Country Captain, or Captain Chicken?

A little over a year ago, I came across this interesting article about a classic southern dish called Country Captain. I've long been intrigued by both southern food and its charming naming conventions for recipes, and Country Captain was no exception. The name alone reminded me of pirates, romance novels, and Junior League housewives all at once.

Although I had yet to make it, I quickly became obsessed with Country Captain and would talk about it to anyone who would listen. I happen to have a friend from Charleston, South Carolina, one of the several rumored origins of this dish, and I bugged her about it for awhile, but dropped the subject when I sensed the friendship might be hinging on whether or not I mentioned it one more damn time.

The husband bore the brunt of my yammering, although whether he was a willing listener is debatable.

"I don't understand what it is," he kept saying.

"It's a 19th century, sort of Americanized, southernized chicken curry. With currants. And almonds. You eat it with rice," I added, as if that detail might help.

The more I tried to explain what this dish that I'd never eaten tasted like, the more muddled the conversation became. The odd name only added to the confusion. Finally, it simply morphed from Country Captain to Captain Chicken, which was both easier to remember and good for a laugh.

Eventually Captain Chicken got lost in the endless shuffle that is my ever-growing list of "to-make" recipes. But a few weeks ago, I spied this recipe in Bon Appetit, and within a few days I came across another recipe for it in the book I'm reading, Ham Biscuits, Hostess Gowns, and Other Southern Specialites, by Julia Reed.

The time had come to take Captain Chicken from myth to reality. So on Sunday, I did what I should have done 13 months ago and gave the dish a try, using the first recipe I had spotted, from The New York Times. All three recipes were quite similar but this one seemed the most modern and likely to suit me best.

It was exactly the kind of dish I like to make. There was some chopping and sauteeing, chicken browning in a pan, and then everything went into the oven to simmer slowly. When it was ready, I served it over steamed rice and garnished it with currants, toasted slivered almonds, crumbled bacon, and some mango chutney.

To my surprise, Captain Chicken exceeded my wildest hopes. It was complex and savory, with sweetness from the currants, a hint of heat from the curry, and a welcome crunch from the almonds. It reminded me of the chicken cacciatore my dad used to make, with an Indian flair.

The husband also gave it a thumbs up.

"Good Captain Chicken," he said, pushing aside his cleaned plate, as though he'd eaten hundreds of versions of it over a lifetime and this one ranked among the best.

But, I'll take compliments where I can get them. And if you like compliments, too, you should give this one a go. It's quite delicious. Do make sure you season the sauce well before it goes into the oven, and don't skip the condiments--they are critical to the dish. But most of all, see if you can help me change the name from Country Captain to Captain Chicken. It's catchy, and seems primed for a ridiculous logo. I mean, do I even have to describe it to you? A jaunty chicken in a captain's hat, sailing a sea of curry. Tell me you don't love it!

Carrot and carrot soup

Hello, friends! Miss me?

Haven't posted in a few days, due to a few different reasons: had a cold, was taking care of Frances who was recovering from another bout of vertigo, and was generally feeling crabby, all of which contributed to not cooking much and therefore having nothing to post about. But by yesterday, my cold was mostly gone, Frances was on the mend, and while I was still a little crabby, I was starting to get my cooking mojo back.

I was in the mood to cook but not in the mood to go to the store. A quick inventory of our refrigerator revealed slim pickings, but I had the few ingredients I needed to make carrot soup, which was exactly what I was craving: something bright, pretty, healthy, and quick.

Have you noticed that lots of carrot soups are called carrot and something soup? Carrot and orange. Carrot and curry. Carrot and ginger. Carrot and parsnip.

While there are a few other ingredients in this soup, such as leeks and potato, carrots are the main event. Have we discussed my love of carrots yet? No? Let's do it now. I love carrots raw, roasted, sauteed, stir-fried, pureed into soup, baked into cake, shredded in salad, fried into tempura. I even came across a mention today of a carrot loaf, which, if you can believe it, made my mouth water a little bit. My carrot love is no joke.

So last night I decided to let the carrots shine. I used the same old method I always use, but this time I left out the cream and sprinkled the top with chives. While I was finishing up the soup, the husband made a turkey sandwich on toasted herb bread, cut it in half, and put one half on each of our plates.

My carrot and carrot soup was mild and creamy, with a savory background from the leeks, and depth from homemade chicken stock. A soup and sandwich dinner is a bit unusual for us, but I must say it hit the spot. While I'm not quite back to my usual cooking self, this lovely orange soup was a step in the right direction.

Baking ambivalence: chocolate spice bread

When I came across this recipe in David Lebovitz's book, The Sweet Life in Paris, I was immediately intrigued. The ingredient list was unusual, calling for cocoa, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and fennel seed; both honey and sugar; and four eggs (two whole plus two yolks).

I wanted to make the bread but something didn't seem right. Why was it called a bread and not a cake? Chocolate bread sounded...weird, but not entirely off-putting. I decided to make it.

It's a simple recipe, although it does have a few more steps than some of the other quick breads and cakes I like to make. There's lining the pan with parchment paper, which requires tracing and cutting, whipping the eggs with the honey, melting the chocolate with the butter, lots of gentle folding, and sifting the dry ingredients. For some reason, I have an aversion to sifting. Don't ask me why. I just bare my teeth a tiny bit, like a little wolf, when I see the words, sift together.

This is what it looked like before I turned it out. You'll notice I got a little messy when pouring the batter in. I call it homespun. I've noticed that if you call things homespun or rustic, you can get away with being sloppy.

What did it taste like? you're wondering.

It's not super sweet, which is maybe why it's called a bread. But it looks and acts like a cake and would be good with whipped cream or ice cream. Then, to confuse matters, it's more dense than cakey, calling to mind a brownie that got kidnapped and sold to the spice trade.

Friends, this is a strange recipe. I like it, but I don't. It has a deep chocolate flavor, which I enjoy, and the spices provide a complex background. They are not subtle, and I like that; there's no doubt they play nearly as prominent a role as the chocolate itself, which comes in two forms, melted semisweet and unsweetened cocoa powder. This cake would be good for those who like their desserts to be thought-provoking.

Simpletons like me, though, we like chocolate cake to taste like chocolate cake--or sometimes like rootbeer cake. Also, I like frosting on cakes. Cakes without frosting are sad. It's not the Great Depression, people. We can afford to make frosting now. No wars are being won by serving naked, homely cakes.

Another weird thing is that after the cake is cooled you're supposed to wrap it up and let it sit for 24 hours. What? Who lives in a household where things like this happen? In my house, things are baked, cooled for maybe five minutes, then eaten with abandon, fingers and mouths be damned (and burned).

I wish I had liked it better. I had high hopes, sort of. But those are the breaks. I'm not typing out the recipe, either. Guess I'm feeling a bit peckish this week. But if you email me, I'll scan it and send it to you.

And that's all I have to say about the chocolate spice bread.