A four-course Fourth

Four experts -- Sacramento Valley farmer Mike Madison, food historian Charles Perry, author Ellen Ficklen and chef Evan Kleiman -- unpack some Independence Day faves. There’s a reason we call ‘em classics.

Mr. Jefferson’s choice

By Mike Madison

In a 1787 letter posted from Paris, where he was serving as a diplomat, Thomas Jefferson wrote that, unable to find corn in Europe, he had devoted his garden to a crop of corn, to be eaten on the cob, boiled, with salt. Whether Jefferson wished to impress his French friends with a unique American dish or whether he was merely homesick for traditional summer fare of Virginia, he does not say.

Corn had been grown in North America for millenniums before Europeans arrived, and distinct races of corn had been selected for particular uses: corn meal, hominy, popcorn, corn beer and corn on the cob. With the settling of the continent, corn breeding gained momentum, and now corn is primarily an industrial crop, providing ethanol, animal feed and high-fructose corn syrup. But corn on the cob is still an iconic national food, to be eaten on the Fourth of July along with fried chicken and pie.

About a century ago, the traditional name for corn on the cob — “green corn” — (referring to its lack of ripeness rather than its color), was replaced by “sweet corn.” The new name wasn’t just a marketing gimmick. Corn breeders have more than doubled the sugar content of corn in recent decades. They’ve done this by two routes: High-fructose corn has an odd, fruity flavor and a long shelf life, while high-sucrose corn is sweeter but more perishable. Either way, Jefferson would have been astonished by the sweetness of modern, high-sugar corn but also by its tastelessness. In plant breeding, increased sugar content almost always has to be paid for by decreased flavor.

Sweet corn is a thirsty crop, and whether a farmer can make a profit from it depends on how much he pays for water. On my farm, water is expensive, so I don’t grow sweet corn to sell, although I grow a patch for myself. As long as the plants are well irrigated, they grow rapidly and splendidly, and 60 days after poking a shriveled kernel into the ground I have a tall, handsome plant bearing its ears, ready to eat.

If you want to experience the sort of corn that Jefferson was craving in Paris, you will have to seek out old varieties such as Golden Bantam and Trucker’s Delight.’ You won’t find these in the supermarket, but a few seed companies still carry the seeds, and you can grow your own. Try grilling the freshly picked ears with their green husks left on, and when they’re ready, peel back the husks, and sprinkle on some salt (no butter). Mr. Jefferson would approve.

Mike Madison operates a family farm in the Sacramento Valley.

American fried

By Charles Perry

The classic American picnic dish really is classical.

Fried chicken has a rigorous simplicity, without gimmicks and enrichments. It’s just the appetizingly browned essence of chicken. It doesn’t even have to be kept hot — in fact, it’s better at room temperature.

Frying is an idea that could occur to anybody anywhere with a chicken and a pan. During the 18th century, the English thought of it as a French dish. (Bizarrely, the French word for the egg dip you use if you bread chicken happens to be anglaise, which sounds as if they’re trying to avoid credit for the concept.) But nobody is more devoted to fried chicken than Americans.

Actually, until about 60 years ago, chicken was a luxury food. The problem was all those feathers. Skinning a pig or a cow yields a much bigger payoff, in terms of meat per unit of labor and aggravation.

These days, the problem with chicken is not expense or inconvenience; it’s getting the ideal kind of chicken. That would be a young bird weighing 2 to 2 1/2 pounds. Just try to find one. The average supermarket fryer is inching over 4 pounds. What larger chickens lose in delicacy and tenderness, they gain in meatiness, at least.

Use a 10-inch frying pan, the heavier the better, so the temperature doesn’t drop too much when you throw in the pieces of meat — a stable temperature makes for browner, juicier chicken. The “chicken fryer,” 12 pounds of solid cast iron, is perfect for the job. If you use a lighter pan, you can compensate by frying no more than three pieces at once.

American fried chicken is shallow-fried, not deep-fried. The fat should be only a quarter of an inch deep, which works out to 1 cup in a 10-inch pan.

Some people tenderize the meat by marinating it in buttermilk (unflavored yogurt works just as well). You can dip it in batter, or in anglaise and breadcrumbs, or just in flour seasoned with salt, pepper and maybe cayenne or dry mustard. When the fat is sizzling hot, the meat goes in and a cover goes on, and you check it every few minutes to see whether it’s good and brown on the bottom. When it is, turn it over and do the other side. A whole chicken should be done in about half an hour.

You might make the traditional accompaniment, crisp miniature French fries called shoestring potatoes. But hey, it’s a holiday. Maybe you’ve done enough frying.

Charles Perry is a food historian and former Times staff writer.

A taste of Fandango

By Ellen Ficklen

Watermelon is quintessential American, Fourth of July food. But it’s also, appropriately, an immigrant, and for years the question was, where did this all-American classic come from?

Scientists worldwide couldn’t figure out where the watermelon plant originated and would, therefore, be found growing in the wild. They knew that the Egyptians were growing watermelon more than 5,000 years ago (its seeds and leaves were found in Egyptian tombs) and that historically watermelons had long been cultivated in countries along the Mediterranean trade routes. It wasn’t until the 1850s that the world learned the origin of the mysterious melon. That’s when the British missionary and explorer David Livingstone (the very one of “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” fame) came across watermelon vines growing wild in the Kalahari desert of southern Africa. It’s not recorded whether he proclaimed, “Watermelons in the wild, I presume?” when he found them.

Still under continuing discussion is whether watermelon is a vegetable or a fruit. It has seeds (the usual signifier of a fruit), so it’s the fruit of the watermelon vine, says one faction. No, no, it’s related to squash and pumpkin, so it’s a vegetable, says another. Oh, just call it a “fregetable” and enjoy it, says a third contingent. (I’m firmly with the fregetable folks.)

Watermelons these days are served up in a range of sizes, huge ones that can feed a crowd and cannonball-sized babies that can serve two, max. The inside flesh can be red, pink, yellow, even orange or white. And the names of watermelon varieties are wonderfully evocative — Congo, Calsweet (a variety from California, of course), Charleston Gray — and those are just a few of the ones that begin with “C.” Just listen to the rhythms and imagine the tastes of Summerfield, Black Diamond, Fandango, Moon and Stars, Firecracker, Little Baby Flower, Sangria and You Sweet Thing. And then there’s Sorbet Swirl, a watermelon with flesh in pastel swirls of red and yellows — how cool is that?

Indisputably, whatever the size or color of watermelon, it’s a delicious and glorious part of summer. “When one has tasted it,” wrote Mark Twain, “he knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took; we know it because she repented.” (Make that Watermelon 1, Apple 0.)

The sweet-fleshed watermelon assays at about 92% water — which surely is how it got its name — and ends up being a cross between a drink and dessert; it often gets served both those ways. Watermelon now also finds its way into appetizers, soups (try watermelon gazpacho to put a smile on your face), salads and main dishes.

But it’s hard to beat the relaxed, messy joy of a simple wedge of watermelon eaten with friends outdoors. Eat the slice straight, or go upscale by rubbing a slice of fresh ginger across it, maybe with a squeeze of lime. Ah, the classic backyard pleasure of watermelon amid fireflies or fireworks. You gotta love it.

Ellen Ficklen is the author of Watermelon, published by the American Folklife Center of the Library of Congress. She is a writer and editor in Washington, D.C.

A holiday that’s easy as pie

By Evan Kleiman

In L.A., July 4 always starts with a luxurious awakening to a city more quiet and calm than usual. That feeling of lying in bed, the quiet settling in around me and the smoky scent of barbecues being fired up all over the neighborhood give me a hit of anticipatory pleasure of the day ahead. The aroma finally gets me up and propels me to the kitchen where after a cup of coffee I face the relaxed pleasure of preparing dough for the pie-iest day of the year (except for Thanksgiving).

That first pie is the “house” pie, made for my family to eat for breakfast. It has to be apple. After all, the holiday is “as American as….” Besides, apple is my favorite. The Ur pie. If there were just one pie in my universe, it would be the double-crust apple pie — no contest. It has everything. The yielding sweetness of fruit tossed in sugar, with a hint of cinnamon, and tucked into a crust that combines the crisp richness of butter and a bit of tenderness lent by lard or vegetable shortening. If I were an apple, it’s how I’d like to go.

Once “breakfast” is in the oven, I can concentrate on the “visiting” pies, the ones that go with fireworks later. That’s where the trouble begins. What to make? What do I choose?

I ask, what is pie to you? Is it luscious peach or apricot? (When the first stone fruit of the season hits my farmers market, my pie sensory awareness apparatus goes into overdrive.) Or a glistening, lattice-topped blackberry pie, or maybe a mountain of plump red strawberries tossed in a sweet glaze and simply poured into a crust? Or maybe you have a childhood hankering for the pan-seasonal banana cream pie, or a snowy mound of shaved coconut atop a generous coconut custard. I’ve discovered that pie is very personal.

As a pie maker, I know my responsibility is to deliver as much pleasure as possible. So usually I compromise (is more of everything a compromise?) and make two, or three or more.

Peaches are beautiful now (no low-acid varieties for this baker), so I make a lattice peach pie because it’s luscious with vanilla ice cream, which also seems to be so much a part of the holiday. And I settle on my new favorite, a pie developed during my pie-a-day madness last year. It’s blackberry streusel with lemon quark from Spring Hill Cheese Co. Quark is the German version of cream cheese. Spring Hill’s is light and lemony. It’s a perfect foil to sweetened blackberries.

So tell me, where am I meeting you today? Are you bringing the ice cream? Make sure there’s enough.

Evan Kleiman is the owner and chef of Angeli Caffé and the host of “Good Food” on KCRW. In the summer of 2009, she baked a pie a day; this year other bakers are joining the challenge.