There's something wonderful about cooking with wooden spoons.

These not-your-grandmother's wooden spoons come from
Murni's in Bali.

Yum, what a crock.

I'm sure many people thought that crock pots would be in the graveyard of forgotten small kitchen appliances by now. Yet they endure.

I was---(don't ask!)---perusing an old issue of Popular Mechanics the other day and came upon a blurb about a new crock pot that was designed to approximate an indoor bar-b-que pit. It even looked like a minature replica of a black 50-gallon drum.

And, moreover, there's actually a crock pot that plugs into your car's lighter, so you can cook yourself a nice hearty meal as you roll down the highway.

Now, that is worth contemplating.

Somehow crock pots and Popular Mechanics together reminded me of that episode on “Home Improvement” where Tim does a “Tool Time” show on cooking with power tools and blowtorches.

But I digress.

I was merrily in the kitchen yesterday, preparing one of the Pepper family’s festive menus to mark a special occasion, when I got to thinking about crock pots.

You see, there are many times in cooking when one needs to be guided by the maxim that “there’s no cooking like slow cooking.”

The problem, I have found, is that often “slow cookers” are anything but. They’re just too hot to be truly, gloriously, maddeningly slow.

So here’s how I used my basic WestBend Crockery Cooker crock pot to cook a mouth-watering picnic ham that exemplified slow-cooking at its finest.

It was easy.

1. Put the meat in the crock pot, fat-side up.

2. Add about a cup of water to the pot.

3. Season with your favorites. I use the indispensable salt and pepper, garlic powder, and a nice dusting of McCormick’s BBQ seasoning powder.

4. Turn the crock pot on HIGH and set the stove timer for 15 minutes.

5. After the 15 minutes elapses, set the crock pot on KEEP WARM. That’s right: not on low, but on KEEP WARM.

6. Let the meat cook at least 5 hours. Plan on 7-8 hours to really do the job. Check with a meat thermometer toward the time you think it will be done.

Once again, somehow simplicity is the most elegant quality of all.

With our usual accompaniments of sweet potato casserole, corn pudding, black beans with cilantro, Waldorf salad and broccoli in cheese, this was a “picnic” to be remembered. And don’t even get me started on the wonderfulness of the leftovers!


*** Thermographic infrared photo of a crock pot taken with a PD-300 IR Camera.

Hot Stuff.

Chinese Five-Color Hot Peppers

Sometimes Good Things Happen Because Your Kid Has to Pee.

. . . Such as rumbling over the dusty gravel ruts of a wayside gas station on a back road in Pennsylvania in the Fall and rediscovering one of your childhood favorites.

That’s what happened to me.

I was hanging out in the general store (a/k/a the “Food Mart”) when the familiar crystal-ly golden brown leaves caught my eye.

That’s right: those yummy-on-the-tummy, melt-in-your-mouth soft maple sugar candies that Dad used to pull out of his pockets as, taking almost the same route we were on that day, we made our way to Grandma’s in the huge green Buick.

Now, these candies aren’t like those that come in gargantuan bags at Wally World and Costco and which get thrown to the kiddie winds at Halloween.

No, to my way of thinking, maple sugar candies are to be enjoyed one at a time, once in a while. And to me, that’s the very definition of a confectionary treat.

Of course, these days, when one doesn’t need to be traveling in a northeasterly direction, for example, to find maple sugar---when any treat from anywhere can be had at any time off the internet---it’s not surprising that those fascinating little brown candy leaves have been the hit of Autumn wedding banquets and bridesmaids' favors.

And that maple sugar has found its way into creams, fondants, and edible gems such as “Jack Wax” and “Maple on Snow.”

And that this homey flavor has even found its way into the spice chest, in concotions such as Maple Sugar and Spiced Pepper Blend.

(For a wonderful tutorial on all things maple and confectionary, look no further. )

But, for my money, I like how that one tantalizing package holding a single maple sugar leaf takes me back to the backseat of that huge green Buick and to the many miles of flaming forests that passed by my car window as we made our way north.

So, you know what I did.

I bought four of the little cellophane packs and passed them ‘round after we’d all settled back into the minivan.

Then I looked in the rearview mirror and watched as Jipper and Finkie, smiles spreading across their faces, had their first maple sugar leaf, all the while the miles of flaming forests passed by their windows.

*** Photo from the Yankee Grocery.

Bobbing for apples . . .

*** Photo from the lusicious Richart Chocolates.

Speaking of Emeril . . . It only took me multiple decades to figure out how to make a great pot roast.

Once upon a time a young woman was making a spiral ham for dinner. She carefully unwrapped the meat, placed it on ye olde cutting board, chopped a few inches off each end, put the now-truncated ham in a low glass pan and promptly placed it into a pre-heated oven.

Her mother stood by, looking aghast.

“You, you . . .,” the mother stammered. “You cut off the ends of a perfectly good ham.”

The woman look confused. “Well, yes,” she replied. “I always do. I mean, you always do. I mean, isn’t that how you make ham? How many years did I watch you unwrap the ham, chop off the ends, then place it in the oven? Is that not right?”

“Oh, dear,” Mother exclaimed. “Yes, I did chop off the ends and set them aside when I made ham. But that was only because I never had a pan that was larger than nine inches.”

Ahh.

Sometimes we pick up culinary habits that have nothing whatsoever to do with cuisine.

For example, I grew up eating my mother’s version of “Yankee Pot Roast.”

Mom would get up on Sunday morning and peel potatoes, carrots and onions. Then she would take out a big slab of beef roast and season it generously with salt and pepper. Then it and the veggies went into the big roasting pan. The lid was set with a bang and into the oven it went.

By the time the fam got home from church, the Sunday afternoon “company” dinner was done.

And I do mean done.

Really done.

So done, in fact, that I actually thought the dish was “Dried Meat and Dark-roasted Veggies,” not the more tantalizing sounding Yankee Pot Roast.

Now, Kean’s mother, being British, took me aside on our wedding day and whispered in my ear these unforgettable words, “Darling, one thing I can guarantee you: your husband will never miss his mother’s cooking.”

That said, the first time I made my mother’s "pot" roast---replicating her steps exactly---Kean, valiantly trying to chomp away, looked over at me and said, or tried to say, “Itsweeahllykindahdrwhy.”

Translation: “It’s really kind . . . of . . . dry.”

Ahem.

Needless to say, Dried Meat and Dark-Roasted Veggies failed to make it into the favorites menu.

All that changed when, about 20 years later, we were visiting my mother’s sister and I asked dreamily, “What is that wonderful smell of something cooking in the kitchen?”

“Oh,” Auntie replied matter-of-factly. “That’s Yankee Pot Roast.”

Mother. Aunt. Mother’s pot roast. Aunt’s pot roast.

I’m thinking Revenge of the Dried Meat all over again.

Except not.

Auntie served up the most delicious, most scrumptious, most inspiring roasted roast imaginable. It fell off the knife like buttah.

I begged her to give me her secrets. But she only looked at me with polite puzzlement.

“You roast it,” she explained. “In a pot.”

So began my journey until, recently, as we sat around the kitchen table making yum-yum happy faces, I realized that I had arrived. I had succeeded in learning to make a pot roast that truly was all pot roast can and should be and, in fact, will be forevermore.

Therefore, here’s my recipe (read: technique) for success:

1. Buy a nice cut of meat that is well-marbled. Do not remove fat. (God put it there for a reason.)

2. Get yourself a nice heavy pan with a well-fitting lid.

3. Let the meat warm up closer to room temperature before starting to cook it. (If it was frozen, ensure it is completely thawed.)

4. Spray your pan with nonstick cooking spray (a must for easy clean-up, if nothing else) and put it on medium high heat. Lay your roast in the pan. Ideally, there should be at least an inch of space around the roast.

5. Season the up side of the meat with salt, pepper (freshly ground, if you have it), garlic powder and a generous dusting of Emeril Essence.

6. Put the lid on and put the timer on for 5 minutes.

7. After the timer goes off, turn the meat over. Season the browned side, as above.

8. Replace the lid and put the timer on for 3 minutes. When the timer goes off, turn the heat down to low. Yes, LOW. And NO PEEKING.

9. Put the timer on for 3 hours. This is the earliest that you should open the lid to see how things are going (if you don’t have a glass lid). From here on out, you’re on your own. Four hours, five, six, they’ve all worked for me. It depends on your pan, the cut of meat, your preference and so on.

I will tell you this, though, it’s pretty hard to overcook the roast this way.

If your roast is very thick, you may want to turn it over sometime after the 3 hour mark.

Simple. Rustic. Satisfying.

Serve the roast up with some roasted garlic mashed potatoes with rosemary and you are miles and miles away from Dried Meat and Veggies.

If you want to take your plate in a hearty direction, some other nice sides are southern-style collard greens (a vastly underrated treat) and whole beets.

In summer, give your roast a bar-b-qued ambiance by cozying it up to some bleu-cheese cole slaw and just-warm ricotta and spinach-stuffed tortellini drizzled with olive oil and tossed with garlic and shredded Parmesean.

Feeling frisky and the pantry's flush? Throw on some fresh garlic and/or leeks when you start the roast and splash generously with a robust red wine.

Enjoy!

*** The photo is from Sara Moulton's Kitchen Slideshow.

Peanut and Pumpkin Butter Sandwiches, oh my!

Autumn can't roll around without me thinking, among other things, of that evocative line from a James Taylor tune: "the frost is on the pumpkin . . .."

What a symbol of all the glorious changes---from the spectacular to the sublime---underway in this great, big world as the cycle of life and death shows itself in the falling of the leaves and the sleeping of the trees and grasses.

But I know that, just under that ugly looking die-back, under the--ahem!--"garden refuse" to be gathered and swept and plopped in huge trash cans, there are busy networks of roots and bulbs and tubers all searching and pushing and growing and readying for another splashy display come Spring.

It's nice to have your menu change with the seasons as well. Like putting away the t-shirts and pulling out the sweaters, here at the Pepper household we enjoy letting hold of summer fare and spooning up the hearty, savory autumn flavors.

Food traditions, I think, should be for more than Thanksgiving, Christmas or whatever other major holidays you celebrate.

Even small food traditions---no, especially small food traditions---add a warmth to life and family that is one more layer of good.

For example, come Fall, one of the things the Peppers love to eat around my grandma's table---and every other wonderful venue we happen upon (that lovely, somewhat lonely and dramatic stretch along the Chesapeake Bay, for example)---is Peanut and Pumpkin Butter sandwiches.

We happened upon them completely by accident. I don't know about you, but I'd never heard of people eating such a thing before. It was just one of those days in the kitchen---the crush to quickly find something to feed Jipper and Finkie (the usually ravenous Pepper boys).

We'd just been at a local Fall Festival and, as usual, I hadn't been able to resist the urge to buy at least something at the local fare stands.

I wasn't quite sure the boys would like Pumpkin Butter, but there you have it. And then came that magical moment when the Pumpkin Butter, deep orange and flecked with tantalizing spice, made its way opposite the pedestrian favorite, Extra Chunky Peanut Butter, and--to be cheesy about it [[drumroll, please]]--a star was born!

Since then Peanut and Pumpkin Butter sandwiches have been one of our Fall favorites. Try it for a simple picnic out under the brilliant Autumn skies, maybe with a few Red Maple leaves falling and a nudgy wind out of the Nor-east to accompany your meal.

Even if you think you don't like Pumpkin Butter, I promise you this is a promising combination that is one of those synergies that is well beyond the separate tastes.

Go ahead, be adventurous!

Oh, and one last tip. To make your Peanut and Pumpkin Butter sandwich really grand, do something special to acquire that little jar of pumpkin goodness. A local festival, the farmer's pumpkin patch--attach a wonderful memory to it and it will taste even better!

We usually meet up with our Pumpkin Butter at a fall festival, but this year we connected with our little jar of yumminess at a farmer's market in Grandy, N.C. Yes, "Grandy's Pumpkin Patch Butter" is our font of sandwich goodness this year. We've yet to have our first sandwich (having just gotten the butter yesterday), but I'll be sure to let you know what we all think of it as we're sitting around . . . my grandma's table.

** The photo was taken from a moving car in Wainscott, N.Y. by wvs.topleftpixel.com.