My brother's pancakes

There's a lot that I don't know about my brother Joe.

How he came to take up the game of golf has always mystified me. Where he learned to handicap thoroughbred racing so expertly I have never entirely understood either. What allowed him to believe, albeit briefly and very early this past spring, that the Mets might have a respectable 2012 season? That I shall never know.

Until a few days ago I also had no idea what an astoundingly good pancake maker my brother is. It has been more than a week since I cleaned my last plate of Joe's crisp and fluffy breakfast treats and still I am thinking about them. A lot.

Of the five days that I stayed with my brother in Queens recently he cooked me his "famous pancakes" twice.

Hell, I didn't even know that he had a famous pancake.

Naturally I had to find out the secret to my new favorite breakfast entree and so in between stacks I asked Joe to explain, slowly, so that I could commit the recipe to paper.

"Easy," my brother said, dropping a fresh slab of butter onto a red-hot pan. "One cup Aunt Jemima pancake mix, three-quarters of a cup of milk, an egg, and about two tablespoons of olive oil."

"That's it?"

"That's it," Joe said pouring another three pancakes' worth of his mix into the sizzling-hot butter. "Oh, and be sure to use an electric mixer. Makes a big difference."

I wondered whether my brother was holding out on me, keeping his famous pancake recipe to himself. The olive oil wasn't exactly what you'd expect to find listed on the recipe panel of a mass-market dry mix box. But could it really propel Jemima to such greatness? After all, these pancakes were dissolve-in-your-mouth extraordinary.

After a few days of pondering, and an unsuccessful attempt to recreate Joe's perfect pancakes in my own kitchen, I had my answer.

And it wasn't the oil.

My brother is just the type of guy who does things really well or not at all. It's probably the reason why so many people depend on him. He is smart and strong and very, very able. His heart is good.

When disaster struck our family recently Cousin Susie, who was forced from her home after Hurricane Sandy, told me that the one guy at the very top of everybody's wish list for aid and comfort was Joe.

Which was no surprise to me. Like his pancakes (or his clam sauce, come to think of it) my brother is the best that there is.

Just so we're clear.

Sandy joins the family

This is not staged. I know that the picture is real because I took it myself a couple of days ago. It is a normal parking sign that is still attached to an upright, regulation-height traffic pole. The pole is sunk into a concrete sidewalk on a quiet working-class street in the town of Long Beach, New York. The misplaced beach sand that nearly covers the sign was deposited last week by the devastating "super storm" known as Sandy.

Many of my family members were affected by the storm. Several were hurt quite badly. Eight haven't been able to occupy their homes since Sandy hit; four of them probably won't ever occupy those homes again. One cousin saw a loved one drown in a first-floor apartment in Howard Beach, Queens, a neighborhood that is some distance from the actual Atlantic shoreline.

My brother and cousins have worked nonstop for more than a week cleaning up after Sandy. I joined them five days ago now, but it appears we have done about all that we can do and so I may be heading back home to Maine in a day or so.

These pictures—this entire post actually—hasn't a thing to do with this blog's focus. But it is all that I have got to report to you this week.

This is the back seat of my car. It and the front passenger seat are filled with groceries that I delivered to relatives in Long Island and Queens last week. In the trunk are coolers packed with milk and eggs and meats and fresh fruits and vegetables, plus three canisters carrying around fifteen gallons of gasoline for those who needed it.

Gasoline continues to be a coveted and extremely hard-to-locate commodity here. More than a week after the storm hit and only the most determined have a chance of landing a few gallons of fuel. If you can find a station that has any.

This I snapped during a much-needed break one afternoon. On the horizon you can see the tankers heading to deliver oil to area refineries. We counted more than a dozen in our field of vision.

Long Beach, home to three of the worst-hit members of our family, remains uninhabitable. Military vehicles patrol the streets day and night; only residents with local I.D. and escorted work crews are allowed in. The place is under curfew. Not a single residence or business has electric power; for days there wasn't even running water. Authorities say that the mountains of sand on the streets and sidewalks is contaminated.

This is the single place in the entire town of Long Beach that is open for business.

You run across this a lot. However, the majority of vehicles in town were totaled from having been under water, not by catching fire.

At the height of the storm several feet of water rushed through these towns, pretty much devastating anything at the basement, ground, and in some cases first floor levels. I have never seen more rubble in my life.

This will be a hard sell. And for a long time.

The rules on this block are written not by the authorities but by those of us who occupy it, if only for a while.

More than once did the angels appear. On this particular late afternoon, after a full day of work and with no food in our bellies, we were visited by this one. She had driven a long way to find a place where she could fill her car with food to hand out to her neighbors and the people who were helping them.

Speaking of angels and doughnuts, Aunt Laura made us some of hers last night. The apartment she lives in, in her daughter Ursula and son-in-law Ben's house, is occupied by several displaced family members, and has been the gathering place where all of us have dinner together each day. Laura's husband, my uncle Dominic, passed recently, which was a big blow to all of us who loved him. His and Laura's granddaughter Jennifer is one of the people living with Laura temporarily, along with her father and mother and two of their cats. She tells me that her grandmother told her that she thinks Dominic may have left in order to make room for all of them. And, knowing Dominic, maybe he did.

Bluefish alla Abatemarco

If you walk the beaches of Montauk, Long Island, when the blues or the stripers run, there is an excellent chance that you will cross tire paths with my friend Fred. His is the beige truck with an untold number of rods attached to it, and the big white Igloo with a "Meatball" sticker strapped to its grill. His son Dan might also be in evidence, or his brother Frank and his daughter Gina.

The Abatemarcos are a loving, tightly knit family of very serious fishermen.

This is where they fish. And, for a while last weekend, so did I.

Fred and his wife Natalie (the only Abatemarco I have not witnessed carrying a fishing rod) go through a lot of what Fred calls "protein." And so they are always scouting new ways to prepare it. After a three-hour round of fishing on Saturday my associate went about concocting a new preparation for our hosts, a lovely "Bluefish Scancanesca" (don't ask) that pleased 10 very hungry people at dinner.

And so when four fresh pieces of blue got tossed into my cooler for the ride home on Monday morning I took that to mean it was my turn to come up with something that our gracious hosts and their family might enjoy.

They'd better. Because it's got their name on it.

Season both sides of the bluefish (or most any other fish you like) with salt and pepper and marinate in olive oil for around half an hour.

In a baking dish covered in olive oil mix together potatoes, red onion, lots of whole garlic cloves and some cherry tomatoes, and season with salt, pepper, fresh rosemary and oregano. Place in an oven preheated to 350 degrees F and cook for around 45 minutes, or until the potatoes are tender.

Place the fish atop the cooked vegetables and return to the oven.

In about 15 minutes you'll be good to go.

And wishing that Fred and his Igloo were within reach.

Bluefish alla Abatemarco
Recipe

4 6 oz. pieces of bluefish
Extra virgin olive oil
2 baking potatoes, cut into one-inch cubes
1 red onion, sliced
6-8 garlic cloves, lightly smashed but left whole
1 dozen whole cherry tomatoes
Fresh rosemary and oregano
Salt and freshly ground pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F
Place the bluefish in a dish or bowl and liberally pour olive oil over it. Salt and pepper the fish and allow to rest in the oil for 30 minutes.
Cover the surface of a baking dish with olive oil, add the other ingredients, and place into the oven uncovered. Stir occasionally.
When the potatoes are fork tender (around 45 minutes) place the bluefish pieces on top of the vegetables and return to the oven for around 15 minutes.

Mister Meatball's flying circus

I don't always dress this way when I'm cooking. You'll have to take my word on that.

And yet, had you been around my place much last winter, especially at dinner time, odds are good that you witnessed firsthand this preposterous sight.

I dread the coming winter. So must the hungry people who share it with me.

Face it. It's impossible to pay attention to what's going on in the kitchen when you're continually having to escape to the attic. Dressed up like the Hamburglar and battling armies of wild beasts.

I'm afraid you will need to accept my word on this as well.

Minutes before this frame was shot, on a very snowy evening last January, I was two flights down, standing at the stovetop in a warm kitchen, chatting with friends and tending to a veal breast stuffed with sausage and pine nuts and fresh herbs. On the counter that serves as my pasta-making station rested a batch of freshly cut pappardelle that I had just prepared. On the turntable (yes, I still have one) Tony "Don't-Call-Me-Norman" Perkins was wrapping up the A Side from his 1958 LP "Long Ago and Far Away," with a respectable rendition of "On a Rainy Afternoon."

Anticipating an imminent vinyl flip, I grabbed my wine glass and headed to the living room. There, Otis the Wonder Dog napped near the fire, dreaming (I'd imagine) of the Parmigiano-Reggiano he would surely be gifted once dinner time came around.

An all around lovely evening going on here at La Casa di Polpetta, don't you think?

I thought so too.

Which makes us both wrong.

Squirrels—flying ones—are after me. Have been for years now. They live in my house, wreck my property and frequently interrupt my slumber. To fight them I have broken laws I did not know existed, risked serious harm to myself and to others, and skipped out on kitchen duties when they were most crucially required.

I hate these squirrels. HATE. Just the thought of them turns me into, well, this guy...



Go ahead and be disappointed in me if you want. I don't care. You probably think flying squirrels are cute. Try living with them. Then tell me how cute you think they are.

I should have gotten the hell out of this house years ago, when the Pteromyini (that's science speak for the squatters in my attic) first arrived. The kitchen wasn't nearly as workable or enjoyable as it is today. I hadn't converted the stovetop to gas yet, or redone the countertops. Even the wall oven was a piece of crap. Who'd miss it?

Instead I had to go and meet a man named David Sparks. Sparks is a wildlife expert in Southern Maine. Should you or a loved one require wildlife "rehabilitation," or "nuisance relocation" expertise, or just a fun-filled birthday party for a bunch of 4-year-olds, Dave is your man. His shop is called—are you ready for this?—Sparks Ark. For real.

Exploring the attic and crawl spaces with Sparks did a complete kill on my appetite the day we first met, possibly a decade ago now. I remember clearly having my eye on the leftover pork with clams (a Portuguese favorite) from the night before, thinking it would make a fine lunch. But Sparks showed up in his truck just before noon. When he left, around an hour and way too much "evidence of infestation-gathering" later, I was off to the showers, not the refrigerator. I don't think I ate for the rest of the day.

I'll be merciful and spare you the details. You're welcome.

Anyhow, back to that snowy winter night last year. No sooner did I lift the stylus from the Tony Perkins LP than my attic tenants' presence became known. I knew by the sound that they were not running roughshod over the fiberglass insulation; clearly the Havahart traps had been tripped while the music was playing. Somewhere above me was one or more creatures lured into "humane" animal traps by Snickers bars, peanut butter, and a Meatball who could not bear dispensing more severe punishment on living things guilty only of needing a warm place to stay after daylight ended.

It was time for me (and my friend Tom, who was visiting and baking a nice crusty bread to go with the veal breast) to get dressed and go to work. (I know, I know: "Who you gonna call?")

As it happens, two of the four deployed traps were, shall we say, with squirrel. Which meant that I needed to, A) Leave cooking the rest of the meal to others and, B) Commence to unlawfully transporting live creatures to a new home in "another municipality" while driving in dangerous snow-and-ice conditions, and in a hungry and irritable state.

See, you can't just carry these traps a few blocks and release what's inside them. Not even close. Some say a successful "wildlife relocation" (meaning the critters won't find their way back to the place where their joy ride began) requires going a 50-mile distance away. And not just any meatball is allowed to transport wildlife across town lines; it's actually against the law to do it. And you thought it was pretty easy being me.

So I loaded the SUV with the incarcerated (and not-at-the-moment flying) squirrels, kicked it into four-wheel drive and slowly drove off in the direction of "an undisclosed location," leaving my friends to finish cooking the dinner that I had so carefully planned out. (Tom wanted to ride shotgun but I wouldn't let him; not much sense in both of us getting pinched if a copper happened upon this caper.)

I did not drive 50 miles from my kitchen that evening, or the many other evenings just like it through these years. I'll need to be evasive on details here, but suffice to say that a wide river provides man many opportunities. Traveling, say, a bridge that goes over such a river could be a useful exercise for a man in my position, if you catch my drift. Particularly if on the other side there is a cold, dark place where freight trains travel slowly and precious few witnesses (er, citizens) roam. Translation: I drop the suckers off on the side of the river where I (and my kitchen) ain't.

And so one night this winter, while you are cooking something fabulous in your fragrant kitchen, surrounded by loving family and dear and devoted friends, think of your pal in the wilds of Maine, four-wheeling through snow over icy roads and bridges, an outlaw in search of no witnesses to his crime.

Just try and drop the bandana from the image, okay.

And maybe the hat.

More Portland eats

Columbus Day weekend wasn't the best time to enjoy the fall foliage in Southern Maine, and so I answered the usual batch of emails from would-be seasonal visitors by suggesting they hold off just a bit if they possibly could. Well, peak colors are looking like a good bet this coming weekend, and so that's when I'd start thinking about getting up here.

Urban by Maine standards, Portland isn't exactly a primo place to look at the changing leaves, but the surrounding areas sure are. My advice is to peep around the town's periphery but save the eating out for right here.

Last year I listed a bunch of the best places to eat in Portland. A couple are no longer open (the Porthole and District), but all the others still are. This time around there are three new places that weren't open last year, plus three others that I'd neglected to get around to.

You can't go wrong with a single one.

EVENTIDE OYSTER CO.
This is by far the coolest new place to open in town for quite a while. Eventide's oyster selection is the best you'll find in these parts. Not only is the quality top notch, but the shuckers know what they're doing. Every oyster I've had here was clean and cold, the way they're supposed to be. And there's plenty of other good stuff to be had. Definitely go for the lobster roll. It's served in a soft, Chinese-style steamed bun and it's fab. The roll comes with a choice of toppings, but I'd go with the brown butter here (not the Hollandaise). Chowders and stews are prepared to order, very tasty, and accompanied by these tiny biscuits that I could eat all day long. Eventide is not a seafood-only restaurant. They do some nice things with pork belly, for instance. This is a small place, with mostly barstool seating, and it can be a little hard to get into at dinner. Lunch is the safer play here, but a very nice lunch it will be.

LOCAL 188
You'd never guess by its name, but Local 188 is Spanish-influenced by way of Maine, thanks to the kitchen's locavore sourcing philosophy. Always bustling, even late at night, this colorful, friendly spot across from Longfellow Square is especially welcoming when the weather gets cooler. You can hang out and eat in a lot of different places at Local, all in one big room: there's a standard dining area, a hoppin' bar, a cocktail lounge with comfy couches and tables, and—my favorite—a counter in front of the completely open kitchen. Housemade charcuterie, paella, and the unusual specials are always a good bet here, and the wine list is interesting and reasonably priced.

EMILITSA
A rustic Greek taverna this ain't. Emilitsa is one of Portland's most grownup dining rooms, in the sense of polished surroundings, elegant food, and attentive service. It's also a great place for quiet conversation, romantic or otherwise. The food at Emilitsa is refined but simple, in the traditional Greek manner, starring classics like marinated lamb chops, whole grilled dourade and a very nice version of moussaka (my fave). As for wine, don't let the Greek selections throw you. Sure, they're unfamiliar to most Americans, but the staff is accustomed to fielding questions and suggesting pairings.

OTTO PIZZA
With two locations in Portland—and two in the Boston area—Otto Pizza not only serves great pies but it's also open late (until 11 p.m. on weekdays and 2 a.m. on weekends), a blessing in a town that can roll up the sidewalks dishearteningly early, especially in the winter. Whether you choose the hole-in-the-wall Arts District location or the atmospheric, tin-ceilinged tavern that houses the newer East End outpost, the pizza's the same: thin and crackling of crust and tasty of toppings. Strange as it sounds, the mashed potato, bacon and scallion pizza is amazing, but there's also a creditable Margherita and some two dozen other pies both classic and creative. No salads, no apps, but a good selection of beer and Italian wines served in sensible stemless tumblers keep hands and mouth occupied while you're waiting.

SCHULTE & HERR
It would be hard to find a friendlier or more likable place than Schulte & Herr. It's not much to look at—think clean, well-lit finished basement—but everything to love. The food is homemade down to the delicious rye bread, and the chef-owner has a deft, light touch with German food, which can be heavy in less skillful hands. Whether you come for brunch, lunch or dinner, do not fail to order the wonderful cured salmon with potato pancakes. Sauteed spaetzle is also amazing, comforting yet ethereally delicate, and there's an unusual and delicious gulasch made with local seafood. Being able to bring your own wine or beer is another plus. In fact, my party has even arrived with a shakerful of cocktails to enjoy while considering the menu.

SPECKLED AX
The Speckled Ax is about as geeky a coffee place as you are ever apt to encounter. And I love it. The glass siphons standing on the bar make it look like they're making moonshine here, not coffee. And forget having your fix flow from a spout attached to a stainless steel cylinder: they make coffee to order here by pouring water over grinds in a paper cone filter. Not only that but your drink will be prepared for you by an earnest coffee lover who really gives a damn. The product they put out here is terrific, but the Ax is worth checking out simply for curiosity's sake.

The family stew

I'd like you all to meet two of my favorite people in the whole world. The handsome one (on the right) is my aunt Laura. The not-so-pretty one with the glasses? That's my cousin John, her son.

Laura (aka "Queen of Doughnuts") can make me laugh without ever speaking, and when she does speak her words are what "proper" people often refer to as "colorful." She is also one of my go-to consigliere in matters of traditional family recipes, and so Laura and I have talked a lot on the phone through the years, often while working in our kitchens.

I love my aunt a whole lot.

John makes me laugh too. His language (like mine, I'll admit) is a lot like his mother's. So are his kitchen skills. My cousin and I have always been close. As younger men we engaged in dangerous activities together, doing (let's face it, John) idiotic things that could have gotten us hurt or shuttled to a place upstate where they don't know from an aglio e olio. Even though we have grown older and more mellow, my cousin and I continue to seek each other out. This makes me happy.

Because I love him a whole lot too.

I haven't actually seen my aunt or my cousin since early in the summer, and yet they have been with me in my kitchen a lot these past couple of weeks. The "googootz" in my garden (best you click here for an explanation) have been plentiful this season; I have been cooking with them a lot. Nobody digs the 'gootz more that these two do. I can't lay eyes on one of the odd-looking Sicilian squash without thinking of Laura and John. Just isn't possible. Believe me, I've been at this a long time.

If it weren't for them, in fact, our family's oldest stew might long ago have been forgotten. They're the only two people I know who will not allow a single summer to pass without preparing at least a couple pots full of giambotta. Giambotta is an Italian vegetable stew but when using googootz (all right, the squash's actual name is cucuzza) my family has always added chicken. I don't know why that is. Neither do any of them. I've asked.

Anyhow, I posted the recipe for my giambotta some time ago now, but since these two relations of mine have been so much on my mind of late, I decided to allow them to share theirs. Googootz are not very easy to find (here's a link to the cucuzza plantation in Louisiana where most of those you'll find in the U.S. come from). If you can't get your hands on a googootz, I suppose a couple large zucchini will work just fine. They just won't be nearly as much fun.

Here's a taste of the stew, by the way.

And here are my handsome relatives again, just about to cook up a new batch.

I wish that I were with them. But am guessing that maybe I am.

Laura & John's Giambotta
Recipe

1 chicken breast quartered
1 medium onion (vidalia) sliced
3-4 garlic cloves, lightly crushed
4-5 carrots, sliced in good-sized chunks
2 celery stalks & their leaves, sliced
1-2 potatoes, chunked
1-2 googootz (squash)
Water or chicken broth to cover
Salt, pepper, oregano, basil, hot pepper flakes to taste
A diced fresh tomato or two if you like

Cut squash into 4"-6" lengths, then peel, seed and cut into chunks
Brown chicken in olive oil, then add onions and cook until tender
Add squash, carrots, celery, potatoes, garlic
Cover with water or broth (add more during cooking, if needed), bring to boil, then lower to a simmer and add salt, pepper, herbs
Cook partially covered for 30-40 minutes
Check water level during cooking (it should be not quite a soup, more like a stew in consistency)

A word from John: This recipe is good for 2 hungry eaters. But giambotta is even better the next day, and so I always up the ingredients and make extra.

A word from Laura: Shut up and eat already, would you please!

How to plant garlic—today!

Want to grow your own garlic? Right now is the time to plant for next year.

All you'll need to get started is some garlic heads, because it's the cloves that go into the ground. I planted mine this past week.

I've known people (my uncle Dominic, for instance) who could grow anything, anywhere, no matter what the condition of the soil. I'm not one of those people. I add compost and organic fertilizer to my soil, both at the beginning and end of the season. On September 17th, my mother's birthday as it happens, I amended the soil where next year's garlic would be planted.

Loosening the soil is a must before starting out. I'm planting in raised beds here, but I've heard that people grow garlic in pots, too. I don't see any reason why that wouldn't work, and so if that's your preference (or best available option), I say go with it.

Punch a series of small holes in the soil about six inches apart with whatever tool you like (I just use my fingers or a stick) and you're ready to go.

This garlic came from a farm about an hour from my home. I chose it for two reasons: I've cooked with it before and like it a lot; and I know for a fact that it's been grown successfully in my area. Garlic can grow year round in mild climates, but I don't live in a mild climate, I live in Maine. In places where winters are cold, the idea is to plant early enough in the Fall that roots can establish before the ground freezes. I know plenty of people who grow whatever garlic they can get their hands on, and so I'm probably just being overly cautious on picking a garlic for planting. Do whatever you think is best and I'm sure things will turn out fine.

This garlic is also pricey ($11 a pound). However, four big heads amounted to more than 40 garlic cloves that were suitable for planting. By suitable I mean that they were large. You know those little cloves that you find near the center of many garlic heads, especially the ones most supermarkets carry? Don't plant those. Try and plant only the larger cloves, like those that are around the outer portion of the head.

Anyway, all you need to do is break apart your garlic heads. And don't bother peeling the skin off of the cloves, because it isn't necessary.

There are two critical things to make certain of when planting garlic: The cloves must go into the ground pointed side up, flat side down; and they must be buried at least two inches deep.

Leaving six inches between cloves is plenty of space for garlic to grow nicely, though I left a little more than that.

After covering the cloves with soil, I laid down a few inches of mulch as protection from the cold. I don't remove the mulch come spring because it helps to control the weeds all summer long.

And I'm hoping that late next summer I'll harvest garlic that looks just like this.

Maybe you will too.