If I Can't Have Orange Sweet Peas, I'll Take Orange Potatoes!

Prince of Orange potatoes aglow in September's golden light
Photo: Chronica Domus

You might recall my recent post describing my fruitless attempts at growing orange colored sweet peas, found here, and how the variety called Prince of Orange turned out to be nothing more than a very pretty shade of pink.  Well, last Saturday morning while trolling the groaning farmers' market stands stocked with late-summer produce, I noticed a different Prince of Orange.  Wait a minute! Did I really just clap eyes upon an orange-hued potato?  Indeed I did, and here's the proof:

I was delighted to unload my market basket with the spoils of the morning, including this brown paper bag, overflowing with some very photogenic orange-hued potatoes
Photo: Chronica Domus

Wouldn't you just know it, these earthy tubers, no bigger than a few inches in length, are the most flavorful potatoes I've had the pleasure of sampling in quite a while.  And, yes, they really are orange!
Their interior is equally delightful to the eye, possessing a glorious sunny-yellow flesh. Prince of Orange might very well be the most strikingly handsome spud of them all.

What a lovely surprise to discover that Prince of Orange's interior is as colorful as its skin
Photo: Chronica Domus

I prepared the potatoes simply, so that their delicious, creamy flavor might remain front and center. Boiled, then coated in extra virgin olive oil and chopped Italian flat-leaf parsley, a liberal sprinkling of salt, and a few cracks of the pepper mill, and my princely potatoes were ready for the table.  Need I say it, they were heavenly!

Having frequented the farmers' markets in my area for many years, I remain perpetually awestruck by the range of unfamiliar fruit and vegetable varieties, both modern and heirloom, that are cultivated by our local farmers.  How grateful I remain for their steadfast toil and dedication in delivering their glorious fresh bounty to market, well before the sun comes up so that we, their appreciative fans, are able to eat so well.

Can you recall the last time you sampled an unfamiliar yet enjoyable variety of vegetable or fruit?

A Fondness For Rhubarb

One of the glories of spring, at least for me, is the appearance of the season's first rosy stalks of rhubarb available at the market. This past Saturday, I had the pleasure of excitedly filling my wicker basket with almost three pounds of the stuff during a jaunt to the city's most popular farmers' market. What a lucky girl I am!

Photo: Chronica Domus

I love the taste of rhubarb and have since childhood.  I recall my favorite school dinners - or the midday meal we British children erroneously knew as such - coming to a delightful close whenever rhubarb crumble was served for pudding dessert.  Lashings of hot custard would gleefully be poured atop the crumble making for an even more decadent treat. Today, while I still adore rhubarb crumble, puddles of cool heavy cream have taken the place of the custard.

Rhubarb with custard was such a popular childhood treat that whenever I found myself, along with my two sisters, down at the local sweet shop with five pennies worth of spending power to hand, I would always load up my white paper baggie with old-fashioned rhubarb and custard hard boiled sweets. While my sisters took their dear time in making their confectionery selections - which I'm certain must have driven the poor shopkeeper to distraction - I was always the decisive one.

"Oh, I'll take one of those and two of these please"

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Even today, whenever I travel to England, I still pack a couple of small bags of these childhood indulgences into my hand luggage for the journey back to California. Old habits truly do die hard.

For reasons I cannot fathom, rhubarb is not as popular in the United States as it is in England. Perhaps its piquant tangy flavor fails to appeal to the masses.  Or, might it be the fact that the leaves of rhubarb are deleterious if consumed, scaring some away from experimenting with it in the kitchen? Rhubarb was first introduced into the United States during the late-eighteenth century by a European farmer in Maine.  Over time, it became a popular pie filling, earning its nickname of "pie plant". Curiously, on the few occasions I have spotted rhubarb making an appearance in a pie recipe, or for that matter in jam form, it has always been accompanied by strawberries to sweeten the deal.  I am most decidedly not a fan!  In my ever-so-humble opinion, rhubarb should always remain the star of the show; a rosy leading lady deserving of her own uncrowded stage.

Although rhubarb is by definition a vegetable, it is treated as a fruit in the culinary world.  Sugar is rhubarb's best friend.  Believe me when I say that even though I am a fan of tart and acidic flavors, dousing rhubarb in heaps of sugar barely makes a dent to its mouth-puckering powers.

I would feel as though I have done a good deed were I to persuade you to try this spring vegetable for yourself the next time you stumble upon it at your local market.  I'm certain that once you've sampled the deliciously fragrant and fleshy stalks, cooked into an easy-to-make crumble, you too will wake up to rhubarb's tarty pleasures.

Chopped and in the pan, the rhubarb is ready to be enrobed in heaps of sugar and butter over the heat of a low flame

Photo: Chronica Domus

If you find yourself making the rhubarb crumble recipe found here, I suggest you double the amount of sugar required for the filling as I find the extra sweetness more capably manages to balance the tartness of the rhubarb.  Oh, and there is no need to seek out the super-fine sugar that is called for in the recipe.  The granulated variety works just as well.

Even a child can make this easy peasy crumble topping

Photo: Chronica Domus

A generous helping of rhubarb crumble ready to be bathed in heavy cream and washed down with a pot of French pressed coffee - what a delightful Sunday afternoon treat!

Photo: Chronica Domus

Tell me, have you had occasion to sample rhubarb and if so, how was it prepared and what did you think of it?

Colcannon From The Garden

Deliciously fragrant home-grown leeks given to me by a neighbor friend last week

Photo: Chronica Domus

The recent and much welcomed rain we have experienced here in northern California has put the late-winter vegetable garden into overdrive.   The arugula planted from seed last summer is still going strong.  In fact, it has become positively wild, running amok and sprouting peppery leaves in abundance.  The piquant bounty is always a welcome addition to the salad bowl where it peps up the milder flavored lettuces.  

Back in November, I planted six Tuscan kale seedlings that have matured to an impressive size. Brassica oleracea, to give it its botanical name, is an heirloom variety that was once favored by Thomas Jefferson and grown at Monticello as early as 1777. I can well understand why.  This particular kale looks exceedingly graceful as it stretches skyward in its slender dark-green finery. The taste, by the way, is delicious.

Tuscan Kale

Photo: Chronica Domus

The Red Russian kale I planted in the fertile soil alongside its darker cousin has reached its peak with bountiful and appetizing results.  This too is an heirloom, boasting painterly purple spines and broad scalloped leaves.

Red Russian kale was introduced to Canada from Siberia by Russian traders in 1885

Photo: Chronica Domus

I'm afraid the impressive kale plants have had to suffer some embarrassingly weedy bed fellows. Below are my very feeble-looking leeks, appearing more akin to diminutive scallions than the statuesque vegetable they are supposed to resemble.

Oh dear, what can the matter be,
two dozen leeks refuse to grow up you see

Photo: Chronica Domus

The leeks were started by my good friend and neighbor Gavin, who gave them to me in October and encouraged me to plant them.  He promised the leeks would be easy to cultivate.  Last week, Gavin came by for dinner and generously shared his home-grown bounty of fragrant leeks with us. I show them in the photograph at the onset of this post.  I was agog to discover we had planted our leeks around the same time. As can be clearly seen, the outcome differed wildly to my own.  Gavin is convinced that my stunted plants have been denied adequate sunlight for they lurk in shade for much of the day.  I suspect he is correct in his diagnosis.  Ah well, we tireless gardeners live and learn and are constantly humbled by Mother Nature's tomfoolery.

With copious amounts of kale and Gavin's beautiful leeks at hand, I took the opportunity to cook up a batch of Colcannon, a traditional Irish dish that is a marvelous comfort food during the cooler months of the year.  According to the Oxford Companion of Food, Colcannon was introduced to England during the eighteenth century where it soon, surprisingly, became a favorite of the upper classes. I say surprisingly because the primary ingredient of Colcannon is the humble potato, a vegetable surely enjoyed by all classes of society. Perhaps it was the addition of costly cream and butter that precluded the poorer classes from enjoying it as often as the rest of society.  By the mid-nineteenth century, Americans came to know the dish through the recent influx of immigrants from Ireland.

Colcannon can be made with whatever greens one has on hand and very often includes either cabbage or kale, scallions, leeks, and onions.

A trug full of delicious Red Russian Kale freshly picked from the vegetable garden

Photo: Chronica Domus

I followed the recipe found here, but added three of Gavin's medium-sized leeks which I sliced thinly and cooked in butter until lightly browned.  I then added that to the kale and scallions.  I believe the flavorsome leeks really enhance the earthy taste of Colcannon.

The kale, leek, and scallion mixture take but a few minutes to cook

Photo: Chronica Domus

Ah, something smells good!

Photo: Chronica Domus

Colcannon is an excellent substitute for plain Jane mashed potatoes.  It is also an extremely tasty way of meeting one's daily vegetable eating allowance, which is especially handy for those picky junior diners that would rather push away their greens than eat them.  Thank goodness my own daughter falls firmly into Oliver Twist's "more please" camp.

Photo: Chronica Domus

If you are looking for ways of tarting up your mashed potatoes, and incorporating healthy leafy green vegetables into your diet, look no further than Colcannon. No matter how much of it you make, I'll guarantee everyone at your table will be asking for more.

Possibly The Best Cranberry Sauce Ever

Black Mission figs and fragrant rosemary are what make this cranberry sauce recipe such a smash hit

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've never quite understood the need to serve cranberry sauce with turkey.  However, food traditions are hard to break, especially when one is trying one's best as a hostess to adhere to long-established Thanksgiving fare which is, after all, part and parcel of the holiday.

In England, turkey is the traditional meat of choice for the majority of households on Christmas day (goose a close second).  I only ever recall the presence of cranberry sauce at table in the years we were to spend Christmas day at my uncle and aunt's house.  My aunt was an excellent cook, a real powerhouse that would whip up a storm for a crowd with little fuss and with all the execution of a military exercise.  She made everything from scratch except, that is, the cranberry sauce.  The solid red unidentifiable canned mass that was presented on a plate was so dense it could actually be sliced. Aside from the color, I don't think anyone would actually be able to guess there were real cranberries in that "sauce" (isn't sauce supposed to be somewhat runny by nature?).  No wonder the stuff never made an appearance at my own parents' table.  The last time I celebrated Christmas at the home of my uncle and aunt, I noticed an upgrade had come about.  The cranberry sauce came out of a jar, which to my eye looked infinitely more appealing than its canned cousin.  Yet, I was unable to bring myself to sample it.

It was not until I started cooking Thanksgiving dinner for my own family and friends here in America that I realized cranberry sauce is considered a staple, and fully expected to make an appearance on the big day as much as pumpkin pie.  What was a girl to do?  Would I crumble and bring myself to purchase a can of the gelatinous goop passed off as cranberry sauce?

Mulling things over for all but a few seconds, I decided the answer was a resounding no.  Absolutely not!  I was happy to give the can the cold shoulder at my table, thank you very much!  You see, it was through the thoughtful act of a friend that passed along her old copies of  Bon Appétit magazine that I long ago unearthed the best recipe (possibly) in the world for home cooked cranberry sauce.

I was chuffed to bits to discover that the sauce was really rather simple to make, requiring little output for the result, and it could be made up to a week in advance when one's kitchen is still relatively quiet as compared to the frenzy of activity leading up to Thanksgiving.  Today, the recipe is published electronically, here, if you too wish to give the can the boot and make your sauce from scratch.

The ingredients simmering away prior to the cranberries being added
(warning: your kitchen is about to be enveloped in a heavenly aroma!)

Photo: Chronica Domus

The addition of figs, fresh rosemary, and an unexpected dash of black pepper are what make this version of cranberry sauce so memorable.  You might very well think the combination is an odd one, but together with the ruby port wine (I've used both ruby and reserve port depending on what I had on hand), and an aged viscous balsamic vinegar, you are assured of a winner.

Fresh cranberries popping in the sauce pan

Photo: Chronica Domus

The cranberries are cooked a few minutes longer than the recipe suggests which insures that all the berries have broken down

Photo: Chronica Domus

The finished cranberry sauce glistens in its Anglo-Irish cut glass bowl

Photo: Chronica domus

Although those of your fortunate guests who expect cranberry sauce to be served alongside their turkey and trimmings will rave about its flavor, it is by no means my favorite use of the sauce.  No, for that I turn to dessert.

An early-nineteenth century syllabub glass holds the icy fruity treat

Photo: Chronica Domus

You see, a smattering of this delightfully fruity stuff, warmed in a pan just before serving, makes an incredible topping for a dollop or two of vanilla ice cream.  The tart fruity sauce really pairs well with the creaminess of the ice cream, and is a big winner each time I serve it for dessert around the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. Besides, it is a most delicious solution of what to do with the inevitable leftover sauce (the recipe yields just over three cups).

Please do venture forth into your kitchen over the next week and make a batch of this memorable version of cranberry sauce.  I'm certain your guests will thank you for it.

Does cranberry sauce make an appearance at your Thanksgiving table and if so, is it homemade or canned?

Yes You Can!

The first homemade pumpkin pie of the season

Photo: Chronica Domus

When I bid adieu to England and moved to America in the early 1990's, I had no idea what pumpkin pie was.  I imagined it was a savory concoction akin to a plump pork pie.

England's famous pork pies

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I soon learned that it was not a pie at all, but rather a tart. At least it was according to my cultural point of reference (a pie, as I understood it at the time, possessed a pastry top and bottom, a tart just a bottom).  I was also intrigued to discover that pumpkin tart pie was not at all savory as one might expect when eating squash.  In fact, the delectably sweet and custard-like filling was reminiscent of a childhood favorite dessert, the mysteriously named Gypsy Tart, dished out as part of one's school dinners.  Ah, what fond memories I have of woofing slices of that down the hatch!  I could have given Oliver Twist a run for his money I can assure you.

Gypsy Tart, possibly my fondest memory of school dinners 

and not too dissimilar in texture to pumpkin tart pie

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My inaugural slice of velvety pumpkin tart pie was served to me at my mother-in-law's house during my very first Thanksgiving feast. My American husband explained that it was his favorite pie, and a staple at practically every Thanksgiving table in the country. It is what Christmas pudding is to a British Christmas.  He was certainly right on that score.  Now that I consider myself a seasoned pumpkin tart pie eater, I would go as far as declaring it the quintessential American pie, even more so than apple.  I know of no other country that features this particular pie flavoring as part of its national cuisine.

I soon added pumpkin tart pie to my baking repertoire and make at least two of them for our annual Thanksgiving dinner for waifs and strays.  Being a curious cook, and one that enjoys using fresh local ingredients and cooking from scratch, I was quite taken aback to discover that most recipes I stumbled across called for canned pumpkin. Well, I was having none of that I can tell you!  No, I was determined to make my very own filling, the old-fashioned way, just as it was done by the early eighteenth century New England cooks to celebrate their regional holiday.  I'll admit, that ridiculous notion lasted all but a few time-consuming and pointless attempts.  For, you see, fiddling about with rock-hard pumpkins, slimy and slippery orange flesh, and sharp kitchen knives is not a happy combination, or a worthwhile pursuit. At least it's not if you have this not so secret weapon at your disposal:

It's not known as "America's Favorite Pumpkin" for nothing

Photo: Chronica Domus

Yes, shockingly to me, here is a case where canned proves to be a better option than the rigmarole of making purée from scratch.  The contents are consistently smooth and firm (unlike my dismal soupy attempts), and most importantly they are flavorful. Why reinvent the wheel when you don't have to?  Best of all, a fail-safe recipe is thoughtfully provided right there on the label.

Now, if you too are tempted to make your own pumpkin tarts pies, and should you decide to use this recipe, I shall disclose upfront that I've tinkered with the spice proportions.  In my not-so-humble opinion, it makes quite an improvement in flavor to the final outcome.  I believe the amount of cinnamon called for in the Libby's recipe (1 teaspoon) completely overpowers the other spices so I reduce the quantity by half, and introduce freshly grated nutmeg (about 1/2 teaspoon) as a substitute. This infuses the filling with a pleasantly subtle aroma and flavor that is difficult to describe but must be tried. I also insist on using whole cloves that I crush with the aid of my trusty mortar and pestle.

There is something quite satisfying about bashing the living daylights out of one's spices, to say nothing of the aroma that fills the kitchen air

Photo: Chronica Domus

It is this combination and proportion of fresh spices that sets my tarts pies apart from the potpourri-smelling examples one so often encounters on supermarket shelves. At least that is what I've been told by those that have sampled them.  Of course, homemade pastry is a must and I strongly encourage you too to make your own. I have been using this recipe ever since I crossed the pond, and discovered it in Martha Stewart's Pies and Tarts cookbook, a copy of which was given to me by a friend who did not bake.  Incidentally, the pastry recipe also works well for savory filled pies too, as the amount of sugar called for is imperceptible.

Ready to pop into the hot oven

Photo: Chronica Domus

I do hope that you too will consider skipping the awful supermarket pretenders and instead make a few tarts pies for your Thanksgiving feast this year. If I can do it as a transplanted Brit, albeit with the help of Libby's, you can too.

With the addition of a little whipped cream, our pie was swiftly devoured as part 

of our Sunday dinner last weekend

Photo: Chronica Domus

Tell me, do you serve pumpkin pie to your family and friends on Thanksgiving day, or do you have another favorite that makes an appearance at your table?  And, for those of you that bake, do you opt for canned pumpkin purée or make your own?

 Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.

Life Is Sweet!

My rose scented geranium in bloom

Photo: Chronica Domus

The days of popping around to one's neighbors to borrow a cup of sugar are long gone, thanks in part to the recent demonization of sugar.  However, if you were to consider dropping by my house, you'd be welcome to borrow more than a cup or two, or even a lump or three, come to think of it.

If I offer a hot beverage to my guests, I always fill the sugar bowl with those irregularly shaped brown sugar cubes.  I love the way they smell, and my guests tell me they appreciate their taste (I do not personally require the addition of sugar in my tea or coffee).

Cooking with sugar, however, is quite another matter.  A well-stocked pantry of sugar travels far within the realms of my kitchen.  Alongside the expected granulated and powdered varieties, I find myself reaching for brown sugar, and the deliciously caramel-like demarara.  One other sugar that I use frequently is vanilla sugar.

I've been flavoring sugar with vanilla beans for as long as I've been baking, which is to say a very long time.  Vanilla sugar is a lovely alternative to plain old granulated sugar when called for in pies and tarts, or when macerating berries and fruit.  I even use it when making pastry cream and custard. A vanilla bean cut in half and buried in a jar of granulated sugar for several weeks is all that is required to make vanilla sugar. Culinary tasks don't get much simpler than this little exercise in sweetness.  I encourage you to try it for yourself.

Homemade vanilla sugar in the making

Photo: Chronica Domus

Earlier this year while visiting a favorite plant nursery, I happened to brush past a grouping of rose geranium plants, or Pelargonium graveolens to use their botanical name.  If you've ever smelled the leaves of these aromatic wonders, you shall not soon forget them.  The rosy perfume released upon gently rubbing one's fingers along the plant's hairy leaves is quite arresting.  My mother kept a rose geranium potted up for years in my childhood garden, which she moved indoors for the winter.  As you might have already guessed, I could not leave the nursery without buying a rose geranium for myself.  I did this not only for sentimental reasons - the smell alone evoked so many fond memories - but also for the fact that these attractive plants are rather a useful thing to have around the kitchen.

The pretty little pink flowers are edible and look marvelous when scattered atop lashings of whipped cream and served with berries, or atop homemade vanilla ice cream.  Best of all, of course, is that the fragrant leaves can be used to flavor sugar.

Pick, wash, and pat dry several of the fragrant leaves then place them between layers of white granulated sugar.  For my small jar, I used about fifteen leaves.  Replace the lid of the jar and leave intact for several weeks.  Use to your heart's content thereafter.

Arrange rose geranium leaves between layers of granulated sugar

Photo: Chronica Domus

Almost to the brim now

Photo: Chronica Domus

Tell me, do you use sugar in your kitchen and if so have you tried flavored sugars? How about tea and coffee, one lump or two?

Rising To The Occasion: Adventures in Soufflé

Homemade cheese soufflé rising to the occasion

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've been on a bit of a soufflé kick as of late.  It all started one evening in New York, during our recent holiday.  Sitting down to dinner at Swifty's, I was enticed by the cheese soufflé on the menu.  Not only did it sound delicious and appealing, but I realized it had been an age since I had the privilege of ordering one in a restaurant. As anticipated, the soufflé was glorious, making for a tasty and filling dinner alongside the green salad and mustard sauce which accompanied it so perfectly.  I managed to down the lofty dome in very short order indeed.

A perfect cheese souffle as served at Swifty's Restaurant in New York

Photo: Chronica Domus

Several evenings later, while ordering dinner at The Carlyle Restaurant, our affable captain inquired as to whether we'd like to sample the soufflé for dessert, so that he could notify the chef with ample time to prepare, if we so desired.  "Why, of course", we bleated.  Actually, by some misguided choice on my part, I foolishly opted to skip dessert so only two orders of soufflé would be sent up to the chef.

While sipping my after dinner coffee, basking in the enjoyment of dining on a most toothsome meal in such agreeable and elegant surroundings, the two soufflés arrived at our table.

Dessert anyone?

Photo: Chronica Domus

Despite my pretense of resisting the lure of dessert, the inevitable ensued and I quickly succumbed to the tantalizing vision before my eyes (thank you, dear family, for sharing).  I really should stop kidding myself that I have even a tendril of willpower within me to resist such culinary (and calorific) treats. I blushed, slightly, when our wise (and experienced) captain discretely slid an extra spoon beside my coffee cup.

Oh, what joy it was to dive into the Grand Marnier soufflé.  My husband and I declared it the booziest either of us have sampled, not that that was a bad thing mind you. It was nothing short of ambrosial, especially when drenched in the accompanying orange crème anglaise.  My daughter was in raptures over her voluptuous raspberry puff, from which I stole more than a few bites.

I've not stopped thinking of soufflé since returning to California so one night last week I finally indulged my cravings and actually whipped one up for dinner.  I believe my last attempt at what most of us would consider an exercise in temperamental culinary gymnastics was about five years past, and I don't exactly know why I've not made another since.  It really isn't all that difficult if one is organized and possesses at least a minimum of skill around the kitchen, a soufflé dish, and a pinch of patience. Although I do enjoy the romanticized notion of whipping one's egg whites with a huge balloon whisk and a beautiful copper bowl, an electric mixer is a marvelous modern convenience.

A successful soufflé requires the freshest of eggs

Photo: Chronica Domus

I followed the recipe, found here, and substituted mature Irish cheddar cheese for the suggested Gruyere, which I find imparts a more robust cheese flavor to the soufflé.  

The egg whites were whipped up in no time thanks to my trusty electric mixer

Photo: Chronica Domus

A combination of the freshest eggs available and the wonders of a modern oven that heats evenly is imperative to a successful outcome.  Oh, and please, no peeking into the oven allowed, at least for the first twenty minutes.  We wouldn't want to possibly deflate all of our hard work now would we?

Ready for the hot oven

Photo: Chronica Domus

Voila! A towering billowy vision of deliciousness

Photo: Chronica Domus

Dinner, I am overjoyed to report, was a resounding success, accompanied by a mixed baby greens salad and a bottle of wine shared, of course, with my husband.  The cheese soufflé turned out exactly as I had anticipated, light and airy and not a spoonful remained by the end of our meal.  We feasted like kings at our very own kitchen table. 

Light and fluffy and ready for the table

Photo: Chronica Domus

A few days later, I was itching to try my hand at making a soufflé fit for dessert, something I had not previously attempted having only dabbled in the savory sort.  As practically everyone I know enjoys the taste of chocolate, I quickly settled on that and got to work concocting a delicious sauce to accompany my soufflé.  Orange, followed closely by raspberry, are my two favorite flavors to pair with chocolate, and as my husband had just completed his annual marmalade tour de force, and a little extra blood orange marmalade was available, I used that as the base for the sauce.  Two teaspoons of the marmalade, along with a splash of Grand Marnier liqueur, and lashings of double cream, combined and gently heated until warmed, produced the most sinful of sauces to pour over the decadent chocolate soufflé.  What an exquisite combination this was!  Instantly, I began to worry for my hip to waist ratio as I sensed this could very easily become my kind of comfort food.

It may not look pretty but believe me, this was manna from heaven

Photo: Chronica Domus

I think I've finally thankfully exhausted satisfied my soufflé cooking and eating adventures for the present, but fear not as I'm sure the beast within will rise again, just like a successful soufflé, to tempt me down the slippery road to calorific ruin.

Has a particularly satisfying restaurant meal ever inspired you to embark upon such a kitchen escapade, and if so which memorable food led you there?  

Home At Last: The Reopening of Chuck Williams' First Shop

Home at last: A sign announcing the reopening of Chuck Williams' first shop in Sonoma, California, originally opened from 1956 to 1958

Photo: Chronica Domus

For any of my American and Canadian readers that have an interest in home cooking, they would have at some point in the past half century darkened the doors of America's premier culinary supply mecca, Williams-Sonoma. The company, whose stores are to be found in most metropolitan areas, stock a range of high-quality cookware and bakeware. One can find every conceivable piece of equipment required to build a batterie de cuisine to rival that of Antoine Carême.

The founder, Charles Williams, or Chuck as he likes to be called, was responsible for introducing American cooks to the finest, most practical and beautiful kitchen equipment, discovered on his travels as a young lad in Europe.

Mr. Williams opened his first shop in 1956 in the small wine country town of Sonoma, California. Initially, he sold only hardware but soon transformed the shop into a cook's paradise, stocking classic French kitchen equipment not found elsewhere. The emporium rapidly became a roaring success with a loyal following of enthusiastic home cooks and professional chefs alike. It soon became apparent that if the business was to further expand and continue showcasing the quality cookware Mr. Williams was introducing to the American market, he would have to relocate his shop to the big city. So, after two short years, the little shop in Sonoma was shuttered, reopening at its new location in the heart of San Francisco's shopping district. The rest, as they say, is history.

The original Williams-Sonoma shopfront, seen above at left, as it appeared between 1956 and 1958

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The shopfront as photographed on Saturday, October 4, 2014 during the re-opening celebrations
Photo: Chronica Domus

This past Saturday, Mr. Williams came home again. In celebration of his ninety-ninth birthday, the original Sonoma outpost was reopened to great fanfare, fifty-six years since it closed its doors. The Broadway Street location has been remodeled almost exactly as it appeared in 1958, with its simple white open shelving and classic black and white checkered flooring. Even the original shop sign has been reinstated and hangs proudly outside under the smart striped awning.

I say "almost exactly as it appeared" because the store has now expanded to fill the entire building and is divided into two parts; the original small shop front in replica form to the original, and the new addition of a cooking school off to the side. Mr. Williams' house, situated directly behind his shop, and which he once shared with his mother, has also been incorporated into the retail experience. Today, one can walk freely between the shop floor and the house, which has been restored and showcases the company's home goods. Mr. Williams' bedroom and office have been recreated, as has his private kitchen downstairs.

An interior view of the original shop showcasing the best of Mr. Williams' European culinary finds

Photo: Chronica Domus

Vintage cake pans and unusual tin geometric food molds from the company's culinary archives are incorporated into the displays of new items and are available for sale

Photo: Chronica Domus

The small original shop space showcases the early items that first propelled Williams-Sonoma to success; Apilco and Pillivuyt porcelain, including the iconic cow creamer, heavy copper pots, pans and kettles, steel vegetable mandolines, and even British Dualit toasters.

A table laden with classic French porcelain including the iconic cow creamer and vintage English ironstone and ceramic molds

Photo: Chronica Domus

Not only are new items to be found stacked on old wooden tables and lining the neat rows of white shelving, but antique and vintage items pulled from the company's culinary archives, and found by Mr. Williams in European antiques shops and markets, are also available for sale. I saw many covetable English copper jelly molds from the late 19th century, and several ironstone food molds that could have easily made their way home with me, but, alas, my cupboards are filled and my shelves are groaning, so one needs to be disciplined in such matters nowadays.

An artful display of copper culinary objects graces the walls of the original shop

Photo: Chronica Domus

Beautiful antique English copper molds that had me quivering like a jelly

Photo: Chronica Domus

More vintage finds presented like a museum exhibit on the walls of the original shop

Photo: Chronica Domus

The newer area of the expanded premises is chock-full of other tools, gadgets, equipment, and ingredients required to whip up a feast fit for a king.  The impressive demonstration kitchen, where cooking lessons are taught to small groups, can also be found here.

A view of the demonstration kitchen being used to concoct culinary goodies that were handed out to those attending the reopening celebration event

Photo: Chronica Domus

The newer side of the shop displays fine cooking oils, vinegars and condiments that elevate one's home cooking to chef status - Mr. Williams is credited with introducing American cooks to Balsamic vinegar and Maldon salt

Photo: Chronica Domus

Mr. Williams was a true visionary when he started his little business back in the 1950's and was instrumental in changing the way Americans cook at home. He was able to convince companies like KitchenAid, who supplied restaurateurs with their powerful mixer, to develop a version befitting the home cook, and also talk Le Creuset into producing their classic flaming orange colored cookware in a rainbow of colors that would appeal to a greater audience.

Hundreds of enthusiastic cooks and foodies made the pilgrimage to the reopening celebration this past Saturday in the sweltering heat of the Bay Area's Indian summer. Watching everyone buzzing about, examining the wares on offer and touring the shop, kitchen garden, and house in the back, one felt a sense of hope that perhaps the simple and grounding act of preparing home-cooked meals is still alive and well in a world where convenience foods abound, and when many of us eat out more and more frequently. Personally, Mr. Williams has made the preparation of my meals much more pleasurable and convenient by way of the many items he has deftly sourced for my kitchen over the years. Whenever my English relatives come to visit, they always ask to be taken to the flagship store on Union Square to shop for gifts and unusual tools to use in their own kitchens. Perhaps in the not-too-distant future, Williams-Sonoma will consider crossing the pond to introduce legions of British cooks to the delights of the many American culinary gadgets Mr. Williams has unearthed.

A framed photograph of Chuck Williams hangs on a wall in the back of the house along with many other portraits of him, newspaper clippings and company memorabilia

Photo: Chronica Domus

If you find yourself in the pleasant environs of California's wine country, I do urge you to add this marvelous little shop to your travel itinerary, especially if you, like me, enjoy dabbling in the kitchen.

Do you have a favorite kitchen gadget that you discovered on your travels, was passed down from a family member, or picked up at one of Mr. Williams' stores?


Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.