Purple Potatoes

A few weeks ago, I went down to Greenwood’s Uptown farm stands to see what Parisi farms had to offer and found some beautiful purple sweet potatoes.  I bought them but had no idea what to do with ‘em.  I didn’t know if the color would “go away” after they were cooked, and I knew that the more they looked purple the more likely it was that my kids would eat ‘em. So, I decided it was time to get what I had wanted for years: a mandolin slicer.  I have looked at fancy ones before—and they are all very cool—but I wanted to see what Walmart had to offer.  I found it: a $19.99 Farberware one.

I took that thing home, and boy can it slice.  First purple sweet potato experiment: chips. I just sliced them thin, dropped them in my old-school Fry Daddy, and cooked them twice.  To make them crispy you need to dunk ‘em once, drain ‘em, and then give them to the oil one more time.  We sprinkled one batch with cinnamon sugar and gave another batch fine sea salt—they’re great both ways.

Second experiment: fries. Same process: sliced them with my julienne attachment, fried them twice, sprinkled one batch with cinnamon sugar and another batch with fine sea salt. Everyone loved them.

Third experiment: no mandolin, no fryer.  Just rubbed them with shortening, baked them for about 45 minutes, split them open, and topped them with butter and cinnamon sugar; in other words, I just treated them like regular old sweet potatoes.

All three experiments were smashing successes for two reasons: the really deep purple color remained unchanged, and my kids were successfully duped into eating sweet potatoes.  They always resist sweet potatoes, no matter how we dress ‘em up. This time we got “What is this? Is it a sweet potato?” My answer: “They are purple potatoes.” Kids: “But are they sweet potatoes?” Me: “They’re purple potatoes. Can’t you see that they’re purple potatoes?”  I wasn’t lying; I just wasn’t answering their question.  And then despite their skepticism, they ate the purple sweet potatoes and said they were delicious.

When You Can't Take It any More . . . Turn It into a Fritter

Although the summer is young, my family has reached a pivotal moment: we’re growing tired of summer squash and zucchini.  I planted early, with seedlings from Early Bird Farms, and since this is my first garden at a new home, my crop has been bountiful.  I haven’t lost a single plant to squash vine borers, though I’m sure they will find me next year.                

Our standard approach to squash and zucs is to simply sauté them with butter and sweet onions.  When we tire of that, we swap the butter and onions for olive oil and Italian herbs.  I’ll also cut them lengthwise instead of into rounds and grill them, but that’s a minor and boring variation. If ever we need   little more richness in our diet, we go with a buttery squash casserole.

Tonight, however, I made my first attempt of the season at zucchini fritters, and they were a tremendous hit, more of a hit than the one time I made them last year, when they were largely dismissed as some kind of messed-up hoe cake.  There are plenty of recipes around the Internet for zuc fritters, but I like Martha Stewart’s for its simplicity—it doesn’t dictate what kind of pan one should use or offer any other unnecessary advice.  The unnerving thing about these fritters is the sloppy consistency of the batter—it’s about like a pancake batter—but the payoff is tremendous: a crisp golden-brown exterior with a slightly creamy (thanks to the egg, I guess) interior that really lets the herbs stand out.  I used fresh parsley, as Martha recommends, but I would also give basil a shot.   

The one tip I borrowed from Smitten Kitchen was that I squeezed the moisture out of the zucchini before adding it to the batter, but I did it barbarian style—with my bare hands instead of cheesecloth.

I served my zuc fritters with something my family calls “okra sauce” because I first trotted it out as a dip to accompany fried okra (which we thought needed some kind of dip that was neither ketchup nor honey mustard).  It’s roughly equal parts mayonnaise and ketchup, with a dollop of horseradish (I like to grate my own and keep a root in the freezer, but the prepared stuff is okay when it’s fresh) and a squeeze of lemon juice.  We have come to the conclusion that this Okra Sauce is the perfect accompaniment for virtually any fried vegetable.  It’s a little creamy but it has enough bite to cut through the oiliness of such fried goodies.