Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Desperately Seeking Sorrel
Every spring, the New York Times showcases a single sorrel recipe. They don’t draw attention to it, and most people probably don’t give it much thought.
But for the sorrel aficionados out there, it’s the equivalent of the announcement of the Academy Award nominees or the release of college football’s first BCS rankings. It is anticipated.
This year’s recipe was for poached eggs in a buttery sorrel sauce. Last year was a sorrel and stinging nettle soup. Naturally, the recipe triggers a run on sorrel, which makes it even more difficult than it usually is to find some.
I couldn’t get any last season. Not at the Giant. Not at the Rehoboth Farmer’s Market. Not even from Whole Foods in Washington. So when I found myself in Manhattan recently on a Wednesday afternoon and with an hour to kill before my next meeting, of course, I made a beeline to the green market at Broadway and 17th.
There were cartons of fresh fava beans and containers of fresh cow’s milk. Honey to eat. Bees wax to burn. Apple wine and apple cider. And because it’s springtime, bountiful greens. Ramps, yes, but sorrel, no.
I was about to give up, when I spotted a fuzzy young farmer at a tiny organic cheese and herb stall. He was staring intently at me, as if he could sense my desire. I approached cautiously, not wanting to get my hopes up, and asked him if I could see it. With a knowing grin, he hauled it out.
“You like it,” he asked? What wasn’t to like? “It’s big, right?” It was indeed an impressive specimen, I had to say, and a fancy French variety -- Blonde de Lyon, to be precise. My mouth was watering. The French, you see, are responsible for bringing sorrel under cultivation to improve the quality and the flavor of the leaves. Until the late 1600s, it was gathered from the wild. Most markets carry only the common type, if they carry it at all. This was indeed a fortunate find.
I purchased the only one he had left, which I then transported around for the rest of the day, to meetings, to a cocktail party, and then back to Washington on the train. It’s currently sitting in a big terra cotta pot in my back yard on Columbia Avenue.
By now, you may have probably surmised that sorrel is a delightful potherb and one of spring and summer’s most special greens. If you haven’t heard much about it, well, that’s because Americans tend not to like its somewhat sour, acidic taste.
The plant’s distinctive taste is due to oxalic acid, which is, in fact, a poison. In small quantities, sorrel is harmless. In large quantities, it can be fatal. But, if you open your mouth and your mind to it you’ll find sorrel to be an adventuresome and tangy taste sensation that can take your taste buds through all of the following: limes, lemons, spinach, rhubarb, cabbage and amaranth.
What other green can do all that?
Personally, I think sorrel is best enjoyed as a chilled soup on an exceptionally hot day and served with a French white wine, preferably a Sancerre or a Pouilly-Fumé from the Loire Valley. While there are many recipes for sorrel soup, I like Julia Child’s the best. It pays proper homage to the leafy vegetable.
One final note: to cultivate a taste for sorrel is a commitment. You must first find it. And then you must buy it. In a gourmet market, you can expect to pay up to $6 a bunch. For a decent sorrel soup, you’ll need about 5 bunches, plus heavy cream, eggs, and chicken stock. Don’t worry that it costs more than lobster bisque. A thirty-dollar soup is a small price to pay for a taste that is like no other.
French gourmet and culinary writer Francis Amunategui once declared sorrel soup rich enough for the governor of the Bank of France. How appropriate is that? You’d have to have access to all the franks of the realm to really indulge your taste for it.
Bon appetit.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Literary Bugs
I thought the box elder bugs were kind of cute, the way they hovered around whenever I sat down to write. They were particularly fond of perching upon the wooden pencils I keep in a cup beside my computer.
When I’d shoo them, they’d fly off, a bit annoyed and sounding like miniature helicopters, only to land a more respectful distance away on top of a blue Tiffany’s box in which I store my bills. Naturally, I named them Holly and Fred, after the characters in Capote’s novel.
They even trailed me into the kitchen to watch me cook.
Such behavior isn’t unusual. Large, hairy carpenter bees follow me about the yard like puppy dogs while I cut flowers. A praying mantis once spent an afternoon perched on my shoulder. Some people attract romance, others, danger. I lure insects. I’d like to think they’re drawn to my artistic energy, but probably it’s the carbon dioxide.
I was showing off a few photos of Holly and Fred on my iPhone, when someone more versed in entomology than I said my admirers weren’t box elders. They were stinkbugs -- the distinctive shield shape was a dead giveaway. A box elder bug is elliptical and looks more like a lightning bug with a red X pattern on its back.
I was mortified. Box elder bugs were one thing, they sound sort of British and somewhat dignified. But stink bugs?
Stinkbugs get their names because they stink. When threatened, the bug releases a noxious mix of chemicals from special glands located on the dorsal surface of the abdomen and the underside of the thorax.
There are over 250 species of stinkbugs indigenous to North America, including the green sting bug and the great Southern stinkbug. I had neither. What I had, unfortunately, were Halyomorpha halys, more commonly known as brown marmorated stink bugs and also called East Asian stinkbugs. You can identify them by their unique markings: antennae with an alternating dark and light pattern, and black and white markings along the rear edges of the abdomen.
They’re illegal aliens, these stinkbugs, first spotted in this country in 2001, in Allentown, PA, of all places. Scientists think the first few hitchhiked over in cargo containers from China. Since then, they’ve spread throughout the Mid-Atlantic, where they pose some sort of an agricultural threat to apples, pears, peaches, figs, mulberries, soy beans, and tomatoes. But, nobody is quite sure.
People rant and rave about these graceful, slow-moving bugs that don’t bite or sting. Suck them up in vacuum cleaners, they say. Flush them down the toilet, others suggest. Spray ‘em with a strong pesticide. An invasive pest that emits a vile odor is how most people refer to them. Supposedly, they like to get into drapes, and once they get established in your home they’re hard to get rid of.
The thought of dozens of stinkbugs emerging from behind a chintz pillow during a cocktail party just wouldn’t do. I know how vicious these Rehoboth queens can be with their gossip. I scooped up Holly and Fred and tossed them out the window.
After a few days, though, I started to miss their circus antics and buzzing words of encouragement. Writing can be lonely at times. So, despite the pollen and my terrible spring allergies, I opened the windows and set out a little plate of sliced Fuji apples to lure them back. Halyomorpha halys, you see, have a particular affinity for that fruit.
It worked. Within two days they were back and happily sitting on my pencils again where I now observe them with awe and amusement. Let the queens talk. Doesn’t bug me.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Cheap Meat
Where were you when you heard the news? I was sipping on some single barrel bourbon and burning old bank statements in the fireplace when I learned that the nation was officially caught up in a chicken wing craze. Seems that for the first time ever, the average wholesale prices for chicken wings had eclipsed prices for chicken breasts.
Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve always felt breasts were over-rated.
Industry watchers attribute it to the recession. Restaurants, the big buyers of breast meat, cut back orders as millions of people cut back on eating out. Breast prices slumped. Demand for wings, however, remained strong, partly because people perceive them as a cheap luxury.
But that’s only part of the story. Fueling the craze too is the growth of restaurant chains focusing solely on wings. They don’t require a lot of capital or special equipment. They certainly don’t require any real culinary expertise. The pizza industry’s gotten into the game too, calling pizza and chicken wings a match made in heaven. Pizza Hut and Papa John’s push them. Rehoboth’s own Nicola’s, on the other hand, sells chicken tenders, slices of breast meat deep-fried and served with dipping sauces. Clever marketers now call them “boneless wings,” a term I find a little unsettling.
For a myriad of reasons, the common chicken wing, aka the Buffalo Wing, has become a classic American finger food and a regular standby during football season. This simple combination of bone, skin, and fat has overtaken nachos as the number one menu appetizer.
Does anyone eat fried mushrooms any more?
According to most food historians, Buffalo wings were invented in 1964 by Teressa Bellissimo, a co-owner with her husband Frank of the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York. The way the story goes, Teressa received one day a case of chicken wings by mistake. She had no idea what she was going to do with so many wings, which she used primarily for soup stock. The revelation came to her in the middle of the night. By God, she’d cut ‘em in half, broil ‘em, and then sprinkle ‘em with butter and a hot sauce. Voilà , a classic was born. The blue cheese and celery came later.
In 1980, the New Yorker did an expose on the Buffalo wing and turned up an alternative origin. An African-American man named John Young claims to have been serving fried chicken wings with a special “mambo” sauce on them back in the mid-60’s in his “Wings and Things” restaurant in Buffalo. He moved to St. Louis for several years before returning to Buffalo and re-opening his business in 1979.
The Anchor Bar, however, remains the Holy Grail for wing lovers, serving up more than 70,000 pounds per month. More than ninety thousand people attended the city’s Buffalo wing festival last September. Forty tons were served.
Though chicken wings have a cult following in pubs and at eating contests, they’ve also crept into more upscale restaurants. In Rehoboth, for example, Stingray used to feature a Chinese chicken wings with a Hoisin sauce. Dogfish Head serves a traditional hot wing, as well as a barbeque wing, which I recently sampled. They were tender and perfectly seasoned. At Salt Air, the wings are grilled with classic Old Bay seasoning and served with tomato jam and pickled peppers with anise. They pair nicely with a big Zinfandel.
Speaking of good pairings, nothing in my opinion beats a classic Makers Mark Manhattan and a plate of ordinary hot wings. There’s something about the complex nose of the upscale bourbon, with vanilla and spice, a delicate floral note of roses, lime and cocoa beans, and a finish featuring fresh oak with a hint of smoke and a flash of peach that works perfectly with the simplicity of a fried chicken wing and cayenne pepper.
Okay, so I’ve gotten a little out of hand here. I know some of you reading this column are wondering why in the hell would he pen a column about a cheap piece of meat. Well, why not? What else is there to do in Rehoboth during the winter but eat chicken wings, drink whiskey, and tend your African violets?
In closing, let me leave you with one final thought: lobster was once the equivalent of spam.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
The Search for Warmth
There are two tell-tale signs that winter is coming to the Delaware shore. The old boys start heading to Florida and the the old felines start heading for the light bulbs.
Subject: Lucy; Photo by Tim Spies.
Read more...
Monday, October 12, 2009
Letter to Bill Bryson
Dear Bill,
I just finished reading your book The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America. Exploring the country and re-tracing some of the family car trips from your childhood is a fabulous premise for a story.
My family used to travel 800 miles each summer in a Buick station wagon from the mountains of North Carolina to sunny south Florida. Unlike your car trips, ours were never dreary.
There was the time my mother tried to cook a pot roast in the engine of the car. I swear it’s true. Somewhere off I-75 at a Stuckey’s in South Georgia, we stopped for our “carbecue” supper. Hungry and tired, we watched her lift from the engine a silver foil packet bulging with half-cooked meat, potatoes, carrots, and onions. It reeked of oil, and my father flung the hideous mess out into a field beyond the picnic table area. We ate hot dogs and pecan rolls instead, and my parents didn’t speak to each other until we got to Miami.
But, I digress. I’m no literary critic and you, Bill, are one of the world’s best-known travel writers. I’ve read all your books. So, naturally, I was disappointed that you skipped Delaware on your car excursion through America.
I know you didn’t actually skip it. You drove through Delaware up north along I-95 on your way to Philadelphia. The state, you wrote, was vanishing from your memory as you drove through it, like one of those children’s drawing slates where you erase the picture by lifting the transparent sheet.
A vague, semi-industrial landscape was how you described little Delaware. Well, maybe that’s true where you were. But you missed the best part of the state -- Sussex County -- where we have real American scenery like piles of watermelons at mom-and-pop roadside stands, old family graveyards, two-story trailer homes. There’s beauty in an abandoned chicken house and the rows of old wooden telephone poles. It’s all there, Bill, the picturesque countryside you set out to find on your travels. If you’d just taken another route.
You could have motored up through the heart of the state on the old DuPont Highway, now called Route 13 and sometimes Route 113 -- I can’t keep it straight. But, it was Delaware’s first paved road, financed and constructed with private money given by Thomas Coleman du Pont. Yes, he is one of those du Ponts and also a U.S. Senator.
An early proponent of the automobile and a big thinker, Coleman envisioned a grand boulevard running north to south through the state, with a 200-foot right of way on each side for trolley tracks, bike lanes, and tree-lined pedestrian walkways. He wanted lampposts lining the highway, and room for air-landing strips.
Unfortunately, that’s not quite how it happened. Coleman started the concrete road in 1911, but it got too expensive and local farmers fought the land purchases. The state stepped in to eventually finish it in 1934. The final highway was much more modest than his original vision. It was, however, the nation’s first highway with two lanes divided by a grassy median.
About his highway, Coleman was quoted as saying, “others may build their monuments to the sky, but I am going to build a monument a hundred miles high and lay it down on the ground.”
I want to invite you, Bill, to give me a call or drop me an email anytime you want to come back to Delaware. I’d be my pleasure to take you out for a spin through the countryside in my aqua convertible. We’ll drive Coleman’s Highway. The car has a V8 engine, so we’ll air it on some of the smaller back roads. There’s nothing like the exhilaration of passing a big ol’ country girl driving a tractor or coming upon three big turkey buzzards gnawing some roadkill and wondering if they’ll move or if you’ll hit them.
You won’t forget Delaware this time.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Rehoboth: The Nation's French Fry Capital?
Sea gulls, it seems, will not eat French fries out of the bucket. Not even if you set it on the ground and walk away. Not even if you sit still and balance the bucket on the top of your head.
I know this because I tried.
As part of my exploration of which fries are Rehoboth’s best, I wondered if the sea gulls had a favorite. After all, the winged scavengers hang around every fry shop on or near the boardwalk. Certainly they would know.
The largest group of gulls gathers around Gus and Gus, the little brick establishment on the Boardwalk at Wilmington Avenue where a red and white sign advertises boardwalk fries since 1955, cooked in peanut oil. They perch on every lamp post. They line up on the roof of the building.
And you know what? Although Gus and Gus might be best known for its fried chicken and cheesesteaks, the fries are pretty darn good too. Cooked to order, you can even get them for breakfast. Plus, the 1950’s ambience is the best of all the fry joints in Rehoboth.
Ambience is something the over-lit, over-plasticized Grottoes Pizza does not have. Whether this had anything to do with how I felt about their fries, I can’t say. But, the potatoes I tested were dry and tasteless. Coincidentally, there weren’t too many seagulls loitering around outside.
There were plenty of gulls hanging around the three Thrasher’s French Fries establishments in town, all within two blocks of each other. I prefer the shop just off the boardwalk on the north side of Rehoboth Avenue. It’s small and cramped and looks like a fry stand ought to. It stays open year round, or very close to it. Even when hurricanes and Nor’Easters pass offshore, the fry boys stand their ground, battling wind and rain and serving up fries to the extreme weather enthusiasts.
Thrasher’s was founded in Ocean City, Maryland, back in 1929, and subsequently expanded to Rehoboth. Its fries are sublime, the standard against which all others are compared. The secret? Some say it’s the peanut oil. Others claim it’s the salt and vinegar or the way the fries are cut with the skins left on. I think it might have something to do with Thrasher’s focus on one single product. Whatever the reason, the fry boys tell me they serve up approximately 1,600 pounds per day.
I’m no mathematician, but I do know that a small cup of fries holds 16 ounces. That translates to 1,600 small cups per day. However, given the supersize of some of the tourists stampeding for the fries, I prefer to think about Thrasher’s fries in terms of big tubs. Each tub holds about 53 ounces, or close to three and a half pounds. Assuming Thrasher’s is open 14 hours a day, that means they’re selling approximately 40 tubs an hour!
Five Guys, the hamburger franchise that started in the Washington suburbs in 1986, is just west of Thrasher’s in the first block of Rehoboth Avenue. It’s the only shop to tout its potato varietals. When I was there the featured potatoes were from Sugar City, Idaho. I found the fries good, but a tad dry.
Five Guys doesn’t give you cups or buckets. They put them in a paper tray and then into a paper bag and scoop on some extras. It’s easier to eat out of the bag and the paper also sucks up some grease. Unlike Thrasher’s, Five Guys offers ketchup. I’d expect that in a hamburger joint, wouldn’t you? Though most people probably go to Five Guys for the burgers, the joint, I learned, sells between 300-800 pounds of French fries per night.
The bottom line is that Americans love their French fries. Even Thomas Jefferson served pommes de terre frites at Monticello. I enjoy mine with a dash of salt, a splash of vinegar, and a cold French chardonnay -- not a New World chardonnay, which tends towards oakiness. If only Thrasher’s served béarnaise sauce…
Without a doubt, Rehoboth has some great options for any French fry aficionados. Just follow your nose. Or, the gulls.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Mop Heads
Mophead hydrangeas (Hydrangea macrophylla) are the most popular hydrangeas grown in home gardens and landscapes. Most mopheads grown today are blue or pink. A few varieties are white. They're quite prevalent in Rehoboth. These are not them.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Lewes and Rehoboth Canal connects the Broadkill River to Rehoboth Bay and forms a portion of the Intracoastal Waterway.Sunday, September 6, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Saturday Mornings with Froot Loops
I had big plans for Saturday mornings this summer: an early jog, followed by an outdoor shower, then coffee and an hour or two of writing before Bloodies and the beach. Sounds delightful, don’t you think?
That’s not how it happened.
Rather, for three hours every Saturday morning I’ve been vacuuming and mopping, washing and disinfecting. You see, the old gal who cleaned my rental house in Dewey Beach between the 10:30 am checkouts and the 2:00 pm check-ins called right before Memorial Day to say she needed an assistant.
This self-proclaimed “man magnet” was a cleaning dynamo with an uncanny ability to sweep out dust balls and tardy tenants with her broom. She was a firm believer in the power of “White Lightning,” and I don’t mean moonshine. What this product contained and where she got it, I didn’t care. All I know is the floors, kitchen, bathrooms, and oven were spotless. She claimed the stuff could clean automotive parts, patio furniture, grills, and carpet stains.
I should have retained such a talent, but in a moment of weakness, I thought I’d save some money and do it myself. That lapse in judgment, my friends, is why I’ve spent the past twelve weeks picking up Cheerios and Froot Loops.
Will someone explain to me why I find the torus-shaped pieces everywhere – on rugs, in beds, under sofa cushions, clinging to chintz? I went online to see if there was some particular reason parents feed their children these things, but I didn’t uncover a satisfactory answer.
I did learn that Cheerios’ health claims about lowering bad cholesterol might cause it to be labeled as a drug and thus regulated by the FDA. Froot Loops, I found out, were invented in 1959 and originally called Fruit Loops until a lawsuit was filed claiming the branding was misleading. Seems the product didn’t actually contain any fruit. The case was settled out of court and the name was changed.
People leave behind lots more than Froot Loops when they check out of a rental property. Some of the most common items include shaving cream, fruit-scented shampoos, flip-flops, eggs, ice cream, and margarita mix. Then there’s the hair….
I am always finding long single hairs plastered on the glass shelves and door bins in the refrigerator.
Hair in the oven I would understand. I’d be tempted to stick my head in if I were trapped in a house full of screaming kids for a week.
Renters also tend to leave beer. Several years ago, I employed an aging mother-daughter cleaning team from up near Milford who’d make a beeline for the beer as soon as they arrived. Said it helped them clean better.
They’d sometimes show up unannounced at the house on Saturday nights en route to Ruddertown, waltz right in, introduce themselves as the maids, and then ask for a couple of cold ones. Interestingly, nobody complained about the gals. People were more upset about the lack of lobster crackers and bibs in the kitchen. Hey, it’s Dewey Beach, not Maine.
As a domestic, I’ve learned that tenants eat a lot of toast. They steal light bulbs. And, they abscond with rolls of toilet paper and boxes of dishwasher detergent. Nobody walks off with historical novels, wine glasses, or French lampshades. Its sundries they want.
I suppose it was inevitable that I’d begin employing certain “maid tricks” like flipping rugs rather than washing them and angling the wooden blinds so the sun doesn’t highlight dust. Wiping down furniture surfaces with Liquid Gold leaves an almond smell that distracts from cobwebs underneath. A little Oust sprayed in the bathroom gives the impression you’ve been down on your knees scrubbing when you’ve really just run a Clorox wet wipe across everything.
While cleaning last Saturday, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. There I was, barefoot with a beer in one hand and an ostrich feather duster in the other. It was eleven o’clock in the morning.
You know what? The old gals were right: a little beer does help you clean better.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Impressive Flounders
According to the Cape Gazette, some very impressive flounders are being caught off squid and minnows, strip baits, live spot and smelt all around the Delaware coast. Ironically, none of the restaurants in town serve flounder. I can remember when all seafood restaurants used to serve flounder. Today the species is almost fished out.
Flounders are predatory fish. They blend into the sandy bottom and then ambush their prey. Their eyes migrate from one side of their body to the other as they develop. I'm not making any of this up.
Monday, July 20, 2009
A Gentleman's Guide to Flower Arranging
I was at a party the other night, a white affair full of attractive men and women dressed in white and sipping white drinks. Holly Lane was singing and everyone was raving about the hors d’oeuvres, especially the white grapes dipped in white chocolate sauce and twirled through a plate of white pop rocks.
Much to my chagrin, nobody was talking about the beautiful displays of white flowers, many of which were arranged in antique family silver pieces.
It seems we’ve lost our appreciation for flowers. Now, when I say we, I am not including myself. I grew up in a home where flowers were important, perhaps even more so than food. My mother might have burned spaghetti, but she sure knew how to arrange pink peonies.
For many, flowers have become an after thought. An amuse bouche, so to speak. But, it wasn’t always that way.
The rapid industrialization of American industry in the late 19th century and early 20th centuries spawned a new generation of wealthy families. Rockefellers. Vanderbilts. Astors. Fords. These noveau rich families of the “Gilded Age” broadcast their new status through conspicuous consumption and extravagant opulence.
Nowhere was this more evident than in their pursuit of great country and resort homes resplendent with well-designed flower gardens. Flowers, you see, were a status symbol, and wealthy men spared no expense to keep blooms fresh and arrangements in the latest fashion.
Edsel Ford’s home on Grosse Point Shores, for example, had a dedicated flower arranging room, complete with a flower refrigerator. At Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina, guests of Mr. Vanderbilt were welcomed with special flower arrangements in their rooms. The New York Times reported in 1921 that John D. Rockefeller had taken second place in the Tarrytown Flower Show begonia competition with a double blossom light pink specimen called the “Emily Clibrans.”
Then there was Henry Francis du Pont, the gentleman who gave his country estate Winterthur to the public as a museum. H.F. was simply mad about flowers and he took flower arranging quite seriously, employing a staff of six for his greenhouses and an additional six more for the four-acre cutting garden.
Ironically, he never arranged the flowers. He supervised, inspecting the flower room and the day’s floral displays every morning and consulting with his butler to discuss the right flowers to match with the linen and porcelains for the lunch and dinner tables. He kept records of successful arrangements.
Mr. du Pont instructed the Winterthur staff to cut flowers in the cool of early morning or in the late afternoon. Stems were to be cut at an angle with all foliage stripped below the water line and then immersed in fresh, cool water for at least an hour before arranging.
I follow his advice, though, my preference is to cut flowers in the late afternoon while enjoying a cocktail. Go ahead and add a couple of ice cubes to the water.
When you’re ready to arrange them in a vase or another type of container, be sure to use fresh, room-temperature water. You can add a commercial cut-flower food and a little bleach. A shot of vodka in the water has always worked well for me.
Every two days or so, change the water, add a sprinkle of flower food and another shot of vodka and re-cut the stems if they've browned.
H.F. favored lush, homogeneous flowers whose same color, shape, or texture established a rhythm that flowed throughout the arrangement. Too much repetition, however, could be boring, so he’d sometimes add in wildflowers and even roadside weeds.
Yes, you read that correctly. Weeds. Don’t be afraid to do something adventuresome with your arrangements.
When H.F. Dupont died in 1969, he left instructions to keep Winterthur’s rooms in flowers, as if he were still in residence. He also insisted that someone with taste be employed to make sure the arrangements matched the predominant colors of each room.
A fastidious fellow, our Mister du Pont was.
Let me share some additional tips I picked up in studying our dandy gardener.
Remember first of all that the container is integral to the design. Select one that will complement what you want to do, be it to highlight color, silhouettes, or blossoms. H.F. looked beyond the standard vase to porcelain bowls, copper urns, water pitchers, and even plastic cups. Well, maybe not a plastic go-cup, but he should have. Any color except green will do; it too often clashes with leaves.
Mister du Pont strove for balance in his arrangements. Large, deep-colored flowers ought to be placed low in an arrangement with buds and lighter-colored flowers arranged in a taller position to add lightness and height. Dense flowers should anchor an arrangement with more delicate flowers at the top and the edges. The focal point should be center or just below center of an arrangement.
For your next party, I hope you’ll emulate H.F. du Pont and his efforts to bring the outdoors inside. We could use more of that in Rehoboth. So go ahead a put out a big bowl of hydrangeas or two or three along with the bowl of chips and salsa, and remember: real men arrange flowers.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
The Visitation
Delivering fresh local pies on July 4, a Rehoboth tradition. This year's pie du jour was a peach pie from Fifer's Orchards, a family-owned farm in Kent County and a summer produce stand in Rehoboth. Pie ladies, left to right: Ho Ho Hostess, Sara Lee, Marsha Entenmann, Betty Crocker, Little Debbie.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Incongruous Cocktail
Growing up in the South, one learns some important summertime norms. No seersucker before Memorial Day. Never drive a convertible with the top down and the windows up. Get a pedicure before you wear flip flops.
Okay, that last one wasn’t something my father taught me, but it’s definitely a worthwhile piece of advice. One thing my father did impress upon me was that come summertime a man should switch from dark to clear spirits.
Every summer, I try out some trendy seasonal cocktail I’ve read about in the New York Times, but which is never made correctly and costs twelve dollars because of all the ingredients. Inevitably, I end up with a glass of white wine or a gin and tonic in hand.
This summer, I decided to explore something easier: the margarita, one of the world’s most popular and most abused cocktails. Yet, if done right, it can be a wonderful mix of flavors. Spicy, earthy tequila. Sweet and zesty notes from the orange liqueur. Zing from the lime. A potent catalyst for conversation and creativity.
There’s something both fascinating and appalling about a drink made with a spirit that can cost seven dollars a bottle or several hundred dollars a bottle and that’s popular in the Hamptons and the Ozarks. It’s an incongruous cocktail and that feels rather Rehobothian to me.
I began my margarita summer at Mariachis. Naturally, I had to try the “Millionaire,” the most expensive ‘rita on the menu. Made with anejo (aged) tequila and Cointreau, it’s smooth and mellow. You definitely don’t feel like you’re drinking a cheap drink. The house margarita was less expensive and also tarter, but still a very fine cocktail for four dollars less.
Both are what I call “sit-down” margaritas, you know, served in that traditional bowl shaped glass with green cactus stems and best enjoyed with a meal. After two of them, I had a good buzz, so clearly they’re not skimping on the tequila.
Over at Aqua they serve their margaritas “stand up” style in a plastic cup that you carry around while you socialize. The best part of the Aqua margarita is watching the shirtless bartenders make it. Admittedly, I was distracted, but I did note the drink is hand mixed with tequila, triple sec, and Rose’s lime juice. If you like the taste of tequila, which I do, you’ll like this version.
The margaritas at the Seafood Shack hit that sweet spot between sweet and sour. Perks you up without the pucker.
The Blue Moon sells a good “stand up” margarita that you can’t complain about. If you’re in the know, however, you can discreetly ask certain bartenders for a special margarita served in a martini glass and named for a popular former bartender. Shhh…
Speaking of names, there are no shortages when it comes to different margarita recipes. There are almost as many claims to the invention of the margarita. One story says it was created in Galveston in 1948 for singer Peggy (Margaret) Lee. A bartender in Tijuana claims to have invented the margarita in the early 1940’s as homage to actress Rita Hayworth, whose real name was Margarita Cansino when she danced in the local bars.
Most historians seem to agree that while earlier cocktails were mixed using tequila, the classic margarita recipe was first mixed in Acapulco in 1948 by the wealthy Dallas socialite Margaret “Margarita” Sames. She was tired of Bloody Marys.
Over the years, Margarita served the drink to her nightclub and hotelier friends like Nick Hilton and to movie stars Lana Turner and John Wayne. It caught on among the smart set, and, in December 1953, Esquire Magazine deemed it “drink of the month.”
Where do the smart set in Rehoboth go to sip their margaritas? To The Back Porch, for a polished cocktail made with high quality anejo tequila, which imparts a smooth, rich taste to the drink. The bartenders pre-mix their margaritas in batches because they swear the flavors blend better that way. I can’t disagree, as it’s one of the best “sipping” margaritas I’ve ever tasted. Served up or in a small rocks glass.
In contrast, the sixteen-ounce “guzzler” at The Starboard in Dewey Beach is exactly what you’d expect from the folks who advertise that when it rains they pour. And pour they did. Twice. I still can’t figure out how the margarita tasted so sweet with so little mix. I’ll admit I’m somewhat sugarphobic, so this concoction one wasn’t among my favorites.
Also on Route One is La Tonalteca. A gentleman who frequents the restaurant for its pollo and chorizo dishes introduced me to their margaritas. At $5.49 for a classic lime margarita in a real glass, it’s a great buy, and just right on a hot afternoon when you need to duck in for something cool and tart to take the edge off. They do them on the rocks or frozen or in pitchers, and in other flavors such as mango, peach, and strawberry, which I did not try.
Unfortunately, I never made it to Dos Locos, the Purple Parrot, or Que Pasa. There’s only so many one man can drink. And, after only two weekends, I was suffering from reflux and having flashbacks to college girlfriends in lime green skirts embroidered with purple hippopotamuses. This had to stop.
I end this column, sadly, where I began it: in need of a pedicure and in search of a summer cocktail. Vodka and water would be simple. White wine spritzers are making a comeback. There’s talk, however, among some cocktail aficionados about a French drink from the 1920’s made with gin and champagne. It sounds perfectly strange, yet refreshing. I hear Hemingway drank ‘em…
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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