It wasn’t like I didn’t have enough to do yesterday, leaving most everything to the last four hours before my Thanksgiving guests arrived. I started early, about 8 a.m., and cooked right up to dinner time at 2 p.m.
But somewhere in the middle, between scrubbing the Yukon golds and chopping herbs for the stuffing, I decided to do some last minute sweet potatoes. Why had I forgotten to put them on the menu, I asked myself?
There was no time to consult a cookbook. I barely had time to peel and cut them. I made decisions quick. I would steam them in between putting the turkey in and making the roux for the gravy, and set them aside in the fridge in a greased dish, reading for dressing and popping in the oven after the turkey come out, I told myself.
When the time came to get them in the oven, I realized I hadn’t thought about what to put on top. No matter. I cut a big lump of butter, melted it with brown sugar in a saucepan and poured it over the top. I’m not a marshmallow fan, and didn’t have any anyway. So I pulled out the jar of local honey and found some black walnuts in the freezer.
I rediscovered black walnuts this summer while on a trip to Colonial Williamsburg, of all places. After a walk around, we stopped at the Shields Tavern for coffee and a little live music from period-clad minstrels. On the menu was black walnut ice cream. I was skeptical, thinking they would probably be English walnuts. But boy, was I wrong. It was the best ice cream I’ve ever had, excepting the pumpkin-flavored ice cream made in Burnt Chimney, Virginia by Homestead Creamery.
Black walnuts lack the bitter tannic flavor of English walnuts, and they have a heavily sweet floral perfume that makes English walnuts seem bland. They are also what was until recently a lost taste of my childhood.
I used to turn my ankle stepping on the fallen fruits from the sprawling black walnut tree in my grandparents’ backyard. Tasting that ice cream in Williamsburg took me back to the house in Galax where I learned to love vegetables and fruit instead of the canned and boxed and bagged food of my mother’s house. There on the edge of Popaw’s big garden, I saw myself gathering up the green-sheathed nuts. As the fallen nuts aged on the ground, the outer soft hull turned from green to a crumbling black wrapper that was easily pulled off.
Every year, I’d peel a mess of them and crack them open with my hammer from the shed. By the time I finished, my hands were painted brown and I had maybe a handful of edible nuts. It’s no wonder woodland folk of old used the oily hulls to dye leather and fabric. The color can’t be washed out. It must be worn off.
But the flavor was amazing. And the experience came back to me with every bite of that ice cream. I started to remember black walnut cake, and fell in love again with one of the foods of my region. So when I see a package of black walnuts in the grocery store now, I buy it and put it in the freezer.
On Thanksgiving this year, it seemed perfect to add a couple of handfuls to the locally-grown sweet potatoes with their coating of brown sugar butter and honey. I baked the dish at about 350 degrees while I finished the turkey gravy on top of the stove.
The potent perfume and deep nutty flavor of the black walnuts shined through the butter and sugar, while the sweet potatoes gave the whole thing substance and structure. And now, this last-minute, almost-forgot-it dish will be my own sweet fall tradition.
Tags: black walnuts, Colonial Williamsburg, sweet potatoes, Thanksgiving
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