Thirsty Thursday: Blackmaker Floats

I stopped to buy amarretto for a cake I am making for Saturday. Something about the label caught my eye. What can I say - I liked the label and I love root beer.

The label tells a story of a strange "maker" herbalist who created the secret blend for this liqueur. Dude sounds like a creep to me or at least some sort of gypsy wanderer who shouldn't really be hawking anything that reminds me of childhood.

After sniffing and tasting and reading the label's suggestions, we decide a "float" would be the best drink for this liqueur. It is sort of sweet and reminds me of both my favorite adult beverage, the White Russian, and of a good ole fashioned rootbeer float.

Brown Butter and Vanilla Pancakes for Two

I don't like Valentine's Day. I'd much rather know I'm loved any day of the year than one day that everyone else is supposed to show their love too.

But I do like making pancakes and shaping them funnily. My dad used to make shaped pancakes in such brilliance as our initials or as a mouse. This is how I became "Meggie-Mouse" most of youth, unfortunately. My mom made pancakes every Sunday she could and we always, always, always had real Vermont Maple Syrup. She even brings her own syrup to restaurants that don't serve the real deal. So pancakes, love, there is a real connection. At least in my world.

Brown Butter and Vanilla Pancakes

Serves 2

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 1/2 tablespoons Vanilla Sugar

1 teaspoon Vanilla Bean Paste

1 large egg

1 1/2 cups buttermilk

Melt the butter in a large non-stick skillet over medium heat. Cook until the butter foams, the foam browns and sinks to the bottom of the pan, about 2 minutes. Remove the butter from the pan and set aside to cool while you assemble the rest of the ingredients.

Whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a large bowl. Combine the sugar, egg, buttermilk and butter in a medium bowl. Add the wet ingredients to the dry, mix gently, then rest for 10 minutes.

Heat the non-stick skillet over medium heat. Scoop 1/2 cup of batter into the pan and cook, 2 at a time, until the edges are dry and bubbles are appearing, before flipping. Cook until golden on the other side.

Keep warm in a 200˚F while repeating with the remaining batter.

Something Southern Sunday: Collard Greens

 



Last weekend warm weather teased Atlanta with the promise of Southern spring. Then temperatures dropped into the thirties and it rained most of the week. The grass at the park is still dead and wet, but the sunset is slowing further into the evening. I can think of nothing more appropriate to eat in the awkward end of winter than a pot of low and slow simmered collards. 

For most of my adolescence my mom dated a man from Athens Georgia. He created a feast every Sunday and he almost alway cooked collards. I did not eat them. I was scared of their scent, smokey, grassy, even muddy. The color was odd to me, "Shouldn't green foods be green?" I thought. I tried several times, but found their texture off putting. 




The first pot of greens I ever enjoyed happened much later in my life. I was living here, in Atlanta, at that point. It was recipe testing for a book. Ironically, they were everything I described above - smokey, earthy, hearty - but their texture had more contrast. 

I enjoy collard greens in more ways now than just a side dish for fried chicken or as part of Hoppin John on New Years. They make a lovely bed for a fried egg. They are great in soups, lasagnas, burritos... the list goes on and on. Recently I've taken to cooking a large pot and freezing the leftovers in quart sized ziptop bags. They thaw quickly and make quick weeknight meals taste like a Sunday supper. 

I know kale has been getting a lot of positive press these days, but I'd urge you try a pot of collards for the same nutritional but more soul soothing affects. 



Collard Greens 

makes about 6 servings 

2 pounds collard greens, stemmed

4 rashers bacon, chopped

1/2 a large onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

1 teaspoon kosher salt

 Wash the greens thoroughly: If you use packed shredded greens - submerse in a sink of cold water, agitate rapidly with your hands and then let settle for about a minute (any dirt should settle to the bottom of the sink). Dry throughly in salad spinner or clean kitchen towels. If using whole leaves, rinse under cool running water, dry throughly and then chop by first stacking then rolling the leaves and slicing into thin ribbons.

Heat the bacon in a large cast iron dutch oven over medium heat until some fat has rendered - about 3 minutes. Add the onion and sweat until tender, another 2 minutes. Add the garlic, greens and water. Bring to a simmer, cover, and cook 35 to 45 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until the greens are tender.

Thirsty Thursday: Sours

 



I ordered a Whiskey Sour the first night Brian took me to Top Flor. I remember feeling like it was a confident but safe cocktail order. Of course in someways, I was right: David Woodrich has called Sours "the children of punches" meaning that they are as easy to make as they are to drink; And of course, I was wrong too, because a Whiskey Sour is basically a whiskey and water that goes down much, much too easy. Sours are trouble if you are out for the first time, at a bar, with a boy you find so handsome that you have to drink just to shutter the nerves.

A Sour is lovely if you fancy a drink and your bar or fridge is quite bare. It requires only an alcohol, sugar, some citrus, and some water. You don't even need a cocktail shaker. A jar with a resealable lid will serve just fine - and it multiplies well! The first party I ever tended bar at served a Whiskey Sour as their signature cocktail and I mixed in a pitcher.



For almost a hundred years (from 1860 to 1960) the Whiskey Sour was considered the most American of cocktails. It was and is quick and simple, without fuss or flair, and quite flexible. The only point of argument among barkeeps of a Sour may come from its name sake: the sour.



Now, I am partial to a balanced sour, without too much sweetness, but gentle enough to still taste the liquor in the citrus. Some keepers demand that a Sour bite your teeth and clench the jaw so much so that your lips pucker. Recipes vary in the use of a whole lemon, a half, or a quarter to one drink. Taste and determine what you prefer. Then make yourself a drink or make your friends some punch.



Sour

2 ounce liquor: whiskey bourbon gin

1 ounce water

1 teaspoon sugar

1/2 a lemon, lime, or orange

Combine in a mason jar filled with ice. Lid and shake. Enjoy but be careful.