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RDJ-- Shells w/Corn and Bacon, 10-24-09
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RDJ
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Oct 25, 2009 11:30 PST
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Volume 12 Number 249
US Library of Congress ISSN: 1530-3292
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Shells with Corn and Bacon
1 pound dried pasta shells
4 ounces bacon, chopped
About 2 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup minced shallots
4 cups fresh corn kernels
1 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup whipping cream
1/4 cup chopped fresh tarragon
1. In a 6- to 8-quart pan over high heat, bring about 4 quarts water to
a boil; add shells and cook, stirring occasionally, until barely tender
to bite, 8 to 10 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, in a 10- to 12-inch nonstick frying pan over medium-high
heat, stir bacon until browned, 4 to 5 minutes. With a slotted spoon,
transfer bacon to paper towels to drain.
3. Add enough butter to pan to equal about 3 tablespoons fat; when
melted, add shallots and stir until limp, 3 to 5 minutes. Add corn,
wine, and cream; boil, stirring often, for 5 minutes.
4. Drain shells and return to pan. Stir in corn mixture, bacon, and
tarragon. Pour into a wide serving bowl. Yield: 6 servings.
CALORIES 605 (34% from fat); FAT 23g (sat 11g); CHOLESTEROL 45mg;
CARBOHYDRATE 80g; SODIUM 200mg; PROTEIN 16g; FIBER 5.2g
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AT THE MIDDLE PASSAGE
By Walter Mills
The Color of Light
These are the days when I find myself on the back roads when I come back
from doing errands. I like the winding creek road where the trees shake
their leaves into the water and everything is red and golden. In the
autumn sunlight, the color of the leaves is reflected in the stream and
the air is full of the sweet decay of apples.
Driving one of my daughters to soccer practice has been an autumn ritual
for the past ten years.We cut through the small country roads to the
Lions Club practice field in Centre Hall, past farm lanes where cows are
moving slowly home silhouetted against the evening sun. Along Brush
Valley Road the fields have been recently fertilized, but even that
strong odor seems part of the meaning of fall in rural Pennsylvania.
This is the last weekend for the farmers market up the road in Millheim.
It feels too early to end, but the summer crops are done and all that is
left are pumpkins and gourds and the last straggling vegetables waiting
for the first heavy frost. The market has been our link to that great
back-to-local-agriculture movement that has excited so many of us in
recent years with the promise of fresh food and the survival of the
small family farm.
Last weekend was the fall festival in Aaronsburg, music and hot ham and
bean soup cooked outdoors, people selling crafts, and houses that look
like Tom Sawyer might have lived there in the days of barefoot boys and
girls with bonnets. I sat down under the music tent and listened to a
gospel chorus and a preacher who was raw as the hills. And though I
didn't agree with the politics of his sermon, I couldn't help tapping my
toes to the tune.
As much as anything it was the fall leaves and the color of autumn light
that drew us back from the west coast. There was no real autumn in San
Francisco, only a few days of clear skies and cool jacket weather mixed
between the foggy summers and the damp, chilly winters. On those few
rare days, in the time before I was married, I would walk up Russian
Hill or over to the top of Telegraph Hill, where Coit Tower stands, and
look out over the whole city clear in the autumn light. But those few
days were only enough to instill a longing for the real color and smell
of fall.
After we were married and still living in San Francisco, my wife, baby
daughter and I would drive along the coast road south from the city to
Halfmoon Bay to buy pumpkins. Small farms of only a few acres clung to
the craggy hillsides overlooking the Pacific, but they grew and sold
tens of thousands of gorgeous pumpkins in the fall. North of the city
the hills were brown and bare of trees. On weekends we loved to drive
through the hills between Petaluma and the coast through the northern
California version of autumn, more subtle there than back east, in
variations of brown and gold.
One late evening in San Francisco, we passed an antique store on Church
Street that was still open as we took our usual after dinner walk with
the baby in her backpack around our neighborhood. It was quite dark
except for the street lamps and the glow of lighted windows. Inside, the
shop was a jumble of the curious and the valuable. We bought a small
lamp and a glass framed print of a man cutting hay on a California
hillside. The hills are a golden brown and treeless. I have never seen a
man cutting hay with a team of horses on the West Coast, but I recognize
the hills. Now when I look at the print, which hangs on the wall of our
living room in our old house in Spring Mills, I think of California when
we were a young family taking Sunday drives through the bright autumn
light to the sea.
When autumn comes I drive the back roads and sometimes I think about the
color of light on the hills above San Francisco Bay. That was a pure
light that pierced the heart. But here the autumn light is like wine, it
electrifies the nerves and dazzles the senses.
(The above column originally appeared in the Centre Daily Times and is
copyright © 2009 by Walter Mills. All rights reserved worldwide. To
contact Walt, address your emails to awmi-@verizon.net ).
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