The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

I’m not proud of the fact that I buy the New York Times only once a week, and, even more embarrassing, I remove the Arts Section for my sister, Janet, and the Dining section for myself and then leave the rest of the paper on a bench in my lobby with the words, “Take me” written on it in magic marker. I may miss the news that a devastating tornado displaced hundreds of citizens in Kansas the day before, but I’m up on the latest paring knife just in from France.

When I settle down with my coveted food section, I read the restaurant reviews, both the one by Pete Wells for which I’m unlikely to find the funds, and Hungry City where I might discover a reasonable bite that sounds intriguing. Next I turn to Off the Menu, a listing of newly opened restaurants, as well as those coming to the neighborhood and beyond in the near future. There I find out which chefs have decamped and moved on to (hopefully) more glorious destinations. A peek at Florence Fabricant’s Food Stuff column introduces me to new products on the market or to a couple of young upstarts opening a pastry shop that features gluten free vegan delicacies. Might just skip exploring that one further.

Depending on my mood or if a photograph grabs me, I may read a few other articles and glance at the featured recipe, but the thing I never do, unlike scores of New Yorkers, is cook anything from the Wednesday Times’ Dining Section. I can’t tell you why. Perhaps it’s that I’m usually perusing the paper, snug in a living room chair, at a time when I’m sated from a recent meal and not in search of a new preparation for short ribs or kohlrabi. Or maybe owning a vast collection of cookbooks and receiving a handful of cooking magazines monthly has me feeling up to my ears in recipes.

That being said, a late August issue of Wednesday’s Times featured two stunning photographs, accompanying recipes, which made my mouth water. I would not only try the Puffy Corn Pancake with Blackberry Sauce, I’d make the Cold Tomato Soup as well. The description of the pancake sounded almost exactly like a dish called a Dutch Baby, I first had in a B & B in New Mexico. It has become a breakfast or brunch staple of mine. It is somewhat like a giant popover. A good deal of butter is melted in the oven in the depths of a cast iron skillet; then a batter is poured into the pan and baked. Straight from the hot oven, it is crispy and puffed outside, soft and ever-so-slightly eggy inside. It’s traditionally served with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice and a dusting of confectioner’s sugar. It deflates somewhat as you eat it, but that does nothing to change its deliciousness.

The recipe in the paper aimed to use up surplus corn from the famer’s market and was topped with a blackberry sauce that was glistening with juice. In addition to the corn kernels in the batter, some cornmeal was added to highlight the corn factor. I admit the cornmeal I had in my pantry was not finely ground, as indicated, but medium-course in texture, so I decided to use a little less than called for. Otherwise, I followed the recipe religiously, and it emerged from the oven looking impressive. I had cooked down some frozen mixed berries I had in the freezer, fortifying the mixture with a touch of lemon juice and a splash of Chambord liqueur.

Janet and I sat down to breakfast, and I cut us each a slab of pancake. The flavor was good, but there was a density that seemed to increase with every bite. The corn kernels had a nice snap, but I believe they were guilty of weighing down the pancake. A second portion was clearly not in the works. The remaining pancake was leaden by this point. I could not even pinch off a chunk with my finger tips. We scraped off the delectable berry topping, downed it, and into the garbage can the remaining pancake went with an audible thud.

Later, for lunch, I attempted the other recipe on the page. This one also utilized the last of a late summer crop, that of gorgeous ripe red tomatoes. I was excited that my fruits were all heirloom specimens and tremendously tasty. A simple mixture of chopped tomatoes, sliced garlic, sherry vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, salt, pepper, and a pinch of cayenne are left to macerate for a few minutes, then crushed a bit in a food processor before being pushed through a sieve or churned in a food mill to extract a liquid that is the pure essence of bright tomato flavor. As it chills in the fridge for an hour or two, the rich flavors meld even further.

Rather than muck it up with the complicated garnish of diced multi-colored bell peppers, onions, avocado, garlic, parsley and chives on a toasted baguette slice which the chef suggested be floated in the soup, I simply cut some crunchy cucumber and velvety avocado into tiny cubes and ladled them into the cold soup right before serving. I skipped any herbal notes, though a few days later, when I made the soup for a few friends, I had them try one spoonful of the soup, each garnished variously with chives, cilantro, or basil, and everyone felt the herbs were unnecessary. I will say that using both a high-quality aged Spanish vinegar and a fruity olive oil, and exchanging the pedestrian cayenne with the more complex Syrian Aleppo pepper may have brought the soup to new heights. Either way, I batted 500, or one for two, in my attempt at trying a couple of the Times’ recipes and with those odds, may very well venture into that territory again sometime.

Cold Tomato Soup Extraordinaire

Serves 4 – 6

This recipe depends on perfectly ripe summer tomatoes bursting with flavor. Heirlooms far out-weigh any other tomatoes I’ve tasted. The soup makes an unusual and striking first course when served in porcelain demitasse cups.

For the chilled soup:

3 pounds ripe, red tomatoes, preferably heirloom varieties, cored and cut into rough chunks

2 garlic cloves, sliced

1 tablespoon kosher or sea salt

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons Spanish sherry vinegar

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

¼ teaspoon Syrian Aleppo pepper (or 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper)

For the garnish:

1 large ripe avocado

½ English hothouse cucumber

1 lime wedge

Pinch of kosher or sea salt

12 basil leaves, stacked and sliced very thinly (optional)

Put tomatoes and garlic in a non-reactive bowl (such as glass or ceramic) and sprinkle with salt. Add olive oil, vinegar, the black pepper and Aleppo (or cayenne) pepper. Mix well and leave to macerate for at least 15 minutes, or up to an hour. Transfer tomato mixture to a food processor (or blender) and pulse 2 or 3 times, until more finely chopped, but still chunky. Transfer to a food mill, or heavy-duty sieve (over a bowl), to remove skin and seeds, pressing well to obtain all the juices. Discard pulp. Refrigerate for several hours, though you can also chill the soup on a bowl of ice for 15 minutes, if necessary to serve immediately.

To prepare the garnishes, slice the avocado in half and discard pit. Carefully score each half both vertically and horizontally with a sharp knife, making sure not to go break the skin. Gently remove the avocado meat with a spoon and place in a small bowl. Squeeze a bit of lime juice of avocado and sprinkle on a pinch of salt. Remove a few ribbons of peel from the cucumber with a vegetable peeler, leaving some peel intact. Slice the cucumber length-wise and remove seeds. Slice the cucumber into long, thin strips and then cut the strips into very small cubes. Place in a small bowl and sprinkle with a bit of lime juice and a pinch of salt. (The garnishes can be done ahead of time, and refrigerated, if you are chilling the soup for a few hours. Just make sure to cover the avocado with plastic wrap, pressing the wrap snuggly against the cubes so that they don’t discolor).

When ready to serve, ladle the soup into four bowls. Evenly distribute the avocado and cucumber cubes among the bowls, and garnish with basil, if using. Serve immediately.