Cupcakes: the Tale of Two Moms

By Sal Emma

This isn’t the post I imagined. In my mind’s eye, the cupcakes would be a huge success and I’d silently relish the thought that I’d brightened somebody’s day in a meaningful way.

It didn’t quite turn out like that.

But the lesson’s the same. It’s about doing the right thing for the right reason. So I'm posting it anyway.

A few nights ago, we crawled into bed with our usual routine, capping another hectic day. I flipped on my nerd radio (shortwave). She read. When she turns out the light – the signal is clear. She’s read enough to quiet her brain. She’s going to sleep now. Game over. See you tomorrow.

That’s why her question surprised the hell out of me. There’s never any talking after lights-out.

“When am I going to make the cupcakes?”

“What?”

“I have to make cupcakes for one of the girls at work. But I don’t know when I’m going to be able to do it.”

Her tomorrow was going to be just as insane as today. Another trip to Philly. A work reunion after that. Teaching karate after that. Barely 10 spare minutes.

This is Beth’s life. She’s not only living the supermom model, she’s defining it for the next generation.

My initial response was logical: “Why do you have to bake cupcakes for one of the girls at work?”

“Because her son’s birthday is Saturday.”

“Why are you baking cupcakes for her son’s birthday?”

“Because I offered to.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted them and she couldn’t figure out how to make them so she would probably end up getting those crappy ones from the supermarket.”

I shuddered. Those greasy, malodorous sugar-bombs make me cringe. Understanding why anybody would put one anywhere near their mouth is beyond my intellectual capacity.

She had a fair argument. I remained skeptical. But, one thing I’ve learned after 25 years of marriage is that there are times when you have to be very careful to avoid saying the first thing that pops into your head.

This was one such occasion. And this train of thought went through my brain, in silence:

“Are you nuts? You work 50 hours a week. You take care of the house and the kids. You volunteer everyplace. You teach karate. You are fostering a service dog. You’re a Girl Scout leader. Why would you volunteer to bake cupcakes for somebody else’s kid?”

Then, this grenade: “Just because she’s too lazy to bake them herself?”

That was unfair. Below the belt. (Thank God I didn’t say it out loud.)

And then, the amazing thing. After this barrage of stream-of-consciousness cynicism, here’s what I actually said aloud:

“I’ll bake them.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because the kid wants them and I have time.” (Business is slow this time of year, traditionally.)

This was a magical moment. I didn’t volunteer out of a sense of duty, guilt or sympathy. It wasn’t a huffy bit of sarcasm “oh, I guess now it’s my problem …” Anything but.

God simply laid the image of Beth’s friend on my heart. I like her. She’s hard working and funny. She takes good care of her child. She’s from a good family. And she’s a single mom, anything but lazy. It was like the Holy Spirit breathed on the back of my neck and I understood, clear as crystal. Making her cupcakes was exactly the thing that needed to be done, and I was in a position to do it.

It was a blessing I can barely describe with mere words. Because I can guarantee that a few years ago, old Sal – negative, cynical and pissed off at the world – would have not only said all those mean-spirited things, out loud – he would have been completely comfortable with saying them. That's why I am convinced it was a gift from God.

My friend Jim Wilson has been an incredible influence in my life. He’s smart, devoted, funny, hysterically sacrilegious and a true Christian in every sense of the word. I thank God (frequently) for the privilege of calling him a friend – thanks to us stumbling into the coolest little church in Ocean City, N.J. a few years back.

During many discussions of life, family, love, God and grace, Jimmy uses the word available a lot. It’s scripturally based, this idea that you simply lay your day at God’s feet and have him use you as he sees fit. Most of us fail in this, most of the time. (And when I say “us,” of course, I mean “me.”)

Living as a Christian is like anything else. Work, play, marriage, music, riding a bike. You get better at it with time. You stick with it, through fear, doubt, lean times and dark moments and you hope that God is real and that the Holy Spirit really does walk among us as we go about our daily business. You make a commitment to stay ‘available’ to God – and hope for the best. And you ask that he give you opportunities to be salt and light in the world.

Volunteering to bake those cupcakes was that opportunity, sure as shootin’. Inside a tenth of a second – the time it took my brain to conjure up all those negative things I could have pontificated aloud – God tapped on my shoulder. And I made my offer, freely, in love and without a scrap of resentment or hesitation. I couldn’t wait to bake them. (Maybe in the future, I'll go right to the offer and skip the bellyaching!)

So, I know what you’re thinking. How did the cupcakes turn out? I’m sure they’re great. But I didn’t make them. Beth found 27 spare minutes between karate and lights-out and made them herself. While I was out of the house in a meeting. She’s a sneaky supermom, on steroids.

And another true Christian, in every sense of the word.

The Most Amazing Thing I Ever Ate

By Sal Emma

How good the food is depends a lot on how hungry you are. A road trip brought that lesson into high relief.

We had newly minted drivers’ licenses – so it was probably 1979 or thereabouts. Knowing my love for the natural world and wildlife, my Uncle Mike had given me a unique birthday gift: a trip on a whale watching boat, launched from the shores of Massachusetts. He paid my way and that of a buddy of my choosing. I chose my lunatic best high-school pal, Chris.

Today, you can find a whale watcher in just about any seashore town. But in those days, they were few and far between. Uncle Mike had found one somewhere south of Boston. Chris and I got up before the crack of dawn and started making our way north from New Jersey.

The trip was supreme. We had a fine time, free from our parents, busting chops and taking turns driving – munching sandwiches and solving the problems of the world along the way. Uneventful, except for the dark clouds that kept getting darker.

The boat package must have included admission to the now-defunct whaling museum in Sharon, Mass. We arrived there in snickers, posing for photos by the sign at the town limit: “Entering Sharon.” The double entendre, priceless to a couple of testosterone-crazed teenagers. (The new signs says “Welcome to Sharon,” by the way. Wimps.)

After a quick run through the museum, we hopped back in the car to make our way to the water’s edge. The sky grew darker. At the dock, we learned the boat would sail, rain or shine. We were relieved we hadn’t missed the chance after traveling so far. Then reality set in. We’re going out in this? Neither of us showed an iota of fear. We were invincible teenagers. And we were heading out with a bunch of invincible Massachusetts watermen. What could go wrong?

The rain and wind never let up. It was six-to-eight foot seas with almost no visibility. A big vessel (by canoe standards) it wasn’t so big against the north Atlantic. The boat heaved. And so did the passengers. I don’t think we were a half-mile out before the chumming began.

As anyone who has been in the situation can attest – vomit is extremely contagious. Once somebody leans over the rail to commit the contents of his stomach to the deep – others follow, like so many helpless dominoes.

Chris and I were determined to keep our sea legs.

An hour later, just about everybody on the boat was sick. The decks were awash in detritus of a most vile variety. The torrents of rain were a blessing, washing much it out the scuppers. We were freezing, soaked and barely holding on. But we made it, by the grace of God and our particular obsession with Monty Python.

We stood close. We put our hoods up, blinders against the backdrop – a scene of horror right out of Hieronymous Bosch. And we tried to recite every word of every Monty Python sketch we’d ever heard. It worked. Neither of us lost breakfast. Chris, a fisherman practically from birth, went even farther. He was the only guy on the boat buying stuff from the snack bar and eating it. Iron constitution.

I didn’t dare eat. I feared the slightest stimulation of the digestive tract would surely send it churning in the wrong direction. I toughed it out, never moving from the steel column to which I clung in the tempest, like a street drunk married to his lamppost. I hugged it and sang: “spam, spam, spam, spam, spam …”

And I never puked.

Nor did we see a whale. One could have jumped up and sat on the transom, smoking a Cuban cigar. Between the fog, the downpour and the hood-blinders, I never would have known.

Four or six or 46 hours later, who knows how long, the captain called it quits and motored back to port, to a feeble cheer of relief from his green, green cargo. We docked and a tangle of human wreckage staggered from the slick steel deck to terra firma, their color slowly returning to normal shades. The sick – dehydrated and stinking like yesterday’s diapers. Chris and I – wet, cold and on top of the world. We relished our victory over Davey Jones.

The minute my feet touched solid ground I realized I was absolutely starved. I hadn’t had a thing since breakfast and it was way past dinner. We ran to the car, dodging raindrops and laughing hysterically over what we had just experienced. Let’s get the hell out of here, fast.

The rain was coming even harder, but now it was dark. Through the windshield wiper streaks, we spotted the red neon: DINER.

Chris was spinning the steering wheel before I said a word. We were of one mind: all we wanted was a warm, dry place to sit down and catch our breath. Food would be nice, too.

We stumbled into the place, dripping. It was a cozy little locals’ haven of avocado Formica and cold fluorescent light. The waitress motioned us to an empty booth. By the looks of us, she probably had little trouble knowing exactly the word we most wanted to hear: “coffee?”

“Y-yes. Anything h-hot.”

Then, this Angel of God spoke the second most beautiful word I’d heard that day: “chowder?”

Our coffee cups were filled nearly instantly and we practically poured the stuff down our throats. Boy, was that good.

Then, a minor miracle. The chowder. In nondescript diner soup cups, perched in saucers adorned with a stamped paper doilies. Though we were surprised to get the Manhattan variety, in this neighborhood, it was surely the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

We went at it like a couple of starving prisoners. Plump little clam strips, rich tomato broth, succulent chunks of tomato, corn and a few kidney beans – every bit of this soup was sublime. With saltines crushed on top – it was savory, satisfying warmth in orchestrated ensemble, more wonderful than anything Leonard Bernstein ever etched on vinyl.

My God! It was the best thing I ever ate! Had I been a few decades older, I might have cried. (That’s saying a lot for a kid who grew up Italian, surrounded by chefs of most admirable gifts.)

But at that moment, cold, wet and as hungry as I’d ever been, it was so good, so warm, so perfect – it really was the best thing I’d ever eaten. Was it the best clam chowder ever made? I have no idea. It might have been. Or it could have come from a big tin can, for all I know.

To my palate, desperate for nourishment after a long, cold fast – it was nectar of Mount Olympus. I can still taste it, 30 years later. I have no idea what else we ordered that night. But the chowder is chronicled in my brain forever.

For days, Uncle Mike was upset about the whole thing. He had formed a mental image of us oohing and aahing “thar she blows” training binoculars on majestic leviathans, basking in the New England sun. It didn’t quite turn out that way. But, as I told him then, we had a terrific time.

And I’ll never forget that chowder.

Hunt for Green October: Stalking the Pickled Green Tomato

Update 2012: Just sliced and brined this year's batch. (Thanks, Terry, for the tomato contribution.) Sliced them to better fit on sandwiches and I think I'll hot-process the jars so it's more accurate to Grandmom's recipe. Will keep you posted.

I really can’t put into words how good Grandmom Caroline’s pickled green tomatoes were.

First, forget everything you know about pickles. They’re like no pickle you’ve ever had. This ain’t no chow-chow, with five pounds of sugar in each jar. And those kosher green tomatoes you sometimes find at the supermarket? Feh.

No, sir. To paraphrase John Thorne, these are green tomatoes that died and went to heaven*. Crisp, spicy, garlicky and irresistibly tart. The perfect crunch, and intense flavor that goes miles deep. I could eat them by the quart. If I could get some.

There’s the rub. Grandmom Caroline passed away in 2000. And although I took time to watch both my grandmoms cook various dishes, peppering them with questions, I was lax on the green tomato assignment. Blew it off, if you must know. Never helped or watched the process in detail.

I was vaguely aware of strange tasks and pickle goings-on every autumn when she put up tomatoes. But I never paid close enough attention to learn the secrets. Secrets I thought would stay that way.

But there had to be a way. I knew the ingredients. Green tomatoes, garlic, celery, red pepper. It’s just a matter of figuring out a pickling method. It should be a no-brainer. Plus, it’s the age of the Internet, for Pete’s sake. Somebody probably already figured this out and posted it.

Off to Google.

Hmm. Lots of green tomato pickle recipes. None anything like Grandmom’s. Did she use a brine? Did she pack the jars with vinegar? Were they hot-water processed? As with most subjects researched online, I found an excess of information and a dearth of inspiration.

Gotta call mom.

“Mom. Hi. What’s up?”

“Not much. Putzing.”

She means “puttering.” I’ve often wondered what her reaction would be if she found out putz doesn’t mean putter. It means scrotum. In Yiddish.

“What’s up?”

“I’m trying to reconstruct Grandmom’s green tomato pickle recipe.” I was ready to launch into a battery of questions based on my Internet research. She never let me get that far.

“I have the recipe.”

“No way.”

“Yeah and I think I know where it is. Lemme find it and call you back.”

Why didn’t I just call mom first?

I don’t think 20 minutes passed before the phone rang.

“I found it. Do you have a pencil?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Oh. Wait. This is Grandmom Emma’s recipe.”

My dad’s mom, Margaret Emma.

“Really? I didn’t even know she made green tomatoes.” Wish I could remember them. Not sure I ever had them.

“Oh, yes. They were delicious, too.”

Always the diplomat. Had I thought fast enough, I should have pinned her down to ask which were her favorite. Would blood win over marriage? Another day.

“Yup. It’s from 1961.”

“Older than me.”

“Do you have a pencil?”

“Yes, mom. Go ahead.”

Here’s the recipe I transcribed:

Choose green firm tomatoes

Slice thin

Layer and salt

Drain 24 hours

Drain very dry

Cover the tomatoes in white vinegar

Soak 24 hours

Drain again and squeeze dry. Be sure there is no moisture left

Pack in jars, in layers of tomato, garlic, well diced, oregano, olive oil, and ground red pepper. Be sure tomatoes are well covered in olive oil.

“Really. Olive oil?”

“Yup.”

“Is that how Grandmom Caroline did it?”

“I think so.”

Hmmm. Olive oil in the jars. They’re pickled and marinated. Double threat.

“What about the olives?”

“What olives?”

“Didn’t she put olives in with the tomatoes?”

“Oh, no. Never. Just the tomatoes. And garlic. And celery.”

“Right, celery.” Not in Grandmom Margaret’s recipe. “No olives, you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

Who would know for sure? Mark.

If there’s anybody in the world who liked Grandmom’s green tomatoes more than I it's my first cousin, Mark. Rang him up. Voice mail.

As soon as I finish recording the message, the phone rings. It’s Michele, the younger of my two sisters. A trained chef and Italian foodie.

“You were right,” she says. “There were olives in the jars with the tomatoes.”

As with most topics, she’d already talked to mom and was has officially inserted herself into the discussion.

“Yeah, that’s what I remembered.”

As did she. And she successfully talked mom into confirming her recollection.

“Are you going to make them?”

“I am going to try.”

“Oh man. I hope they come out.”

The cell phone rings. It’s Mark.

“Call you later, it’s Mark on the other line.”

I grab the cell. “What’s up Cuz?”

“What’s goin’ on?” Mark’s been in Florida over 20 years but his accent sounds like he never left Trenton, N.J.

“I am trying to reconstruct Grandmom’s pickled green tomatoes.”

“Oh, man. They were killer.”

“I called you with a specific question but I think I got my answer. Just hung up with mom and Michele. Do you remember, were there olives in the jars with the tomatoes?

“No way.”

“Really. Michele and I remembered olives.”

“Nope. I used to help her with them. When she put up the olives we had to crack each one by slamming it with a heavy glass. She used to let us do that part when we were kids. But no, they were separate, never together in the jar.”

“Wow. That’s what mom said. But Michele and I remembered it different.”

“I know she did something with a brick.”

“Yeah, that’s the salting part.” I shared my theory about the salting. I imagine the salt pulled a lot of water out of the tomatoes, which the vinegar later replaced. That’s where a lot of the flavor came from. “OK, man, thanks for the help. If they turn out OK, there’s a jar with your name on it.”

“Can’t wait.”

Like most treats prepared by Italian grandmothers, when Grandmom Caroline made green tomatoes, she made them in mass quantities. She filled an enormous pottery crock. After salting, she’d put a plate on top and a brick on top of that. It’s an old home pickler’s trick. It both puts a bit of pressure on the tomatoes to encourage them to give up their juice – and keeps them in contact with the brine to develop flavor.

An ominous black sky heralded the next day. I figured I’d better get my greenies picked before it started raining. Pulled maybe three quarts from our small plot of three vines. Was hoping for more. Terry, my friend and brewing partner, agreed to donate his harvest to the project. After raiding his garden, I was way over the gallon mark – maybe two.

As soon as I had a free half hour I washed and cut them. I discarded any with bug holes or blemishes. I didn’t bother with trimming the cores except for the larger, woody ones. Although the Grandmom Margaret’s recipe says “slice thin,” I remembered Grandmom Caroline’s clearly – they were on the thick side, maybe 3/8 of an inch. That’s where I aimed.

In a short while I had a big pile of bright green beauties, ready for salt. It was at this point that I realized I’d never in my life tasted a plain green tomato. Fried, sure, but never one right off the vine. I expected bitter, like eggplant. But it was all tart. It basically tastes like a red tomato that’s had all its sweetness erased. No wonder the old Italians decided to pickle these. They’re already tart so it’s a perfect place to start.

I scrubbed an old wing bucket and tossed in a layer of tomatoes, maybe an inch and a half thick, and dusted them liberally with kosher salt. This continued – tomatoes, salt, tomatoes, and so on – until I’d filled one wing bucket and half filled a second. Each layer took about a tablespoon of salt – maybe a bit more towards the top as the layers got larger with the taper of the bucket.

Found some plates that fit the buckets without being tight. Put a plate on top of each tomato pile, then placed one bucket on top of the other. I figured I could use the weight of the second bucket to press the first. On the top bucket, another plate and a few river rocks, scrubbed and sealed in a zipper bag. I put the whole assembly inside a large Tupperware to catch any drips.

The next morning, things were looking good. An enormous amount of liquid had been released and each bucket’s fruits were fully submerged.

Tasted one. The texture had softened and they were well seasoned. I was pleased with the texture – confident I was on the right track.

I poured the salted tomatoes into a muslin bag. We use them to hold hops for homebrewing and it was the perfect container. Grandmom Margaret’s recipe was clear about getting rid of as much liquid as possible and the bag was easy to squeeze.

Gave the wing buckets a rinse and the tomatoes went back in. Since the salting had reduced their volume quite a bit, I thought they might all fit in one now and I was right. So, no need to assemble the stack as before.

A quart plus a cup of vinegar covered them nicely. The plate and rocks went back on top.

The next morning, the color and texture looked just right. I tasted one.

I literally laughed out loud. They were already amazing, even without garlic and spices. Lots of sour zing, plus a finish that was almost peppery. I think it was heat coming from straight vinegar. This was going to be good.

Before putting them in jars, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to touch base with Aunt Gertie, Grandma Margaret’s daughter. My main question was treating the jars after filling. One recipe from the Internet was pretty close to my grandmoms’ technique, but it called for processing the jars in a hot water bath after filling.

Aunt Gertie confirmed my suspicion. Grandmom Margaret never did that. I am convinced it would cook the ingredients and dull the flavor. So I’d rather just handle them as perishable and keep them in the fridge.

Back to the muslin bag and squeezing routine to get them as dry as possible, out of the vinegar. I stuffed Mason jars. A layer of tomatoes, some diced garlic, celery dice, more tomatoes, a sprig of fresh oregano, a thin slice of hot chili pepper, more garlic and celery, then tomatoes to the top of the jar. Stuffed them in, tight.

I topped each jar with olive oil. The half-pints took about a half cup, the pints maybe ¾ of a cup. Grandmom would have let them age on a shelf at room temp, but I know there are potential bacteria issues with garlic in olive oil, so I decided to age them in the fridge.

After just a few days they were outstanding. As good as I remembered. Zesty, perfectly crunchy, garlicky as all get out. All enrobed in velvety richness of virgin olive oil. Oh, man.

Texted Michele. “You better call me. I have big news.”

The phone rang within seconds. I knew that would get her.

“What?”

“What, what?”

“What news?”

“The tomatoes.”

“What about them.”

“They’re amazing.”

“That’s the news?”

“Yup.”

“I thought you won the lottery.”

“I made Grandmom’s green tomatoes. That’s better than winning the lottery!”

You gotta have your priorities.

Here's the detailed recipe. (View photos,) The yield is roughly three quarters of what you start with. So a gallon of fresh green tomatoes will yield maybe three quarts of pickle. The celery helps fill out some of the lost volume and it also takes in the garlic and the sourness of the tomatoes in a very elegant marriage:

• Choose green firm tomatoes. The smaller ones are preferable since they have less spongy pulp inside.
• Wash well and dry.
• Slice about 3/8 inch thick. They will shrink with salting. (Since my foray into this recipe, Mom corrected my slicing technique, in wedges. She remembers Grandmom slicing them in rounds, to make them easier to fit in a sandwich. They taste the same either way. I remember wedges, so maybe she did both?)
• In a non-reactive container (pottery, food-grade plastic, etc.) add tomatoes to about 1.5 inches thick. Salt well with non-iodized salt. (I used kosher salt.)
• Keep adding layers of tomatoes and salt.
• Place a plate over them and weigh it down.
• Let stand 24 hours at room temperature. The tomatoes will give up a large quantity of liquid.
• The next day, drain the tomatoes and squeeze them as much as you can. Discard the brine.
• Rinse the container, place the tomatoes back in and cover them with straight Heinz white vinegar. Do not use no-name vinegar and do not dilute.
• Soak 24 hours more, room temp.
• The next day, repeat the draining and squeezing. Squeeze them as dry as possible. Discard the vinegar.
• Pack in sterilized canning jars, in layers of tomato, diced garlic, diced celery, oregano and/or basil and red pepper flakes or thin slices of fresh chili pepper. You'll need only a tablespoon or so of garlic for each pint of tomatoes.
• Fill jars with olive oil, ensuring all the tomatoes are well covered.
• Age a few days or a week and enjoy. I have since learned that Grandmom Caroline did process her jars in a boiling-water bath. That might lessen the bite of the garlic and increase the shelf life. However it's not necessary if you age and store them in the fridge.

*John Thorne coined the phrase to describe the wonderfulness of half-sour cucumber pickles in his 1984 pickling guide, The Dill Crock.

Frying Weeds with Uncle John

By Sal Emma

It started out a typical family get-together. A Sunday in May. Mom’s birthday. The usual cast of characters, packed around the long table in the basement, tucking in pizza, chicken, sausage and other treats typical to a big Italian family party.

What was unusual was the amazing weather. Parties in this house normally center around major holidays. And in this part of the world, major holidays equal miserable weather. Thanksgiving and Easter, cold and wet. Christmas, freezing. And Independence Day in New Jersey? Dogs spontaneously erupting into flames between doghouse and water bowl.

The weather introduced a whole new topic of argument into this already argumentative clan: windows or air conditioning? Those of us still clinging to the brain cells we were born with know that in this part of the world, nice days are few and far between and it would be an affront to God to destroy the naturally moderate air through electric sterilization.

Of course the louder camp won the day – the shrill and demanding – those totally dependent on electric motors for sustenance. Every window and door closed tight on this, the most beautiful day of the year.

Trouble is, there’s no air conditioning in Mom’s basement. Even without it, the air-haters continued their campaign against oxygen. The one door that was bringing in outside air was bolted and sealed, sparing us from certain horrors of exposure to the atmosphere.

There we sat, in a damp, clammy, airless cinderblock vault, with only a veneer of waterproof paint separating us from icy groundwater, slowly perking its way towards the Delaware River. Perfect conditions for last year’s turnips and potatoes. The skin on the back of my neck nearly crawled off.

Before the pizza was cold, I planned my escape.

“Hey, Uncle John. Wanna go get some cardoons?”

He paused in mid-bite.

“Where?”

“Right at the end of the street.”

He finished his pizza in one gulp. “Let’s go.”

He stood up and announced “I better finish this sausage before we leave.” With that, he speared a link from the serving bowl and shoved it whole into his maw.

This was a classic Uncle John maneuver. The incorrigible class clown, my dad’s brother will do anything for a laugh, even if it involves risk of injury or indigestion.

With an audience, nothing is off limits. This is the guy who once dropped his pants in the middle of a kitchen filled with relatives, prompting Grandma Margaret to slap his cotton-clad hindquarters with all her might. He straightened and fastened his belt, explaining that he was only fixing his socks.

He typically ends a family meal by shoving inordinate amounts of food into his mouth, be it meatballs, cookies or cake – whatever is in easy reach at the moment. This has been ongoing for more than six decades. We once witnessed him end a meal by eating the paper from a chocolate cupcake, washing it down with strong coffee.

John’s serious about food. When we were little, there were often more people at Grandmom’s house for Sunday spaghetti than there were chairs to go around the assortment of tables scattered throughout the kitchen and TV room. This situation usually prompted brother-in-law Joe to suggest that the kids eat first, rather than jamming elbows with the whole crew.

Sunday after Sunday, John’s stock response to Joe's suggestion never wavered: “F*** the kids.”

Can’t say I blame him. The spaghetti was al dente, the sauce was hot and the hand-rolled meatballs were at their peak of tender, yielding perfection. In hindsight, he was right. F*** the kids.

Though seemingly just another line to get a laugh, his rejoinder belies a true passion for good food. John is a throwback to another time, when nothing was wasted and little was processed. He goes out of his way for the out-of-the-ordinary, like scrambled eggs with calf’s brains or braised pig’s feet. Chicken’s feet simmered in tomato sauce are a favorite antipasto. A masterful cook and gourmet, he might eat unusual food. But he’ll never eat bad food.

Since it was such a nice day, I suggested we walk to the field. Uncle John showed little enthusiasm for that plan. Since my car was penned in, my brother tossed me the keys to his $80,000 Mercedes. Well, on second thought, maybe driving wasn’t such a bad idea.

John rode shotgun. My 13-year-old, Gordon, climbed in the back, about to witness an age-old tradition kept alive by a dwindling few food-crazy Italians like the two nuts from a common gene pool in the front seat.

We were there in 60 seconds.

In Mom’s neighborhood, the cardoons grow on the edge of a particularly hazardous suburban intersection with no room for parking. I handed John my pocketknife and dropped them off, circling until the harvest was compete. On my first return pass, John had nearly disappeared, crawling through waist-high meadow grass. Gordon faced the road, looking for cops. And I saw that he clutched the prize – what would have looked like bunches of celery to the untrained eye. My eye knew better. John was working quickly.

Circling around again, I cringed to see a police car headed in their direction. Not that they were doing anything wrong. They were just picking weeds on a small plot of neglected public land. Trouble was, it looked like they were burying a body. To my surprise, the cruiser cruised right by, never even giving the foragers a glance.

On the third pass I stopped. The boy’s armload had increased several fold. They jumped in and that one-of-a-kind pungent, earthy cardoon musk filled the sedan’s plush interior. One whiff and I’m back 30 years, sucking them down in Grandmom’s kitchen.

You’re probably wondering what the hell cardoons are, anyway. For starters, they’re not cardoons. The cardoon is a kind of wild thistle that grows in warm places like Italy and California. It’s closely related to the artichoke and prized by both Italians and Japanese. The plant that Italian-Americans call carduna is known to botanists as Arctium minus or common burdock. Also related to artichoke – and just as delicious.

Hunters and fishermen know it for its broad leaves and seedpods – the spiny “hitchhikers” that fasten themselves in great numbers to outerwear and dogs, hitching a free ride to new territory.

When I was a kid, the neighborhood was thick with them. But most of the spots the burdock loved has been replaced by asphalt and irrigated lawns. Yet they hang on, staking their claim on any undisturbed bit of scrubland they can get their long taproots into.

As I admired Uncle John’s handiwork, he seized an opportunity for a laugh, biting off the top of one stalk in a feigned test of tenderness. “Ach! They taste like dog piss!” he exhorted, before spitting the contents of his mouth out the window.

The window, however was open only a crack, as none of us could locate the window buttons in the stylemobile. Only a fraction of his spittle made it out. The lion’s share clung in a pattern of bright green spots on the pricey German safety glass. By the time we completed the minute drive back to mom’s, I could hardly see through tears of laughter and stomach pain.

John headed to the kitchen to tend to the cardoons while I washed the car window, succumbing to another attack of furious laughter. When motor control returned, I joined him, scrubbing the stalks and boiling them in salted water until they softened and turned bright green. I whipped eggs, crushed in some garlic cloves, and seasoned breadcrumbs with grated cheese and pepper.

We rooted around the cupboards until we found the perfect skillet, as big as a manhole cover. For the next hour, I breaded and John sautéed, filling Mom’s kitchen with a generations-old aroma of freshly fried road weeds as we traded stories of Grandmom Margaret, the venerable, irreverent coal miner’s wife who had taught us to cook them. Had she been here, she’d have surely observed that the eggs were “fresh from the chicken’s ass.”

We carried them to the airless root cellar to savor the fruits of our labor. Hands reached to grab stalks of unique flavor – something like asparagus, something like the heart of an artichoke, encased in a crunchy crust of pan-fried golden crumbs and cheese. This, from a plant the USDA classifies as a “noxious weed.” What do they know? We gorged.

If Grandma Margaret had been there, I know what she would have said, inspired by the laxative effect of eating freshly cut wild greens: “Tomorrow, you’ll fill the bowl.”

Your e-mail is racist

Your e-mail is racist.

One of the chain e-mails I received this morning gave me pause. It was typical anti-Obama fare from one of my conservative Republican friends. Obama lacks experience. He’s just a community organizer who hit the big time. He doesn’t know how to run an organization or balance a budget. Etc.

The source opined freely about Mr. Obama’s lack of presidential fiber, his Marxist rhetoric. And like many flywheels from the political right, its author went out of his way to refer to President Obama as Barack Hussein Obama. (Hint: he’s a muslim and a terrorist.)

In all, just more uninspired, unremarkable GOP talking-points invective.

And patently racist.

Save the “Hussein” mention, in substance the e-mail made no inflammatory remarks about race. It was above board and without bigoted overtones. It never even alluded to the fact that Mr. Obama is half African-American.

But racist it was. The e-mail was quoting a speech made by Congressman Allen West and his subsequent defenses of the speech on TV and radio.

Allen West, you see, is a black guy. How do I know? The e-mail creator went to the trouble of wrapping the text around a headshot of the Florida Republican.

That picture was speaking 1,000 words, loud and clear. “See …” I could hear it, yelling. “See. Even black people think Obama’s doing a crappy job. Even this black guy went out of his way to call him a Marxist terrorist. If a black guy is willing to criticize Obama, he must truly be evil.”

Why else would they bother to include his photo? If it had originated from Trump, Boehner, Gingrich or Gohmert, do you think for a second they would have taken the time to code in a photo?

My friend who sent the e-mail is not a racist. I doubt for a minute he harbors any ill will towards Mr. Obama over the fact that he was born half black. But the work of the e-mail’s original creator is another declaration of hate, a celebration from those bigots who revel in the thought of a black man criticizing a black President of the United States.

Attack of the Bread-Baking Robots

Friend called the other day. Wants a bread machine. (Good move.) Asked my advice. After talking for like 10 straight minutes, I realized I know a hell of a lot about bread machines. Here’s the lowdown:

What’s a bread machine?
It’s this, for sure. But the one we’re talking about was made possible by clever processors and micro Japanese. (Strike that. Reverse it.) It’s a uniquely 20th century home appliance that automatically mixes, kneads, proofs and bakes one loaf of bread. The baker needs merely to measure ingredients, press a few buttons and walk away. The machine does the rest.

How long have they been around?
An enterprising team of Japanese inventors created the bread machine in the mid-80s. It made its U.S. debut in the 90s. I’ve worn out three since then. Our first was a glass-domed Welbilt. The kids affectionately dubbed it “R2D2.”

How do they work?
Simplicity in operation is made possible by an amazingly complex marriage of electronics and electro-mechanical whatzits and gizmoes. Think about it – the machine has to:

• Mix water, flour, yeast and other stuff
• Knead the resulting dough for a prescribed length of time
• Proof the dough, letting it rise at optimum temperature
• Punch it down (the second knead)
• Let it rise again
• Bake
• Cool

That's a lot to ask of one device. The fact that they work at all is a small miracle. The fact that they work so well and are not that difficult to buy is even more amazing.

What else do they do?
Well it doesn’t do windows, if that’s what you were thinking. But some machines claim to be able to make jam, bread sticks, yogurt, host a late-night talk show on NBC and who-knows-what-else. I think this is a stretch and can’t imagine they’d do any of that very well. That said, there are a few bells and whistles that do work and are worth looking into. More below in the buyer’s guide.

My bread machine adventure

I was hooked from day one. Remember DAK? R2D2 came from Drew Kaplan’s Sharper-Imagesque catalog for electronics nerds. And, in typical Kaplan style, it worked as well as his inimitable copy described.

R2D2’s generation of bread machines shared a cool-factor asset that was also a liability: the big glass dome top. It was hugely popular with kids and company: you got to watch the machine putting the bread going through its paces. But a lot of heat was lost through the glass, so we quickly learned to put aluminum foil over the dome during the baking cycle. Otherwise you’d end up with an insipidly white crust at the top of the loaf. That’s why today’s bread machines have no window at all – or just a small porthole that doesn’t let out much heat.

The first generation machines also had basic features, namely a timer and crust control. You could dial in the darkness of the crust and set the machine to bake some number of hours in the future. They've gotten more sophisticated since then.

How to buy one

What the old machines lacked was loaf size control, “extras” dispensing and a way to deal with power failure. Of the three, the last is the feature I won’t do without when shopping for bread machines.

Because the cycle is so long – three to six hours, depending on what you’re making – if the machine loses its program during that time due to a power failure, your dough may not make it to bread, or worse – your bread might end up half-baked. And the world is half-baked enough without that.

So the newer machines can hold onto their program during a (brief) power failure.

And if you like stuff in your bread, like whole seeds, nuts, raisins, etc., the older machines didn’t really have a way to handle it. If you put these adjuncts in with the flour, water and yeast – it gets ground up into the dough. So you end up with raisin bread with no raisins, essentially.

R2D2 used to beep when it was time to add stuff. But you had to be there to hear the beep and add the stuff, which was not always convenient.

Some newer machines have a dispensing system, not unlike the soap dispenser in your dishwasher. You load it with whatever’s going in your bread and a trap door springs open at the right time to drop them into the dough. Pretty nifty. And worth looking for.

Newer machines also come with programmed settings for various size loaves which makes them more versatile, to a point. Each bread machine has its own butter zone for loaf size – and won’t be happy going far under or over the optimum. In fact, it's a bit of a mess and a hassle when your bread outgrows the machine. Don't ask me how I know that.

So, how do you go about buying one? Like most things in life, it’s all about budget. The Cadillac is the Zojirushi – expensive, durable and in tests they seem to make the best bread. However – they have no trap door for nuts and raisins so that’s a consideration if you like your bread with stuff in it.

You can get a really nice machine for about $100. I am partial to the Breadman since it makes good bread, has power failure backup and a trap door for stuff. Only complaint: the non-stick coating on the pan isn’t so tough and the pan may need replaced before the machine wears out but that’s not too big of a deal.

After that, they run the gamut, all the way to under $20 at the thrift shop. And that’s not a bad place to start. If you’re not squeamish about used kitchen equipment, the bread machine is one of those devices that is often given as a gift to the person with everything. Sometimes, Mr. Everything uses it once and just doesn’t get into it. And his $150 machine ends up at the thrift shop, where you can pick one up for a lot less – ahem – bread.

Here’s the thing: it’s a bit of a gamble. The machine could have been cast off because it’s broken. My advice for thrift shop expeditions:

• Pick from the clean ones.
• Pay as little as you can
• Check that it has all its parts: pan and mixing blade that fit.

And ask if you can plug in the machine and turn it on. You should see the blade spinning and feel a little bit of heat coming from the heating element. That’s a fairly good indicator that the machine will work – but unfortunately the only way to tell for sure is to make bread in it. That’s why you have to go with the cheapest machines to minimize your risk.

One more caveat – the best bread is made with the best flour. I use King Arthur exclusively. Mass market brands just can’t hold a candle to KA – but I’ve never tried Lily White and my southern friends tell me it’s excellent. Other organic and small-mill flours like Bob's will perform well, too.

Even though we’ve been bread-machine baking for nearly 20 years – the family still gets excited to walk into a house filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread. Yours will, too. Have fun.

My Donut Diet

Yes, you read that right. Donuts can help you diet. Of course there’s a catch. What were you thinking, that donuts have suddenly become healthy? But it’s a wonderful catch. One all humanity should experience at least once.

They’re not just any donuts. They’re Frog Hollow donuts.

Deep in southeastern New Jersey, there stands a small cottage in the shadows of a thicket of oak, ivy and Virginia creeper. It’s so unassuming that the uninitiated pass right by.

When the Patterson family is inside baking up donuts, the “open” banner flies under a “donuts” sign that any self-respecting Madison Avenue suit would find comically small. The founder, Joseph M. Patterson, his son, Joseph R. and miscellaneous other Pattersons have been churning them out there since the elder Joseph opened the place in ’71. Long before there was much else in Greenfield, N.J. – years before the Wawa, the pizza place and the hardware store sprung up down the street.

The locals can spot the “open” colors from a mile. Sometimes you swear you don’t need the banner. You think you can smell them frying away, when the wind’s blowing just right. (Donut lust plays tricks with the brain.)

You wait for that banner like a kid waiting for Christmas. And the payoff is 10 times better than anything Santa Claus ever stashed under a tree. In the pantheon of donut perfection, the Frog Hollow vintage stands head and shoulders above the rest. No contest, turn off the lights, call the cops, period.

For years the front door didn’t latch. It had a doorknob but there was no point turning it – you just gave it a shove and in you went to the quiet, dark-wood cool under the shade. They fixed the doorknob years ago but I still am not used to actually turning it.

You make your way to the counter, temporarily blind as your eyes have not yet adjusted to the darkness. Joe R. is usually doing the baking duties these days, flanked by his wife, Deborah or one of the kids. But a few days a week Joe M. still mans the counter, as he has for over three decades.

They are happy to see you. We’re happier to see them. After all, we’re the ones that are leaving the place with a bagful of Frog Hollow Donuts. You catch up on things. One recent morning, we chatted about the high school marching band and the recent change of leadership in its boosters club. You savor this small talk. We’re proud to be the object of envy for the tourists who drove two hours or more to stand in line behind us. It’s a chance to broadcast a message of unbridled glee: we're locals and we can get Frog Hollows any time we want.

Well, not exactly. Which is a key reason they are officially diet food.

Frog Hollow is only open a few days a week during the tourist season. If you want a Frog Hollow in the dead of February, you simply can’t have one. Score one for the diet.

Second – the Frog Hollow donut is so sublime, so completely, unabashedly superior to any other – they simply destroy your desire for lesser attempts. That insipid, sweet, boring second-rate stuff they sell in gas stations, chain donut stands and supermarkets won’t even turn your head, once you’ve sunk your teeth into the crisp, creamy bliss of a Frog Hollow. The Frog Hollow donut empowers you to walk right by.

That's my kind of diet food.