Game Over Popover

I have childhood memories of this pastry, of my Mother's effortless ability to make a light fluffy bread stuff with a hard golden brown shell. I remember them as a treat, a once in a year delicacy that we enjoyed unceremoniously and without warning, delivered to our breakfast table as if from some other world. Up until about the last ten months I have never attempted to recreate this culinary feat, judging, as I had, from the memory of their heavenliness that they would be entirely too complicated for a mere galley slave to recreate. Growing in confidence however, and wishing to share this airy delight with my wife I have endeavored to pursue this breakfast Shangrila.

Here are the sad results. Popovers with no POP.

What went wrong? I have no idea. I've tried to make them about half a dozen times now and have suffered these same results. I asked my Mom what I might've done wrong and she suggested that I probably forgot to add the baking powder. Baking Powder? What baking powder? The recipe doesn't call for baking powder. It's all right there in black and white, page 42 in the Betty Crocker cookbook:

2 eggs

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup milk

1/2 teaspoon salt

Being as Betty Crocker is the go-to book in our family for all things baking I was pretty sure that my Mom had been following that same recipe for all these years. When I told her that the recipe didn't call for any baking powder she just kind of scratched her head and laughed. "Well honey, I don't know, I guess it doesn't. Maybe you should try adding some."

I appreciated the advice but I was a little alarmed. I know that I've portrayed my Mom as a kind of conjuror of amazing comfort foods, but the truth is she isn't in touch with any kind of magical cooking ability at all. In my childhood minds eye I imagined her as a sort of witch standing over her cauldron, mixing together concoctions from the odds and ends of some netherkingdom. I have come to realize in my adulthood however that my Mother's cooking style is less like a freewheeling occultists and more like that of a research scientists. She is about the most obsessive recipe fanatic that I know. She doesn't just fling ingredients at a dish without having some peer reviewed document to back up her actions. Her expertise is in her attention to detail and the selection of equipment not the creativity she brings to it. So you can imagine my surprise at this sudden shift in her attitude. We don't just go around adding baking powder to failed recipes. For one thing that's not what Betty Croker says to do, for another thing it's not very scientific.

It's like when I was a kid I'd heard that flour was combustible. I wasn't privy to the conditions under which this was a danger but took the information to mean that if, say, I took flour, put it in a metal pipe and lit a fuse to it that it would blow up bigger than shit. As anyone knows who has tried this experiment at home flour pipe bombs are about as effective as smoking banana peels. I tried everything, I shoved a sparkler into the flour bomb, I tried firecrackers, I threw the whole thing in a fire and ran like hell. Nothing worked. I'd about given up hope when a neighbor kid told me that one of the key ingredients in gunpowder was sulfur. The year before I'd received my first chemistry set for a Christmas present and was fairly certain that sulfur was among the little white bottles in the case. I thought for sure that I'd cracked the code, that I would have my bomb and the elementary school up the hill would soon be destroyed. Yes, things were really beginning to come together. I took my flour bomb and mixed in a generous amount of sulfur, repacked it in the pipe and inserted a fuse. I carried it up to the school and set it next to the goal post on the soccer field for a test run. I lit the fuse and ran for cover. I was so sure that there would be a massive explosion that I'd worn extra clothing to protect from shrapnel and stuffed my ears with cotton so as not to blow out my eardrums.

You can imagine the results. And you can take this little anecdote as an object lesson on how the processes of baking are not effected by even the most creative of urges. At least in the observable Universe we are stuck with the recipe on page 42, unable to add or subtract for better results. Our failures are not inherent in the design of the recipe but in our own inability to accurately reproduce it. If my Popovers don't POP then by god it is not Betty's fault. The blame must be sought elsewhere. The ingredients might be old. Or the oven's thermostat might be faulty. Or perhaps the equipment I've been using is poorly designed for the project. Whatever the reason it should not lead me to doubt the science behind a hundred year old baking recipe. This shit is not witchcraft. It's science.

(I have to confess that at one point I thought that maybe my Mom's Popovers, and Betty's and my Grandmother's and all women I'd observed have success making these culinary conundrums had to do with some mysterious feminine quality. Like they were inherently more yeasty than men and therefor imparted more rise to their baked goods. This is a totally unscientific observation, but women are much more susceptible to yeast infections and that would lead one to believe that the two have some sort of natural connection. I'm sure this is just more of my flour + sulfur = explosives kind of calculus, but when your Popovers aren't popping you're prepared to believe just about anything.)

For a while I tried to put this Popover thing behind me. I'd run the gamut of problems and decided that the problem was me. I just wasn't cut out to make something that required such diligence and attention to detail. Then at Christmas time a miracle happened. My Mom, having stored this Popover frustration of mine in the cavernous region of her brain reserved for potential gift ideas, had thought to purchase me a genuine"Popover Pan" for a present. I knew that things like Popover pans existed but had always shied away from such products in favor of ordinary kitchen wares. I strive to be a low tech cook, but lately I've found my collection of odds and ends accumulating. I have a confession. I own a bunt pan. I also own a spring pan for making cheese cake, I have biscuit cutters, two biscuit pans, I have a zester, several contraptions to slice cheese, a melon baller, a dozen ramekins, a jello mold, all kinds of specialty equipment that verges on superfulous but for one possible utility. Some of it came from when my wife and I got married, but a lot of it came from the same woman who was now coming to the rescue with this Popover pan.

When will the madness end?

Should a man have to bow to these gadgets so that he can have what he wants, or is it unreasonable to ask oneself to go through life without enjoying a Popover now and then? In the science vs. nature debate I'm much more inclined toward nature. Nature seems less complicated and more comfortable to me. Besides that it doesn't shove math in your face at every turn. Of course technology has it's allures. Popovers are like the atom bomb of culinary achievements. You drop these little babies on your guests and you're sure to cement your place as a cooking superpower.

It's interesting to note that the invention of the Popover (and more generally the American quick-bread) coincides to the rise of the Second Industrial Revolution. English muffins and European breads are almost all leavened with yeast. What sets American quick-breads apart are that they are all chemically leavened, first in the late 1700's with pearlash, a refined form of potash that created carbon dioxide gas in the dough through an acid base reaction, and then in the 1850's with what we now know as baking powder, sodium bicarbonate. Both inventions allowed for the removal of unwanted fermentation flavors from some baking goods and cut down on the time required to prepare these products. Whereas European style leavened breads were formed into rising doughs these new inventions were of a wetter admixture and necessitated the use of special pans in which to contain the "batter". This is where we get the gem pan, or the cupcake pan. Incidentally the first reference to the source of my nickname, "cup cake" appeared in 1828 in a cookbook by Eliza Leslie. Before the mid-to-late 19th century these gem pans were not widely available. There were cast-iron varieties but their real proliferation began once the sheet metal press became more common place in industrial production. Before the gem pan people often used tea cups and/or clay ramekins for baking these quick-breads.

An early gem pan. This one looks to be some sort of casted piece, but you get the idea.

It wasn't until 1876 that the word Popover occurred in a cookbook by Mary Foote Henderson called "Practical cooking and dinner giving: A treatise containing practical instructions in cooking; in the combination and serving of dishes; and in the fashionable mode of entertaining at breakfast, lunch, and dinner" p. 71. I'd like to state for the record that there is no baking powder in Mary's recipe either, and confirms my suspicion that this particular concoction has remained unchanged for more than a century.

Mary like Betty offers the reader several options on what to cook their popovers in. In Mary's time, having formally introduced the recipe to the world, there wasn't the specialized equipment that is available in this age of the Popover pan and so could only offer roll and gem pans, or, as a last resort, tea cups. By press time in 1991 there were Popover pans aplenty on the market in the U.S. so Betty is all for using one. Well, alright then, lets give this damn thing a whirl. If this pan doesn't take my Popovers into outerspace then I don't think I'll ever deliver that atomic pay load.

Here are the results.

Damn you Oppenheimer. Another dud.

I've used the same ingredients, I've used the same equipment, even exceeded its rudimentary requirements, gone through the same procedures but still haven't been able to repeat the experiment.

I guess it's either back to the drawing board or it's time to put this chapter in my cooking history behind me.

Anybody want to buy a Popover Pan?

One last thing before I sign off. We've appealed to science for assistance and understanding, I think it's only fair to appeal to someone on the other end of the spectrum. Here is a recipe from King Arthur that claims to guarantee a never fail popover. On a Quest? Who better to turn to than King Arthur.

Why didn't I think of this sooner.

Fisher Poet's Gathering 2011

I'd like to start by apologizing for the infrequency of the blog these last few months. I suck in the one off blog department. I've tried in the past to just fire one off in an evening but I just can't bring myself to do it. I'm addicted to revision and polish. I know it may not seem like it from some of my past entries but I swear I try, and try hard. I can promise you that I've been cooking up a storm at home though. Sadly between work, making dinner, chores around the house, bowling, drinking and wife, I've hardly had the time or energy to put fingers to keyboard and get this thing off the ground again. This will change. I'm looking at a potentially long lay-off so there will be time by god, there will be blogs, and they will be good damn it. You're just going to have to bare with me.

In the meantime I have a few selections from my poetry that I'd like to share with you. This weekend my wife and I will be attending the 14th annual Fisher Poet's Gathering in Astoria, Oregon and they have invited yours truly to read a few poems. This will be my first FPG so by no means will I be a headliner, but with any luck I will at least tickle the eardrums of some in attendance. I'll be reading Friday night at the Wet Dog Saloon, early, at about 5:30 pm. Hope you can make it, but if not, here is what I will be firing off at the audience.


Calluses (an Ode to Billy McGee)

It’s funny this fishing how it screws with your mind
How you’re sure that you’ll love it from now to all time
And you’d bet that your body and bet that your soul
Could take all its punishment and pay all its tolls
For the sea that you challenge and threaten from land
Hardly seems cause for worry from the place you now stand
But your talk in its largess and bold manly stripe
Disappears on the ocean as the land falls from sight
For once out on deck you are seized by this grief
That your head turns in terror and your heart’s lost its teeth

It’s been only three weeks or at most a mere score
Since your last season ended and your feet they hit shore
When you tied off the fat ropes to the cleats on the dock
And you wrapped all the capstans so the lines would be taught
And locked up the hatches and pumped all the holds
So you could return to the mainland and it’s warm earthy folds
Find rest for a while in a safe and snug place
Before resuming the grind at that impossible pace

And you said it yourself that night that you left
You were drunk on martinis and feeling your best
But thought to leave with a warning and a very fine oath
So promised to work out enough for us both
To do countless push-ups and a thousand knee bends
For one’s salvation and health it would surely depend
The season that’s coming, you remarked with a laugh
Would beat down the souls of all who proved chaff
And kill all the weaklings who’d loafed on their break
So it was best if I listened and didn’t make that mistake
If it was one thing, you said, that fishing had taught
Youth was the first thing that one’s body forgot
And though you weren’t twenty, and long past your prime
You’d built up some calluses at least on your mind.

I remembered those words as I watched you behave
As you sorted the crab and pushed pots like a slave
I could tell that you’d faltered and were feeling the pain
Of advice that you’d haltered but proved to be lame
Your limbs looked like jelly and your feet filled with lead
Your continence in great worry, newly back from the dead
That oath you’d stood by and impressed with great force
Had obviously left you and filed for divorce
Fed up with your drinking and your tom-catting around
Your strength was now sinking, your heart nearly drowned
Betrayed for the last time and stabbed in the back
They’d conspired against you in a suicide pact
And delighted in the spectacle of watching you writhe
Even though this satisfaction would mean both their lives

But then something happened just as your strength had retired
Just as your heart had collapsed and all your hope had expired
The Ocean reared up, a vision of doom
Of calamitous horror and icy cold gloom
Her rage blind with rancor her loins a tempest
Her fist frozen hatred and breath full of piss
She struck without warning, without mercy or cause
And laid out us deckhands as if smote by bear claws
Raked us to portside where we crashed ‘gainst the rail
Pushed us toward destiny toward that stark lonely pale
The boat pitching sideways such a force was her clap
That two of us greenhorns nearly fell in her lap
But for you, who I’d figured a goner for certain
Emerged out of nowhere to hold back the curtain
And snatch us both back from that forever embrace
From that sort of adoption that no mother could trace
And heaved on our boots the seeming strength of an ape
You ripped us from danger like you’d flung back a drape
“Get up,” you cried then, a giant smile on your face
“Stop lying around like some kind of disgrace.
There’s work to be done, another two strings to go
You say the Ocean’s pissed off, well let the bitch blow
She can try all she wants, to throw a wrench in the gears
But I’ll be damned straight to hell if she’ll bring me to tears.”
And you turned from us then rushing hard for the hook
Yelling “Bags on the bow,” with a crazed sort of look

The rest of the day I watched in great wonder
As you rose like a phoenix from the weights you’d been under
And took up the deck as if held in one fist
To squeeze out its juices, it’s blood and it’s piss
To drink back the strength that those boards thought to drain
As they’d sucked out your life and tried to leave only stains
But you’d risen above them and escaped from the snare
That you’ll admit you helped set now if we’re going to be fare
“Sure,” you said later, “I’ll take most the blame.”
I know what I did, you won’t hear me complain,
But the advice that I gave you should be taken to heart
It’s for every greenhorn whose just making his start
But for me and my habits it no longer makes sense
I’d rather bet on my calluses to provide my defense.”


Attack of the Angry Seamen

Oh lonely Sea what a mistress
You’ve been to me over the years
You’ve blown away all my distress
And absorbed all of my tears
But now that I’ve truly made landfall
Settled up for the voyage I’ve made
It seems futile to argue and forestall
That it’s about time I oughta get laid

I know that you’ve warned me against it
Of making traffic with their feminine kind
But be reasonable for an instant
Did you get a look at that woman’s behind?
Or how about those titties
Or how about those legs
I’ll wave my pride and say please
I’ll get down on my knees and beg

For these Angry Seamen aboard ship
Are aching for some kind of reprieve
And searching for any open slip
That will offer them some relief
And catch their lines in a hurry
Make them fast but not too tight
And won’t trouble them with any worry
If their affections are just for a night

So off they go down the gangplank
Hysterical, lusty and ripe
Destined to meet up with some scank
Destined to get in a fight
Blinded by powerful spirits
Emboldened by perilous states
They no longer comprehend what fear is
No longer think or hesitate

So a warning to all of you lawmen
Some advice to you virginal souls
These rogues are not merely pretend
And conversation not merely their goals
They’ll terrorize your village
And colonize your loins
Your decency they will pillage
And bastards they will coin

They were born of the Symplegades
Whose narrow channel barely released
The spawn of Gomorrah and Hades
The nightmare of Kings and priests
Men who were made of the Tempest
Men calling Ocean their homes
Men who live under their own crest
And write their own sacred tomes

For the Sea she has made their mettle
Strong tempered with lustrous brand
Not intended to be hen-pecked or settled
Collared or fed from one’s hand
But seduced after long adventure
Some of these do get caught and destroyed
By civilization and it’s censure
And the Siren’s its thought to employ

But fear not my beautiful mistress
For your lover will always return
He may be a wit and a sperm less
But his passion for you will still burn
And you can scold him with thundering rancor
Salt Peter his Profligate
But don’t expect that next time he drops anchor
He’ll sit tight and just masturbate

Expect another great Mutiny
Hatched down deep below decks
Where Adam is offered the whole fruit tree
And the devil fingers suspects
Where Angry Seamen cajole him
To make land on the next of high tides
But know that your love and your strength surely hold him
If upon the rocks his soul should collide.



Lay Your Anchor Down

Oh six hundred we idled in
To that morning mist and seagulled din
Atop the bow we stood against
A bitter breeze less stiff than tense
And braced ourselves against the lash
Of that squawking voice from metal gash
The hailer crackling as the skipper groused
A tiresome squelch down from the house
Four shots now boys free wheel away
And we dropped the anchor into that bay

The chain sang out as it went
Caroming across those rusty dents -
It’d left behind from those times before
When we’d let it out an untold score
In a thousand coves just like this one
It’d be a thousand more before we’re done

It seemed that way, at least, at last
As our futures mixed up with our pasts
And we stared into that thickly haze
And visions lost leapt through our gaze
Of happy times, of sun, of land
Of smiles and laughs and moistened glands
When times were good and worth remembering
Instead of poisoned, lost, and dismembering
Scattered round by wind and tide
On a hopeless voyage we now abide
Boredom broader than the seas
Loneliness that brings you to your knees
And doubt more crippling than the cross
A panic stricken tempest toss
When prayer no longer holds us fast
And we’ve dealt the devil down to our last
It’s hard just then to carry on
To not imagine your woman gone
Your plants dried up, your pets all dead
Oceans emptying inside your head
A scuttled ship, a year at sea
Flotsam floating like spirits freed
Your life evading in spindrift
Closed and fading in this rift
Swallowed up by two great waves
You grabbed the shovel and dug your grave
You married that anchor as it went down
The vows you spoke were what made you drown

And all because you hoped to seek
Some vague adventure and Sinbad chic
To tell your friends and swoon the girls
That you’d conquered the seas and its frosty curls
That you’d rode its monsters and combed its shores
That the life you’d led was not sold in stores
But genuine and tough to boot
A raucous, raging, authentic hoot
With anecdotes that bared repeating
And characters that life’s not cheating
Things that only you could tell
Like Dante bursting out of hell

It was this, this lie so self-convinced
That had made your life into this mince
And discovered you there upon that deck
A hapless tenderman on a rusty wreck
Stranded again in some nameless bay
With nothing to do but count the days
And share them with some tedious lot
Whose conversation is like dried blood clot
Whose antics have all gotten old
And stories are all thrice told
Whose powers of simple comprehension
Had suffered some great declension
And were worsening on toward some bitter break
Where God might be blamed for His mistake
And man might suffer in that blunder
To stand on deck and out loud might wonder

“What the fuck am I doing here?”


And last but not least, this is my wife's favorite poem and my little PSA against abusing our sea going friends. I know you can get frustrated out there on deck, the long hours, the gruelling pace, and I know that when people get tired and uncomfortable they have a tendency to lash out at things around them, but please, don't take it out on the seagulls. Some species of gulls on the Bering Sea live to be sixty years old. So remember that you little greenhorn punks before you start kicking them around on deck. Don't hate the player, yo, hate the game. (That's my attempt to reach out to the Young Urban Cod Killers, or any other of those dosche bags that think their tough guys because they fish on the Bering Sea. Reality check asshole, seagulls are way tougher than you'll ever be!)


Guts

Would I had a seagulls guts
To carry on through life’s hard ruts
And raise aloft in any weather
Smooth and light and tough as leather
Its eye so keen and always looking
Body lean but never brooking
Always searching for a tiny scrap
Of wood, of meat, of any crap
To swallow whole and add to nourish
Its meager soul will surely flourish
for every bit however small
takes wit and strength from every gull
to claim for self what others want
their gift of life comes from no font
but is won from strife, and hard learning
they stoke a fire that’s always burning
and fly and fly for what seems like days
and try and try in so many ways
to eke a living out in the foam
over endless ocean they endless roam
and hardly blink as if it’s all so easy
as if the gale we face to them’s just breezy
and the giant waves that crash on us
to them too small to raise a fuss
and the rotten bait that would make us wretch
seems a delicious meal they’d love to catch
and the winks of sleep we so desire
leave them wondering, why so tired?
It’s in their eyes this dogged streak
Compared to them our souls are weak
so when I take them in my hand
For on the deck they can not stand
I try to treat them with respect
For though their life looks like a speck
Their example helps me endure the pain
The bitter cold and icy rain
The long and terrible monotonous hours
My cramping legs and fading powers
I release them gently to join their kind
And hope to god that they’re strength I’ll find.


Skater demonstrates the proper way to handle a gull.

(Picture of Skater used without permission. Don't hurt me.)