Extending Summer with Corn Chowder

I have been bingeing on corn. Not only because I love it, but also because I can. I endured the last two summers with orthodontic apparatus bonded to five of my lower front teeth, making chomping down on corn on the cob all but impossible. Now that I have been liberated from my dental prison, I can tackle previously forbidden food like raw whole apples, chewy ciabatta bread and saltwater taffy. And sweet corn on the cob, possibly late summer's most exquisite gift.

My first ear of corn, post orthodontia, made me feel like I was indulging in contraband. I had almost forgotten that sweet smell of steamed corn as I raised it to my mouth. Slathered in butter and lightly salted, I sank my newly straightened teeth into the juicy kernels, closed my eyes in sheer delight and chewed my way from one end of the cob to the other. Row after row, I couldn’t get that corn into my mouth fast enough.

In August, my son, his girlfriend and I drove from Boston up to Maine for a short vacation. Our first stop was Beth’s Market in Warren, a veritable bazaar of exquisite organic produce, fruit, meats, dairy and preserves. The three of us went a little crazy, spent way too much, loaded up the car with a year’s worth of groceries and headed to our little rented shack on the St. George River. Two days later, my sister drove over from Vermont and arrived with hefty coolers full of the bounty from her garden and a carton of just-picked organic corn.

Bryn, a marvelous cook, rolled up her sleeves to make pots of fish and corn chowder, curried carrot soup, sumptuous salads, and omelets stuffed with fresh vegetables. Susan and I were her sous chefs and kitchen stewards. It was all so indulgent and so delightful.And boy, did we eat well!

Thanks to California's long growing season, the Ojai Farmers’ Market is still full of fresh-picked corn. I just bought half a dozen ears of sweet white corn and brought them home to make corn chowder. After stripping off the kernels, I simmered the cobs in some water to make a corn stock for the chowder. Everything went into the freezer to have on hand for making later in the season when the family will appreciate a hearty chowder that reminds them of long summer days.

Almost every recipe for corn chowder starts with bacon, but I have vegetarians in my family so I was relieved to find a recipe from Jamie Oliver that was meat-free. I've made some adjustments that will yield a quantity that will feed my gang, but otherwise I've stayed true to his formula. I especially like that he uses low fat milk instead of evaporated milk (like restaurants tend to do) but if you prefer a thicker, more traditional chowder, use half-and-half mixed with some corn stock.

Corn Chowder

1 large celery stalk
1 large onion
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
6 cups low fat milk (or half-and-half)
2 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into small cubes
5 scallions
4 cups corn kernels (from about 8 ears of corn or use frozen corn)
1/2 cup chopped fresh chives and parsley mixed together

Chop the celery and onion, setting the celery leaves aside. Heat the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat, then add the celery, onion and thyme. Stir until they start to brown. Sprinkle the flour over the vegetables and stir for a few more minutes. Pour in the milk, add the potato and bring to a boil, stirring constantly to prevent the soup from sticking to the pot. Cook until the potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes, but don't let them get mushy. 

While the potatoes are cooking, chop the celery leaves and slice the scallions thinly. When the potatoes are tender, stir in the corn, scallions and celery leaves. Bring the soup back to the boil, then serve.

Variations on a Theme: To make this chowder hearty enough to serve as the main course, I will add either some crabmeat or some smoked fish. The smoked fish will be reminiscent of Finnan Haddie, a winter staple in Maine that I learned to love when I lived there. To complete the menu, I'll serve it with a crisp, green salad, some crusty dark bread, and a full-bodied Chardonnay. Pardon me while I wipe my mouth -- it's watering.
 
 

Munching on Mulberries

Ojai's farmers' market was bursting with summer fruit yesterday. Baskets of cherries, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries were everywhere, but my eye went to the odd-looking mulberries from Pudwill Farm. I wasn't sure if I'd like them so I picked up some blackberries and golden raspberries too.

Take a look at those long mulberries on the left. They have a distinctive taste, a nice flavor boost to my cereal this morning. I've learned they have a very short shelf life, even in the fridge (no wonder I've never seen them in the store), so I'll be eating them quickly and often in the next day or two. Mulberries and creme fraiche for dessert tonight!

Rediscovering the Joy of Rhubarb

When I spotted them at the Ojai Farmers’ Market, all but hiding in the corner of a table covered with fresh vegetables, I grabbed them: a small pile of rhubarb stalks ignored by the throng of shoppers. I assume they had been overlooked because they were mostly pale green, not the deep rosy red of rhubarb that has been grown in a hothouse, which most customers prefer. The truth is, color does not matter when it comes to cooking rhubarb.

Another truth: I have not cooked with rhubarb for years. When I lived in Maine, I had an ancient rhubarb plant in my garden that yielded tough and stringy stalks that I couldn’t convince myself were suitable for the cooking pot. Somehow, it survived winter after winter of brutal cold to spring back to life every May and spread wider than ever, taking up valuable garden space. I finally pulled the entire thing out with a little help from my friend with the pick ax. Throughout New England, rhubarb is enormously popular; rhubarb-strawberry pie competes with blueberry pie and Boston cream pie for top billing on dessert menus. So rhubarb pies became my default for indulging my love for this tart fruit.

Back in my Ojai kitchen, I decided to replicate the simple way my mother used to make stewed rhubarb. Several times every spring she used to boil up a pot of rhubarb, adding nothing but a little water and tons of sugar. This was our favorite early season dessert and I can see in my mind’s eye the red chunks of rhubarb piled into individual bright yellow Fiesta Ware cereal bowls (this was the fifties, remember). We kids liked to pour a little milk over the fruit and watch with fascination as the milk started to ooze through the threads of rhubarb.

If my grandmother had lived with us, I’m sure she would have found a variety of ways to use rhubarb other than eaten out of a bowl. Stewed rhubarb is delicious baked into cakes and muffins, breads and tarts, cheesecake and coffee cake, fools and puddings, jams and marmalade. If you leave out most of the water and let the rhubarb cook slowly in its own juices, the result is a thicker sauce that is marvelous with pork tenderloin and other meats as well as fish.

Here’s my take on humble stewed rhubarb, kicked up a notch for a more complex flavor.

 Stewed Rhubarb, Only Better

12 medium small rhubarb stalks, chopped (about 2 cups). Remove any leaves; they’re toxic.

1 Cup granulated sugar. Use more or less according to taste.

2 Cups fresh strawberries, chopped

½ Teaspoon vanilla

¼ Teaspoon each ground cinnamon and nutmeg

1 Tablespoon cornstarch (optional)

The rhubarb I bought at the farmers’ market was field cultivated, not grown in a hothouse, so the size of the stalks varied a lot. Use as many stalks as it takes to get about 2 cups, chopped into 1-inch pieces. Place the chopped rhubarb in a heavy pot and barely cover with water. Stir in the sugar. Bring to a boil then turn the heat down and simmer 6-7 minutes before you add the chopped strawberries. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until all the fruit is soft but not mushy, about 10-12 minutes total. Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla and the spices. If you want to thicken the mixture, blend 1 tablespoon of cornstarch in a little water until smooth and stir into the hot rhubarb mixture. Serve warm or at room temperature, but store in the refrigerator. Wonderful over vanilla ice cream, or served with a generous dollop of either plain yogurt or creme fraiche.

Yield: 3½ cups