Blueberry Pudding Days

It happens without fail.

A while back I said we’d been having a moderate summer in Wisconsin. That, of course, precipitated a heat wave.

We had a break yesterday. It was gray and much cooler than the swelter predicted for today.

It was a blueberry pudding day.

August is prime time for blueberries here in Wisconsin. Most years there is a three-to-five-day stretch of cooler weather in the first part of the month — a great time to satisfy the need to bake without overheating.

The August cool spell always sent Grandma Annie into the kitchen. Scrumptious blueberry pudding replaced the Lady Baltimore cake that was her specialty.

Annie’s kitchen was always redolent of vanilla. When she worked with blueberries that calming aroma was accented with a faintly tart scent.

Her kitchen was, as many kitchens are, a haven from the world. Here was a loving grandmother and good food. Comfort food.

Annie’s cake-y blueberry pudding is best eaten chilled when its subtle flavors have married. It was always hard for me to wait for it to cool.

Blueberry pudding has an old-fashioned, country kitchen flavor. Enjoy!

Annie’s Blueberry Pudding

1 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1 egg
1/4 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp. vanilla
1 ½ to 2 cups blueberries
1/2 cup sugar

Mix dry ingredients in large bowl. In smaller bowl, mix egg, butter or margarine, milk, and vanilla. Add to dry mixture; blend. Batter will be thin. Pour batter into greased casserole or large soufflé dish. Add blueberries; do not stir. Berries should remain in the center of the casserole dish. Sprinkle with sugar. Drizzle remaining batter along inner sides of casserole, leaving some fruit exposed in center of dish. Bake in preheated oven at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until the top is a golden brown and the middle is somewhat firm. Sold warm or cold. Great with ice cream, whipped cream, or by itself.

French at the Farm Market

Buying zucchini and peppers for my weekly ration of ratatouille, I ran into an acquaintance who speaks fluent French. His agility with the language put me to shame.

As a child, I heard French spoken by my grandmother and great-grandmother and learned enough to make basic conversation. I was proud of myself! Although English was the first language I learned to speak, I knew I was French before I understood what it meant to be American.

But my mother and her generation never learned the language so I never had a chance to practice what little I had learned. (In college, I heard something about Third Generation Syndrome, in which the first generation of immigrants cling to the old ways, the second rejects them, and the third reclaims them.)

After my great-grandmother died at age 94, my grandmother rarely spoke French, except when I would prompt her. I believe I was the last person to speak French to her before she died at age 91.

I took two years of French in high school followed by a year in college. But finances forced me to drop out of college for a time and when I took up French a few years later it was tough going. Still, I have spoken French in France and survived.

But my conversation this morning reminded me that while I can speak French — sort of — I have not mastered understanding what other people are saying.

Luckily, I kept all my college French texts and study aids. I will be hitting the books come September.

Now, back to les courgettes.

Crickets in the Kitchen

Being in a kitchen on a summer afternoon enjoying the sound of crickets is one of life’s most relaxing experiences for me.

Usually I am chopping or slicing vegetables or preparing a marinade for our evening meal. In winter, I may be listening to music while I do these tasks. But as summer winds down I love to listen to crickets.

Although crickets are a harbinger of summer’s end, they are a welcome sound for me. They signal the most glorious phase of summer, when often-unpredictable August gradually moves into golden sun-drenched September.

Cricket song relaxes me. Who needs a white noise machine when nature produces such lovely sounds?

Most years, we have crickets by the tail end of July. This year, everything is a week early as we had a very pleasant spring.

Crickets take me back to childhood. I recall sipping ice tea or soda in Grandma Annie’s kitchen on late-summer afternoons to the chirping of crickets.

I keep a cast-iron cricket in my kitchen year-round. It is a hearth cricket, a good luck omen and gift from my mother from one of her trips. I’d always wanted my own cricket, having spotted one in an illustration in a childhood book. It doubles as a doorstop.

Crickets are a wonderful seasonal experience. They begin their song as summer’s gardens are reaching their peak. And they provide a wonderful accompaniment to food preparation, further enhancing the experience.

For me they are part and parcel of my kitchen at this wonderful time of year. My French kitchen in America.

Chef Robert, 1923-1982

Chef Robert would have been 83 tomorrow.

He’s been gone now for 24 years, a victim of stress and lack of discipline. Chefs are often depicted as rotund and so he was.

But he was my father, and for all his faults I did love him. His unexpected death hit me hard.

As I grow older, I realize that I have inherited many of his traits. That is both good and bad. I try to concentrate on the good.

He was soft hearted. He could not resist buying trinkets from people who were selling things. I have only recently learned to say “no.” It was a matter of economics.

He loved reading and history and would have been quite happy being a writer. I majored in journalism and history and have always made my living writing.

Late in life, he began to appreciate his roots in France and his cooking repertoire evolved from steakhouse basic to Larousse Gastronomique. It was all instinct with him: He never had any formal training. He just knew.

Though American born and bred, he was a Francophile of sorts. When I was a child he talked about landing in Normandy in 1944 with the Ivy Division. It was both zenith and nadir for him, I think.

His was the first division to ride triumphantly into Paris in August of 1944.

It is a heady feeling to visit the country of your ancestors. And now I know it, too.

On a future trip to France, I will visit Melun, south of Paris, to get a feel for the town of his ancestors. I will visit Utah Beach, too. I am not finished with my travels in France. I will never finish. Life is too short not to connect.

Joyeux anniversaire, Chef Robert.

At the Farm Market

I've just returned from the local farmers' market. What bounty!

We are so far north that the market does not begin until high summer sets in, just around the 4th of July. Onions, potatoes, garlic, beets, radishes, beans and cucumbers are among the first offers. But frugal shoppers who are also savvy cooks can easily build a meal around these staples.

I spent $23 today — about twice what I usually spend. But, the prices are so much better than the local supermarkets and the produce is so much fresher. Today I bought two kinds of garlic, red and yellow potatoes, red onions, a huge cucumber, spinach, wax beans, cherry tomatoes, young peppers and some very good looking basil.

My husband will enjoy the spinach salad I serve tonight. And, since he's a garlic fan, he will appreciate knowing we've got steady supply.

Tonight I am going to roast red onions in balsamic vinegar and olive oil. When they are finished, I will sprinkle them with grainy sea salt from France — wonderful!

I lived for 10 years in Madison, Wis., where the Saturday farm market is one of the best — if not THE best — farm market in the U.S. I'm delighted that the little town I now live in has markets on Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. By mid July, farm stands abound and you can buy fresh corn everywhere.

A year or so ago, I was distressed that few people were shopping at the Hmong stands at the farm market. That's now my first stop, as both of the Hmong families clean and bundle their produce beautifully. I am happy to see that their traffic has picked up. This is a small town where people are set in their ways and suspicious of foreigners.

This year, a very nice female farmer is selling fresh currants and gooseberries. The currants are lovely, sort of a cherry red color. I am off in search of a muffin recipe now.

One more thing about farmer's markets — they smell wonderful! Today's was very garlicky — like a market in Provence. I was fortunate enough to visit the Saturday market at Place Maubert the last time I was in Paris. Better than any pricey Parisian perfume!

Too Busy Cooking

Cooking is great fun and a source of stress relief for me.

But it takes time, something I have little of during the academic year. I teach only one class, but I find it takes up a bit of time. When students are paying the rather high tuition they must pay these days, they've got to come first! Cooking is reserved for weekends.

Summer is the prime time for trying new recipes, especially the complicated ones that require hours of cutting and chopping and slicing. Fortunately, we have not had a terribly hot summer in northern Wisconsin, just a day here and a day there. So I am cooking, preparing what have come to think of as "cuisine du soleil" — food of the sun.

In other words, cooking that says Provence. Or perhaps Tuscany. Or Greece.

A few things I have found useful this summer include my herb garden, which is on both my deck and my side porch in pots, and a wonderful store-bought treat from American Spoon Foods called Mediterranean Relish. It is a wonderful melange of Kalamata olives, fire-roasted eggplant and artichoke hearts, peppers, lemon, herbs and spices. I use it in egg salad and cold pasta salads and I spread it on toasted French bread or rolls. Learn more about this product at American Spoon Foods.

Yesterday, I made Georgeanne Brennan's recipe for Provençal Chicken with Tomatoes and Red Peppers. Find it at www.GeorgeanneBrennan.com.

I used fresh thyme and rosemary from my herb pots and each taste provided a taste of deepest Provençe. (That is what I think such recipes should do — transport you.) I paired it with a potato recipe from Patricia Wells and a white French table wine called "Bleu," which was simple and unassuming and fresh.

There have been other hits this summer, as I make my way through cookbooks from my favorite food writers. Sausage Rustica, Sausage with Fusilli, Steak Provençal and of course, ratatouille.

Thankfully, summer is not over. And the bad hail storm we had today did not destroy my Roma tomatoes and eggplant. The local farm markets are going full swing and my schedule has taken a turn for the better.

Ah summer! Life is good.

Now if I could just attend to this blog more often!