Category: Side dishes

Fried Parsnips

My father loved fried parsnips, so we planted them every year.  The sandy soil of our garden plot meant that we had to dress it with composted manure from my grandfather’s farm, and I suspect that Dad spread extra on that part of the garden where the parsnip seeds would be planted.  Parsnips do well in sandy soil with plenty of compost to hold moisture and provide nutrients.

When October arrived, Mom or Dad would dig a couple of parsnips “to see if they were ready.”  If they were sweet, fried parsnips would begin appearing on the table every week.  If they still tasted more like carrots, we would wait for harder frosts to turn more parsnip starch into sugar.  I don’t remember that we left the parsnips in the ground through the winter, but Dad and I dug some after the top inch or two of soil was frozen.  Parsnips need frost to ripen properly and are often left to overwinter in the ground where winter is less severe than in northern Wisconsin. 

Though many people are unfamiliar with them today, parsnips were one of the premier root vegetables in Europe and the United States until the middle of the nineteenth century.  The wild ancestor of the parsnip is found in many parts of Europe and Asia and was cultivated by the Greeks and Romans over 2,000 years ago.  

The parsnip has a long and distinguished history.  It was a vegetable enjoyed by commoners and royalty alike.  According to the Roman historian Pliny the Elder, the emperor Tiberius Caesar loved parsnips and imported loads of them from farmers who grew them along the Rhine river in northern Germany.  He reportedly even accepted parsnips as part of the tribute (taxes) paid by the province.

In northern Europe where parsnips grew especially well, they were a staple and the people who settled the New World brought parsnip seeds with them.  Virtually every family in Wisconsin would have planted parsnips in their gardens in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.  The sweet white cousin of the carrot almost certainly graced the tables in the Bell-Tierney home.

 They went into the soup pot, were fried or roasted and were even eaten as a sweet dessert.  Queen Elizabeth and Shakespeare both probably enjoyed parsnip pie, and even the playwright might occasionally have been able to afford a luxurious dish of parsnips with an orange and marigold sauce garnished with slices of that exotic fruit.

I have never eaten a parsnip pie or any other parsnip dessert, but I was forced to eat my share of fried parsnips.  For that I am thankful.  We learn to enjoy the foods that our parents and friends introduce to us.  Some food writers say that parsnips are an acquired taste.  This is true.  However, all foods are acquired tastes.   Hunger helps too.

My sisters in Hayward confirmed that my memory of how Mom cooked fried parsnips was right. Here is how to make two servings of your own fried parsnips.

INGREDIENTS:

4 or 5 parsnips (each about 5 to 7 inches long)

1/4 cup flour

1/2 tsp. salt, divided

1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

2 or 3 T vegetable oil

Water

PROCEDURE:

Peel the parsnips, cut them lengthwise into slices about a quarter inch thick.  Some of the slices from the edges will be thinner, but don’t worry about it.

Put the slices into a saucepan and cover them with water.  Add a dash of salt and bring them to a boil.  Simmer the parsnips for five to seven minutes until they are just fork tender, not as my sister said, “until they get mushy.”

While the parsnips are cooking, mix a scant half teaspoon of salt and a few grinds of pepper with the flour.  You can stir it together on a plate or shake it up in a bag.  Cover the bottom of a skillet with oil and set the pan over moderate heat.  

Drain and flour the slices and fry them until they are light brown.  Turn them often to keep them from burning.  If you have too many slices to fit in a single layer in your skillet, fry them in batches, adding a little oil if necessary.  Remove the slices from the pan, drain them on a paper towel and serve them warm.  

NOTES:  Though she had never tasted fried parsnips before, Jerri liked them.  I had, however, delayed dinner an hour.

Jerri’s Green Bean Casserole

Three or four years before a team of home economists at the Campbell Soup Company published the recipe for green bean casserole, one of Jerri’s cousins served it on Thanksgiving in Moundridge, Kansas. Jerri is sure of the chronology for two reasons: She was not yet in high school, and she loved that casserole.

Jerri’s comment when I asked for her green bean casserole recipe probably explains how a Kansas cook beat a team of professionals. “Everybody knows how to make green bean casserole. There’s nothing special about it.”

Since Campbell Cream of Mushroom Soup had been around since 1934 and home canning of vegetables for at least fifty years before that, chances are good that inventive housewives from Kansas to Wisconsin had discovered that cream of mushroom soup turned ordinary green beans into something special shortly after they brought the first cans of the soup home from the store. I know that my mother made green bean casseroles when I was a kid, but I can’t say when they first appeared on the Rang table.

Today, you will find literally hundreds of recipes for green bean casserole on the Web. There are many variations ranging from very simple (Stir the soup and beans together and heat.) to rather complicated instructions describing how to produce an aristocratic version of a plebeian dish. (Sauté the mushrooms….toss the shallot rings….etc.)

Some call for panko crumbs and others top the casserole with Ritz crackers. Still others include extra ingredients such as garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, cheese or bacon. And some even replace the cream of mushroom soup with a white sauce and exotic mushrooms. But in spite of the substitutions or added ingredients, they are all varieties of the two kinds of green bean casserole.

One kind is made with cut beans, the other with French cut beans. Cut beans are whole beans cut crosswise into pieces. French cut beans are cut into long strips. When my mother canned beans, they were cut beans, but when she made a green bean casserole she bought French cut beans for it. So does Jerri.

I have eaten both varieties, and in my opinion green bean casseroles made with French cut beans are far superior to those made with cut beans. You may prefer the cut bean variety, which is just fine. As a wise man wrote long ago, “De gustibus non disputandum est” which is Latin for “Don’t argue about matters of taste.”

Familiarity may breed contempt in some cases, but when it comes to green bean casserole, familiarity for me nurtures a love for that mixture of finely cut beans and creamy soup with plenty of mushrooms. Like my mother, Jerri adds mushrooms to her green bean casserole My father did not approve, but he was outvoted by the rest of us, and it was Mom who ruled the kitchen.

Here is Jerri’s (and my Mom’s) recipe, simple but delicious. If you already love the one you make, don’t try this one. However, you may be one of the few people who has never made a green bean casserole. Or perhaps you make it only because family members expect one at Thanksgiving or Christmas. If either sentence describes your situation, give this recipe a try.

INGREDIENTS:

3 cans French cut green beans
2 cans Campbell Cream of Mushroom Soup
1 four oz. can mushroom stems and pieces
1 cup French fried onions, divided

PROCEDURE:

Preheat the oven to about 325º.

Drain the beans and mushrooms well and put them in a mixing bowl. Stir in the mushroom soup. Then fold in a half cup of French fried onions. Microwave until the mixture is hot. Sprinkle the remaining French fried onions on top and bake ten minutes in the oven before serving.

NOTES: Jerri microwaves the casserole because we don’t have room for it in the oven along with the turkey. If you have a larger oven or two ovens, you can just pop the casserole into the oven and remember to sprinkle the French fried onions on top during the last ten minutes while it is heating.