The Kitchen Garden

Bowled Over

Goodies in a gourd

By Jan Leitschuh

And so the seasons change.

The morning freshness in the air and the autumnal shifts in foliage color reinvigorate our heat-saturated souls. Naturally, we yield to the urge to celebrate the transition to coolness, happily sampling the seasonal pumpkin spice lattes and apple hand pies, and the return to outdoor enjoyment.

So, too, we decorate our homes with pumpkins, gourds, squashes — colorful symbols of the harvest abundance of summer, stored for winter feasting. Around Thanksgiving, the fall cucurbit show can be turned into nutritious meals and side dishes.

Eating a squash isn’t the only possibility for festive fall culinary adventures. Get your gourd on. Creativity increases festivity. C’mon, unleash your inner Martha Stewart, in service to the season.

No doubt, squashes and pumpkins are good eating. They are nutrient dense, with lots of vitamins, minerals, and gut-soothing fiber but relatively few calories.

But we are talking fun here. To add a bit of thoughtful eye candy to the dinner table, we can skip the ceramic soup tureens, and the cute serving dishes shaped like autumn produce, and go directly to the real deal. Use your fall pumpkins, green and tan squashes and Jack-B-Little minis as the serving container.

Long ago, I tumbled to this at a fall potluck. I made a pile of buttery sweet potatoes mashed with a little orange juice, maple syrup and bourbon. The concoction was delicious, but in a bowl the brown-orange blob was visually uninspiring. I had a mid-sized pumpkin on hand, and it looked to be perfect for my presentation upgrade.

After cutting off the pumpkin top and scooping out the seeds, I put the hollowed globe in a baking pan and roasted at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes. I wanted my “bowl” hot enough to keep my mashed sweet potatoes warm, but not so roasted that its walls collapsed and its pretty orange color changed. After I spooned the mash inside, I topped it with pecans and brown sugar, and stuck the top back on partway, serving spoon sticking out. My bourbon mash stayed hot, and the serving vessel brightened the autumn potluck table.

A large pumpkin, hollowed out and lightly seasoned and baked, could also hold soup. The seasonal “tureen” is a conversation-worthy centerpiece in itself. Tuck a few ears of colorful Indian corn at the base, if desired. A meaty tan or green heirloom pumpkin would be extra special.

Now, wouldn’t a ginger-peanut-butternut soup taste extra good in it?

Children love the smaller pumpkins as serving vessels. Pie pumpkins are a good size for soup and, who knows, could a serving of vegetables in one of the “Littles” encourage consumption?

Kids aside, small pie pumpkins could dish up pretty individual servings of, say, a coconut-pumpkin curry. The orange and white mini-pumpkins, so cute and readily available in supermarkets this time of year, could even dress up small quantities of something wildly spicy, say a Thai sauce, hot pepper jelly or Mexican salsa.

Squashes can get in on the action too. A halved acorn, delicata or butternut squash, seeds removed, can be brushed with oil and seasoned before baking. The heat caramelizes the sugars in the squash for a richer flavor. Use your squash as a side dish, as is.

A fancier method is to cool the baked squash, scoop out the roasted flesh, combine with some onions, rice, seasonings and ground beef, and return the mix to the shell. Top with a little shredded cheese for a quick broil. Dinner on the half shell.

Or, combine roasted squash mash with chopped fall apples and a little cinnamon, raisins and brown sugar for a nutritious dessert. The colorful striped “carnival” acorn squash would be spectacular here.

Now that you are planning to put that extra Halloween pumpkin to work doing double duty, you’ll want something warm to put inside it. Why not try this autumnal recipe, packed with cool-weather veggies, from BrokeAss Gourmet:

Peanut-Ginger Soup

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 1/2 cups broccoli florets

2 medium-sized carrots, cut into coins

1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger

4 cloves garlic, chopped

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried basil

1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

1 14-ounce can vegetarian vegetable stock

1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes

6 tablespoons peanut butter

Directions

In a large soup pot, heat the olive oil over medium heat and sauté the broccoli, carrots, ginger, garlic and spices until veggies are tender. Add the stock, tomatoes and peanut butter. Reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Serve and top with a few crushed peanuts. Serves 4.  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of Sandhills Farm to Table.

Hometown

The Show Went On

Snatching victory from the jaws of oblivion

By Bill Fields

When most people think of memorable golf moments at Pinehurst, the 1981 Hall of Fame Tournament isn’t among them.

I beg to differ.

A long time before Pinehurst No. 2 held its first U.S. Open and subsequently became part of the rota for the national championship, the ’81 PGA Tour event there made its own mark. Forty years later, I’m proud to have been part of it.

I was 22, fresh out of a summer school session at North Carolina, my diploma in the mail. I needed a job. My friend Michael Dann, executive director of the World Golf Hall of Fame and the Hall of Fame Tournament, needed a public relations director who would work cheap.

The ’81 tour stop in the Sandhills was the tournament that wouldn’t die. As Chip Alexander wrote in The News & Observer that summer, not long after I was hired, “The pulse was weak, the last rites all but read. As recently as two weeks ago, the Hall of Fame Tournament seemed to be breathing its last, ready for the slab.”

The tournament had rallied spectacularly. In March, it only had $30,000 in the bank. Even during an era when purses were around $250,000, that wasn’t much. PGA Tour commissioner Deane Beman extended the deadline for posting the prize money multiple times. Tour pros who had a soft spot for Pinehurst, notably Ben Crenshaw and George Burns, took up the cause. Jack Nicklaus, who won the 1975 World Open but hadn’t competed in a handful of years, committed to play. Lee Trevino, who would be inducted into the World Golf Hall of Fame during tournament week with fellow honoree Ralph Guldahl, also agreed to play. Gov. Jim Hunt did what he could to round up sponsorship.

Once the tournament was green-lighted, we set out to promote it. I ordered bumper stickers and buttons. We hired a film crew to gather sound bites from tour pros to distribute to television sports stations across the state. Michael and I went to the PGA Championship in Atlanta. Raymond Floyd was not happy when I interrupted him on a practice day at the PGA Championship, but his bark was worse than his bite. We made a commercial on a lean budget. To get a tight clubhead-striking-ball image for the ad, I hit my MacGregor Tourney driver on the fifth hole of No. 2, a short walk from our offices at the WGHOF building.

My last, lazy days of college had given way to long hours doing what I could to help. I went on television shows with Lee Kinard in Greensboro and Jim Burns in Wilmington. I tracked down Guldahl for a story in the tournament program, which was printed on the Golf World press in Southern Pines. Before the event I helped lay down temporary carpet on the wooden floors in the press room — the converted Donald Ross Grill. Once the tournament started, I put on my best radio voice, offering updates to any station in the region that was interested. Everyone on our small staff felt like we were on an important mission to pull off what had seemed so unlikely.

The surprise winner turned out to be Morris Hatalsky, an unheralded and unassuming 29-year-old from San Diego. Ron Green Sr. of The Charlotte News wrote that Hatalsky “looks like a singing waiter.” He sure hit all the right notes over 72 holes, one-putting 11 times in a first-round 65 and going on for a 2-stroke victory over Jerry Pate and D.A. Weibring at 9-under 275. Hatalsky won $45,000 for the first of four career PGA Tour victories. The weather was glorious, which helped draw sizable galleries of 12,000 to 15,000 people on the weekend.

My foray into golf administration was brief. I applied for a job in the communications department at the USGA later that fall but didn’t get it. By the following spring, I was sending out resumes to a couple hundred newspapers across the country in search of a sportswriter position. I accepted an offer from the afternoon paper in Athens, Georgia.

The World Golf Hall of Fame building was razed years ago, but I can’t drive past the woods where it used to stand and not think of those days, that tournament and the fun we had making it happen.  PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north in 1986 but hasn’t lost his accent.

Lunch with Winston

My father’s “brush” with history

By Tony Rothwell

“I’ve often noticed that when coincidences start happening they go on happening in the most extraordinary way. I dare say it’s some natural law that we haven’t found out.”

— Dame Agatha Christie

My mother, Myra Hardman, grew up in Manchester, England, in a house called “Como.” In 1937, she married my father, Bill Rothwell, a hotelier. At the outbreak of war in 1939, Dad enlisted in the Lancashire Fusiliers. In 1943, by then commanding a squadron of Churchill Mk.IV tanks, Capt. Rothwell took part in the Salerno landings in Italy, part of a massive plan to drive the Germans out of the country. He remained in Italy until the end of the war in Europe, May of 1945.

Like everyone else, Dad couldn’t wait to come home, but the Army had different plans. They needed a place for managing mopping-up operations and commandeered the Hotel Regina Olga on Lake Como. It was in good condition because the Germans had been using it as a hospital, but who was to run it? Looking through the lists of Army officers with hotel management experience and already in Italy, they found Dad. “Sorry, old boy, you’re not going home just yet,” they told him. “You’re running a hotel for us on Lake Como.”

That my mother had grown up in a house by the same name as the majestic lake where my father concluded his military service seems the merest of coincidences. But they don’t end there.

Back in Britain, Churchill’s Conservative Party was shockingly voted out of power in the July general election, and the Labor Party took over. The working class, the private soldiers on the front line, and the women left behind who had made so many sacrifices, were having their say. The man who had rallied Britain when it stood alone with his bulldog courage and commanding oratory was out.

So, what was Churchill to do? He was certainly not going to stay around for everyone to feel sorry for him. He decided he would go somewhere and paint, an interest he’d long neglected during the war years, and accepted an invitation to spend a month on Italy’s Lake Como. The Army, he was told, had a hotel there. And so off he went with his oils, his physician Lord Moran and his personal secretary.

And so, suddenly, out of the blue, the unimaginable. My father found himself looking after one of the most famous people on Earth. 

In a fascinating book written by Lord Moran, a compilation of his diaries for the years spent with Churchill from 1940 to 1965, the entry for their first day in Italy, Sept. 3, 1945, reads:

We had planned to set out about ten o’clock to reconnoître the surrounding country for a scene which Winston could paint: However, it was noon before we set off. As we drove round the lake Winston kept his eyes open for running water, or a building with shadows on it, but we stopped for a picnic lunch before he found what he wanted. The “picnic” arrived in a shooting break with his chair and a small table. A score of Italian peasants gathered in a circle and watched us eat. He was in fine spirits.

When he was satisfied that he had found something he could put on canvas, he sat solidly for 5 hours, brush in hand, only pausing from time to time to lift his sombrero and mop his brow.

After dinner Winston was ready to talk of anything: he only mentioned the election once. Eventually he gave a great yawn; when we thought he was about to go to bed he broke into a hymn and sang three verses of “Art Thou Weary.”

Over the next few weeks Dad sent sandwiches and drinks down to the lakeshore many times but on one occasion he joined Churchill for lunch and years later related part of their conversation to my brother and me.

“Do you have children, Rothwell?” Churchill asked.

“I have two boys, sir,” he replied. “In fact, I just received a letter from home with a photograph.”

“Let me have a look,” Churchill said. After studying the photo for a few seconds, he said, “They say all babies look like me.”

At the end of lunch Churchill got out his cigars and offered one to Dad, who had just lit a cigarette. Because he was smoking already, Dad felt it would be bad form to accept the offer and became, perhaps, the only man ever to refuse a cigar from Churchill. All was not lost. After Churchill’s return to England, he sent Dad a signed photograph, a prized family possession.

The great man died in 1965 on Jan. 24, aged 90. After he had lain in state for three days, the funeral took place in St. Paul’s Cathedral in front of one of the largest gatherings of world dignitaries ever assembled. Following the service, the coffin was taken by launch down the Thames, past the House of Commons, and then by train to Bladon in Oxfordshire for burial in the family site at St. Martin’s Church. This is close to Blenheim Castle, the seat of John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough, Winston’s ancestor and a national hero, following his great victory at the Battle of Blenheim in 1704. Then 22, I commemorated the day of the funeral with a drawing. In yet another coincidence, my father’s last hotel before retirement was The Marlborough Head Hotel in Dedham, Essex, named for John Churchill.

Later, when I lived in London in the early 1980s, I worked for a financial investment company that had a hotel portfolio for which I was responsible. The owner of the company happened to live next door to Churchill’s house, “Chartwell,” south of London in Kent. My wife, Camilla, and I were among the guests invited there one weekend. After dinner that Saturday, our host asked us all to follow him through a door and down some stairs and along a narrow corridor. He opened a door and put on the lights. We were in a small, whitewashed room off which were a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. He pointed to a sealed door and informed us that behind it was a tunnel that led to Churchill’s house, and that we were standing where Churchill worked when he came down to Chartwell during the war. It was presumed that spies watched Churchill’s every move, and by working under the house next door he stood a better chance of surviving if attackers somehow managed to blow up his house.

In 2015, Camilla and I visited London and made a point of going to the war rooms near 10 Downing Street to see where Churchill spent his days and nights during those dreadful years. Adjoining them is a small Churchill Museum. Of all the many exhibits we saw there, two items stood out: his school reports, which basically said he would never amount to anything, and — the last coincidence — out of the hundreds of paintings he did in his lifetime, there was just one on display. It was of Lake Como.  PS

Tony Rothwell, a Brit, moved to Pinehurst in 2017, exchanging the mind-numbing traffic of Washington, D.C., for less traffic, better weather and the vagaries of golf. He spent 50 years in the hotel business but in retirement writes short stories, collects caricatures, sings in the Moore County Choral Society, and with his wife, Camilla, enjoys the many friends they have made in the Sandhills. Email ajrothwell@gmail.com