Growing up in a hybrid household, words sometimes got scrambled. My Hungarian born father was the primary care giver when it came to food, so I learnt the Hungarian before the English, and often didn’t retain the translation. Kukorica (pronounced cook-a-ritz-ah) is a perfect example. This is sweetcorn, or corn. It took me years to learn the English word, and even now it pings in my mind as kukorica not corn.
I’ve mentioned before that we as a family used to travel to Hungary in the full heat of the summer holidays. Endless (as it seemed to a child) days of driving across European landscapes to cross a border from Austria or Italy dependent upon the route taken, and we were there. Behind the Iron Curtain and into a weirdly familiar place, where everyone spoke a language that remained stubbornly out of reach as a means of full communication, yet was comforting in its rhythms and tones. The language of food remains the main vocabulary I have retained. I think of tejföl, not sour cream; kenyér not bread; hagyma not onion. Even now, 13 years on from losing my father and thereby many of my links to my paternal heritage, I have to stop and translate those Magyar words into English.
During those long summer days, driving across the plains of Hungary, the landscape was resolutely agrarian. Fields of sunflower heads tracking the sun, gnarled grape vines heavy with juicy fruit, garlands of vibrant red paprikas strung across the fronts of white washed, black thatched cottages as we passed. Motorways didn’t really exist. We drove on dusty white roads, with deep ditches either side. Poplars would line the entry to villages, creating welcome shadows. Chimney stacks and water towers held huge nests, precariously balanced high above the ground. Occasionally a slow flying stork would cross the white blue sky, heading home to their palace of twigs.
The fields also held corn, stretching to the light, paper cases rustling, leaves and graceful stalks bending with the hot winds that blew, heralding a sudden summer storm. Near where my father’s friend Biro lived, in a tiny village next to the ancient battle field of Mohács, the corn towered above our heads, creating secret paths and hiding places to play. Cut fresh and cooked almost immediately by Biro’s wife, the corn was milky sweet, juicy enough to eat raw. A favourite way to serve it was in a salad to accompany the wild boar steaks & sausages Biro would grill over charcoal in the fire pit built next to the back door of the kitchen.
As sweetcorn fills the shops in the last gasp of summer, try this poky salad dressing – it is, of course, rich with sour cream but cut with vinegar & mustard to balance. It is also dangerously moreish. Make more than you think you need, it won’t go to waste.
KUKORICA SALÁTA, sweetcorn salad.
Two sweetcorn cobs, lightly steamed til just tender.
1 medium white onion, grated.
2 tbsp white vinegar
2 tsp sugar
2 heaped tsp Dijon mustard
2 heaped tbsp thick sour cream (you can also use creme fraiche)
2 tbsp mayonnaise
parsley, salt & pepper.
Put grated onion into a bowl & add vinegar and sugar, with a pinch of salt. Stir well & leave for 15 mins to allow the harsh notes of the raw onion to mellow in the vinegar & sugar – a sort of quick pickle.
Mix in the mustard, sour cream and mayonnaise. Taste & add more salt if needed. Shave all the sweetcorn kernels off the cobs directly into the dressing whilst the corn is still warm. Mix well. Add chopped parsley and pepper. Leave to sit for half an hour before eating. You may prefer to add more onion, less sour cream, more corn, whatever suits your palate but the end result should be this creamy, sweet & sour salad bright with parsley & crunchy corn.
Finom - the food of Hungary 