Happy Birthday Andre Allen!

Glazed Lemon Pound Cake

Glazed Lemon Pound Cake

Apple Fritters

Serve apple fritter recipe with syrup or sprinkle with powdered sugar or cinnamon sugar.

Ingredients:

• 1 cup sifted all-purpose flour
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/3 cup milk
• 1 egg
• 1 cup finely chopped apple
• 1/2 cup confectioners' sugar, sifted

Preparation:

Sift together the flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder. Add milk and egg; beat until batter is smooth. Fold in chopped apple. Drop by teaspoonfuls into deep hot oil -- about 370° and at least 2 1/2 to 3 inches deep -- and fry for about 2 to 3 minutes, until nicely browned.
Drain well on paper towels then roll in confectioners' sugar while still warm. Serve as is or warm, with syrup, if desired.

From About.com

Helpful Tip #1:

If you ever run out of coffee filters, paper towels are multi-purpose... Ghetto Ingenuity

Fish Fry

Horace & Dickie's Seafood, 12th and H Streets NE, Washington, DC.

As far back as I can remember we always ate fried fish on Friday nights.  We weren’t Catholic like many of our neighbors, but went meatless nonetheless, due in part to living on the shore where there was always fresh sea food in abundance.  My grandmother would hard-fry porgies and mullet to a golden crisp and served them with hot, creamy buttery grits, smothered cabbage and hot-water corn bread.  Long before Dr. Henry Heimlich publicized his famous maneuver in 1974, the bony fish we ate made it necessary for our family to develop similar methods to aid a choking victim.  

Some of my fondest memories are of the end of the work week in my Aunt Sarah Bell’s tiny four-room apartment above the garage behind our house in Long Branch, New Jersey.  At the bottom of the steps, leading to the kitchen you could smell hot grease and burning hair as my cousin, Rachel, usually fried Aunt Sarah’s hair on the same night.  Three burners on the stove would be in use with whiting frying on one, potatoes boiling on another, and straightening comb and Marcel rods, heating on another.  Mr. Bell used an egg and seasoned meal to coat his fish before frying, a practice that I continue to this day.  It comes out perfect each time.

Fried whiting at FGS Headquarters

My love for fried fish began at home, but follows everywhere I go.  In New Orleans I had golden-fried catfish with the spicy remoulade sauce everyone in the Big Easy seems able to make.  In Mount Vernon, Georgia I can always have some of Aunt Nut Pie’s hard-fry with brown mustard or outdoor-fried chowder cat between two pieces of light bread, with the tail curved around the top piece like Billy fried it while still moving.  In Chicago I must have some sweet, lemon-peppered perch from the side of the lake where they farm-raise powder-blue and pink alligators for Sunday shoes.

Perhaps my favorite place to have fried fish is Horace and Dickie’s at 12^th and H Streets NE in Washington, DC.  One afternoon more than a decade ago, my very dear friend and Fat Girl Snack connoisseur, Clayton Juan Jackson IV (May 18, 1974 – Apr. 23, 2001), schlepped me over to the Northeast quadrant location to stand on a line that spilled out the door and curved onto the sidewalk.  I was a little upset because it was ridiculously hot in DC that day, but was also a little excited because people don’t stand on line in heat for something not worth the trouble.

When it was our turn to step inside, a rack of bread blocked my view but once around I found myself out of the fire into the pan.  It literally felt like you were frying in hot oil.  Even the walls were greasy.  Loud exhaust fans sucked out some of the hot air while big tall oscillators, blew around what was left.  Over the counter where sat a big plastic tip jar, fashioned from a not too long-finished vinegar gallon jug, I saw whiting being fried to golden perfection and a pot of collard greens, bubbling and boiling.  Cooks and cashiers shouted to each other above the din.

“What you having?” shouted a brother who looked as though he woke up on a park bench or in a holding cell that morning.

Clayton had already told me to order the four-piece sandwich.

“White or wheat?”

I opted for the “healthy” bread and a side of collard greens to make the meal even healthier, but cancelled out all the health when I chose a piece of pound cake to top off the order.  My eyes widened with delight at the sight of four piping hot pieces of whiting on a bed of wheat bread and grew wider with each additional piece of fish, piled upon the last.  The lid eventually closed on a container with enough fish for two meals.  I would eat them both.

“Don’t forget my jug,” he called as I headed to the cashier. 

I dropped my change in the tip jug as I picked up my order and brushed past the line that seemed to have grown longer.

I have been back to Horace and Dickie’s as many times as I have been back to DC.  I believe my friend would be pleased that I honor his memory each time I return.  The location and entertaining counter staff have not changed, but the décor and ventilation have upgraded over the years.  Their web site boasts “Simplicity. Great Food. Great service. Inspired by the everyday family cooking that we grew up with.”  The fish takes me right back to Aunt Sarah’s Fish Fry Salon, where you could taste love and Ultra Sheen in each bite.

Sweet Potato Pie

I was raised in the kitchens of my grandmother and her sisters.  While none was a gourmet chef, these Georgia natives understood and mastered the fundamentals of traditional southern cooking.  Through their work as domestics they also learned to prepare items favored by their employers.  Aunt Frankie could prepare a Seder table fit for a Rabbi and Aunt Letha’s stuffed cabbage was a favorite of the family whose kitchen she ruled for three generations. 

My grandmother, being the youngest and the laziest by all accounts, usually kept meals very basic, never straying too far from that which was most simple and familiar.  Although our family moved to a predominately Italian neighborhood in the 1950s, she did not seek to learn what Mrs. Fornicola next door or Mrs. Cammarano across the street fed their families.  Her spaghetti sauce was awful.  Hampered by the lack of formal education, she was limited to the most basic recipes.  Most everything prepared she learned through observation, including the southern dishes she fine-tuned throughout her years in the kitchen.

Each sister had a dish that was a favorite among the family.  Aunt Zora’s banana pudding and pineapple upside down cake are remembered nearly four decades after her death.  Aunt Viola is lauded for her potato salad and sweet potato soufflé.  Aunt Frankie alone prepared souse meat, a gray, gelatinous mess she achieved by running a hog’s head through a manual meat grinder.  Road trips “down home” were fueled by gas to power the vehicle, but also my grandfather’s desire to taste Aunt Iola’s fried okra.  With the exception of head cheese, which no one else really wanted to make, each sister prepared the same basic dishes with their own individual flair.

Fried chicken helps form the foundation of traditional southern cuisine and most everyone in my family prepares a good yard bird.  Periodically, from my circle of friends comes a request for mine, which incorporates Aunt Letha’s thorough cleaning, Aunt Sarah’s seasoning and my grandmother’s extra-slow fry.  It’s a winning combination that I’m told elicits the desire to slap one’s own momma, which I don’t recommend or encourage, but I am proud of what I have learned through observation and experimentation.  I absolutely love my own fried chicken and promise to share what I’ve learned, but right now I want to discuss another staple of the southern kitchen.

Though native to Central America, the sweet potato is cultivated widely in tropical and warm climates.  African slaves called them yams because they looked somewhat like those yams, which are native to Africa.  This very versatile root vegetable is prepared in a variety of ways.  In our family it was sometimes whipped into Aunt Viola’s sweet potato soufflé or the pies that my grandmother and Aunt Beulah prepared on festive occasions.  Most often, it was rubbed with oil, baked and served as the perfect side to nearly every entrée, especially stewed pork neck bones.

My grandmother would beat and season soft-boiled potatoes, eggs and butter, filling frozen pie shells with smooth, rich, orange-colored custard. I was often called to taste if it was spiced right.  She worried about nutmeg, fearing there may be too much, but I never found need for concern.  Decades of observing and assisting prepared me well for my first attempt at Sweet Potato Pie; Thanksgiving 1996 in the makeshift kitchen of my Emerson College dormitory on the banks of Boston’s Charles River.  I was a second year resident assistant and opted to remain on campus with students unable to return home over break. 

The decision to prepare a Thanksgiving feast was as much for my benefit as theirs.  While sharing a cultural tradition, my holiday away from family could include all the trappings I’d grown to love.   The meal met with favorable reviews from an appreciative audience, but the pies were an absolute rave.   Recipe requests followed, at which point I realized I couldn’t share because I didn’t have one.  I knew four eggs were absent from the dozen and a quarter of butter remained from the pound, but had no clue how many pounds of potatoes I’d purchased or the amount of vanilla extract or nutmeg I’d used.  I promised to write out the recipe, but amidst the flurry of final exams and holiday break preparations never got around to it. 

I recently connected with one of my former dorm mates and the very first thing she asked about was the pie recipe.  I panicked a little, because not only had I failed to record the recipe as promised, I hadn’t baked a sweet potato pie in nearly a decade.  Armed with my memory I crept into the kitchen to make it happen.  Nearly 15 years later, I’m pleased to report to those Thanksgiving participants the work is in process.

Disclaimer

The title is not meant to insult or offend large women. In fact, one of my larger female friends coined the term "fat girl snack." I certainly don’t mean to make fun of overweight girls. I know several and would never intentionally hurt them. But let’s keep it real... fat on the body doesn't simply appear. Sometimes it's brought about by a physical condition, but more often it's the result of poor dietary choices -- too many fat girl snacks.

A fat girl snack can be virtually anything edible. However, certain criteria must be met in order to earn Fat Girl Snack status.  Certain foods, without question, are Fat Girl Snacks. Everything produced by Hostess, Drake, TastyKake or the evil Little Debbie make the grade. Nearly every week my oven pops out a cake, usually a pound cake, sometimes red velvet, sometimes both. They are definitely Fat Girl Snacks. Candies, cookies, or anything that comes packaged in a bag, marked Wise, Lays, Utz, or Herrs... Fat Girl Snack!  There are also items considered fat girl snacks, simply based on the time or intention of consumption. A stack of pancakes at 7:45 in the morning is a meal. A stack of pancakes at 3:45 in the morning is a Fat Girl Snack. In fact... most foods eaten in the wee, small hours of the morning are indeed Fat Girl Snacks.

Intention is always a factor. Are you eating for sustenance or comfort? Fast food is almost always a Fat Girl Snack. However, going at lunchtime removes some of the stigma. After all, it's a noon day meal, but let's be clear. Anything handed off through a window and consumed before you get halfway down the block is what? A Fat Girl Snack. The same applies to most takeout food. Anything fried and encased in Styrofoam is a fat girl snack at any time of the day. FYI: Having a Diet Coke with your meal makes it no less a Fat Girl Snack. You might as well get you a Tahitian Treat or some red Kool-Aid.

I am not condemning the consumption of Fat Girl Snacks. As a matter of fact, I'm a fat girl snack connoisseur. This is a celebration.  Wherever I am, I will find the spot. A trip to Chicago is incomplete without a dip into a Harold's (pick a good one... a wrong number could result in the runs). There's no way I can go to DC without hitting Horace and Dickie's for a 4-piece fish sandwich. When in Philadelphia, I eat a cheese steak... just because. In Flatbush we have Kam Man, which serves the best wings I've ever had.. If you go into the Deep South, get some boiled (bald) peanuts and red velvet cake, preferably in the same sitting. Child, it don't matter. Just eat. And if you know of a good spot... please share. You don’t have to be fat or a girl.  Holla Back!