Author: Stephanie March

It’s time to celebrate the unassuming doughnut, the stalwart companion of countless cups of fresh-brewed coffee, the humble fried hoop that is everyman’s golden cake. Why now, you might ask? Because January marks the opening of a long stretch of winter contemplation; also, there has yet to be a holiday misgiving that can’t be quietly and sweetly wiped away by that first bite of sticky, warm, sugary dough. The doughnut is the perfect, simple reward for making it through another year and pushing onward into the next.

Deeply embedded in American culture, the doughnut is believed to have arrived with the Pilgrims. Before they journeyed across the Atlantic, they spent time in Holland, where they partook of the northern European confection called oly koeks—literally, oily cakes of deep-fried dough that were usually associated with the celebrations of saint’s days and town festivals. On these shores, little nuggets or nuts of deep-fried sweet dough—more like today’s doughnut holes than doughnuts—were first mentioned in Washington Irving’s 1809 A History of New-York: “The table … was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog’s fat, and called dough nuts, or oly koeks.”

In fact, doughnuts didn’t acquire their ring shape until almost fifty years later. Legend gives a craggy Maine sea captain named Hanson Crockett Gregory credit for the innovation. Apparently, Gregory sailed off in 1847 with a stash of his mother’s delicious fried cakes. While navigating some particularly rough seas, he poked out the cakes’ centers in order to slip them over the spokes of the ship’s wheel. The setup allowed hands-free snacking without sacrificing an even keel. Another, perhaps more likely story has the Pennsylvania Dutch pioneering the shape for a less fanciful reason: more surface area led to a faster cooking time, a crispier crust, and a less gummy inside. By 1897, the common acceptance of the ring was evidenced by the Sears Roebuck catalog’s offering of a doughnut cutter.

Of course, doughnuts have gone far beyond that original design. There are bear claws and braided twists, fritters and long johns, jelly-filled eights and bismarcks. These variations—and, in some cases, complete overhauls—come thanks to cultures from all over the world. Germans fill disc-shaped Berliner Pfannkuchen with custard or jelly. The olliebollen of the Netherlands, filled with dried fruits and nuts, are a traditional New Year’s treat. The Spanish dunk stick-shaped churros into morning chocolate drinks. Italians shake bomboloni cakes in paper bags with citrus zest and spices, while the French enjoy simple beignets with dark coffee.

Just when it seemed that Americans’ love for doughnuts had waned, Krispy Kreme came along and reminded us that the best and truest time to enjoy a glazed doughnut is when it’s fresh and hot. When the first Minnesota outlet opened, traffic cops had to stem the tides of those eager to sink their teeth into these melty delights, which seem to magically disintegrate upon the first bite. Sure, Krispy Kreme has been perfecting its methods since 1937, but is that enough to create a national obsession?

Apparently so, as the newfound fervor for doughnuts has escalated into gourmet territory. Innovative chefs have concocted individual doughnut bread puddings, topped grilled doughnut halves with sweetened mascarpone, and filled organic pastries with cabernet jelly. One of the hottest spots in town, Five Restaurant and Street Lounge, offers a dark-chocolate filled beignet accompanied by a black cardamom dipping sauce. Café Lurcat has long served a warm, dense, and crumbly cinnamon-sugar doughnut that beats a flourless chocolate torte any day.

Of all the restaurants, cafes, and shops that serve doughnuts in the area, a few stand out. Tobies in Hinckley serves mammoth doughnuts with all the traditional toppings—if eating one on the way to a cabin up north isn’t a Minnesota tradition, it should be. If you keep driving north for several hours, you’ll reach World’s Best Donuts in Grand Marais, where you’ll encounter the most delicious moist and spicy cake doughnuts, along with amazingly beautiful surroundings in which to enjoy them. Back here in the city, you’ll want to try the warm, puffy rings of heaven at Valley Pastries in Golden Valley, whose raised doughnuts taste like bakery doughnuts instead of doughnut-shop doughnuts, meaning there’s no greasy tang that nags you for the rest of your day. The best time to get these, and most other doughnuts, is fresh out of the oven, at around 5:30 a.m. Hey, no one said you didn’t have to make an effort. Besides, there is no better reward for rousting yourself early on a dark January morning.

Krispy Kreme Eight locations in Minnesota

(plus Fargo, North Dakota and Onalaska, Wisconsin); www.krispykreme.com

Five Restaurant and Street Lounge

2917 Bryant Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-827-5555

Café Lurcat 1624 Harmon Place, Minneapolis;

612-486-5500

Tobies Interstate 35 and Highway 48, Hinckley;

320-384-6174

World’s Best Donuts 4 E. Wisconsin St.,

Grand Marais; 218-387-1345

Valley Pastries 2570 Hillsboro Ave. N.,

Golden Valley; 763-541-1535

There are happy gift baskets, and there are sad gift baskets. The sad ones are given by well-meaning souls who see shrink-wrapped fruit and think, “Oh joy!” Oftentimes these come year after year, stuffed with salamis and tissue paper, implying nothing other than, “Happy holidays, have a snack.” Worse yet is the revelation, upon stopping at the local gas station, that your basket was possibly purchased in conjunction with a car wash and a Slurpee. The happy gift baskets are usually hand-packed by the giver with specially selected items that the receiver will love, or that the giver wants to share. Where a sad basket would feature corporate cheese product encased in thick red wax, a happy basket might include a wedge of Roquefort that the giver knows is marvelous with your favorite Pinot Noir.

Mind you, it’s not about food snobbery—caviar isn’t the be-all, end-all among food gifts, especially for those of us who think it’s overrated. I dream of baskets that have a pedigree applied by the giver: a favorite maple syrup and a fantastic gingerbread pancake recipe. The saddest baskets come with no thought or care to the eater: Vegetarians get steak sauces; timid palates are overwhelmed by ethnically themed baskets. My favorite December pastime is to stroll through specialty markets, latte in hand, and discover a spice blend that would complement my sister’s elk steaks or the ideal dark chocolate for a friend who loves port. In truth, I hoard these little discoveries all year, waiting until the eating season is well under way to share my finds. I believe that the happiest baskets should imply, “Happy holidays, eat well, celebrate living.” So I’ve devoted this month’s column to the kinds of gems that I dream of getting (and possibly giving). These five items became my obsessions this year, and all are, in their own way, simply fabulous.

The newest one has me standing at my local cheese counter, advising complete strangers in an attempt to convert them to its pleasures. It’s not that difficult, either: Fiscalini San Joaquin Gold, a farmstead cheese created in California, isn’t a heavy, stinky cheese that only the brave will love; it’s semi-hard, with a lovely straw coloring and soft, buttery flavor. Because it is a farmstead cheese, you know that the Fiscalini family, which has been in business since 1914, controls the entire process; they care for the cows and personally process the milk to their standards of quality. The true beauty of this cheese is its versatility: It grates like a dream onto risotto, melts easily on rosemary crostini, and is tremendous eaten directly from the fridge.

If you feel that hot chocolate is reserved for children at sledding parties, skip this paragraph. If you understand that it was this beverage that caused the magnificent cocoa bean to make its first journey across the ocean from the New World, then come with me to breakfast in Madrid. It was there that I first tasted the way that this type of chocolate was intended to be enjoyed: gulp after gulp of warm, thick, creamy loveliness that made it impossible forevermore to even consider Swiss Miss. The generous people of Schokinag, a German company with nearly eighty years of expertise, have delighted my chocolate-loving heart with the introduction of their European Drinking Chocolate. Open the twelve-ounce tin and you will find tiny chips of chocolate—there’s a triple chocolate version that has both milk and dark chocolate chips dusted with cocoa powder, a white chocolate with natural vanilla, and a dazzling Moroccan Spice flavor. You simply melt five tablespoons of chips with a tablespoon of milk, and then add milk (along with cream or half and half, don’t be shy) to create the consistency that’s tastiest for you. You can find Schokinag at Whole Foods Market (where you might also pick up some hand-cut vanilla marshmallows, if you must) and at Chocolate Celeste.

I understand that processed sugar isn’t all that great for you, but I have never cottoned to sugar substitutes like Equal or Splenda. Beyond the commercial test-tube nature of their origins, they impart a metallic, chemical twang that does nothing to sate a sweet craving. However, since weighing 754 pounds is not on my list of lifetime goals, I have embraced agave nectar. Derived from the heart of the agave cactus, the sweet syrup has a low glycemic load, which means it doesn’t give you the blood-sugar rushes that processed sugar does. This translates into a healthier heart and trimmer figure. Agave’s mellow, honey-like flavor is actually sweeter than regular sugar, so you use about half as much. I’ve poured it on pancakes, mixed it in cocktails, made ice cream with it, and baked cookies that my little ones never suspected were “healthy.” Intelligent Nutrients in Minneapolis has its own brand, which can also be found at some Juut Salon Spa locations.

Along with the sweet, it’s always good to put something salty into your gift basket, too. Now, some scientists will tell you that salt is salt, NaCL is strictly NaCL, no matter where it’s harvested or what color it takes. And there are other people who will tell you that salt unlocks very subtle things about the universe, and that a red crystal from Hawaii carries a different notion of the ocean than a grayish cube from France. The magic held within this simple, elemental compound is one of my favorite earthly mysteries. While there are many fascinating salts around the globe, the most intriguing one for me lately is Balinese sea salt from Big Tree Farms. The crystals, made using an ancient week-long process involving saltwater, sand, and troughs made from palm trees, develop into miniscule hollow pyramids. The flavor is light and briny, but the crunch is the thing. For those who love to snatch a fingerful of the stuff here and there, this is the ultimate. Of course, you’ll also want to use it to adorn baked pretzels, scrambled eggs, or ice cream with caramel sauce (try it). Locally, Williams-Sonoma and the Kitchen Window are stocking boxes.

Finally, my love for peanut butter and mustard sandwiches may not be as odd as you think (cringe if you must, but I dare you to try it before you knock it). Look beyond the sugared-up jars of Jif in your cupboards, recognize the relation of ground nuts to pesto, and appreciate the tender balance of savory and sweet that can come from a good almond butter. Then the fact that nut butters are more than just a base for fruity preserves will not seem so surprising. Kettle Foods, of snack chip fame, makes an unsalted hazelnut butter that, if you let it, will expand your horizons. Yes, you can spread it on toasted bread or mix it into a cookie recipe, but you can also throw it in a pan with garlic, rosemary, and olive oil and then toss your pasta in it. Whisk it into a simple vinaigrette for a salad, or mix with honey mustard and smear over a pork roast—it will change how you look at ground nuts.

Remember that anyone can throw some cans and jars in a basket with some raffia to make a passable gift. But what does that say about you? I believe that food should be one of the most personal gifts you can give—after all, you are sharing your taste. In the end, if it’s the thought that counts, make sure it counts.

 

Open-Faced Sandwich With

Fiscalini San Joaquin Gold Cheese

The perfect quick lunch while wrapping gifts.

2 thick slices of crusty bread

Olive oil

2 slices prosciutto

2 slices and 2 tablespoons grated

Fiscalini San Joaquin Gold cheese

1 cup baby portobello mushrooms

2 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon chopped thyme

Brush one side of each bread slice with olive oil and top it with a slice of prosciutto and thick slice of cheese. Place on cooking sheet under a broiler for a few minutes or in a 250-degree oven for about 7 minutes or until cheese melts.

Meanwhile, melt butter in pan, and sauté mushrooms with thyme until dark and soft. Pile mushrooms on bread slices and sprinkle with grated cheese.

During my childhood, the whirl of the eating season that begins this month was usually ushered in with that most agreeable social function, the potluck supper. Friends gathering, sharing food of their own making–it is a humble community feast where everyone gives and takes and huddles against the encroaching cold. In the car, I always held the bowl containing my family’s offering–I was the reliable and steady one, at least when it came to this task. Looking down at my mother’s green salad laced with mandarin oranges, almonds, and pomegranate seeds in my lap, the little red orbs seemed nearly to glow beneath the Saran Wrap. The pop and flavor of those juicy seeds were one of the things I associated with holiday functions, a treat of the season.

On the potluck table, my mother’s salad always stood out among the Tater Tot hot dishes and green bean bakes. People were interested, but hesitant. I remember looking at those who pushed the oddly tangy seeds to the sides of their plate and assuming they were saving the best for last. When I witnessed the jewels tumbling into the garbage along with the remainder of some unfortunately selected goulash, I would grow almost despondent. How could you throw away a ruby?

In recent decades, few people have understood the allure of this ancient food. The leathery, round, amber-colored fruits quietly bided their time in the shadows until, once again, they could rise to the forefront of food culture. And that time is now: The pomegranate is hot, hot, hot. Celebrities inspire the rest of us to sip pomegranate juice cocktails, and star chefs are using the fruit in daring and innovative ways: pomegranate salsa! pomegranate caramel sauce! Meanwhile, physicians can’t seem to stop talking about the amazing health benefits that accrue to a life that involves pomegranates. The buzz shows no sign of abating.

It’s quite fitting to call the current fascination with pomegranates a rebirth. For centuries, this fruit has been a symbol of fertility and regeneration: Opening a pomegranate reveals a lush bounty of blood-red seeds nestled in soft, white flesh. Along with olives, grapes, figs, and dates, pomegranates were among the first domesticated crops; the tree on which they grow is believed to have originated in ancient Persia. As it spread throughout the world, the beautiful fruit rose to a place of importance in many cultures. Buddhists see it as one of the three sacred fruits, along with the citron and the peach. The Chinese gave sugared pomegranate seeds as wedding presents while decorating the bridal chamber with the fruit to encourage fertility.

The pomegranate also figures prominently in the story of Persephone. When the smitten Hades, god of the underworld, kidnapped Persephone, her grieving mother Demeter, the goddess of nature, plunged the world into a famine. Zeus agreed to help free her, as long as she hadn’t eaten anything from the underworld. Alas, the depressed Persephone had allowed herself six pomegranate seeds to quench her thirst. Thus, she would be allowed to return to earth for only six months of each year, spending the other six in the underworld. Demeter celebrated each return with spring and summer and mourned her daughter’s eventual departure with fall and winter. It was this connection to death and rebirth that led Christians to later make the pomegranate a symbol of the Resurrection.

Its current rebirth as a medicinal holy grail is being fueled, oddly enough, by coin collectors. Roll International Corporation (the company behind the Franklin Mint, Fiji water, and Teleflora) is driving the country’s desire for pomegranates through POM Wonderful, the breakout fruit and juice company that has quickly become a supermarket staple. The pomegranate’s dark garnet juice is thicker and bolder in flavor than that of the cranberry, and offers a dusky sweetness with a tart finish. While the purists will slug the nectar directly from its distinctive, bulbous bottle, the stylish set chooses to dilute it, say, with vodka in a Pomtini or rum in a Pomojito. Plugging the powerful antioxidant properties of pomegranate juice, POM Wonderful has literally bet the farm on the future of pomegranates, planting thousands of trees in California’s San Joaquin Valley over the past five years. By investing more of its millions in cardiovascular, cancer, and other types of medical research than it does in marketing, the company seems to be planning for the long haul.

As trendy as the pomegranate is, it’s still a relative oddball to the home cook. Extracting the sparkling arils (the correct term for the seed, which is actually encased in a pouch of liquid) from the fleshy white pith can be a bit laborious. The best method is to cut off the crown, score the flesh into four sections and break the fruit apart over a bowl of water. Under water, you can gently roll the arils out from the cottony pith, which will float as the arils sink. Strain the water and claim your treasure. Eating the capsules whole will give you a burst of juice and small crunchy seed to chew. There are those who would spit the seed out, thus missing out on both fiber and fun, but they dare not dribble as the juice will stain.

In season from October through January, the fall fruit’s robust flavors are a perfect match for the heartier foods of the season. The concentrated paste known as pomegranate molasses (available in some specialty stores) makes a tangy addition to sauces for roasted meats, especially duck, as in one variation on the traditional Persian stew known as khoresh. Adding the juice to a fig-and-olive tapenade makes an easy dip or poultry paste. Freezing the juice in an ice cream maker can make an earthy sorbet that is healthier than pumpkin pie. As a longtime fan of foods that can make the jump from antiquity to modern times with flare, I’m betting on the pomegranate to be more than trendy. I believe its alluring flavors will seduce the world once again and it will become revered–if not in a sacred sense, then by holding a secure place in the mainstream diet. At that point, maybe Tater Tot hot dish will seem exotic.

Chicken Pomegranate Stew
(a version of Persian khoresh)

2 cups fresh pomegranate juice (or 1/2 cup pomegranate molasses)
1 cup ground almonds
1 cup ground walnuts
3 teaspoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon saffron (dissolved in 1 tablespoon hot water)
Pinch of cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon thyme
1 small yellow onion
3 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
Salt and pepper to taste
4- to 5-pound fryer chicken, cut up, skin removed (or 4 – 6 boneless, skinless chicken breasts)

Combine pomegranate juice, nuts, sugar, and spices (except turmeric). Set aside.

In a medium pot, saute onions in oil until translucent. Add chicken, just searing, then turmeric, salt, and pepper. Add 1 cup of water and simmer over low heat for 30 minutes.

Add pomegranate mix and simmer for an additional 30 minutes, adding water if necessary.

Remove from heat and cover for 10 minutes before serving. Serve over couscous.

Remember Cook’s Choice? It was the most dreaded day on your school lunch calendar. The lucky ones brown-bagged it; the rest of us stood in line for a meal we knew had been planned by a Lunch Lady surveying the walk-in cooler and reading expiration dates. As we bravely offered up our trays for a plop of this and a smear of that, there was always a special sort of dismay reserved for the grayish slice of undesignated meat that was served.

At a time when your world safely revolved around beef, chicken, pork, and fish stick, taking a bite of the mystery meat might have been the first indication of an adventurous life to come: one that refused to remain within the confines of a TV dinner tray, one that might someday include oysters, blue cheese, and goat tacos. Or perhaps your childhood revulsion sealed the fate of your food life to nothing more daring than buffalo wings. And that would be a shame, because most of us, in the new protein-obsessed world, actually wish for some adventure in the meat department.

Many a well-intentioned cookbook is devoted to making chicken exciting, but at what point do you break down and weep at the sight of another pale breast? Steak is no longer special, now that Taco Bell serves steak fajitas and chains are churning out steak platters faster than you can say “blooming onion.” And sure, you can always count on a good Asian restaurant to throw you for a loop—but let’s face it, for many of us, jellyfish might be going too far, too fast. What we long for is a mix of the new and the familiar—something easily identifiable as meat by its appearance and its texture, but that also delivers a strikingly (maybe not radically) new flavor. Something we can add to our repertoire without going too far out of our way or freaking out our loved ones.

Ostrich was one of the first “new” meats that sought contemporary mainstream acceptance. In the early nineties, food industry insiders in this country began extolling its virtues, pointing to its traditional role in South African cuisine (in the spicy, dried form of biltong) and more recent appearances on trendy European menus (pan-fried with leeks and smoked bacon). While ostriches are indeed big birds, they don’t produce poultry-like meat, but rather a dense, red flesh that is healthier than beef. It’s also lower in fat and calories than even skinless chicken or turkey. Add to that ostrich’s high iron and protein content, and it’s easy to see why this meat is recommended by the American Heart Association and American Diabetes Association.

Serving up this huge, flightless bird still seems exotic, but ostrich farms are popping up all over the country. Blackwing Quality Meats, the best known name in the industry, has been selling fresh and frozen ostrich meats for twelve years. It shuns the use of hormones and additives, and, recognizing the need to gain fresh converts, its website offers helpful cooking tips and decent recipes for an herb marinade and ostrich scallopini. Ostrich meat doesn’t shrink like beef or pork when cooked, so a seven-ounce filet will remain at seven ounces from fridge to dinner table. It can be grilled, braised, smoked, fried, or roasted, but like any other red meat it’s best medium rare. Ground ostrich can be substituted for ground beef in any recipe, and it makes great burgers. Ostrich carries a delicate flavor, doesn’t have the fatty richness of beef, and has a soft, less grainy character that’s light on the tongue. The only thing ostrich needs is the patronage of some celebrity chef to elevate it into the cult of cool food. Locally, I’d love to see what Seth Bixby Daugherty of Cosmos would do with a heavy cut.

Bison, too, has been on the cult radar for some time. (American buffalo and bison are the same animal, and in general their meat is referred to as bison.) Bison burgers are popular fare around the country—there’s even one on Ruby Tuesday’s menu, next to the turkey burger under the “Exotic” heading. Richly flavored yet lean, high-quality bison meat tends to be a touch sweeter than beef, although lesser cuts can be gamey or sharp. Beyond the ground meat, you can find steaks and roasts, as well as sausage and jerky.

Locally, bison is big business. These naturally hearty animals thrive in summer heat and winter cold. Unlike cattle, which drift with the wind, bison turn their massive heads into a snowstorm, plowing drifts with ease in the search for food. Numerous ranches in the area have revived the tradition of bison grazing on thousands of acres of prairie lands, even though their herds are a tiny fraction of those that once thundered across the prairie. At places like Silver Bison Ranch near Baldwin, Wisconsin, bison are not given hormones or antibiotics, and feed only on native grasses that grow without aid of herbicides or pesticides. Prairie Heights Bison goes a step further into the past, inviting guests to take part in day-long guided bison hunts on its acreage in the Blue Mounds area of southwest Minnesota, which was a popular hunting ground for American Indians. Like those early hunters, Prairie Heights believes the field kill produces the finest meat and is most respectful to the animal.

Rabbit is not an exotic meat by definition, but most Americans find it difficult to visualize their fuzzy bunny friends as good eats. They should meet Lenny Russo of Heartland, the St. Paul restaurant known for its fresh and seasonal Midwestern ingredients. Russo doesn’t hesitate to include rabbit on his menu when he can get it, even during Easter. Yielding a meat not unlike chicken, yet a touch sweeter, rabbit plays well with fresh fare from all seasons. At Heartland, it’s usually paired with whole grains, like an earthy barley risotto, to bring a heartier quality to the dish.

Ready to banish chicken and have a go at hasenpfeffer? Clancy’s Meats and Fish market in Linden Hills has frozen rabbit, as well as fresh bison meat in its cases. A good glass of wine may help quicken the courage. A less tannic Pinot Noir with berry tones goes well with bison, while ostrich calls for a good California Cabernet, and rabbit loves a Sauvignon Blanc or Chardonnay. All it takes is that first leap of faith to widen your horizons.

Blackwing Quality Meats; 800-326-7874; www.blackwing.com

Silver Bison Ranch; bison@silverbison.com

Prairie Heights Bison, Luverne, Minnesota;

507-283-8136; www.buybison.com

Heartland, 1806 St. Clair Ave., St. Paul;

651-699-3536; www.heartlandrestaurant.com

 

Herb-Roasted Buffalo Tenderloin With Blue Cheese Butter

1⁄4 pound (1 cup) crumbled firm blue cheese

1 stick (1⁄2 cup) unsalted butter, softened

2 tablespoons port

3 tablespoons olive oil

31⁄2 pounds buffalo tenderloin, cut crosswise

into eight or more 11⁄4-inch-thick steaks

1⁄2 cup Dijon mustard

3⁄4 cup packed freshly chopped rosemary leaves

Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 450 degrees; place rack in middle of oven.

In a small bowl, mash together cheese and butter with a fork; stir in port until smooth. Form butter into a log on sheet of plastic wrap, roll up, secure and chill until firm, at least 2 hours.

In a 12-inch heavy sauté pan, heat 11⁄2 tablespoons oil over moderately high heat until hot. Sear half of the steaks until browned, about 2 minutes on each side, and transfer to a shallow baking pan. Sear remaining steaks in remaining 11⁄2 tablespoons oil in same manner.

When steaks have cooled enough to touch, spread tops and sides with mustard and sprinkle with rosemary, pepper, and salt to taste. Roast steaks in middle of oven eight minutes for medium rare (tops should just begin to brown). Transfer steaks to a cutting board and let stand about three minutes. Remove butter from fridge and slice into about twenty thin pieces.

Cut each steak nearly in half horizontally. Tuck a butter slice between steak halves and top steaks with another slice.

The tradition of growing grapes is almost as old as the hills on which they’re planted. But when we picture those vine-covered hills, most of us would sooner conjure Tuscany, Bordeaux, or the windswept Carneros Valley of California than Hastings, Minnesota. Yet increasingly, places like Hastings, Putney, Vermont, and Long Island, New York, are being transformed into grape-growing regions, thanks to a driven and ambitious generation of viticulturists. These against-the-grain growers need more than just good weather and great marketing to be successful; they need science and, like Hastings’ own Nan Bailly of Alexis Bailly Vineyard, faith.

It’s not that grapes won’t grow in cold climates—certain wild varieties, for instance, are indigenous to Minnesota—but rather a question of growing a grape worthy of eating, or pressing into wine. That goal came into focus around 1908, the year the University of Minnesota established its Horticultural Research Center, which was charged with finding ways to produce sustainable food crops from our short growing season and harsh climate. While grapes took a back seat to the more fashionable apple for decades, especially during Prohibition, exciting stuff started to happen in the late sixties. Elmer Swenson, who had been with the research center in the forties, returned with new findings from his own work with grape vines in Wisconsin. Shortly thereafter, a Minneapolis lawyer named David Bailly decided he was ready to take a gamble with his own love of wine.

Bailly bought a few acres in Hastings and planted them with French grapes, including Maréchal Foch and Seyval Blanc. He took to heart the French winemakers’ belief that vines must thrive through adversity—wind, sleet, snow, drought—in order to produce superior fruit. The motto for the Alexis Bailly Vineyard became “Where the grapes can suffer.” Bailly’s gamble paid off, and he began producing enough good wine to satisfy his soul—his Maréchal Foch, in particular, remains a supple, medium-bodied red wine that seems to defy its Midwestern heritage—if not quite enough to quit his day job.

David Bailly planted those vines more than thirty years ago, and every autumn since then, they have been buried in order to survive the winter. This fall, after the harvest, his daughter Nan plans to rip them out. Just as her father pioneered French grapes grown locally, she is leading the next charge in winemaking by using Midwestern hybrids.

It seems those wild Minnesota grapes, which coil their tentacles onto anything that stands still, are very important to the future of grape growing. While the fruit from these aggressive vines is small and inky, not much for consumption, what’s significant is the fact that they not only survive, but also flourish in cold climates. Back in the eighties, as David Bailly’s Maréchal Foch was winning accolades and medals from American Wine Society competitions, the U’s research center jump-started its grape program by building its own winery on the grounds in Chanhassen. Then horticulturalists began the long process of cutting and grafting the hearty Minnesota grape with more refined and palatable varieties. Peter Hemstad, one of the center’s primary viticulturists, believed so much in what he was seeing in Chanhassen that he planted his own vines and opened the St. Croix Vineyard in Stillwater.

Basically, it’s Hemstad’s job to think and drink: What kind of flavor components will emerge if he cuts a slice from a Burgundy vine and grafts it onto the unromantically named Number 1126 hybrid? Will it pick up the Burgundy’s tannic qualities or will it blend to form a completely different profile? Will the fruit hold on to the rich redness or will it mutate into a lighter or even gray shade? In 1995, the Horticultural Research Center released Frontenac, a red wine grape that can survive colder temperatures without being buried and is highly resistant to disease. Its garnet color and pleasant aroma (Bailly’s version of Frontenac has deep berry overtones and a smoky oak finish) put Frontenac grapes at the top of the list for Midwest growers.

The U of M’s little oenology project has become a national leader in cold-climate grape research. The self-proclaimed wine geeks at the research center are having an impact all around the country—even as far north as Quebec, where those who see their French heritage as a God-given right to produce wine use the research center as the ultimate resource. (They probably also encourage the dreams of those people who see starting your own vineyard as the next coolest thing after starting your own restaurant.) The bigger question may be, why bother? While medals and awards are handed out to winemakers from all over the country, when’s the last time someone brought a Missouri wine to a dinner party? Will cold-climate grapes ever produce vintages that are as successful as those from Napa Valley? In such a specialized and, some say, elitist industry, is there enough commerce to support local growers and justify the research?

Here’s where the larger purpose comes in. Maybe growing local grapes and producing local wines will make wine in general less intimidating to the average Joe—and so maybe there’ll be more average Joes drinking wine with their burgers. Maybe a Cedar Creek Syrah from Wisconsin would be an easier or friendlier choice for a first-time Syrah drinker than a bottle with a name he can’t pronounce. It doesn’t hurt that this wine’s big flavors of blackberry and plum and its spicy finish have earned numerous gold medals from the International Eastern Wine competition.

Imagine picking up a bottle of wine at the farmers’ market along with your locally grown and crafted produce, cheese, and meats. Wouldn’t it be a boon for grape growers everywhere if wine culture in this country began to grow because of people supporting their local vineyards? Nan Bailly certainly hopes so. That’s why she’s replacing her French vines with Minnesota hybrids. If the wine industry and the rapidly growing numbers of fledgling oenophiles who support it could lay down their snobbish beliefs that only grapes from perfect coastal conditions can make drinkable wines, there could be a beautiful future for Nan Bailly’s tiny Hastings vineyard, and others all around the region. Now might be a historic time to visit one of them.

 

Chasing Grapes

Alexis Bailly Vineyards is open on weekends and offers tastings for two dollars. (www.abvwines.com)

St. Croix Vineyards celebrates the harvest with a Grape Stomp festival on September 10 and 11. (www.scvwines.com)

Fieldstone Vineyards celebrates its harvest the last two weekends in September. (www.fieldstonevineyard.com)

Morgan Creek Vineyard is known for its gorgeous landscapes; its annual grape stomp is October 1.

(www.morgancreekvineyards.com)

For more Minnesota wineries, see the list on the

U of M’s Enology website: http://winegrapes.coafes.umn.edu

There are people who would rather die than give up chocolate, and there are those who can’t imagine a day without television. For me, a life without cheese is simply not worth living. How can you get through the day without a dense bit of manchego, a smear of Humboldt Fog, or a downy shaving of Grana Padano? Why on earth would you have people over for dinner, if not as an excuse to stand around a platter of new cheeses and say, “Wow, try that one”? The mysteries of cheese compel me. Gorgonzola tastes like one thing when piled on a cold slice of pear, and a completely different (and rather malodorous) thing when melted onto a thin-crust pizza. How can simple cow’s milk be turned into radically different cheeses like cheddar, blue, and Camembert?

I often wonder if my love of cheese comes from our neighboring state, where at every road stop on the way to and from college, a cheese store beckoned. I have many foggy memories of the Cheese Pavilion in Neillsville and odd pictures of me with Chatty Belle the Talking Cow. That’s Wisconsin, nearly drunk on the love of cheese, and happy to admit it. Yet there is a movement afoot—one that might lead to a smackdown over the very hearts and minds of cheese lovers everywhere and the highly coveted title of “America’s Dairyland.”

Cheese making in the U.S. is as old as the European immigrants who traveled here with their techniques. As they settled around the country, they began producing cheeses from their homeland. Italians brought the recipes for mozzarella and provolone, the English gave us an American version of cheddar, newly arrived French produced their Bries and Camemberts, German-Americans went on making Limburger and Muenster, and the Swiss, well—you know. Until the mid-1800s, all American-produced cheeses were farmstead cheeses—as, indeed, were all cheeses everywhere—handmade with milk exclusively from the cheese maker’s own animals. As cheese became a successful product at home and abroad, and with more automated forms of year-around agriculture, making use of silos, modern cooling trucks, and cooperative creameries, food factories sprang forth from the land to make cheese in bulk. By the turn of the last century, farmstead cheeses were becoming a thing of the past.

Wisconsin, with its rolling hills and wide pastures, drew a large share of northern European dairy farmers and cheese makers. The first state to grade its cheeses for quality, it quickly became the center of the national dairy industry, producing about five hundred million pounds of cheese per year by 1945. Today the state widely known as “America’s Dairyland” produces more than two billion pounds of cheese each year from the milk of more than a million cows. It would seem that residents of the state with more licensed cheese makers than any other should feel safe in their identity, secure enough to call themselves “cheeseheads” and wear those ridiculous foam hats to sporting events.

But anyone who watched this year’s Super Bowl, wearing that foam hat or not, watched what amounts to a bigger insult than cow tipping. It was a TV commercial featuring sunbathing bovines prancing in the California sun, with the tagline, “Great cheese comes from happy cows. Happy cows come from California.” Although this campaign has been around for some time, when it aired during a Super Bowl commercial break, it basically amounted to a gauntlet thrown.

It seems California has its sights set on claiming the title of “America’s Dairyland.” The Happy Cows campaign is part of a long-term strategy to shift American dairy consumers’ thinking away from Midwestern fields and toward coastal pastures. Faced with a milk surplus in 1982, the California Milk Advisory Board approached the pointy-heads at Stanford University for help. After extensive study, they found that everybody loves cheese, and that cheese making had huge profit potential for the state. California milk producers took the cue, and between 1982 and 2004, statewide cheese production increased 609 percent, with a projected two billion pounds being produced in 2005. What’s up, Cali? Aren’t you happy enough being the state of towheads and surfers? You already have David Hasselhoff and Robert Mondavi—can’t you leave the Midwest any national props?

The Wisconsin Milk Marketing Board isn’t scared. It has launched a campaign aimed at reminding Wisconsinites to be proud of their heritage, but is that the right fire to light? One very successful part of the California’s plan is to nurture the growing artisanal and farmstead cheese producers. Through well-targeted public relations, the stories of these specialty cheese makers have received tons of media attention and a national following. Just check out the well-stocked cheese case at any Kowalski’s, Lund’s, or Byerly’s and count how many Cali cheeses you find.

True, specialty cheese makers don’t fuel the industry. Processed cheeses made by big factories are what the masses buy and eat daily. Be assured that the California Milk Board also has a plan to woo such companies (including our own Land O’Lakes) to bring their business to California, but as the board itself has stated, it’s all about image. Since the Happy Cows campaign started airing, cheese with the “Real California Cheese” seal has achieved national distribution from Costco and Kroger, with expanded distribution at Wal-Mart and Safeway. I think the Wisconsin Milk Board might be missing the signs: The future is knocking and California is trampling over Wisconsin to answer the door.

There has never been a more food-centric time in America than now. The food revolution has created a whole generation of people who care about what food means, where it comes from, and why they should eat it. With all the national attention paid to their artisanal cheeses, the “great cheese” association will trickle down to the big yellow blocks of “American” cheese as well. California is trying to give its cheese a pedigree, thereby providing people with what would seem to be an educated choice rather than the same old blind pick. The state might have had some experience in this before, with a wine industry that took the laughable “American wine” category and verily crushed European expectations.

Don’t get me wrong: I love California cheeses. I pay well for Humboldt Fog because, as an aged goat cheese covered with a fine dusting of ash, it delivers a creamy, sharp flavor I can’t find in anything else. But I don’t subscribe to the fact that it’s better just because it’s from California. I know there are equally amazing and even better cheeses within a short drive of the Twin Cities. For example, LoveTree Farmstead in Grantsburg, Wisconsin, just over the state line, ages its goat cheese in caves on cedar boards. The result is a full-bodied cheese with a hint of the northwoods. The winner of the 2004 Best of Show title from the American Cheese Society competition was Sid Cook’s Gran Canaria of Carr Valley Cheese in La Valle, Wisconsin, about a three-hour drive from here.

This isn’t a time to reflect on heritage and muse dreamily on the past. Okay, so Wisconsin was the birthplace of Colby, but have you tried California’s award-winning Fiscalini San Joaquin Gold, a farmstead cheese that has a mellow richness and grates like a dream? This is a time to celebrate the beauty of true-blue Wisconsin cheeses while encouraging innovation from young cheese makers wherever they might live. Wisconsin cheeseheads should be focused on creating new generations of cheese eaters who understand why they should choose Wisconsin cheese—because it’s excellent and beautifully crafted, not because it comes from “America’s Dairyland.” Seeking out and drawing attention to its high-quality small producers is one of the best ways Wisconsin can equal the call.

How is it that so many of us draw no association between the salty, crunchy tidbits from Granny’s relish tray and fresh cucumbers that came from the earth? Is it possible to get so far away from a once-common practice that we no longer even recognize the result? Pickling used to be a seasonal activity that families undertook to ensure a decent food supply once the growing season was over. Generations gathered around a harvest and, using age-old recipes, created a tradition. Balancing salt levels, choosing spices, painstakingly cleaning and processing jar after jar—all of this was simply assumed to be necessary for survival. Now there’s no need to pickle; when it gets cold, we go to Arizona. So it is that another domestic art falls by the wayside, while companies who can do it faster and cheaper—if not necessarily better—take on production.

So stands our relationship with pickles, whether you have a lonesome jar lurking in the back of your Frigidaire, with one or two thick greenies bobbing in their murky water ever since who knows when, or whether you excitedly grab a jar at the market and bring it home to three other jars that you were once equally excited about. Nevertheless, there is a level of pickle passion that runs deep in this country, even in our own state. For proof, one need only visit the Creative Activities building at the State Fair to see that the pickle-packing process has been passed on to a new generation. What drives someone to willingly spend hours up to their elbows in brine, cramming jars with cucumbers and closely guarded spice mixtures and briny liquids? They must share something with the alchemists of legend, turning what is plain and ordinary into gustatory gold. Moreover, this passion for pickles is not limited to state and country fairgrounds. Boutique brands and innovative pickling practices are surfacing in the food world, on stylish shelves and restaurant kitchens around the country. For as long as pickling has been going on, there is no other renaissance more deserved.

Cleopatra believed that pickles contributed to her legendary health and beauty, while Julius Caesar found them invigorating, if you know what I mean. The men who built the Great Wall of China sustained energy for their long workdays by snacking on pickled cabbage. Pickles found their way to the New World with Columbus, as they were known to last for long journeys and, like the more commonly known but also far more perishable citrus fruits, to help prevent scurvy. (By the way, the businessman who stocked Columbus’ ship with said pickles dreamed of becoming an explorer himself and leaving his pickle-packing days behind. Amerigo Vespucci would eventually realize his dream and be the first pickle man to have a continent named in his honor.)

When we say “pickles” in the United States, we most often are referring to pickled cucumbers, whereas for the Brits, it’s pickled onions. Gherkins, or cornichons as the French call them, are simply immature, midget cukes that have been pickled. But there’s a vast world of pickles beyond cucumbers and onions. Koreans pickle cabbage to make kimchi; you’ll find pickled duck eggs in China and herring (sil) in Scandinavia. Japan’s astounding array of misos are basically pickled soybeans. Peter Piper had nothing on the Italians when it came to pickling peppers, and American colonists had a grand old time pickling everything from beans to mushrooms and asparagus to get them through the winters.

While the choice of food to be pickled is nearly unlimited, it is the process that calls for exactitude. Pickling may be one of the trickiest forms of canning. The journey from raw food to skillfully flavored and preserved delicacy is seldom recognized as the art form that it is. At its most basic, pickling a vegetable (or some other food—pigs’ feet, say, or salmon) in an acidic, biting liquid—either brine or vinegar—kills off the “bad” bacteria that makes food rot. This may sound simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to do. Those who decide to join the elite order of picklers must be prepared for a long journey to perfection. The type of solution, the addition of herbs and spices, the amount of soaking time, and even the temperature of the room will all have an effect on the final product. These variable elements impact the process of curing, during which colors and flavors will change as acidity increases. Not all pickles go through a rigid fermentation process, however. Fresh-pack or quick-process pickles (as in the recipe here) use an initially high-acidity vinegar or brine solution to preserve the food.

Maybe that dual nature of the process is the thrill that is driving the food-obsessed to rediscover pickles. In one sense, pickling poses a challenge for would-be kitchen masters, and yet Granny did just fine, so it can’t be too hard, can it? Another factor to consider is how the pickle, with its longstanding reputation as a plain-Jane food, is just ripe for glamorization, like a sweet Norma Jean Baker waiting for someone to unleash her inner Marilyn.

Sure enough, chefs and artisans have responded with jalapeno-lemon pickles, red-hot cinnamon cukes, saffron-infused pickled asparagus, and pickled beets in rosemary brine. Rick’s Picks, one of the new faces in the pickle game, has concocted what it calls Windy City Wasabeans—green beans in a soy-wasabi brine. The Indiana-based Sechler’s is raising eyebrows with sweet pickled orange and lemon peels, and Mad Pat’s Hot Fire & Ice Pickles start out with a hint of sweetness but end with a habanero-worthy burn. Locally, the 112 Eatery and Tryg’s both offer zesty house-made pickles on their charcuterie plates, a natural setting for pickles (as a snappy starter, pickles aid in the digestion of other foods). Stella’s Fish Café has overnight pickles as a side dish, a prime opportunity to shun the carbohydrates and grease of fries and crunch into some salty freshness instead.

Since future grannies will be more likely to teach their progeny about spreadsheets and conference-calling than pickling and canning, the practice will be left to enthusiasts of all types who seek it out and make it their own. Be they chefs, small-batch artisans, or gardeners overwhelmed by a bumper crop of snaky cucumbers, those who excel at the art of pickling will most likely find it addictive.

112 Eatery 112 Third St. N., Minneapolis;
612-343-7696; www.112eatery.com
Tryg’s 3118 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-920-7777; www.trygs.com
Stella’s Fish Cafe & Prestige Oyster Bar 1400 W. Lake St., Minneapolis, 612-824-8862; www.stellasfishcafe.com
Rick’s Picks 212-358-0428; www.rickspicksnyc.com
Sechler’s www.gourmetpickles.com
Mad Pat’s Hot Stuff www.madpatshotstuff.com

Zippy Refrigerator Pickles

12 pickling cucumbers
2 cups water
13/4 cups cider vinegar (at least 5% acidity)
11/2 cups packed coarsely chopped fresh dill
8 garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
1 cup finely chopped red onion
11/2 T coarse salt
1 tsp. mustard seed
1 tsp. crushed bay leaves
1/2 tsp. turmeric
11/2 tsp. fennel seeds
1 tsp. dried crushed red pepper

Combine all ingredients in large bowl. Stir, let stand at room temperature two hours until salt dissolves. Transfer four cucumbers to each of three sterilized 11/2-pint wide-mouth jars. Pour pickling mixture over to cover. You may wish to place a few dill sprigs in each jar. Cover jars with lids and close tightly. Refrigerate for a minimum of seven days; go ten days for real zippiness. Pickles will stay crispy-fresh for about two months. Keep refrigerated. Makes three 11/2-pint jars.

How does one achieve a legacy? In the American landscape of opportunity, it seems almost a requirement that we leave something behind to influence succeeding generations—something that symbolizes our struggles, something that tells a story of character and risk and ambition. In nineteenth-century Hastings, that idyllic river town south of St. Paul, William Gates LeDuc aspired to pave his path to glory—with fruit.

Back then, the frontier mentality was in full flower. LeDuc was one of numerous folks who were as ambitious as they were idealistic, seeking both to forge an identity and tame the land. William and his wife Mary may not have been moneyed, but they were educated and driven. Having attained an admirable social standing in St. Paul, the LeDucs turned their gaze to Hastings. There they would build their dream home and cultivate the land, leaving a genuine legacy for years to come.

Like so many others in the burgeoning middle class, the LeDucs had become smitten with Andrew Jackson Downing, the Martha Stewart of his day. Described as an “apostle of taste,” Downing had a keen understanding of the desires of these people, reaching out to them by publishing “idea books” that were inexpensive yet attractive. These provided models for living, complete with detailed instructions—for example, the house plans for which he is now best known. At the center of Downing’s philosophy was the ideal of harmony between the natural world and the domestic world. One embodiment of this ideal was the ornamental farm, with beautiful plants, picturesque landscapes, and, of course, agricultural products.

Mary found the architectural basis for her family’s dream house in one of Downing’s most influential books, Cottage Residences. After a lengthy construction phase in Hastings—not to mention the interruption of the Civil War, in which LeDuc attained the rank of brigadier general—the LeDucs took up residence in their stunning Gothic revival home around 1865. But it was behind the house, in the apple orchard and fruit groves, where the LeDucs’ legacy in Minnesota would truly take root.

LeDuc has been described by a Minnesota historian as a man of “positive convictions, fertile expedients, restless brain and unbounded energy.” He apparently also had great inspirations for business ventures, but was never quite as successful with them as he wished to be. He seems always to have been looking for the next way to make a great fortune, and to leave his mark on the frontier. Investments in railroads, mining, milling, and manufacturing , however, failed to bring the kinds of riches and fame to which LeDuc aspired. Facing the costs of building his dream home, he found himself turning his opportunistic eye toward the ornamental orchard in his own backyard.

Orchards were an emblem of nobility in East Coast society. The cultivation of fruit was considered a sign of “country civility, independence and republican virtue, an enterprise for enlightened gentlemen,” according to a document from the Minnesota Historical Society. On the frontier, practicality and economy were paramount, yet it was hard to deny an Eastern upbringing rooted in civility and enlightenment. In the late nineteenth century, many of these gentleman farmers experimented with growing fruit, as is evidenced by a horticultural record dominated by fruit growers.

By the 1870s, LeDuc was heavily into the foundation of his own horticultural nursery. Having left his Ohio family farm as a young boy to seek higher education, he felt no love lost for the labors of farm life. But his orchard in Hastings held more promise. More than a simple source of food, the apples were a means to be creative—and entrepreneurial. LeDuc’s eye for opportunity sought a way to produce a viable apple crop in this harsh climate with a short growing season. He imported the hardy Russian Siberian varieties of apples and crab apples that were being grown in the East: the Charlamoff, the Red Astrachan and the Orange, among the known varieties that flourished in Midwestern weather.

The science of planting and growing apples was seductive to LeDuc; cutting plants and cross-breeding them was itself a new frontier. Within those rows of beautifully twisted boughs, LeDuc may have seen the chance finally to make his mark on the soil, to bring forth something from the land that hadn’t been there before.

LeDuc’s legacy may well have blossomed with the continued survival of his cutting-edge crops, but President Rutherford B. Hayes appointed him the commissioner of agriculture in 1877, calling the family to Washington, D.C. LeDuc abandoned the laboratory of his orchard for the glittering city and the possibility of fame on a national level. Mary, having had plenty of Minnesota winters, bloomed in the warmer southeastern clime, and thrived socially as well. William saw the appointment as an opportunity to make the department a meaningful agency in Washington; he truly believed in agriculture as the generative source for the future. Despite his enthusiasm, he unfortunately championed American independence from foreign tea and sugar, spending public funds on crops of tea plants and sorghum, which ultimately failed to gain popular backing. Politics were not to be a part of LeDuc’s legacy. He was not reappointed, and the family regrettably returned to Hastings in 1881. The dream home and its orchards never again held quite the hope and potential that they once had.

Bequeathed to the Minnesota Historical Society, the estate has been restored and reopened last month. One wonders what might have happened had LeDuc not gone to Washington, and continued instead with the development of his orchard. Would his legacy have been a delicious LeDuc variety of Minnesota apple? His name has faded from memory, but with the reopening of his home and revival of his story, LeDuc’s hard-won legacy may come through after all. The vanished orchard, which once symbolized the ideals of economy, science and beauty, is slated to be replanted. However indirectly, LeDuc has another chance to impact our landscape.

Crab Apple Bread

½ cup butter
1 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
2 T milk
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1tsp nutmeg
2 cups chopped red crab apples
¼ cup chopped crystallized ginger

Cream butter and sugar, adding eggs one at time, then add milk. Combine flour, soda, salt and spices together in separate bowl, then slowly add to wet mixture. Fold in crab apples and ginger. Dough will be sticky; press into greased loaf pan and bake for 350 degrees for one hour, or until inserted skewer comes out clean.

King Charles I of England knew how to throw a feast. After one particularly sumptuous meal, the king’s French-born court chef debuted a new dish, a magical confection the consistency of fresh-fallen snow, yet uncommonly sweet and creamy. Charles, quite delighted, summoned the chef and requested that the recipe for the frozen delight be held in royal secrecy, and that it be served only in the king’s presence. Eventually Charles I fell out of favor and was beheaded by his people. See what happens when you don’t share your ice cream?

Smooth or chunky, tangy or sweet, ice cream may be the one thing we all maintain a cold spot for in our warm, warm hearts. It’s not just the melty sweetness that endears us; it’s the sparking of delicious memories like running after an ice cream truck, or gazing through eight-year-old eyes at a lovely ball of vanilla flecked with the dark chocolate crumbs from a birthday cake. It’s about the agreeable challenge of choosing a flavor, and the pleasure of sitting on a patio with a double-stacked sugar cone and vainly damning the drips with an eager tongue. Ice cream might not even really be a food. Judging by the euphoric look on my two-year-old’s chocolate-swathed face, and by my own furtive efforts to excavate the best parts of the container before I fill the family bowls, ice cream may in fact be a drug.

While the stingy King Charles plays a role in ice cream history and lore, he—or, rather, his chef—is not the unchallenged source. There is no definitive story about the origins of ice cream. The Roman emperor Nero was said to send runners into the mountains to procure ice for the fruity, creamy drinks he favored. It’s possible that Marco Polo witnessed the Chinese enjoying frosty ice treats and brought their recipe back to Italy. Catherine de Medici’s chefs may have imported the technique to France, but no one has provided conclusive proof.

The origins of the ice cream cone may be easier to pin down. Italo Marchiony, a pushcart ice cream vendor in New York, grew tired of Wall Street customers breaking or walking off with his glass serving dishes. He began baking edible cookie-cups with sloping sides and flat bottoms as serving receptacles, and patented the idea in 1903. Nothing, however, provides exposure like a World’s Fair, and during the St. Louis fair of 1904, a Syrian immigrant selling waffles came to the aid of the harried ice cream vendor next door by fashioning “cornucopias.” A trend was born, and, as is the American Way, litigation ensued as multiple inventors came forth with varying ingredients and shapes for the inevitable cone.

However you serve it—cone or cup, malt or shake—there are essentially two ways to prepare ice cream: with egg or without. Traditional ice cream has no eggs. It can be made with many other things, but generally features sugar, cream, and flavoring (like a dark, earthy vanilla bean); this type is sometimes called Philadelphia-style ice cream. The version made with eggs is generally known as custard or gelato. Along with the eggy distinction, custards are denser, as they are mixed with less air than traditional ice creams, which leads to their signature silky-smooth texture. Because custard is kept at a lower temperature than ice cream, it must be made fresh daily to maintain its consistency. Custard isn’t omnipresent in the Twin Cities, but many might be surprised to learn that our Midwestern neighbor, Milwaukee, considers itself “The Custard Capital of the World” and has magical little custard shacks on seemingly every corner.

Locally, we are blessed with an ice cream culture that embraces our need to celebrate the return of warmth and sun. The transient nature of a frozen treat is a metaphor for our fleeting patio time, and so it’s with great relish that we herald the reopening of our favorite ice cream shops, eager to taste the new season’s flavors.

There’d probably be street protests, however, if Sebastian Joe’s didn’t offer its raspberry chocolate chip year-round. It’s almost a Minneapolis institution, so much so that I’d recommend that Claes Oldenburg’s Spoonbridge & Cherry in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden feature a lovin’ scoop. And God forbid you should leave Sebastian Joe’s without one of its mammoth versions of a Dilly Bar.

For prestige, you might opt for Sonny’s ice cream. It’s highly regarded by many chefs in town, more than a few of whom commission exclusive flavors to serve in their establishments. The Crema Café, the headquarters of Sonny’s, is also a hot spot among the local gourmand crowd. Crema’s innovative flavor combinations—including strawberry balsamic and cucumber sake—have made the annual reopening a signature spring event.

An izzy is a gift. With every order of ice cream from Izzy’s, you get a miniature additional scoop, called an izzy, perched prettily atop your order. Cake batter, cotton candy and other flavors of your childhood fantasies are freshly made in house, along with their thick and crunchy waffle cones, which have another gift, a lovely surprise, in the bottom.

In its second year, the Pumphouse Creamery in South Minneapolis seems to be really hitting its stride. Here, the ice cream is made entirely with natural, local, and organic ingredients. Try the mesmerizing Guinness flavor or Kulfi, an aromatic and herbaceous mixture of pistachio, cardamom, and rosewater, while strolling the neighborhood.

Custard lovers who don’t have the time for a junket to Milwaukee will want to go directly to Glaciers in Wayzata. It’s a tiny shop where a chef—yes, a chef—makes the magic. The daily custards are a marvel, but Glaciers’ true attractions are the custard pies and cakes (pumpkin spice for the holidays, peppermint twist for your birthday) that would put to shame the home efforts of most any of us.

Licks Unlimited in Excelsior comes out of hibernation each May, when the smell of warm cones and the sound of the shop’s circling toy trains once again drift into the street. The customary line forms as generations mark the return of summer. People shuffle over from the movie theater across the street, and the sidewalks teem with strollers toasting the evening air with a mocha chip cone. Licks is the place my kids crave, and the bench out front is where you’ll often find me until that sad day in October … which we won’t dwell on right now. There’s a lot of ice cream to be eaten.

Making your own ice cream has never been easier; solid ice cream machines can be found for around thirty dollars. Of course, the main reason to make your own is to get creative with flavors—a good place to start is by adding mint to strawberry or cayenne pepper to a good basic chocolate. Think of pairing up saffron and ginger, pine nuts and honey, plums and lemongrass; those brave enough might even venture toward Japanese favorites like ox tongue or chicken wing ice cream.

Sebastian Joe’s 1007 W. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis, 612-872-5240. Sonny’s Crema Cafe 3403 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-824-3868. Izzy’s Ice Cream Cafe 2034 Marshall Ave., St. Paul, 651-603-1458; 825 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis, 612-338-0022. Pumphouse Creamery 4754 Chicago Ave. S., Minneapolis, 612-825-2021. Glaciers Coffee & Custard 888 Superior Blvd., Wayzata, 952-473-8518. Licks Unlimited 31 Water St., Excelsior, 952-474-4791.

Basic Ice Cream (Philly Style)

2½ cups cream
¾ cup sugar
2 T. vanilla extract

Over medium heat, heat cream in heavy saucepan until small bubbles appear around the edges. Make sure not to boil. Remove from the heat and add sugar, stirring until it’s completely dissolved. Allow mixture to cool slightly and add vanilla. Cover and refrigerate until cold. Freeze in ice cream maker according to manufacturer’s instructions. When adding thick flavorings or chunky bits, do so once the ice cream is semi-frozen. For firmer ice cream, transfer to a different container and freeze for around two hours.

Lilies, for many, are a wonderful way to celebrate spring’s arrival. But I think they stink. Besides sparking memories of funeral homes, they drop that awful rusty pollen that cannot be brushed out of the first linen of the season. It may be their innocent and elegant pose that lands them starring roles in vernal wedding bouquets, but isn’t spring (and a wedding, for that matter) inspired by a stirring of the spirit? Isn’t the awakening of life and passion deserving of a stronger emblem? That’s why I’d like to predict that this year’s stylish bride will walk down the aisle clutching a stout, heady bunch of leeks.

Leeks have it all over their lily cousins, obviously because they aren’t just a pretty face; they’re edible. Yet they seem to get the short end of the stalk. Why do people so often pass over this noble vegetable while perusing the produce bins? Is it the intimidating shape, the fact that it looks like a scallion on Enzyte (the “once-a-day tablet for natural male enhancement”)? Is it the fear of possible intensity from such a big oniony thing? But now is the time to let the spirit of the season sway you from your normal path. Take a daring step toward this exciting and versatile vegetable. Come, let us honor the leek. Beloved by many ancient civilizations, the leek was favored for its hardy nature and medicinal properties. The Roman emperor Nero, wishing to deliver powerful and sonorous speeches, chewed leeks like cigars to improve his voice. The Egyptians made sure their loved ones were entombed with a supply of leeks for the afterlife. Even St. Patrick was said to have divinely changed marsh reeds into leeks in order to feed a starving elderly woman.

No one, however, has a stronger passion for leeks than the Welsh. In 640 A.D., the Saxons raided Wales. Fighting for their lives and their country, the Welsh wore leeks on their helmets to distinguish themselves from their foes. Henceforth, the leek became their national emblem. On St. David’s Day (March 1), which celebrates that victory, nary a Welshman is to be seen without a leek adorning his lapel. Needless to say, the Welsh have taken the standardization of leeks by the European Union as an insult. After the E.U.’s Welsh representative bristled over what he deemed as absurdities concerning diameter rules and other regulations, an opponent responded, “Isn’t it a shame that, with all the opportunities facing Wales at the moment … the only thing the honorable gentleman can rant about today is the sheathing, swelling, and length of his leek?”

Partly because it has been cultivated in the Old World for more than three thousand years, the leek has a much mightier following in European countries than in America. Yet many on our side of the Atlantic have a devotion for the wild leek, also known as the ramp, that approaches the Welsh’s leek fixation. Foraging for ramps, which can be found growing in clumps in sandy soil from Canada to the Carolinas and as far west as our own state, is an age-old tradition. Countless festivals and celebrations herald the leafy—and some say, stinky—plants as the first sign of spring in the Appalachians. The telltale way to identify a ramp is to gently crush one of its leaves. If an onion-garlic smell nearly knocks you over, bingo! The Native American Menomini tribe referred to an area where ramps grew profusely near southern Lake Michigan as CicagaWuni or shikako—“skunk place.” The white settlement that took over the area put up an equally stinky city called Chicago.

Any food that has a short growing season and is hard to find and relatively unknown among the general population will, at some point, find its way into a chef’s heart. Granted, ramps’ flavor alone makes them a worthy choice for many restaurant menus, but it seems that the status of this vegetable has abruptly shifted from hick to hip. It’s hard to bet on their availability, due to weather and the fortitude of gatherers, but check the menus at Heartland in St. Paul or Lucia’s in Minneapolis for the opportunity to savor expertly prepared ramps. If you are so inspired as to have a go at it yourself, search for ramps in the woods near streams in sandy soils, and on hillsides. Urbanites may prefer to do their foraging at Lakewinds or the Wedge Co-op. Look for ramps with a blush of crimson in between their small white tips and leafy greens. And don’t neglect that gorgeous aroma.

The flavor of leeks is much milder than that of ramps—lighter than an onion, yet with its own earthy zing. They’re available year-round at local markets, but since the city’s farmers’ markets open this month, why not hunt some down there? Look for firmness, with long white necks that flow into flat, tough, blade-like leaves. Also, dirt is good. Farmers who love their leeks will mound soil around them to protect their charming white flesh, so the dirtier ones have been loved more. Look for straight, even stalks—leeks with a bulbous bottom are closer to seed. Trim off any tough outer layers and trim the roots right were they meet the white. Cut the top blades no more than one inch above where the white transitions to green. To remove remaining dirt, soak leeks in water for a few minutes or halve them lengthwise and rinse under water.

While they are traditionally used in soups and stocks, leeks can certainly support a meal on their own. Slice them raw and add them to a salad, or chop and add to the pan of a roast. They live beautifully in any au gratin or risotto, or in creamed corn. Braised leeks make a wonderful foundation for grilled fish, while a simply halved leek, brushed with olive oil and grilled, will honor any plate. And for many, a potato-leek soup is their first step toward a life with leeks—but I’ve never heard of a case where it’s been the last.

Potato-Leek Soup
2 tablespoons butter
3 cloves garlic, chopped
2–3 large leeks, halved and sliced
1 tablespoon fresh lemon thyme
3 cups chicken stock
5 large russet potatoes, peeled, cut into chunks
1⁄2 cup cream
1⁄2 cup milk
Salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter over medium heat in a large stock pot. Trim root ends and top rough greens from leeks. Slice in half lengthwise and rinse under water to remove dirt. Slice each half from the root end in thin half-moons. Sauté chopped garlic in the butter first, then a few minutes later add leeks and thyme. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until leeks are softened and slightly translucent, about five minutes. Add chicken stock and potatoes and increase to high heat. Make sure stock covers potatoes; add more stock or water if necessary. Cook until potatoes are tender. Reduce heat to simmer and gently stir in cream and milk. For a silky soup, purée directly in pot with a hand blender (immersion blender). Properly feeds six people with a loaf of crusty bread.