Making My Peace with Pork Chops

My mother was brilliant at many things: arranging music, directing women’s choral groups and, because she had perfect pitch, she could play anything on the piano by ear. But her genius stopped at the swinging door to her kitchen. My mother was a lousy cook.

Over the years she learned to cook a few things reasonably well. She could make a good shrimp curry that she saved for adults-only dinner parties, but the rest of her repertoire fell short. My siblings and I grew up on Jell-O, tapioca puddings, frozen vegetables and overcooked meat. Because she was raised in Missouri where the Southern influence is palpable, all vegetables were boiled limp and all meats were well done.

I never had a cooking lesson from my mother, and I was never expected to try my hand at making even one single dish, much less an entire meal. And this was how I entered my married life.

My new husband (who knew less about cooking than I did but had grown up with a mother who was a marvelous cook) was eager for me to learn my way around the kitchen as soon as possible. And so it was that just a few weeks into our marriage, he uttered the words dreaded by every new bride: “I’ve invited the new guy over for dinner.”

I looked around our tiny rented beach cottage, the lack of appliances and kitchen tools, and the empty pantry, and panicked. What to do? I conjured up all my courage, flipped through my shiny, new Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook (1965 version) and decided on pork chops. How difficult could pan-fried pork chops be? I’d seen my mother do them many times.

I no longer remember what side dishes I put together for that Meal of Culinary Initiation, but I distinctly recall the colorless, thin pork chops I bought at the Navy commissary (that I didn’t know enough to season) sizzling in an iron skillet. When I assembled our plates, I will never forget the next words out of our guest’s mouth: “I’m Jewish and I don’t eat pork.”

Trying to salvage my own dignity and my mortified husband’s reputation, I loaded up our guest’s plate with side dishes, salad and rolls, while Hubby and I, forcing smiles, sawed away on a pile of overdone pork chops. If my mother could see me now, I thought to myself, she wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Rock-hard pork chops were her specialty, after all.

It took years for me to recover from that, and I avoided cooking pork chops for a long time. Eventually I learned a few things about pork:

Ø    It’s okay to undercook it and slightly-pink-in-the-middle pork is safe. In fact, most professional chefs cook pork only to 150 degrees, not 185 like my first cookbook had recommended.

Ø    Pork is inherently short on flavor, so dry rubs, marinades and glazes help immensely. Dry rubs can be applied hours before cooking, or even at the last minute. Pork responds beautifully to sauces and glazes once it has been seared.

And this last point is why I like to use this Ginger Plum Sauce on any cut of pork. It’s sweet and spicy, kicks up the flavor and moistens every bite. I make a ton of this at the end of the summer when my Satsuma plum tree is loaded with juicy, dark purple plums.

Ginger Plum Sauce

1 Pound firm purple plums

1 medium onion, chopped

2 Tablespoons butter, melted

½ Cup firmly packed brown sugar

¼ Cup tomato-based chili sauce

2 Tablespoons soy sauce

1 Teaspoon ground ginger

2 Teaspoons lemon juice

Wash and pit the plums. Whirl in the blender until almost pureed, leaving some chunks for texture. Cook the onion in the butter. Stir in the brown sugar, chili sauce, soy sauce, ground ginger, and the lemon juice. Stir in the plum puree. Simmer uncovered about 30 minutes until slightly thickened, stirring occasionally. Makes about 1-½ quarts, enough for several meals (it’s great on poultry, too) and some to freeze.

A juicy, boneless pork chop, dry-rubbed with ground sage and salt and pepper, grilled 

and served with Ginger Plum Sauce.

Lettuce Make A Salad

The spring of 2011 was not the year to start garden vegetables early. I planted lettuce about six weeks ago and the poor things have endured spells of temperatures in the mid-90s followed by torrential rain and unseasonably cold, windy nights. Still, they have soldiered on, and this week I have started picking perfect heads of Green Oak Leaf, Butter Crunch and Red Loose-leaf.

In their raised beds, young heads of lettuce form a checkerboard of vibrant colors and are almost too beautiful to assault with a kitchen knife. So I’ve developed a ritual whereby I admire them with loving gazes and verbal flattery before I whack them off at the stem and take them into the kitchen. Even though they were grown organically and are chemical-free, a thorough rinsing and a cold water bath flushes out any little bugs or specks of soil that hide near the stem. After some chilling in the fridge, they are ready for the salad bowl.

My friend Katrina, a terrific cook who now lives in England, taught me how to make vinaigrette, and it is so tasty and easy to prepare I will never, ever use a store-bought dressing again. This recipe can be altered in a number of ways by changing the vinegar or the oil and adding fresh herbs, but I keep coming back to the basics.

Katrina’s Vinaigrette

¼ Cup good quality balsamic vinegar

¼ Cup water

½ Cup extra virgin olive oil. Some olive oils are a little heavy for my tastes, so I use a “light” olive oil, or half EVOO and half canola oil. You can experiment with this.

¼ Teaspoon Colman’s dry mustard, or ½ Teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 Large clove of garlic, mashed through a garlic press

Salt and pepper to taste

Put all ingredients in a clean 1-pint screw-top jar and shake to emulsify. For a thicker dressing, combine the vinegar, water, garlic and mustard in a blender, and with the motor running, slowly drizzle in the oil through the opening in the lid. Then add the salt and pepper. Refrigerate any unused dressing in the covered jar.

This recipe makes one cup of dressing, enough to dress a salad for at least six people. I also use this vinaigrette on steamed or roasted asparagus, and on that favorite of all summer salads: sliced tomatoes and Mozzarella cheese generously garnished with a chiffonade of basil.

Her Majesty, the Matilija Poppy

Every year in May, without fail, the Matilija poppies in my front yard bloom, yielding huge white flowers atop 5-foot-long stalks. They’re not supposed to grow there; It’s too shady and damp for Romneya coulteri that prefer the dry canyons and sandy arroyos of southern California. But there they are anyway, defiantly thriving to the point of becoming invasive.

The flowers can get as large as a salad plate and are crinkly like papier-mache, a dramatic showing for about 3 weeks, then, like all native plants, they die back and look really ugly – “deadest stickus” as one nurseryman told me.

This part of California is the ancestral home of the Chumash people and there are several legends about the Matiilija poppy, probably all of them bogus. The Ventureno band of the Chumash who lived in and near Ojai, my hometown, explain that Mat’ilha was the name of a Chumash village and the poppy was probably named after the place. Forget the sad tales of the unrequited love of two Chumash lovers who died in each other’s arms and the virginal white poppy that grew to envelope their bodies. Legends created by non-Indians, they say.

Bold and regal, dazzling and defiant, the Matilija poppy has been called “the queen of all wild flowers” by more than a few plant enthusiasts. I’ll give it that much, but I wish the queen residing in my small front yard would behave herself and remember that she does not have the royal right to claim everything in her path as her kingdom. 

Designer Water, the Ojai Way

There wasn't a shrub or a blade of grass anywhere on the half-acre I bought in 1995, so the idea that this barren patch was included on the annual Ojai Garden Tour this year is supremely ironic. But there I was yesterday, greeting more than 200 visitors who traipsed through my garden admiring the landscape. "Oh," I could have said, feigning modesty, "it was nothing." Right. Nothing but years of hard labor, a truckload of boulders, river rock and gravel, dozens of trees, miles of irrigation lines, 30 cubic yards of mulch and an egregious amount of fertilizer.

But I never question if it was all worth it. It was and is and will always be worth all the expense and time. This garden is my sanctuary and a quiet respite for contemplation. There's enough space for entertaining, and the citrus and fruit trees, herbs and veggie beds are a source of edible treats year-round.

In the shade of the pergola, I set up a decorative urn of cool water flavored with sliced oranges, lemons and cucumber. I discovered this infusion years ago at Spa Ojai where guests love this simple but refreshing thirst-quencher. I added about a dozen slices each of Meyer Lemon and Blood Orange from the garden, plus an equal amount of peeled and sliced cucumber to two gallons of filtered tap water. I keep a small jug of this lovely water in the refrigerator all summer, and it's a tonic on a hot day when I'm working in the garden.

Sauerkraut and Chiffon Cakes

I'm not much of a cake baker, but today's Los Angeles Times Food Section reminded me of a surprising success I had a few years ago that made me want to get out the cake pans again. The Times' E section lead story features chiffon cake, which apparently was invented by an L.A. insurance salesman in the 1920s who in turn sold it to Betty Crocker who in turn created a mass market sensation when it was introduced to the nation in 1948. Instead of fading into oblivion as a mid-century culinary relic, say the editors, chiffon cake is still a darling today.

The old-fashioned charm of an almost 90-year-old recipe made me think of an old cake recipe that a friend gave me years ago. A neighbor of hers in Michigan, a lady of good German stock, shared an old family recipe that includes a novel way to use a humble but time-honored German ingredient in cake: chocolate sauerkraut cake. I'm not a sauerkraut fan so I was disbelieving until I tried the recipe and was astonished at how delicious it was. If you don't say anything to your guests, they will probably guess the chewiness comes from shredded coconut. Save the punch line for last and wait for the yelps of surprise.

Chocolate Sauerkraut Cake

1/2 Cup unsweetened cocoa powder
2 Cups all-purpose flour
1 Teaspoon baking powder
1 Teaspoon baking soda
1/2 Teaspoon salt
1 1/2 Cups sugar
1/2 Cup butter
1 Teaspoon pure vanilla
2 Eggs
1 Cup water
3/4 Cup sauerkraut, thoroughly rinsed, drained and chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.

Sift the first five ingredients together. Cream sugar, butter and vanilla. Beat eggs in one at a time. Add dry ingredients to creamed mixture alternately with water. Add sauerkraut and mix thoroughly. Pour into prepared cake pans. Bake 30-40 minutes or until cake tests done.

When cake is completely cool, frost with mocha rum cream. Whip 1 1/2 cups heavy cream with 3 tablespoons sugar, 1 tablespoon instant coffee, 2 teaspoons cocoa and 2 tablespoons rum, adding each ingredient slowly as cream begins to thicken.