Plum Tuckered Out

Methley and Imperial Epineuse

How can four kinds of plums grow on one tree? The ancient science of grafting had thus far failed attach to the rootstock of my ignorance. But I couldn't deny it exists. The tree in question belongs to my parents. My mother, in particular, had been awaiting the plums with keenest anticipation. She would soon debut the two best plum desserts I have ever had.

The tree stands proudly in my parents' front yard. It greets passersby with plumy limbs arched over with rapidly ripening fruit. Although they have two other plum trees, as well as apples, apricots, pears, kiwis, and berries aplenty, this four-way tree is the jewel in their fruity crown.

The four varieties should ripen in stages. But this year, urged on by triple-digit temperatures, three came into fruition (lol) at once. Methleys: dusky purple orbs, nearly hemorrhaging their juices from gossamer-thin skin. Beauties: bold and textured, a complex reddish-yellow shade. Shiros: stately and subdued in flavor, gloriously golden hues.

In addition, a plum from a different tree needed collecting. An elliptical French prune plum, the Imperial Epineuse is firm but sharply sweet throughout. All of them were sweet, but none would pick themselves.

Armed with baskets and buckets, I crouched and twisted beneath the branches. My parents were visiting family in New York, which left me to tend the garden and fruit trees. During this particular week, New York shivered in the 60's while Seattle topped 103.

The ground shimmered in the heat and running sweat scalded my eyes. But putting off picking wasn't an option. Several Methleys and a few Beauties lay fermenting in the dirt. In another day, I may have lost a dozen more. Less plums for the desserts mom promised.

Although the Methleys screamed for harvest, I saved them for last. They would dissolve into nectar under firmer, heavier fruit. The Shiros came off first, with a gentle tug. About half of them would stay on the tree for a riper day. About two-thirds of the Beauties surrendered themselves that afternoon.

But nary a Methley could remain. And they were the most difficult to pick. With the faintest squeeze, they rupture. Graze against one and they plummet ker-splat like a stock market windowsill jumper. Not to mention their sheer numbers.

So bobbing and weaving, bending and stretching, I managed to strip the Methleys from their perches. I also ate several that were punctured or bruised, and a few that were fragrantly fermenting under their skin.

Next, the Imperial Epineuse called me over. Most of these, I would pick firm and off-ripe. They would finish sweetening themselves in the refrigerator. All told, I lugged three large bucketfuls inside that day, to await my mother's magic.

When mom finally transformed the fruits of our labor, I wasn't disappointed.
First, she concocted a frozen plum yoghurt with the Methley's. It's subdued sweetness was cool and muted, like a pouty beauty. The cinnamon and mild tannic bite in the plum's skin gave it the character of a light red wine. The perfect refreshment for 100 degree weather.

The plum upside-down cake, on the other hand exuded dulcitude. Brashly, Dixie-style, in-your-face, better-than-sex, sweet. Thin slices of Imperial Epineuse graced the top (or bottom? Isn't it upside down?). The harmonious marriage of the plums with the almond fragrance makes you wonder why the same tree can't spawn them both. Or does it? After all, if four kinds of plums grow on one tree...

Here are mom's recipes:

Plum Fro Yo
　

Ingredients:
Ripe Methley plums (mom says "a whole mess of plums". I'll hazard 2 lbs)
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 C water (approx), to prevent burning
2 C fat free yoghurt
3/4 C granulated sugar
1 t vanilla extract

Method:

1. Simmer plums on low heat w/ cinnamon stick and water, stirring occasionally.
2. After several hours, when plums are soft and shapeless, mash and remove pits and cinnamon.
3. Add 3.5 C mashed plums and remaining ingredients into ice cream machine / maker.
4. Freeze until thick.
5. If storing in freezer, cover surface with saran wrap to prevent ice crystals.
6. Let soften at room temp. for 20 min. before serving.

Plum Upside-down Cake

Ingredients:
12 T sweet butter
1 C packed brown sugar
1 T honey
12 small to medium pitted prune plums, cut into wedges
1 C granulated sugar
2 eggs
1/2 t almond extract
1 t vanilla
1.5 C flour
2 t baking powder
1/2 t cinnamon
1/2 t salt
1/2 C whole milk

Method:

1. Simmer 6 T of the butter, brown sugar, and honey in a cast iron skillet (10" works best.) Simmer and stir frequently on low heat until smooth and thick.
2. Place plum wedges in decorative pattern on top of the sauce.
3. Cream 6 T of the butter with granulated sugar, eggs, almond extract, and vanilla.
4. Mix HALF of the following ingredients in a bowl: flour, baking powder, cinnamon, salt and milk. Mix the other half in a separate bowl, then combine and mix until smooth. This makes for a more uniform mix.
5. Add creamed butter mixture and mix.
   
6. Pour complete mixture into the skillet, over the plum sauce.
7. Bake skillet in oven at 350 until cake is done, about 65 minutes. (Test doneness by piercing cake with a fork. If the tines come out clean, it's done.)
8. Cool pan on a rack for 15-20 minutes.
9. Run a knife around the edge of the cake. Turn upside down over a platter or cake plate and remove the pan.
10. Use a rubber spatula to scrape off any remaining fruit or sauce from the pan and apply to the cake. Yummy!

Taking Stock of One's Fears

I rarely buy lobster. Precooked seafood leaves me clammy. And boiling a live animal that can look me in the eye scares me. In terms of ending life for food, I've only just graduated to mussels and clams.

So buying a boiled lobster from the Hilltop Red Apple represented something of a coup. It was a snap decision, made during a once-a year lobster promotional they hold in their parking lot. At 8.99 per pound for lobster, still warm from the pot, the price seemed right. My friend Chris and I invested in a brawny three pounder.

The Larousse Gastronomique presents a gorgeous photo of a lobster, perfectly halved lengthwise, as if by some forensic pathology tool. When Chris tried halving our lobster using a wilderness survival knife, the results were less than ideal. Grey bilge-colored spoog shot across the counter and onto my dry-clean only wool shirt. Had Tom Douglas ever contended with this?

I retired to my kitchen table with my half-lobster and a small cup of lemon butter. The tail and claw meats were succulent; the remainder had me scratching and picking like a frustrated seagull. With more patience, I surely could have coaxed a few more choice morsels from the spindly legs. Instead, I banished the carcass to the fridge for the next day.

Lobster stock seemed a sensible choice for its resurrection. But using The Culinary Institute of America's textbook, The New Professional Chef, meant I would need to scale back the recipe. Their industrial-portioned stock called for 11 pounds of lobster shells. My half-lobster shell weighed about 10 oz, so I had to improvise.

I have an almost pathological flaw when it comes to making stock. I have yet to learn that adding more water doesn't make more stock, just more water. I started with a scant plateful of lobster shell, and added about a pound of chopped onion, celery, and carrot (known collectively as mirepoix) and an herb sachet, I then deluged them under 6 quarts of water. In hindsight, this was at least 2 quarts too many. The recipe called for browning ("redding", actually) the shells and mirepoix in oil. Since the lobster was already boiled, I deemed this step unnecessary.

As a result... how many guesses do you require? Several hours later, I've concocted a mild veggie broth with a faint whisper of the sea. Not exactly swarthy lobster broth for a briny paella. Instead, a subtle stock for preparing rice or beans with a little extra flavor. This is the price I pay for my timidity in the face of the living lobster. Oh well, clam broth will have to do.

The Food That Tastes You Back

Gene Simmons has nothing on a cow. When I was a wee aspiring rocker, rumor had it that KISS's bass player had a cow tongue surgically implanted. As an adult aware of physiology, I no longer believe a cow tongue could fit and operate properly in a human mouth.

The cow tongue is a huge organ. The one I bought from Bob's Meats in Columbia City weighed about 4 and a half pounds. It sat in my freezer for several months before I thawed it. Even that took the better part of an afternoon. Like a man losing his enthusiasm, the heavy club of flesh gradually softened up. And, as a man often does, I accomplished this in a cold water bath.

After thawing, it lay in the fridge until I had an evening free. In the mean time, I consulted the Larousse Gastronomique. In typical form, it suggested 12 hours of soaking, a careful peeling, and another 24 hours of resting. All this is to prepare it for four-and-a-half hours of braising. My mom's hip surgery didn't take this long.

Since this was a work night, I needed to try something creative and brief. Grilling was out. I don't have a microwave. I had read somewhere about engine block cuisine; wrapping meat in foil, wedging it against your engine, and driving around until it's done. But I didn't have anywhere to go.

Luckily, this still left my favorite piece of cookware. The 5 quart Duromatic Saucepan Pressure Cooker by Kuhn Rikon has proven invaluable time and again. Dry beans soak and cook in less than a half an hour. Beets and artichokes are ready in no time. Huge cuts of meat bow before me in tender supplication. And what is a cow tongue but just a tongue-shaped beef roast?

I rinsed the bloody beast in the sink, unfurled it into the pressure cooker, and bathed it in salt water, 3 bay leaves, green onions, and a dozen or so peppercorns. The salt water, I reasoned, would keep the meat tender while boiling. I brought the water to a boil and slid the lid into place. The tongue would be ready in less than an hour.

As I waited, the warm smell of well-seasoned beef spread through my apartment. I salivated with anticipation. My only concern was the strong scent of bay leaves. I didn't want beef tasting like a floral hedge. However, I concluded that strong flavors would only reside in the skin, which I'm intending to peel off anyways.

After 55 minutes has elapsed, I remove the saucepan from the burner and scan my brain, trying to remember the French word for "hunt". My parents recommended French hunter's sauce as a suitable accompaniment to beef tongue. Just as the pressure valve on the cooker hissed shut, I stumbled upon Chasseur in the LG.

Much like the Cacciatore, Chasseur developed as a sauce in connection with the mighty pursuits of the hunter. On his way home, after bagging some wild grouse or some such thing, he would pick some wild mushrooms on the way. Maybe he also gleaned a few tomatoes from some rich baron's acres, some white wine from the local vineyard, and a few other choice delectables. We can only hope he's as skilled at identifying wild mushrooms as he is at picking off the local wildlife. Chasseur is not intended to induce liver failure.

Back to the tongue. With great anticipation, I removed the lid and peered within. I'll be damned if it hadn't swollen even bigger. The tongue was coiled in repose like a fetus. As I cautiously removed it from the pot, as a surgeon might, a large section of skin sloughed off.

I was quite impressed at how easily tongue surrendered its skin, without losing much meat in the process. I could have rubbed it off with a butter knife. The tongue now resembled an odd-shaped roast. I sliced off the tip and delicately laid it on my own tongue. Its fragile lattice of flesh and fat melted like a beefy snowflake. It was one of the most tender and flavorful piece of beef I've ever eaten. Irony abound. I suppose it was the high fat content.

The Chasseur sauce was a fitting compliment. I sautéed some thin sliced mushrooms and shallots in butter, added some white wine and reduced. After a few minutes, I added chicken stock and tomato sauce and reduced further. Beurre manie, which is flour and butter globbed together, thickened the sauce for a few minutes. This creamed out the texture and painted it a lovely shade of pale red. Finished with another dot of butter and some parsley.

The slippery infusion of fat upon fat, when the butter met the ox tongue, which met mine, was like a warm blanket and a snuggle bear for the palate. I cleaned up the sauce with French bread and, for a few minutes, no other food in the world mattered.

I had overcome my fear of preparing tongue. For all its girth and swagger, the tongue sung a tender ballad. Maybe under all that makeup, Gene's not so tough either.