Red Poppy Apple Panakuchen
Eddybles
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Printsaturday, april 7th, 2007
I read a quote once that said flowers are Mother Nature laughing and if that's true, then a red poppy is her tear-inducing belly laugh. On my first trip to Europe when I was ten years old, I saw my first field of red poppies outside the village of Rothenburg, Germany. A shepherd was herding sheep on the border of a ruby soaked field of flowers that swayed in the wind like a luminous ocean wave. When I rolled down the window to marvel at the endless expanse of red before me I was met by the medicinal odor of the poppies. I expected to smell something more akin to a bouquet of roses than a pharmacy and was shocked that a flower so beautiful perfumed the air in the way my grandma's medicine chest scented the bathroom.
When we stopped to take a few pictures, my inclination was to pick one of the flowers brushing up against my legs. This provided me with poppy-shock number two. Within a few minutes, the delicate beauty with her ethereal tissue paper leaves collapsed around its jet black stamen and after a few minutes more it was clear that no amount of water could perk this bud up. She was dead. Feeling guilty, I released her into the wind rushing by as we sped down the road. I admired her cleverness. She had found a way to evade being plucked or turned into a perfume, as is the fate of so many flowers. She had not however figured out how to avoid popularity as a sedative or as a syrup that transforms everything it touches into a thing of scarlet beauty.
In the Iliad, Homer compares the head of a dying warrior to that of a hanging poppy flower. In Roman and Greek mythology, the poppy was created by the God of Sleep, Somnus (Roman)/Hypnos (Greek). The Goddess of Grain, Ceres (Demeter), developed insomnia in a frantic search to find her lost daughter Persephone. In her delirium, Cerus did not have the energy to tend to the corn crops and they began to fail as a result of her neglect. To save the harvest, Somnus created an elixir from the poppy that induced sleep and coerced Cerus into drinking it. She fell into a deep slumber and when she awoke, her renewed energy enabled her to nurture the crops, resulting in a bountiful harvest. This is the legend that tagged the poppy with the moniker Corn Poppy.
Throughout history, dating back as far as ancient Egypt, where poppies were discovered in the tombs of the pharaohs, the flower was known for its sedative qualities. The Greek God Morpheus placed poppy garlands around the heads of those he wished to send to eternal sleep. This is the origin of the word morphine which is derived from the red poppy's cousin Papaver Somniferum, a poppy variety found in the temperate climates of Asia. This variety is also known as the opium poppy and while the red poppy, or Papaver Rhoeas, is related, it does not contain opium but does possess rhoeadine, a mild sedative. Unlike opium however, rhoeadine is not a narcotic and has therefore escaped the nefarious reputation of its shadier cousin.
During the Industrial Revolution, Godfrey's Cordial was a popular escape from the trying times of nineteenth century Victorian England. It was comprised of a powerful combination of treacle and opium derived from the poppy. The "remedy" was a popular way to mask the symptoms of hunger that the perpetually unemployed labor force and their children endured. Other names for opium solutions designed for household use (as they were referred to) in Victorian England were Mother's Helper and Infant's Quietness. If a woman was fortunate enough to secure a job, she often worked eighteen hour days, seven days a week. Childcare was non-existent and the cordial provided a way to sedate children while their mothers were at work in order, ironically, to keep them from harm.
The prescribed amount to administer to a child was "as necessary" and since a famished child is usually a noisy child, the dose was often generous. Pharmacists frequently kept a jug of Godfrey's on their counter and since opium is fat-soluble, the bulk of it would sink to the bottom of the water it was combined with; ensuring that whoever took the last glug was in for a crazy ride made more intense by the fact that the recipient was often not even able to crawl at this stage of their lives. While the dangerous effects of the "remedies" soon became apparent and were prohibited, it was not so long ago that parents infused their baby's food with gentler red poppy juice to induce sleep.
In France, Canada, Australia and The United States the red poppy is perhaps best known as the symbol of remembrance for veterans of foreign wars. This tradition began when John McCrae, a Canadian soldier serving in France as a medical officer during World War I, wrote a poem of tribute to his fallen comrades during a break in battle entitled In Flanders Fields.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row and row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields
John McCrae, 1915
The poem was first published in Punch magazine in 1918 and inspired American Moina Michael to write a poem in response entitled We Shall Keep The Faith.
We Shall Keep the Faith
Oh ! You who sleep in Flanders' fields
Sleep sweet-to rise anew;
We caught the torch you threw,
And holding high we kept
The faith with those who died.
We, cherish, too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor red
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
But lends a lustre to the red
On the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders' Fields
And now the torch and Poppy red
Wear in honour of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught:
We've learned the lesson that ye thaught
In Flanders' Fields.-Moina Michael, 1918
Ms. Michael also began wearing a red poppy fashioned out of paper on her lapel as a symbol of solidarity and remembrance. Inspired by her gesture, Madam Guerin, a French woman on holiday in the United States, carried the symbol back with her to France and began selling the paper poppies as a way to raise funds for women and children left destitute following the war. Today the red poppy flower is a powerful symbol of remembrance in Canada, The United States, France and Australia. The sale of it has raised millions for the victims of war.
The red poppy is native to Europe, North Africa and temperate regions of Asia. In Turkey, where they have 36 synonyms for the red poppy, the flower is called gelincik, or small and lovely bride. Traditionally, Turkish brides dressed in red, not white. It is therefore fitting that such a lovely flower should be granted a moniker that symbolizes promise and hope for the future.
Not only does the red poppy make a lovely vision swaying serenely in a field, it also produces a wonderful syrup that transforms everything infused with it a seductive shade of red. Red Poppy Syrup is popular throughout Europe and North Africa and while its slightly astringent odor in raw form may be a turn off, it transforms into something sweet and tantalizing when diluted. Its flavor is also deliciously appealing when used in a sauce and beguiling as a marinade for fruit, such as the apples used in the following recipe.
Red poppy syrup combined with champagne also makes for a unique and delicious twist on a traditional Kir Royale. When added to champagne and orange juice it produces a festive, ruby kissed mimosa. Both of these would make an ideal brunch cocktail. Here I added a drizzle of the syrup to a glass of champagne and garnished it with a poppy apple.
My red poppy apples were also put to good use on the plate. I used the cherry red slices to dress up a German panakuchen (also spelled panekuchen), beguiling in its own right. I bought my apples at Fairway in Manhattan but if you're having trouble finding them, don't worry. The joy of a panakuchen is that its a scrumptious blank palate ready for virtually anything your culinary imagination dreams up.
My friend Sheila gave me the following panakuchen recipe. Her aunt prepares it for Easter brunch every year and in her family it's called "Aunt Mae's Delight". A fitting name since there is rarely a thing as delightful and comforting as a panakuchen. What goes in a piping hot oven as a bit of batter at the bottom of a skillet emerges a golden, eggy cloud of puffy goodness. Children's eyes grow wide at the sight of it emerging piping hot and billowy from the oven. Adults marvel at what a few eggs and a bit of flour have the capacity to do. The wow-factor produced from such a simple batter preparation makes this an ideal low-maintenance dish to include at a holiday feast. It's also a wonderful way to perk up a brunch or make a lazy Sunday morning special.
While I topped it with the red poppy apples I've been dying to use for days, what makes a panakuchen so lovely is its versatility. Top it with fruit such as pineapple, cherries, blueberries, strawberries, mango slices or whatever finds its way into your kitchen. Add a little melted butter, a dusting of powdered sugar, a sweep of glaze, a squeeze of lemon or a sprinkle of cinnamon. Dress it up with a stream of syrup or drizzle of caramel. Serve it as a savory dish; its eggy texture an ideal way to up the ante on anything from a handful of morels plumped in a red wine reduction to sliced chicken slathered in a creamy herb sauce.
The key to a panakuchen is to keep the oven door closed throughout the entire cooking process (no peeking to check out how it's puffing!) and to serve it piping hot. While I topped this version with my red poppy apples, ingredients can also be baked right into the batter. Once you've poured the batter into the skillet, dot it with whatever you'd like to bake it with and add spices or herbs as a nice way to create a little dimension. However, if what you crave is something simple, then serve it as I did, as a happy, golden puff of eggy, naked distinction.
Panakuchen
3 large eggs
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup milk
2 tablespoons melted butter
1/4 teaspoon salt