On the way back from trips to the NH seacoast when my sister and I were kids, we had a must-do stop: the onion ring stand at Salisbury Beach.
The rings were big, about 1/2 inch wide, and dipped in a batter that fried up light but crispy and not overly sweet.
The rings were served in paper boxes, with a good half dozen “extras” piled on a straw in a display of abundance.
I haven’t eaten rings this good anywhere else.
So, when Robert asked me to cook up a batch at home, I picked up a big white onion and a promising-looking mix.
After trying some different battering techniques and oil temperatures, I came close to the ones at Salisbury, but not exactly right. I think a beer batter would work better, and now that I’ve figured out the right utensil (a medium-sized pot worked pretty well), I may try a real from-scratch version.
Robert quit after one ring (I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t hungry until I realized that he’d polished off almost an entire half gallon of ice cream), so I sent the leftovers home, hoping that they weren’t entirely vile.
Peter reported back that he ate them and they weren’t bad at all.
I’m glad, because in my mind, onion rings are the ultimate summer food: more than cotton candy, fried clams, s’mores, soft serve ice cream, grilled hot dogs and hamburgers, vine-ripened tomatoes, watermelon.
Those things are good, but not evocative. A box of deep fried onion rings brings back memories of the beach, liberation from school, sleeping in at my grandmother’s summer house, walking with my cousins to the donut shop.
I wish every human being could have an association as great as that one.