Cooking Weather

Outside my office window, a neighbor’s tulip tree is already in full bloom—even for Savannah, more than a month early. It’s a lovely sight against the cold, hammered-pewter sky of this winter’s afternoon. And yet, for someone who loves cold weather, those early blooms are a bit disheartening.

You may have noticed that it’s not the only early bloomer: all over town, the other tulip trees, redbuds, and flowering quince have burst forth, a clear sign that our all too short cold season may be over almost before it begins.

There are many reasons why I love winter, but the main reason is, to no one’s surprise, the cooking, which is arguably the most inventively satisfying and comfortable of the entire year.

This is the season for real comfort food of the sort people usually mean when they say those words: fragrantly spicy pots of chili; hearty soups, stews, and pot roasts; crusty, toothsome loaves of bread; cozy baked custards and other simple, homey, and yet deeply satisfying baked sweets.

It’s a time when being in the kitchen is not just tolerable, but welcome, when one of my prize pots—an enormous flame orange Le Creuset French oven that belonged to my late friend Joan Cobitz—becomes an almost permanent fixture on the stove, turning out one warming favorite after another.

No, with the heady aroma of last night’s chili lingering cozily in the air, and a pot of bracingly hot Assam tea at my elbow, I’m not terribly sorry that today’s dull, metallic sky, slowly clearing as the sun sets to a pale, icy blue, has brought with it some properly cold weather. I’m ready to do some hearty cooking.

What waits in the refrigerator for tonight’s cooking does not, at first glance, look very promising. The market next to the store has been offering boned, skinned chicken breasts for the price of whole ones—a bargain that could not be passed up.

Stripped of their flavoring bones and skins, these thick, pink slabs are often about as boring as they are popular and convenient. And yet, with care, they can make for some very satisfying winter eating.

On Sunday, the first ones were split horizontally into cutlets, seasoned liberally with salt, pepper, and rubbed sage, lightly sautéed in butter and olive oil and finished in Marsala-laced pan gravy.

For tonight, a quick survey of the refrigerator and pantry has turned up all the ingredients for a favorite that I first learned to make exactly thirty years ago while studying architecture in Genova, Italy: our cook Ilda’s baked stuffed chicken breasts.

Ilda made a pocket in each breast, but these things are enormous, so I’ll split them horizontally into cutlets, season them well with salt and pepper, and wrap them around a slice of prosciutto and gruyere cheese, securing each with a toothpick.

Next, they’re breaded with egg and dry crumbs, placed in a well-buttered casserole, and dotted with bits of butter. I’ll put them aside to rest for a bit while the oven heats to that all-purpose 350 degrees F.

Just before they go into the oven, I’ll carefully pour a little white wine around them—it doesn’t much matter what kind—tonight it will most likely be the last of a disappointing Riesling. It won’t need a lot—just enough to come about halfway up the sides of the breasts and keep them moist. They’ll bake in about half an hour, during which the cheese will become creamy, the bland breast meat will soak up some of the spicy character of the prosciutto, and the wine will reduce and lightly thicken with the breadcrumbs that fall away from the chicken, making the most wonderful of sauces.

It is not fancy; it is not terribly original; but oh, my, is it good.