MIDDLETON (WI): The National Mustard Museum

This morning, I heard a story on WNYC about The National Mustard Museum in Middleton, Wisconsin.  Just like Proust biting into the madeline, as I listened to the founder (Barry Levinson) talking about mustard, that story transported me via my ears . . . SMACK . . . right back to my childhood.  Please indulge me whilst I tell it: because of the circumstances, I eat more mustard than any human being should probably consume -- then we'll get back to mustard.

Yellow Mustard Seeds
(Wikimedia Commons, as are the others)

While I was in high school and part of college, I lived with my grandmother and grandfather in Chesapeake, Virginia.  My grandmother, Leila Bell Bradshaw, was a prodigious -- and I mean that with a capital "P" italicized and underscored -- Southern cook.  She could flash-fry a chicken for a light snack, and even if the person who ended up eating it already had one foot out the door, the smell alone would bring them right back in.  Let it be known that, to date, the chicken flying out of that iron frying pan was the best, crispiest, and juiciest fried chicken I have ever eaten. 

Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner were marvels, causing the sturdy golden oak dining table to sing the groaning board song.  There were always fruit cakes along with seven pies and layer cakes, at least one huge turkey and one Smithfield ham, oyster stuffing in sheet pans, and sides galore in big old bowls, from collard greens to that special gelatin Grandma made only at Thanksgiving and Christmas, with grated carrots and pineapple (well, I liked it) -- and biscuits, biscuits, cornbread, biscuits!  She seemed to do this so effortlessly.  Sometimes, it seemed like the food just appeared out of nowhere, while she was puttering around and "a-talkin'" . . . and by God, she was a prodigious talker, too.

But, she couldn't cook everything.  From TV, she somehow got the notion that she should fix spaghetti now and then for supper.  After breaking up leftover hamburgers (and more about them below), she cooked them in ketchup and water until everything seemed red enough and thick enough, then spooned it over spaghetti noodles she had boiled until they became fat.  Well, sir . . . I ate it, albeit with a lot of salt, because it tasted, as they used to say about unsalted beans -- "mighty fresh."  She simply had no notion of spaghetti or any Italian food because she rarely ate outside her own home.

She couldn't cook hamburgers, either, but I'm not sure exactly why.  She would make the patties and then fry them slowly in grease until they were crunchy.  Yes . . . I did say crunchy.  They were not burnt, but they were very, very dark -- and crunchy -- especially around the edges.  By the time they were done, you could put two of them on a regular hamburger roll and still not cover it; any juice that might have been in them had long ago totally disappeared.  In my mind's eye now, I can picture soldiers lining up for them.  I can hear my grandmother saying, "These boys just love my hamburgers!" with the sergeant whispering to his men, "Take two each, and put them in your gas masks, men.  These are the finest charcoal filters in the world!"

My strategy for eating these crunchy hamburgers . . . and I didn't entirely dislike them . . . involved good old yaller mustard, specifically French's mustard, because that's all we had around.  I poured French's mustard on and then ate this yellow mustardy, crunchy thing enclosed in a soft, sweet hamburger bun.  Really, it could have been worse; it could have been a lot worse (see spaghetti, above).  What it did do, was give me a taste for mustard.  I started putting lots more mustard on hot dogs, too, with islands of relish.  People since then, upon seeing my hot dog preparation, would sometimes gently ask if the top came off the mustard jar.  Nope, it didn't . . . I just like 'em that way!

When I went to Giessen, Germany in my early teens, it was a whole different world of -- well, just about everything.  I discovered real bread and butter, and also, senf -- German yellow mustard.  The first time I saw it, my aunties were making a welcoming table with plates of nibbles, and used tubes of mustard and ketchup, to decorate them.  Tubes?  Like toothpaste?  Yep, just like toothpaste.  I was really puzzled and intrigued.  It was incredibly dense, and a little more to the brown side than the yellow side.  I liked it, even though it didn't taste quite like "real" mustard to me.   At a sidewalk eatery, I tried a . . . I can't remember exactly what it was called, but let's just call it a hot dog.  It came on a little paper tray, with a small white round roll (brotchen) and a significant senf dab -- less dense, but still browner than what I was used to eating.  The ritual itself was awkward, though: dip wurstchen in senf and bite, then take a bite of brotchen.  It was difficult to do, even with two hands free, and the hot dog was so much longer than the roll, that to me it just didn't make much senf (sorry).  At a much later date, I happened to see an engraving showing Giesseners enjoying the very same street food in the 15th century, I think.  Despite the awkwardness, it tasted good.  There just wasn't enough senf, and I was too chicken to ask for more.  (I think it has now been supplanted by the curry wurst, which New Yorkers can try at Hallo Berlin  locations.)

By now, I've tasted and fallen in and out of love with many different mustards.  The person who invented honey mustard did the world a great service.  One I regret not having been able to taste was mustard flavored with artichoke.  Why do we always remember the one that got away?  I remember yelling at my dear Mr. T during one Thanksgiving cooking marathon, that I specifically had to have Coleman's Mustard powder for a particular recipe because it just wouldn't taste right if I made it with leftover Chinese mustard packets (and now I don't even remember which recipe it was).  He kindly did go out to get it.  My current favorite is Kosciusco Mustard, a Polish variety in a "spoonable barrel" -- mmmm -- made by Plochman's.  I love their website, too.  It even tells how you can dye fabric with mustard!  These folks seem to really LOVE mustard.

According to Chowhound, I find I'm not alone (sob!), and that most mustard aficiandos have created their own mustard museum, right in the fridge.  I have a whole-grain mustard made with whisky, that I believe can only be bought at the distillery in Scotland, where, indeed, we acquired it.

Back to Barry and Patty Levinson's National Mustard Museum.  There must be some serendipity here, because yesterday, after hearing about if for the first time on the radio, I saw a Japanese guy sitting outside the laundry wearing their "Poupon U" T-shirt.  I asked him if he had been to the Mustard Museum, and he had!  I'm a little surprised, that there's no History of Mustard, or Mustard Fun Facts on their website, but then, they seem to be in a transitional phase at the moment.  Yesterday, I stumbled across a really wonderful slideshow by them on Flikr, though, called The Art of Mustard (look to the right column and you'll see it).  They must be trying to re-arrange it at the moment, but it was really interesting to see the different labels and containers.  Why don't we have great mustard containers?  It whets the appetite for more!

I'm going to end this entry, but shortly, I'll have to do an entry about nothing but mustard (and even include that bane of my childhood -- Musterole). 

According to the National Mustard Museum's website, the first Saturday in August -- August 7th this year -- is National Mustard Day.  Get ready, it's coming sooner than you think!

Oley, PA: Whoopie Pies

It seems that almost every place in the US has its own sugar cream-filled cookie or cake treat, whether dipped in chocolate or not. (We'll be looking at this form, again, when we come to moon pies, scooter pies, etc.) In parts of Pennsylvania, these are made with soft cake and called Whoopie pies. They have even started to invade New York City, as witnessed by a recent article in The New York Times. (Just in case they make me delete the link, it appeared on March 18, 2009.)
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I went to Pennsylvania not too long ago with my friend, Dr. Deborah Klens-Bigman, who hails from Lock Haven, PA and who is very familiar with the surrounding area.  It isn't Lancaster, but quite a few Amish folk farm around there, and it is quite normal -- as opposed to touristy -- to run into them in the course of the day.  Deb grew up with Amish folk around; she always waves to the people in the buggys, and guess what -- they wave back!  To someone who lives in NYC and has forgotten how to make eye contact even, this is amazing.
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We went to Glick's to get fresh vegetables to take back to the gritty city. Glick's started as an Amish farmer's roadside vegetable stand, and has grown into a sizeable veggie operation while still retaining that farmstand feeling.  (I was really impressed by and almost fell into the huge barrel to hold plastic bags people bring.) Anybody who deals in veggies will sooner or later deal with pickles, jams, jellies and the like in an attempt to use unsold produce.  From there, it's relatively easy to wander into baked goods, and sure enough, there was a pile of zucchini bread and Whoopie pies by the register.  In addition to veggies, I also bought strawberry jelly, pickled (hot) peppers -- and a Whoopie pie filled with peanut butter filling! Woo hoo!!  (. . . um, er . . . I guess I mean -- Whoopie!!)   I had been introduced to the Whoopie pie on my last trip to PA with Deb, but that was a commercial product purchased at a rest stop en route, and this one was clearly homemade.
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A Whoopie pie is essentially, a chocolate cake shaped like a hamburger bun, split in half like a hamburger bun, and filled with some kind of sugar cream or marshmallow fluff sweet filling.  Deb went for the classic version, but I opted for peanut butter, which I adore in any form.  We went to the Clinton County Fair, and when Deb parked the car, finally we couldn't stand it any longer.  Off came the plastic wrap.  We fell upon the Whoopie pies and consumed them slowly, with a lot of "ummmm"-ing going on!
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In the course of researching this entry, I've found that Maine also claims the Whoopie pie.   Did it crawl there on the back of a lobster?  We'll add a link to this entry on Maine's state page, too.  When I looked at many, many pictures of them, many of the Maine Whoopie pies seemed to have a little more filling than cake, while the original Amish version seems to be more cake than filling.  That would make sense if the Amish version did indeed come from using leftover cake batter, and the Maine version came from Marshmallow Fluff.  (Here's that recipe.)  I hear there's something similar -- I know, I know . . . but different -- called "Gobs", and we'll investigate those on another entry.

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Just for the record, Deb said she had never and would never eat one with marshmallow on it.  I'm not fond of marshmallow myself, except for the ones grilled over a fire on sticks (sometimes I think I could eat charcoal briquettes), and certainly, I've never tasted homemade marshmallow.  So Whoopie pies appear to divide down two lines:  marshmallow versus non-marshmallow, and flavored cake/frosting versus traditional. 

Thanks for this beautiful photo of Whoopie pies, kindly provided by King Arthur Flour from their blog, Baker's Banter.  They actually have two Whoopie pie articles: here is a Whoopie pie recipe in pictures , and here is "The Big Whoop", from the Baker's Banter.  Both have marshmallow, but even if you prefer traditional filling, you can look at the pictures to see the how, and use your own recipe for the what.

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Whoopie pies themselves, are morphing into an all-American gourmet treat.  Amish folk also appear to make a pumpkin version, an oatmeal version, a gingerbread version, I've seen a red velvet version, and there appear to be all kinds of fillings being invented.  They can be dressed up by dipping the edges in sprinkles or applying a stripe or two of icing on top.  You can also pipe the center in with a decorative tip, but that kind of takes away from the artisanal look and feel of a generous spoonful of cream being blopped onto the cake. When does a Whoopie pie stop being a Whoopie pie?  Probably when you stop saying, "Whoopie!!!"

For more than you wanted to know: 
Amish Whoopie pie recipies

Whoopie pie history
The Yummy Book that may have started it all for Maine
Maine Whoopie pie recipies

Fairy Stone State Park, VA - Fairy stone crosses

. . and you thought this was a food blog!!

When I was a kid, I remember having a Fairy Stone cross necklace. Fairy stones are the nickname for Staurolite, which naturally twins its crystals under great heat and pressure, like the forming of the Appalachian mountains. There is also a theory that they came on an ancient meteor. Fairy stones come in one of three kinds of crosses: St. Andrew's cross in the shape of an "X"; the Maltese cross shaped like a plus sign "+"; and the Roman cross, shaped more like a "t".

I don't remember how I came by it, or where it is now, but I remember mine seemed to be polished smooth, and a brown color Maltese cross. Fairy crosses must have been more popular when I was growing up, because you hardly hear about them anymore. Maybe that's because I haven't lived in Virginny for many a year.

At the park, you're allowed to pick up any that you see loose on the ground, but you can't dig for them or bring any digging tools.

The various legends are a little to syrupy for my blog, but you can read them at one of these websites. I had a Pocahontas tear, too, which is different, even though tears are mentioned in the various Fairy Stone cross legends. What is interesting, though, is that the location is also called the old Cherokee meeting place.

Fairy Stone State Park
Roadside Geology
Staurolite Crystals of Patrick County, VA (probably the better photos are at this site)

Portsmouth, VA - Chocolate Bonbons memory

Since this is my first post that has to do with food, I'll make it a memory of my childhood. I went to a grade school in Portsmouth, VA called Westhaven Elementary School. I went there from 1954 until maybe 1961. Mr. Hardin was the principal.
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Portsmouth is on the coast of Virginia, and it gets HOT . . . hot and humid . . . VERY hot and humid. It starts getting hot early in the springtime, and stays hot through September. Schools weren't air conditioned then, but being kids, somehow we didn't notice as much.
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I remember walking home from school every day, and when I could, stopping by the Suburban Pharmacy and getting a chocolate bonbon. When you hear the word "bonbon," you might picture a small piece of chocolate candy. This was a small soda cup layered with crushed ice, one scoop of vanilla ice cream, and more crushed ice on top. Then a whoosh of soda fountain chocolate syrup was pumped into the cup, and the result was a cup of cold heaven!
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It was not too gooey because of the melting ice, but it stayed cold a long time. The syrup was that good dark chocolate syrup, so it was more chocolaty and less sweet, and it was good to the last drop! I don't remember it being more than a dime, but I'm not sure about that. We were well beyond nickel ice cream scoops.
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The ice had that particular size and crunch that comes from those old manual ice crushers. We had one at home, too, a Dazey rocket-shaped model as I found out they were called. It was just like this one, except with a transparent yellow plastic base. The chrome parts might have been white -- I can't quite remember.

If there's anyone out there who remembers these chocolate bonbons, please comment!

I did hear from someone that the Suburban Pharmacy still exists, it hasn't moved, but it no longer has a fountain, so no more chocolate bonbons, unless you make one yourself!