also passed from table to table with pride. We are here. We survived. We are together. We will prevail.

Pow wows are one of the best places to enjoy native foods. Celebratory gatherings, these were banned by our government until the 1960s, but fortunately, they now appear annually in every region. Search this pow wow calendar for California to see if you'll be near one this year. Be sure it's open to the public, and check for special events that the kids will especially enjoy.

Fry bread is super easy to make, and kids will enjoy patting their own rounds. For a healthier version, try grilling the bread, another trick that is family friendly and even easier.

FRY BREAD

This recipe is adapted from one that appears in the excellent book, Foods of the Americas, by Fernando and Marlene Divina, published in partnership with the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian. Fry bread is usually cooked until golden, without deep browning or char marks. You can sprinkle the rounds with cinnamon and sugar for a sweet treat, or wrap your favorite sandwich fillings for a savory meal.

Makes: 8 small rounds.

Ingredients:
3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for rolling
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 1/4 cups warm water
Vegetable oil, for frying

Preparation:

1. In a bowl, combine and stir together the flour, baking powder and salt. Make a well and then pour in the water. Form a soft dough, and then knead very gently and briefly to form a ball. Roll into a log, cover with a clean towel and let rest for 10 minutes.

2. Cut the dough crosswise into 8 pieces, keeping the pieces covered while you're working. Patting with floured hands and using a rolling pin, form rounds that are about 1/4-inch thick. Dust both sides of each round evenly with flour, stack and cover with a cloth until ready to cook.

3. To fry: Heat 1 inch of oil in a deep, wide pan over medium-high heat. Cook 1 to 2 pieces of dough at a time, taking care not to overcrowd. Cook, turning once, until golden brown, 2 to 3 minutes on each side. Cook one first, and test for doneness before continuing with the other rounds. The fry bread should be dry and crisp on the outside, moist on the inside. Drain on paper towels and serve will still warm.

4. To grill: Prepare charcoal or heat a gas grill to medium-high. After forming the rounds, place the dough on the grill rack and cook until bubbles form and the dough has risen slightly, 2 to 3 minutes on each side. The surface of the bread should be dry to the touch.

I've currently got Paris on the brain. I'm about to invade that city for a week of eating and drinking and wandering and thinking.

So, naturally, the first thing to pop into my head for today's post was, "Oh, I should do something German."

Because that's how my mind works.

Oh, it's not what you're thinking. My mind has been on the Franco-Prussian War, naturally enough, since I'm currently re-reading The Seven Ages of Paris by Alistair Horne.

Paris is a city that has been, at least historically, in perpetual turmoil. It started with the Norsemen pillaging and burning the town until they were bought off with a big chunk of land in the North (Normandy). Only to see those same Normans a couple of centuries later restyling themselves as Englishmen and setting the country afire during a little conflict known as The 100 Years War.

Then, of course, there were several plagues, internal revolts, sieges, and revolutions-- 1789, 1830, and 1848 (twice in three months), World Wars I and II, and a near-revolution in 1968.

But never did the city of Paris suffer more than during what the French refer to as L'Année Terrible, 1870-1871.

The Year in Review

A sickly Emperor Napoleon III declared war on Prussia on July 19th, 1870, hoping to distract people from the problems at home in his dying Empire. It was a bad move, but one made with characteristically Gallic flair. The French were trounced, the Emperor was captured six weeks later at Sedan, and that was pretty much that.

Or so the Parisians thought. They celebrated the fall of the Empire with a lot of cheering and declared The Third Republic two days later. The war was lost, but at least it was over.

Or not. The Prussians, with the iron-willed, iron-fisted, all-around Iron Chancellor Otto von Bismarck forging policy, kept on coming. The French, Bismarck felt, needed to be taught a lesson.

So they marched on Paris.

Surrounding the city, the Prussians sought to starve Paris into capitulation. For five months, the only contact Paris had with the outside world was via hot air balloons floating up and over the enemy filled with letters and dispatches from those trapped inside. The only messages in came from an occasional carrier pigeon. Rats, horses, house pets and nearly every animal in the zoo (one exception being monkeys because, apparently, the Parisians embraced Darwinism) were consumed by the hungry Parisians in their effort to fend off starvation*. By the time the French surrendered, Germany had united over the near-dead body of France and declared itself an empire. At the palace of Versailles, of all places. Nice touch.

But that wasn't the worst part.

As happened so often in Paris, the working class sparked a revolt, leading to a government take-over. In a nutshell, The Paris Commune was set up, socialist reforms were attempted and things went generally crazy. The Tuilleries Palace was burned to the ground, the Vendome Column toppled, even Notre Dame barely escaped destruction-- it's benches had been piled up and doused with kerosene but was saved at the last minute.

The Commune ultimately failed-- stamped out by the what was left of the French government and army in the bloodiest moment of the city's history-- 20,000 Parisians were slaughtered in just one week alone. The city was shattered.

Or was it?

What has always amazed me is the resilience of Paris. Each time it is beaten down, it seems to come back a little bit stronger. After a year of alienation, isolation, the pounding and ensuing humiliation by a stronger enemy, self-destruction, and thanks to a 5 billion franc war reparation bill, crippling debt, Paris rebounded into one of the most brilliant (or at least, fondly remembered) periods of its history-- La Belle Epoque, which lasted nearly 43 years. Solidly, it returned to and confirmed its status as the cultural capital of Europe, if not the world.

It's as though Paris can historically shake off its woes with its world-famous shrug.

So why the history lesson today?

Well, I'm coming out of my own p'tit année terrible-- one that strangely mimics the year Paris faced, but on a much smaller, human scale. So I'm off to see how the Parisians manage it; to do a little shrugging of my own, you might say. I will eat and wander and observe the natives in a place that is more than likely Bismarck-free both in terms of the pastry and the guy who brought Paris to its knees. Or the one who brought me to mine, for that matter.

And maybe I'm hoping for a little belle époque of my own to begin. 43 years? Yeah, I think that will do. That will do nicely.

I will be back blogging June 19th.

* On the bright side, the Parisians were never in any danger of running out of wine.

Bismarcks

Bismarck is the Canadian/American name for the German pastry Berliner, as in John F. Kennedy's famous declaration, "Ich bin ein Berliner." In Berlin, however, they are referred to as Pfannkuchen.

Call it whatever you like.

Apart from the time spent allowing the yeast dough to rise, these doughnuts are relatively simple to make. And delicious-- the unfilled pastry being light and airy and not especially sweet. Fill them with whatever you like, sweet or savory. Hell, toast one and use it to bookend a hamburger, while we're eating things named after German cities.

It's a good thing Kennedy wasn't in Hamburg when he decided to make that speech. Or worse, Vienna.

Makes: 12 Bismarcks

Ingredients
4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups whole milk
2 packages of yeast
4 tablespoons of sugar
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
8 egg yolks
a pinch of salt
Raspberry Jam for filling
Powdered sugar for dusting

Preparation:

1. In a saucepan, bring milk to a boil. Turn off heat and stir in butter and sugar. Cool to lukewarm. Sprinkle yeast over the top of the milk mixture and leave it to bloom and reanimate for about 10 to 15 minutes, until it starts to foam up.

2. Add this yeasty liquid to a large bowl in which the flour and salt have been patiently waiting. Stir and fold to combine into a sticky mess of dough. Cover with a damp, clean cloth and set in a warm place to rise for two hours.

3. With floured hands, turn dough onto a lightly-floured surface and roll to a 3/8-inch thickness. Cut into circles (I used a 3 1/2- inch cutter). Place them on a baking sheet or what-have-you and cover with the same damp cloth to rise for another 30 minutes or so.

4. Fry the Bismarcks in 350° F vegetable oil or lard for 4 minutes. I find flipping them every 30 seconds helpful for some reason. Drain on a paper towel-lined rack to cool.

5. If you are filling these pastries (and you should be or they're not Bismarcks), if you lack a pastry syringe, cut a small opening into the side of each bun and wiggle your knife or (what I used) scissor blade around the inside to create a small pocket into which the jam might find purchase.

6. Put jam into a pastry bag with a plain tip. Place the tip into the pastry's hole and pipe in the jam until it starts to spill out the side like some mortal flesh wound. The jam should be cold, like the blood of Bismarck himself.

Serve fresh, and not over anyone's white carpeting.

Photo by geminder

Post by Brian Underwood

Anthony Bourdain does not come off as a man easily rendered speechless -- but he may have met his match.

His talk on Thursday night at Flint Center brought out an eclectic crowd of spirited and often rowdy foodies, many of whom seemed quite capable of getting into a bar fight over the relative merits of Anderson Valley Pinots versus Amador zin. Fortunately no fists flew, just steady waves of enthusiasm at Bourdain's dynamic dissertation of Food Network gossip, friendly bashing of Alice Waters and Rachel Ray, and tales of his culinary philosophy and many testicle-eating adventures.

"No Reservations" often details some of the bizarre foods he ingests when traveling abroad, which he explains in terms of social propriety: often he is the guest of local families, who often have very little material wealth, but who generously put forth some of their most cherished cuisine. If they were to offer their honored guest the platter of poached puppy dog heads that would normally feed the family for the whole month, then it would be unconscionably rude to refuse the gift on the grounds of pickiness, squeamishness, or heaven forbid, vegetarianism. He professes a more rabidly inclusive form of gastronomic diplomacy.

While taking audience questions, he called on one fellow who had been interjecting various yells throughout the talk -- "F--- EMERIL!", for example -- addressing him as "you, the angry, belligerent dude in the hat." The Mr. Belligerent said something about a tattoo, and Bourdain invited him onto stage to provide proof.

The madly grinning Mr. B took the stage and lifted his pant leg for all to see. His entire right thigh was tattooed with Bourdain's face, looking brusquely cherubic as a softly lit Stevie Nicks in a biker bar.

Clearly Bourdain sees many unusual things in his travels, but his own face on the body of someone he didn't know left him looking some combination of flattered and mortified. It may have at least been reassuring to note that the other limbs bore similar portraits in ink, a walking Pantheon of Food Network personalities: Mario on the forearm, Alton on the shin, Fieri not visible in polite company...

Mr. B, having leveraged his unique opportunity to win over the roaring crowd, handed his idol a Sharpie and asked him to autograph the leg. Bourdain could have easily signed at the knee or even refused and called security, but instead, reaffirming his unflappability, urged Mr. B to hike the cuff up a little further, to get the scribble right onto the bikini line.

I can only assume he will remember the incident as Cupertino's gift of poached puppy dog heads.

Related Links:
Anthony Bourdain's blog
No Reservations on Twitter
No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain on Facebook
Anthony Bourdain books and DVDs on Amazon.com

Listen Live to Mark Kurlansky on KQED 88.5FM Mon, May 23, 2009 -- 9:00 AM.

Listen to the audio archive of Mark Kurlansky on KQED's Forum. (archive posts 5/25 late eve)

Mark Kurlansky
In a pre-recorded but never-before-aired program, Mark Kurlansky joins us to discuss his new book, "The Food of a Younger Land." It examines the diversity and variety of pre-war American cuisine. Using abandoned documents from the Federal Writers Project, Kurlansky looks at a forgotten America where food varied greatly from city-to-city and state-to-state.

Host: Michael Krasny

Explore and buy The Food of a Younger Land: A Portrait of American Food--Before the National Highway System, Before Chain Restaurants, and Before Frozen Food, When the Nation's Food Was Seasonal

Mark Kurlansky's books on Amazon.com

Listen Live to Ruth Reichl on KQED 88.5FM Mon, May 11, 2009 -- 10:00 AM.

Listen to the audio archive of Ruth Reichl on KQED's Forum.

Ruth Reichl
Ruth Reichl is best known for her work as editor in chief of Gourmet Magazine, but she's also a best selling author who tackles subjects outside the world of food. Her new book, "Not Becoming My Mother: And Other Things She Taught Me Along the Way" examines her mother's life as a woman in the early 20th century.

Host: Michael Krasny

Guest: Ruth Reichl, author, editor in chief of Gourmet Magazine, former restaurant critic for the New York Times and four-time James Beard Award winner

Explore and buy Ruth Reichl's books on amazon.com
Follow Ruth Reichl on Twitter @ruthreichl
Follow Gourmet on Twitter @gourmet
Gourmet.com website

Rhubarb. I have loved it for years. And why not? It's a tart, refreshing, and completely extraordinary thing when handled properly.

Of course, it is also highly seasonal. It's one of the first bits of produce to show up in markets when the ground warms up in the spring, it hangs around in the summertime, when the living is supposedly easy, but it has a predictable habit of disappearing when the weather gets rough. It's a fair weather thing. And, though most commonly lumped together with fruits, it is, in fact a vegetable-- a truth I've found very difficult to grasp over the past few years.

When you slow down long enough to really notice the word, when you break it down into its two syllables and sound it out, it just seems like a really bad idea. "Rue," as a noun connotes sorrow. As a verb, it means to regret. And barb? It can mean any sharp protrusion that points backward, like a hook or an arrow. It is something that prevents easy extraction. When you put the two pieces of the word together, however, it evokes freshly baked pies and springtime. Or, of course, it can conjure up some sad, sorrowful thing that pulls you in and won't let you go. Take your pick. I have been historically attracted to both, but that is one for my therapist. I can just see the silhouettes of the Electric Company's Oscar-winning duo, Morgan Freeman and Rita Moreno, sounding it all out for me. Rhu. Barb. Rhubarb. They make it sound like so much fun.

The Latin name for the plant, Rheum rhabarbarum, should give one pause. At its base is barbarum, which indicates that the plant was, for the Greeks and Romans at least, from some place other. In the case of the rhubarb plant, this place was the Volga river-- an area at the time populated by what the "civilized" Mediterraneans considered barbarian: bearded and coarse, with a language totally incomprehensible to their own.

And Rheum? From the Latin rheuma, it means "a watery discharge from the mucous membranes, especially the eyes and nose." Charming.

The Greek word bárbaros, by the way, refers to the sound of random, incomprehensible noises one hears when listening to a language one cannot understand. The sound they made to mimic this was "bar bar." The terms "babble" and "blah blah," may be derived from this. One usage of the word "rhubarb" certainly is-- it is one of the words chosen by stage actors to chatter repeatedly in order to provide indecipherable background noise in crowd or party scenes.

Only the stalk of the rhubarb plant is edible. The green leaves of the plant-- the part of the organism from which it derives its strength and energy-- are toxic, containing the nephrotoxin oxalic acid. When eaten in quantity or over a long period of time, one may suffer kidney damage. The roots that give the plant its stability are rich in anthraquinones like emodin and rhein, which are natural laxatives and cathartics.

Well, I've had about enough catharsis, thank you very much. I no longer see rhubarb through the rosy-hued glasses that bare a remarkable resemblance to the color of the stalk itself. With the exception of the following recipe, I'm not giving rhubarb much thought anymore. Instead, I shall focus my energy and attention elsewhere. Like going to Paris for a week-- a place where the only rue-ing I'll be doing is wandering the streets of that city and the only barbs I will encounter are the bons mots flung by a couple of charming and very clever friends.

Now that's the kind of rhubarb I can really get behind.

Rapaperikiisseli (Finnish Rhubarb Soup)

And why not Rapaperikiisseli? It is a word I do not understand and could never hope to pronounce. It's all bar bar to me. I've simplified the dish somewhat, omitting the need for cornstarch. It is, in a real sense, rhubarb boiled down to its essence, with just a little help from its good friends Mr. Sugar, Señor Water, and a couple of spicy numbers from down the street. It requires little in the way of time and effort, and even less in terms of thought, which is pretty much what I should have been giving rhubarb all along.

Enjoy.

Serves: 2 to 4, depending.

Ingredients:
2 cups cold water
2 cups rhubarb, chopped and peeled (reserve the peel for use, please)
1/2 cup sugar
1 cinnamon stick, whole
a pinch of ground clove
mint, if you like, for garnish (I am not one of those people who garnishes everything with mint. It just happens to work nicely in this particular case.

Preparation:
1. In a medium-sized saucepan equipped with a lid (for future use), place water and rhubarb peel. Bring to a simmer and cook the peel until the color has been leached out. Remove and discard peel.

2. Add to the now-pink water the sugar, chopped rhubarb, and cinnamon stick. Stir, bring to a simmer, and cover. Simmer until the rhubarb falls completely apart. In my experience, it will do this with some regularity over the span of a few years. In the case of this recipe, however, give it 15 minutes. Remove the cinnamon stick and let cool enough so that, when put in a blender, the top will not burst off and scald you with hot liquid.

3. When the rhubarb is blender-ready... ummm... blend. Continue to do so until it is of a smooth, even consistency. Set to chill in the refrigerator.

4. Serve chilled in appropriate serving bowls with bits of torn mint thrown over the top. Or add little fluffy clouds of whipped cream or a dollop of crème fraîche. Your choice. The rhubarb is yours to do with as you please.

And I know a lot of them. Last weekend, I was (cheerfully) roped into helping prepare and serve a "proper" English tea by an old friend who had offered up her home, her china, and her silver tea pots for the benefit of my goddaughter's school. I have placed the word "proper" in quotation marks, because this was a tea hosted by Canadian-Americans, which means that it just might have been even more so than a true, English tea. The Canadians, after all, still celebrate Queen Victoria's birthday. The English, however, have long since moved on.

Scones were baked and served with Devonshire cream, butter, and jam. Little tea cakes were made available as were a number of precious, crustless tea sandwiches: cucumber, egg salad, smoked salmon, and Coronation Chicken.

It was the last one that really caught my attention. I asked Mary Pat, my friend Shannon's mother (and my former, formidable piano teacher), about it and she explained that the dish was called Coronation Chicken Salad because it was served at a luncheon in honor of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. Well, that seemed straightforward enough.

It also fit in nicely with the conversation about World War II food rationing I was having with my friend Craig and my goddaughter, Zelly, on the way to their house. Don't ask. These things just happen. We got so involved talking about u-boats, the Battle of Britain, and how Queen Elizabeth (mother of the present queen regnant) was glad Buckingham Palace was bombed so that she could then "look the East End in the face," that we forgot to stop for some necessary but overlooked tea supplies.

The Back Story
Coronation Chicken Salad was created by chef Rosemary Hume and the credit grabbed by one Constance Spry, a social-climbing society florist when students at her Winkfield Domestic Science School (at which Miss Hume was an instructress) were asked to cater a luncheon for the leaders of the Commonwealth Nations gathering together for the new queen's coronation.

Yes, Winkfield. The dish was anything but new at the time; merely a rehashing of the chicken in curried mayonnaise concocted for Elizabeth's grandfather, George V, in celebration of his Silver Jubilee. The name of the dish was, unsurprisingly, "Jubilee Chicken." And you'll never guess what was served in honor of Elizabeth's Golden Jubilee. It's true. Jubilee Chicken.

But we made it because we thought you loved it so much. I can just hear her mother (god rest her soul) saying that.

The recipe was published in the newspapers ahead of the coronation so that the common people might partake of what their new queen would be eating on her very special day. However, since food rationing did not end until 1954 (several months later), it is very doubtful that most of the common folk had had sufficient amounts of chicken and dairy products on hand to whip of a batch of the stuff. If they had learned anything in 14 years of food restrictions and shortages, it was to make do, to improvise. Perhaps that is why there are so many different versions of this particular salad. Individual households approximated the dish with what they had on hand.

Today's Coronation Chicken Salad is, essentially, cold chicken in curried mayonnaise. Simple but good. The original version, however, is a much more complex organism that included a cooked-down sauce of red wine, bay leaf, and tomato purée, and an addition of apricot purée and heavy cream. Throw in some mayonnaise and curry powder and...I'll put it this way-- I get the feeling that anyone who ate it would be spending more time on the throne than Elizabeth Regina.

Coronation-ish Chicken Salad
This is not the original recipe. Given the food rationing of the time, I think it's entirely in the spirit of the thing to improvise with ingredients one has on hand. For example, if a bottle of red wine is opened in my house, there will never be any left over for use in a chicken salad. Instead, I have added vinegar. I've also omitted the original call for heavy cream, and the cooking of the onions, owing to my own preference for bolder flavors and an even stronger tendency towards laziness. Feel free to add or subtract whatever ingredients you like. Except for chicken, mayonnaise, and curry powder. I don't mind, and I don't think Her Britannic Majesty will mind much, either. For the original recipe, please visit The Greasy Spoon, a site I stumbled upon and of which I am now rather fond.

Note: I had chosen to serve my salad clad in nothing but a crown of watercress. Upon examination of the opening photo, however, I realized that crowns are meant to be worn upon the head, not sat upon. It is a small but important error. If it bothers you, please feel free to turn the whole thing upside down and place upon your head or the head of the queen nearest you.

Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients:
4 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, poached and diced
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon curry powder (more or less, according to taste.)
2 tablespoons mango chutney or apricot preserves
1/2 yellow onion, finely diced
1 stalk celery, finely diced
1/4 cup currants or raisins
1 tablespoon vinegar: cider, champagne or whatever
the juice of 1/2 lemon
salt and pepper to taste
1/4 cup chopped cashews for garnish
watercress, washed and de-stemmed, for garnish

Preparation:
1. Combine mayonnaise, curry powder, vinegar, chutney, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Stir well.

2. Throw in the chopped chicken breast meat, celery, and currants/raisins. Stir until everything is well-coated.

3. Refrigerate overnight to let all the ingredients get to know each other a little better.

4. To serve, place on a bed of watercress and top with chopped cashews. Or slap some between two slices of bread. I will leave the decision of whether or not to discard the bread crust up to you.

I have this thing about history books-- especially ones about food history, military history, and the misdoings of European royalty. If its got a lot of useless trivia packed into it, I will read it, digest it, and annoy my friends with the opening line, "Hey did you know...?"

And if what I'm reading includes all of the above, I am one happy nerd.

Thanks to my recent reading, its finally happened. I've met him-- my new historical crush, Stanislaw Leszczynski. He might not have been the handsomest fellow in the world, but he had it going on: he lost the crown of Poland, became the French Duke of Lorraine by marrying off his daughter Maria to Louis XV (after losing Poland a second time), and, most likely by virtue of is own good nature and a heavy dose of pity from Frederick III, was made a count of the Holy Roman Empire. It doesn't matter much that, by the 18th Century, The H.R.E. was neither holy, nor Roman. It wasn't even much of an Empire, but a cluster of bickering Central European states. Still, it was a nice title.

But it really isn't his laundry list of honors that impresses me. I'd still like him if he were merely an viscount or baron or margrave. It's his penchant for popularizing and ascribing names to food that I like. Really, really popular food. King Stanislaw, it seems, was quite a gastronome, as his painting might hint at. Just look at those multiple chins.

According to my latest read, The Food Chronology by James Trager, Stanislaw started a craze in Paris for pigs' feet, tripe, and most importantly, onion soup soon after his daughter became queen of France. According to legend, he was so taken with an onion soup he was served at an inn on his way to Paris that he visited the kitchen in his dressing gown and demanded the chef to show him how to make it. Et voilà, everyone was eating Soupe à l'Oignon.

It is also culinary lore that Stanislaw would drench kugelhupf with rum from the French West Indies to create Baba au Rhum. Though it is more than likely he did not name the dish "Baba au rhum", three points of truth indicate his possible involvement in some ways-- kugelhupf was a well-established dish in the regions of Alsace and Lorraine by the time Stanislaw took up residence, he loved alcohol, and the word "baba" is derived from the Polish word for "good woman" or grandmother. Think "babka."

And finally (unless you want to get into the quiche Lorraine, which I do not), he's got the madeleine-- that tea cake enshrined by the famously self-obsessed shut-in, Marcel Proust. Not everyone will agree that Stanislaw was the man who named it. What is known is that the madeleine originated in the town of Commercy, in Lorraine, where Stanislaw was in residence. Some say he named it after a maid who served them him. Others say they had long been baked by the local nuns of St. Mary Magdelen convent.

Oh, there are lots of theories on the origin of madeleine, but I won't bore you with them.

I think what I'm rather taken with is the fact that this man seems to have had his finger in a number of culinary pots. I am jealous that, because of his stature, he was able to influence the tastes of a country which was then becoming famous for its food-- a country that wasn't even his.

Of course in the 18th Century, anyone of note was aching to have their cooks invent dishes to be named for them. Think Sauce Richelieu or Sue Anne Nivens' favorite, Veal Prince Orloff.

Are people naming dishes today or has everything already been named? It feels as though everything has. Apart from delis with a penchant for naming sandwiches after Borscht Belt comedians, I'm coming up blank. We just don't see elegant dishes like Asparagus Britney Spears or Tournedos à la Brenda Fricker coming into common usage. There is no flourish these days. Everything is so bloody straightforward, a long string of words listing ingredients. Flank Steak with kohlrabi pudding, sunchoke fries, and anchovies. Or whatever. Are we so unsophisticated that we now have to have everything spelled out for us?

I mean really.

Give me the days when an old Polish king could wander into France, have a bit of cake and say, "Oh, let's call this a madeleine." Perhaps his French wasn't good enough to say "I would very much like one of those delicious, buttery cakes with the faint whiff of lemon." It doesn't really matter. One says "madeleine" and one knows exactly what one is getting.

And to that I say, "Dziekuje, Stanislaw." Thank you. You've given me an idea. I shall start naming everything I eat. Sadly, the best name I've come up with for anything lately is Chicken Statutory, which is an Americanized version of Chicken Cacciatore, but made with younger, fresher chicken.

I think it needs a little work.

Haggis. For some reason, that word seems to conjure looks of extreme disgust on the faces of most Americans. "Do you even know what it is?" I ask. Or, better yet, in between the "icks" and "ews" I question "Have you ever even tasted it?" Not surprisingly, most people answer with a sheepish "No."

Granted, haggis, which is essentially a spiced lamb and oatmeal sausage, gets a bum rap in the U.S. primarily because much of what you find in this country is canned and more closely resembles a mushy, livery blob. Authentic, fresh Scottish haggis cannot be imported into the United States due to strict regulations.

But haggis really can be delicious. So I decided to prove it to my friends. Luckily for me, and my Scottish husband, Friday night January 25th just so happens to be Burns Night, a Scottish holiday celebrating the birthday of Scotland's beloved poet, Robert Burns. A night when the homely little haggis is properly revered.

A key element of Burns Night--whether a grande formal affair or just a few friends getting together--is haggis, traditionally served with neeps (turnips; although I believe what they use in Scotland is actually what we know as rutabagas in the U.S.) and tatties (mashed potatoes) and a wee lick of whisky.

My first order of business was finding an edible haggis in the Bay Area. Either that or make my own, which I was willing to do if it came down to it. Fortunately, there are enough people in the Bay Area who like it that I found a few excellent referrals to a little shop called The Scottish Meat Pie Co., who actually make their own fresh haggis. Granted, I still had to work for it as they aren't officially in the Bay Area, but in a little town called Dixon near Sacramento. But I love my Scottish husband and I wanted to celebrate his Scottishness properly. As well as prove to my friends that haggis is delicious.

Therefore, on Monday, I made the drive out to Dixon (and sat in a massive traffic jam for 2 hours) to pick up my previously reserved haggis. The very friendly folks at the Scottish Meat Pie Co. definitely recommended reserving one at this "wild haggis time of the year." In fact, they had just finished making a big batch of haggis--lucky me!

So with my fresher-than-fresh haggis I made my way home, and tomorrow night I'll be serving up a platter of haggis, neeps and tatties, and shots of Scotch whisky, while reciting Robert Burns' poem To a Haggis.

A few asides:
• There are lots of Burns Nights happening all over the Bay Area, such as the one at the Edinburgh Castle Pub on Saturday January 26th, of you want to get your Scottish on.

• The next time someone offers you haggis, rather than scrunching up your face into a grimace, perhaps take a bite.

• Yes, haggis contains offal, typically lamb meat, liver, and heart, but remember that eating the whole beast is a sustainable, responsible way of eating!

The Scottish Meat Pie Co.
245 N. 1st Street
Dixon, CA 95620
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707.678.5354