Recipe: Mrs. Col. Brown’s Anchovy Spread

After the war, which my 21-year-old father survived despite two tours as a navigator flying in bombers from England to and over Germany, he married my mother and studied for his master’s degree in aeronautical engineering on the G.I. Bill. This degree seemed useful to the military, which persuaded him to return to active duty for a while. My parents then went to live near an Air Force base that was, it turned out, a hot base for pilots, many of whom went on to become part of the first group selected for training in the space program a few years later, or so I have read in Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff. My mother remembered that the air there was full of the sound of sonic booms.

So, a gathering of hotshots. One of them, let’s say his name was Col. Brown, was famous for a few things. He had a Jaguar, his wife set a great table, and the two of them put on a big party every year after the Memorial Day observances. To which my young parents were invited, and were allowed to bring my mother’s sister, Jan. My mother was one of five sisters, and Jan was my favorite. She was 17 or 18 at that time, and had just come to live with my parents while she went to college, starting as a freshman that year.

Jan had dark red hair, cut short from her childhood's long, very long, braids, and thousands of freckles. It doesn’t sound promising, does it, and yet a few years later she was the homecoming queen of her college; so her looks, and a personality I always felt she had modeled on Doris Day’s, all added up to a pretty attractive package. At any rate, I’m sure she must have admired Col. Brown’s exotic Jaguar, because who wouldn’t, and hey presto he asked her if she would like to drive it. Yes please! and relax, this isn’t that kind of a story. But it is a story with an afterlife, the kind that finds its way into a family's store of tales.

Years later, I asked Jan about it all, and she said that it was really, really fun, that car was amazing, and that when, at one point, they came to a curve in the road, Col. Brown said  “Don’t turn that wheel, just THINK about driving around this curve.” And so she did, Zen driving at an early age. And what, I asked, had history recorded about Mrs. Col. Brown’s thoughts about this afternoon driving adventure? Oh, she was really, really nice, Jan said, I told her I loved her anchovy spread and she gave me the recipe! Anchovies were probably about as exotic as Jaguars in the late 40s/early 50s, and Mrs. Brown, my mother said, was known to be tight with her kitchen secrets, but voilà and hurrah.

I once heard someone say that the most powerful people on earth are beautiful young women. I suppose that could explain some things, such as, for example, whether Putin is all about proving a point to the pretzel-jointed gymnast he dumped his wife for, or proving something to both of them. No accounting, but something inexplicable is going on there, so maybe and why not.

Anyway. In the end, Jan eloped in her senior year with a soon-to-be surgeon, a true type double-A controlling example of every cliche about surgeons. It wasn’t easy, but she stuck it out, people did then. And I am glad she had a happy memory of driving a fast car on a sunny day with the top down.

The rest of us will have to make do with the other gift that came from that day, the following recipe. Not a hardship at all.

Mrs. Col. Brown’s Anchovy Spread

Excepting anchovy haters, everyone who tries this loves it and wants to know how to make it. It used to be a bear in the days before food processors, when the anchovies had to be mashed to a paste with a fork. My wrist hurts just thinking about it. The only time-consuming chore now is spreading out the anchovies onto paper towels and running your finger over them to remove any large bones or bony chunks. Don't obsess over the fine bones. I find that anchovies bought in jars, rolled around capers, are a better, firmer quality of anchovy. After you’ve cleaned them up, press with other paper towels.

I always double the original recipe, which will keep for a week or so in the refrigerator. Take it out an hour or so before serving, so that it’s spreadable. I am giving you the double recipe, which can of course be halved. Make this at least eight hours ahead or the day before, to allow the caraway seeds to soften.

Two 8 oz. blocks of full fat cream cheese, softened
Two sticks of unsalted butter (8 oz.), softened
30, more or less, anchovies, picked over as described above. If you buy the ones rolled around capers, you can toss in the capers, or not, or put in about half of them, as I do. Up to you. This amount is usually two tins or jars. They should be packed in olive oil.
1 tsp. paprika
1 tsp. cayenne, or more to taste. I put in a bit more.
1 tsp. caraway seeds.  Don’t use those old ones that have been sitting around forever. Buy fresh ones.

In a food processor, blend the cream cheese and butter with half the anchovies. Then add the rest of the anchovies, the paprika and the cayenne, and blend very thoroughly.  You will have to scrape down the mix a few times to get it all incorporated. If for some reason the mix seems stiffish, add a little bit of the olive oil from the jar, but not too much. Add the caraway seeds and blend as briefly as possible—you want them to remain visible and whole, as much as they can be. Serve the next day (see above) with crackers. I like La Panzanella sea-salted or cracked pepper ones (not rosemary), or plain water biscuits. The picture shows chives sprinkled on top, which you can do if you wish. I don’t, generally, but because this was being photographed I was trying to make it look a bit more appetizing. Let’s face it, this is another of those recipes that looks like paste in a pot, as so many of the really good ones do.

I usually freeze the leftover anchovy-flavored olive oil to add to other things. The last time I made this it occurred to me that the spread, with a little additional oil, could be added to pasta a few spoonfuls at a time, see how it goes. I haven’t done this, but I think it might be worth a try, maybe augmented with some fresh baby spinach leaves. We’ll see. And by the way, I have never seen this recipe anywhere else.