Ham in Ramekins

Hah! Just when you thought I was finished cracking you over the head with egg recipes, I found another one!

I have to say, this is a nifty idea, and impressive. And funnest of all it’s retro.

(Hmmm . . . Mother’s Day breakfast ideas~~~~!)

Unfortunately, I cannot relocate this recipe online. Gosh, it was there a few weeks ago, as a Googlebook or something, but now I can’t find it. But I did note the actual publication information, if not a Web address, so now which is more enduring?

By the way, here is a somewhat similar recipe, Baked Eggs and Mushrooms in Ham Crisps, which appeared on the cover of the February 2002 issue of Gourmet Magazine. (I remember the day that issue arrived in the mail: it was so lovely I zoomed right to that recipe and read it immediately!) The main difference with it is that instead of using ramekins, it uses a slice of ham, cooked to form in a muffin tin, as the serving vessel. Check it out—it has rave reviews—a real keeper!

The present recipe, however, is much lighter, since the eggs are whipped, and less chewy, since the ham is minced.

A lot of egg recipes take advantage of the contrast of yolk/egg—think of deviled eggs, or the “goldenrod” eggs I told you about earlier, or your basic sunny-side-up eggs, with that lovely gooey yolk to dip your toast into—and this one is in that category. However, it is the only one I’ve seen that simultaneously takes advantage of the whites’ ability to form a fluffy cloud of meringue. Fascinating!




From “Recipes for April Bills of Fare,” Good Housekeeping Magazine, vol. 56 (January–June 1913), p. 560. (Sorry folks, no hyperlinks for you; just my careful typing.)

Ham in Ramekins

Line small ramekins with a thin layer of minced ham, seasoned with chopped parsley and a little celery salt. Separate four eggs and beat the whites to a stiff froth, add one-fourth teaspoonful of salt; and fill the ramekins with this, making a slight depression in the center of each; into the nests slip the unbroken yolks. Dust thickly with grated cheese and bake in a moderate oven, just long enough to set the eggs.

A few notes: you might try different types of ham. I used “city ham,” minced to smithereens with my knife, and it stuck pretty well to the sides of my glass ramekins (you will not want to skimp on it); but then minced country ham might work better. I don’t know.

Don’t have celery salt? Neither do I. So I used my mortar and pestle to powder some celery seeds, then mixed in a tiny bit of salt. Ham really doesn’t need any salt added, though.

I tried a few samples using just a plain slice of ham, poked down into the bowl, but as it cooked it got kind of tough; I think it contrasted too much with the fluffy eggs. You don’t want to have to use a knife with this.




As I made the recipe, I wondered what was meant by “a stiff froth,” and I decided as I worked that it means a meringue—key word stiff—so I stopped beating it once the eggs just started to hold peaks.

I would consider omitting the cheese—or make sure to use a type that will stay very soft after baking and while serving. The store-brand cheddar I used got a little hard. Or maybe they sat too long as I took my pictures!

Next time, maybe I’ll try some crumbled feta or goat cheese. Or, maybe just use a light sprinkling of cheese instead of the “thick dusting” it calls for. (There’s also Velveeta, which melts so nicely, but I know you never use that stuff. Right? —Right.)

And . . . since you’ve read this far, here’s a bonus retro recipe for you, from the same place—Good Housekeeping Magazine from 1913, same article, p. 559. I haven’t made it yet, but it sounds like fun. If you try it, let me know how it turns out!

Mint Potatoes

Wash small potatoes and rub off the skins with a coarse towel, or pare and scrape them. Put into boiling water with sprigs of mint sufficient to flavor them well; and cook until done, drain and serve with drawn butter.

Southwestern Corn Pudding

This recipe is based on one that appeared in Gourmet magazine in July 2007, “Corn Pudding with Basil.” The original recipe is simply a glorious midsummer celebration of garden-fresh sweet corn and basil straight from the herb garden.

Unfortunately, this time of year it’s impossible (or impossibly expensive) to get these two key ingredients, but I have to admit that my version turned out pretty well.

That’s one thing I love about Gourmet’s recipes: they always turn out well, even if you make all kinds of substitutions. I used frozen corn instead of fresh, which didn’t taste as good and wasn’t nearly as tender as fresh—but it was okay. And with no fresh basil around, I substituted a can of green chilis and some diced red bell pepper—which transformed it into a Southwestern kind of dish instead of a Mediterranean one.

Here’s a link to the original recipe at epicurious.com, including a photograph. I highly recommend the original recipe, using all fresh ingredients. (Remember, it was published in the July issue, which was traditionally all about fresh summertime produce!)

It’s a nice creamy side dish, rather mild, almost like a corn quiche, depending on how much corn you leave whole. It’s not very sweet, though the corn you use makes a big difference in that category. And you can always alter the amount of sugar, too.

This would go well with fish tacos, I think. Or grilled shrimp. Or grilled anything. It’s also something you can prep well ahead of time, then stick in the oven without much ado. You can serve it hot or cool.




Southwestern Corn Pudding

(Adapted from “Corn Pudding with Basil,” Gourmet, July 2007, p. 8.)

4 c. corn (can be frozen, but fresh-cut from ca. 6 ears is better)
1 can (4.5 oz.) of diced green chilis (Ortega, OE Paso, Hatch, etc.)
1/4 c. diced red bell pepper
red chili powder to taste
3 T. flour
1 T. sugar
1 c. milk
1 c. heavy cream
4 large eggs, lightly beaten


Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Grease/spray/butter a large shallow baking dish, 2.5 or 3 quarts.

Rumble 2 c. of the corn (or more, if you want) in a food processor until coarsely chopped. In a large bowl, combine it the with rest of the corn, entire can of chilis (including the liquid), and red bell pepper. Combine the rest of the ingredients in a separate bowl and then add to the vegetables; stir well to combine.

Pour into the prepared baking dish and bake in center of oven until center is just set, from 45 minutes to 1 hour. Let it stand for about 15 minutes before serving.

Serves 8–10 as a side dish.

The Last Touch

There was one part of my Thanksgiving appetizer platter that I didn’t tell you about in yesterday’s post, because I think it deserves special mention. It’s a small memorial to Gourmet magazine.




When the publisher, Condé Nast, decided to kill Gourmet and try to channel its readership to the publication Bon Appétit, it was like cancelling the Julia Child cooking show and telling everyone “we know you’ll love Rachael Ray!” —Ugh!!! Not the same!

So, getting around to the deviled eggs I made: They were prepared as a tribute to my long relationship with Gourmet, and to all the inspiration I’ve gotten from its pages over the years.

The initial idea came from the “wow! gee whiz!” reaction I had to a photo in the very last issue of Gourmet—November 2009, the last annual Thanksgiving issue. In an article entitled “From the Heart,” Ian Knauer presented a Thanksgiving menu centering on flavors and foods native to rural Pennsylvania, and the heartland in general.

There were, of course, several gorgeous photos showing the meal; the one that immediately caught my eye was of beet-pickled deviled eggs—the hard-boiled eggs weren’t technically pickled in the sense that they could have been preserved in Mason jars, but they were soaked a minimum of 2 hours in seasoned vinegar with a sliced, cooked beet. It was just enough soaking to make the outside of the eggs turn vibrant magenta and to impart a bit of the pickled-beet flavor.

It was an homage to the traditional beet-pickled hard-boiled eggs available at bars in Pennsylvania and the region; and it looks amazing when deviled, since the egg white near the yolk remains white. The presentation is genuinely special.

But that’s where I stopped with that particular recipe, because in my cooking notebooks I have a photocopy of the last page of the April 1995 issue of Gourmet, which I acquired from my neighbor, who was a real, live trained chef and who introduced me to Gourmet. (I looked up to her, and she looked up to Gourmet. Not long after that, I had my own subscription, and Sue, who loves me and knows what I love, maintained my subscription ever since.)

I’m not saying anything against the delicious-looking yolk preparation with the November 2009 recipe—it had caraway in it, and it sounded terrific—but I wanted something lighter. Brighter.

If you’re familiar with Gourmet, you know that they had a long-running feature on the very last page, called “The Last Touch,” where they’d select a food, an ingredient, or a technique, and hand you five or so brief recipes on that theme. And each one would be worthy as a “real keeper,” a “go-to” recipe.

In April 1995, the topic of “The Last Touch” was “Stuffed Eggs.” My neighbor, Sherri, had handed me the photocopy about a week before we were going to do an all-out joint feast, her and Steve, and me and Sue. Sherri told me to make up some deviled eggs, and she suggested these to me.

By the way, here’s a list of the recipes on that one page:

---Smoked salmon, cream cheese, and dill stuffed eggs
---Olive and anchovy stuffed eggs
---Watercress and radish stuffed eggs
---Curried stuffed eggs
---Lemon tarragon stuffed eggs
---Ham and horseradish stuffed eggs

They all sound good, don’t they!

Okay: so when I decided against the caraway-themed devilment, I returned to this fourteen-year-old photocopy and selected the lemon-tarragon version. Here’s a link to that recipe.

So that’s what I made, and they were of course a big hit. Even when I “messed with” the original recipe and crossed it with another, it came out perfectly, looked great, and tasted incredibly good.




And you know what? That’s Gourmet for you. Fabulous ideas that work, and enough context so that over time you can become confident about taking liberties with flavors and ingredients.

I’m already thinking of new twists on the idea. What about preparing a brine or pickling sauce using freshly juiced carrots (with that wonderful juicer I have), to give some of the eggs an orange color? Or do the same with something full of chlorophyll? A batch of fresh basil leaves, parsley, or spinach? Or turmeric or curry marinade on some? You could make a batch of different colors for an Easter platter. Think of the possibilities!

I’ll bet you ten bucks that most people who were inspired by that photograph in the last issue of Gourmet didn’t stick slavishly to the entire printed recipe but improvised to some degree or other—which, as I see it, is a tremendous compliment to an immortal magazine.

Ketchup and Vinegar

Sue buys me a subscription to Gourmet Magazine every year. I think it’s an example of how truly good she is to me, but she is always quick to remind me that her own self-interests are at play, too.

And sure, I do get a lot of great recipes and ideas from the magazine (like this keeper: Finnan Haddie Gratin), but I have to admit that the writing and feature articles almost always appeal to me as well as the photography and design. I find myself thinking about the stories and topics long after I’ve read them. I think that’s the first sign of excellence in essay writing—you keep thinking about it long after you’ve read it.

Sure, I can find good things to read all over the place, and I can find all the recipes in the world (-wide-Web) on the Internet. But Gourmet serves it all up to me each month in one sweet package. The way a great chef creates a menu that is nutritious, visually beautiful, with harmonized flavors and balanced textures, Ruth Reichl and her staff really do a wonderful job in putting together a satisfying publication.

So with that little introduction—now that you know I’m an avid Gourmet reader—I want to talk to you about ketchup, in part because Gourmet itself brought it up this month (June 2009, page 11). There’s also a Web page about it.

Now, ketchup is an Opulent Opossum topic for sure, because it’s utterly common, it’s undersung, it’s great (come on, it is—read the online article above) . . . and it’s made with vinegar.

Yes, I keep running into vinegar in my recipes—the old-timey ones, the German-heritage ones. Vinegar used to be a necessary cooking ingredient because of its preservative values as well as its ability to add what people used to call “zip.”

Zip! Remember that term? If you’re old enough, you can remember the days in the Midwest before Taco Bell came to town and people started using chili peppers to add pizzazz to their foods. We used to add vinegar and pickles to things to give them a culinary thrill. Ketchup is a member of that tribe—one member that has endured, along with cucumber pickles of various types. (Look at your fast-food hamburger.)

I mean, think about it: the same company makes America’s number-one ketchup as well as the most popular vinegars. When I go to buy ketchup or my apple cider vinegar, I always get Heinz. Chances are, you do, too.

Ketchups were a way of preserving the bounty of the summer garden during the drab winter months. We still laugh at Ronald Reagan’s declaring ketchup a “vegetable,” but when you think about it, despite the added sugars in processed ketchups, at heart ketchup is cooked, strained, pickled, canned tomatoes—the richness of a summer garden preserved in glass bottles. Can’t blame ol’ Reagan for thinking in nineteenth-century terms, as he was such a relic himself. (Sorry, I couldn’t stand him. His head-in-the-sand AIDS policy was the kicker for me. But I digress.)

Sue made an interesting observation once: French fries are good by themselves, but once you’ve started dipping them in ketchup, you can’t go back to eating them just plain. You have to keep dipping them in ketchup until they’re gone.

So it was with interest that I read Adam Brent Houghtaling’s Web post on the Gourmet site, introduced in the magazine thus: “Could the future of ketchup be in its past? Our archives are filled with apple, grape, and mushroom versions. Get the recipes and find out how the country’s best chefs are using this ubiquitous sauce at gourmet.com/go/ketchup.”

What I find most intriguing is how one type of ketchup—tomato; Heinz—has come to be ubiquitous, while there were so many different types of ketchup adding zip to the nation’s dishes in the 1800s: Grape ketchup? Mushroom ketchup? . . . Walnut ketchup? How fascinating.

I’ll stop for now with this post, but I encourage you to look at Houghtaling’s essay and reflect a bit on how our forebears in the kitchen relied on vinegar as a necessary cooking item (and not just for salad dressings), and how their families grooved on the zippiness of so many pickled and ketchupped concoctions.