The Endive Chronicles

Even as a kid I was wild about artichokes. I love everything from their unusual shape and color to scraping every morsel off of each petal. I even love the mountain of spent petals that forms on my plate; the higher it gets, the closer I am to the sweet, buttery heart. I find the flavor so delightful that I was over the moon to discover in recent years there are two veggies that mimic the flavor (if not the texture) of artichokes; cardoons and Jerusalem artichokes.

For those of you who don’t know, the cardoon is a relative of the artichoke, but has the look and texture of very fibrous celery. I had never seen it before moving to the Hamptons and have since learned it is a frequent star in wintertime Italian cookery and was brought to New York by Italian immigrants. This is all quite interesting, but we aren’t here to discuss cardoons; are we? The real reason we are here is to talk about the elusive, at least to me, Jerusalem artichoke. Native to North America, the Jerusalem artichoke oddly enough is not commonly found here. In fact, Jerusalem artichokes aren’t even artichokes. I first read about it in a magazine some time ago, but did not run into it until two years ago while browsing the produce section of Uwajimaya. I lugged them back to New York and made them into a simple tian that we just couldn’t get enough of.

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(Vegetarians, I have a variation for you too!)

In my neighborhood a party invitation to Alfredo and Raquel’s was something to be cherished. One of the loveliest families I know, they enjoy being surrounded by friends and sharing the delicious foods of their native Guam. Their kitchen table always seemed ready to succumb under the weight of dishes piled high with crisp lumpia, succulent spareribs and spicy cucumber salad just waiting to be descended upon by the hungry masses. Kelaguen was hands down the most popular and requested dish in their repertoire and is the sort of dish for which hungry party goers would gladly wrestle a troll.

Simply, Kelaguen is a dish of thinly sliced beef, chicken, fish, etc., that is cooked by marinating it in citric acid with onions and as many hot peppers as you can stand. I am not a huge meat eater, but I have always been a sucker for this type of dish. Admittedly, until I met Alfredo and Raquel my knowledge was limited to various carpaccios, tartares and ceviches. I still enjoy those other versions, but there is something so addictive about this nasal clearing concoction that I rarely go for the others anymore.

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Growing up my parents didn’t often keep butter around the house, we were more olive oil people. On occasion we would eat it with artichokes or pancakes, but we weren’t big into buttering our bread and it was sacrilege to put butter on grandma’s rolls. A few years ago, as Phil and I sat down to our first Parisian hotel breakfast when our server brought out the normal assortment or preserves and butter. Normally I don’t touch the stuff, but I thought; when in Rome . . . or Paris in our case, and proceeded to slather my baguette with the rich, creamy substance.

I was hooked. Actually, I developed sort of a ‘problem’ that eventually led to a wider notch on my belt before I took the matter in hand, limiting my buttery baguettes to my birthday and when we have guests. It is a bit sad, because a guilty pleasure of this magnitude should be savored . . . alone. As it happens we have house guests in the form of my in-laws this weekend. Naturally I have decided to make the most of my buttery indulgence by making my own butter*.

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