An epic 2014 holiday post driven by hunger and some childhood memories. Originally published on Homes.com.
Chestnuts (Not) Roasting on an Open Fire
4 MIN READ · DECEMBER 9, 2014
As a young lad, I remember gorging on chestnuts!
There wasn't less danger in the '60s, but there was much less paranoia. So I recall sitting in front of our electric fire in England, placing raw chestnuts between the grill and waiting with excitement, like the small child I was, until the chestnuts popped. A fork was used to ungracefully remove them (often ending up on the floor feet away), while ripping open the hot shells and feeling our tongues burned as my siblings and I gobbled down the delicious meat.
Living in New York City years later, the corner stands of hot chestnuts and toasty pretzels often compelled me to go blocks out of my way, guided by the roasty smell and a trail of shells littering the gutters — like a Hansel & Gretel forest trail.
Whatever fate transpired, last night I spied a bag of raw chestnuts on my weekly food run, grabbed it with child-like eagerness, paid my $6.99 (wow, chestnuts are expensive) and drove home to cook.
A little sidebar about my cooking skills: put me in front of a website, and I can tell you what's right, what's wrong, and how to fix it in 15 minutes flat. Put me in front of a cooker, and I panic. It's not that I can't cook — rather that ingredients and I have a way of disagreeing about amounts, and cooking times are just a guide, right?
The label said "cut an X into the flat side of each." Many chestnuts had no flat side; many X's ended up looking like T's; and many succumbed to the sharp knife to become chestnut halves. The only baking tray I owned came with the rental — a thin aluminium thing meant to sit under a turkey. It'd work, my culinary-less brain told me.
At 15 minutes: not cooked enough. Five more: same. Another ten while I finished an episode of The Flash. Then challenge three — no oven mitts. A MacGyver moment with a bathroom hand towel, and the chestnut selection process began.
First nut: overcooked. Second: overcooked, obviously because it sat near the first. I am nothing but an optimist, so I went through the whole tray expecting just one to be perfect — biting down on a couple that would've looked like a cowboy testing gold coins of the old west.
Fast forward 30-something chestnuts, and I found nut-nirvana: one brown delight cooked to nutty perfection. As I bit down, I was instantly back in our house in England on a blustery winter's day, enjoying the treats of the electric fire. Yum.
So this morning I announced I'd write up the insights from my "chestnut catastrophe," so everyone can ultimately enjoy roasted chestnuts — perfectly cooked, perfectly prepared, perfectly delicious. Or, you know, just buy them pre-cooked. (A recent trip to Japan underscored: I much prefer to buy them pre-cooked.)
