playing with fire and water

salmon pumpernickel leek

A variation of the previous dish with salmon sausage, chocolate rye pumpernickel (in pudding form), micro leeks, and oca.

pumpernickel pudding

50g charred leeks, cooked through
30g pumpernickel bread, trimmed of crusts and crumbled 
50g kefir
35g water 
20g beer
2g salt
15g neutral oil

Place all of the ingredients except the oil in a blender or food processor and blend until smooth. Slowly drizzle in the oil with the motor running. If necessary, add more oil to thicken, or water to thin. Adjust seasoning. 

Oca (Oxalis tuberosa) is a species of oxalis that has long been cultivated in the Andes, where it is the second most popular tuber next to the potato, and more recently in New Zealand. Unlike common oxalis (wood sorrel), oca forms prolific fleshy tubers that can be eaten raw or cooked. In its raw form, they are crisp and moderatly acidic, like an apple without the sugar.

Oca contains fairly high concentrations of oxalates, an organic acid that can lead to kidney stones. Because the oxalates are found mostly in the skin, they can be diminished by peeling, cooking, or by exposing the tubers to direct sunlight for several hours.

Cultivating oca requires a long growing season. To get a headstart, they were sprouted in a bright, moist environment. And now that they're off to a good start they'll go directly into pots, where they'll live until the ground warms up. By late autumn, I hope to have a new crop of these delicious nuggets.

myoga and ume

A pair of new-to-me Japanese ingredients that I'm excited to work with:

Myoga (Zingiber mioga) is a close relative of common culinary ginger root (Zingiber officinale) that is prized for its edible flower buds. The buds are made up of scales that are crisp— like celery— with a refreshing ginger flavor that is characteristic of the genus. In Japan, myoga is commonly served raw in sushi, and as a condiment (yakumi) for cold dishes such as tofu and noodles. In other preparations, it is pickled or dipped in tempura batter and fried.

Ume (Prunus mume), often refered to as a type of plum, is a distinct species that is more closely related to apricots. Ume, with 4-5% acidity, are tarter than plums (1-2%), and contain astringent polyphenols, as well as glutamine, an amino acid. In Japan, ume are almost exclusively consumed in a preserved form. The most popular, umeboshi, is made with lactic acid fermentation, where the ripe yellowish plums are salted and weighted, then dyed with red shiso (akajiso) before being dried. Unripe ume are steeped for prolonged periods in shochu and sugar to make umeshu (ume liqueur). In this preparation, the flavor of the flesh, as well as the kernel, infuses the umeshu, which is then enjoyed straight up or in a cocktail. The liquor-soaked fruit (pictured above) is fragrant and addictive.

matsutake

Outside of Japan, matsutake mushrooms (Tricholoma matsutake) are not as well known as other aromatic funghi.
Truffles (genus Tuber), prized for their heady funk, and the more delicate Porcini (Boletus edulis) delight us with their earthy aromas that express their habitat of deciduous woods.
The distinct aroma of matsutakes distills the essence of the pine forests in which they grow. Their name alone (matsu=pine, take=mushroom) tells their story.

matsutake ✢ pine-tahoon oil ✢ kefir
kabosu zest ✢ turmeric gari

 

tahoon pork jowl beechnut

There are plants that can be described as tasting earthy— mostly roots and tubers that absorb the minerals and organic matter of the soil in which they grow buried. Rarely is earthy attributed to a green leaf, which is why I was stunned when I tasted tahoon sprouts. Just days out of the soil, the tiny green leaves emit an intense flavor of sun-baked dirt, humus, and wood, with an oily background of roasted nuts.

Tahoon (Toona sinensis), aka Chinese Toon, is a member of the Mahogany family, native to China, where the young leaves and sprouts (xiang chun) are enjoyed as a vegetable.

Upon tasting tahoon and then learning that the plant was hardy in my northern climate and could eventually develop into a tree, I became curious about the mature leaves and aromatic wood.

But locating the elusive tahoon seeds proved to be a challenge. Eventually, I found them at a Canadian seed company that specializes in Chinese vegetables. 

The seedlings that I planted that summer, three years ago, didn't survive the winter. I planted another round the following year on the edge of a garden, near a stand of sumacs, that were forgotten until this spring when I noticed new growth on what I thought were sumac suckers, whose pinnate leaves closely resemble those of tahoon. It wasn't until I tasted them that I realized that the neglected plants had not only survived a harsh winter, but at nearly four feet in height, they were well on their way to becoming trees.

The mature tahoon leaves display the same aromatic properties that are found in the sprouts, but in a more diffused way. Instead of delivering the characteristic flavor up front, it saves it for the end, when you've nearly given up on it, then lingers on and on. The wood is richly aromatic, reminiscent of cedar, and full of promise.

The flavor of tahoon is often likened to beechnuts— a comparison that eluded me until recently. Though I'm always on the lookout for the nut of the American Beech (Fagus grandifolia), a native tree proliferate in the eastern United States, it's temperamental when it comes to producing fruit. Some years it produces nothing at all, while in other years, the beechnuts are scarce and out of reach on the upper limbs and the cupules are dry and hollow by the time they hit the ground. I guess I just had to stop looking because that's how I finally found them. And, yes— now that I've tasted them— I can say [with conviction] tahoon does indeed taste like beechnuts. Actually, dirty beechnuts.

Thin, bias-cut slices of pork jowl, sandwiched between tahoon leaves. A quick saute in a hot pan renders the fat and crisps the leaves. Crispy on the outside, juicy and succulent on the inside.

What I've learned about cooking mature tahoon is that it doesn't do well when subjected to moist heat— the volatile aromas all but disappear. Dry heat preserves the flavor and draws out the already low water content from the leaves, making them crispy. And I like crispy. 

pork jowl tahoon sandwich with roasted beechnut/jerusalem artichoke puree

blowfish tails

Blowfish. Just reading the word set off a panic alarm.

"Aren't blowfish potentially lethal?" I asked the fishmonger with genuine concern and a frisson of excitement.

"No" he said, "You're thinking of the kind they serve in Japan. These are from Long Island. They're harmless."

He picked one up and offered to eat it— raw and all— as proof. His comical heroics only slightly allayed my fear. I wanted to ask more questions but there was a long line behind me, so I bought a pound out of curiosity.

Back home, I examined the blowfish tails. They looked innocuous enough. In fact, they looked like they would be pretty tasty. The only thing preventing me from cooking and eating them was a piece of information: were they safe?  Certainly, I trusted the fishmonger, but I needed to know what made his blowfish different from the deadly delicacy that I had only read about. I thought the answer would be easy to find. 

Blowfish belong to the Tetraodontidae family, of which there are 19 genera and at least 189 species. Fugu is the notorious genus whose preparation is rigorously controlled in Japan and only allowed by licensed chefs who train for 11 years. The culprit toxin: tetrodotoxin, is concentrated in the liver and ovaries (the sale of fugu liver  has been banned in Japan since 1983). Tetrodotoxin is a powerful neurotoxin— 1200 times deadlier than cyanide(!)— and when ingested, it paralyzes the diaphragm muscles and produces a pseudo-coma for which there is no antidote. (Interestingly, the toxin is used in Voodoo to induce these symptoms in creating zombies— sounds like fodder for a CSI plot).

Blowfish, or puffers, as they are commonly known, are accused of being the second-most poisonous vertabrate in existence, but by many accounts, their levels of toxicity vary wildly according to species, sex, part of body, season, and location. Puffers are not thought to produce tetrodotoxin themselves— it is believed that they manufacture it from specific precursor bacteria in their prey. Thus, puffers that are raised in farms are free of the toxin.

That was all well and good until I remembered that my fish was labeled "wild-caught".

The internet is both a blessing and a curse . On the one hand, it instantly provides us with a mind-numbing wealth of information. On the other, the uncensored glut often turns up contradictions, and I hit those in spades. For instance, one article in Wiki (whose content I take with a grain of salt) singled out Takifugu oblongus as being non-poisonous, yet another stated that all species of Takifugu were suspect. Other sources unequivocally stated that ALL species were toxic, while others claimed that some were not, but didn't bother to list them. Which to believe? I knew that I had to identify the species of my puffers and the fish monger had given me a valuable clue— they were caught on Long Island. Puffers are warm water fish, there is only one species that venture into the waters north of Florida: Sphoeroides maculatus

Most of what I found about S. maculatus were idyllic accounts by fishermen and childhood reminiscences of summers on the mid-Atlantic coast. Apparently, in the 1960's, northern puffers "were so plentiful that you could practically kick them up on the shore". Amateur fishermen loved them because they could "catch more in an afternoon than they could eat in a week"  but professionals who were after the bigger catch found them a nuisance and would "beat them off the side of the boat as we reeled them in". Children were endlessly entertained by their cartoonish spherical bodies. It seems that for most of the decade, the eastern seaboard— from Long Island to the Chesapeake Bay— was teeming with northern puffers. And then they suddenly disappeared. To this day, no one can explain why.

The more I learned about blowfish, the more enigmatic they became, but I was at least encouraged by the memories of those that were familiar with the northern puffer and the casualness with which they caught and prepared the fish. They were eaten with abandon and never with concern of safety— and they all lived to tell about it.

But that was a long time ago and I needed solid facts about the safety of the fish that I was determined to consume. It was then that I realized that if there was any questionable food being sold in the US that the FDA would have a report. On their website I found the answer that I was searching for:

   "The only safe sources for imported puffer fish are fish that have been processed and prepared by specially trained and certified fish cutters in the city of Shimonoseki, Japan. Additionally, puffer fish caught in the mid-Atlantic coastal waters of the United States, typically between Virginia and New York, are safe to consume. Puffer fish from all other sources can either naturally contain deadly toxins or become toxic because of environmental factors and therefore are not considered safe."

Finally, I no longer felt like I'd be playing Russian roulette by serving them to my family. When my husband and son asked what they were, I simply said "blowfish tails" and was only mildly surprised by their lack of alarm. I wanted to tell them more, but I just let them enjoy it, uninhibited, as did I.

And we all lived to tell.

I couldn't resist the alliteration of making puffed puffers, and I'm glad I didn't. The crunchy shell was a perfect foil for the sweet fish and a visual reference to its spines. The texture of the meat reminded me of the fried eels that my mother used to make. To get the broken, dehydrated spaghetti to cling to the tails, they were first dipped in a light tempura batter. The sauce is a wood sorrel (Oxalis acetosella) aioli, plated to look like red ribbon sorrel (Rumex sanguineus) leaves. A quenelle of beet and fennel salad completes the dish.

 

 

 

dessert and stories of India

I've never been to India but I know people who have.

I've listened to their stories and impressions; some are Utopian glimpses of a country as seen through Merchant Ivory colored lenses. They tell of majestic vistas, magnificent carved stone temples, sultry gardens vibrating with exotic fruits and flowers, and women with dark mysterious eyes draped in silks the color of jewels.

Then there are those who tell of a different India and speak only of oppression, abject poverty, suffocating crowds, dust and lost children. The dichotomy of their tales makes me wonder if they all traveled the same country. But when I think of the places I've been, I realize that India isn't so different from anywhere else.

One recent traveler spoke at length about the food of India: the diversity of street food, rustic dishes in private homes, and a lavish multi-course meal served in a palace. I listened to the descriptions with equal interest, although one in particular captured my imagination. It was of gulab jamun— deep-fried semolina pastries soaked in rose syrup— served with yogurt, pistachios, coconut, and dried fruits. The pastries themselves were described as very dense and sweet, but it was the combination of aromas and flavors that spoke loudest to me of India.

I was thinking of that dessert when I puffed pasta tubes that were cooked in cardamom tea and stuffed with coconut yogurt. Even then I realized that I had made a type of cannoli, which holds no place in Indian cuisine, but I went ahead and added rose and saffron macerated apricot and crushed pistachios. The dish, like the stories, is an impression of a place.

Someday I'd like to see India for myself, but in the meantime I can experience it through food. The flavors and aromas of a cuisine tell the most authentic stories.

 

kasu bread

Leavened bread is probably the last thing anyone would associate with washoku tradition. Indeed, when we take a protracted view of Japanese cuisine, bread is a johny-come-lately.

It was late in the 16th century when the first Europeans—the Portuguese—settled in Japan, bringing with them Western religion, science, technology, and food. Although the Japanese quickly assimilated cake (bōlo) and fried food (tempura) into their cuisine, the Portuguese bread was too sour and chewy for their taste and not widely adopted. Nonetheless,  it captured their imagination and the word pan (from the Portuguese pão) stuck. 

Fast forward 300 years to 1871: the samarai Yasubei Kimura opens a bakery, Kimuraya, in Tokyo, with the aspiration of producing baked goods for the Japanese palate.  Kimura realized that making European-style bread in Japan would be challenging. Leavened doughs were a new concept and wheat flour and yeast were scarce. After many failed attempts using alternate sources of yeast, Kimura hired Kodo Katsuzo, who developed a dough leavened with kasu (sake lees), giving birth to anpan, a hybrid of manjū (a Japanese derivative of Chinese mochi) and light, cottony, Dutch-inspired bread dough, encasing a filling of anko (sweet red bean paste). After the emperor gave it his seal of approval, anpan became the first widely accepted Japanese bread. 

It was kasu's potential to leaven bread that first drew me to it. I found many references to sakadane, the liquid kasu starter used in the original anpan, but couldn't find a recipe or process, so I developed my own. Using wild cultivated yeast as a model, I made a starter from rice flour, water, and kasu. It took 8 days of feeding and stirring for it to become fully active— a considerable effort for what turned out to be a less than remarkable loaf of bread.

I suppose I could have started over and tweaked the recipe, but with all of the lengthy fermentation processes that I have currently working, I wanted something more immediate. I wanted bread— conspicuous with kasu, and mellow with rice—that I could make start-to-finish in a day. To that end, I made a new dough, adding yeast to hasten the process, and folded bits of kasu and fragrant basmati rice into the risen dough. For that shortcut, I make no apologies— to you, or to myself— because the bread was truly remarkable.

kasu bread ✢ kombu butter ✢ salt ✢ kinome

Kimura's anpan is but one example of how cross-cultural influences inform and develop cuisine by borrowing ideas, processes, and/or ingredients, and tailoring them to the tastes of the people that it will feed.

My kasu bread goes one step further; it closes the circle. 

The Japanese were inspired to create a national bread from their introduction to leavened bread via the Portuguese. Inspired by sakadane, I borrowed kasu from the Japanese and applied it to a bread from my own heritage: Portuguese pão.

How does it taste?
It tastes richly personal,
sweet with history,
seasoned with a touch of irony.

kasu bread

starter:
54g compressed kasu
180g water
100g bread flour
.4g active dry yeast

dough:
175g bread flour
1.6g active dry yeast
5g salt
5g rice bran oil
5g mirin

solids:
100g cooked, drained, and cooled basmati rice
40g compressed kasu, cut into small bits

starter: In a blender, blend together the kasu and water until homogenous. Place the flour in a bowl and stir in the yeast. Pour kasu water into center and stir with a spoon to form smooth batter. Cover loosely and set aside at room temperature for 2-3 hours until batter forms bubbles.
dough: Place flour, yeast and salt into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Mix on low speed to blend dry ingredients. With the mixer still on low speed, slowly pour in the active starter. Turn speed to medium and mix for 2 minutes. Add the rice bran oil and the mirin and mix 2 minutes more. Replace paddle with dough hook, turn speed up to medium high and knead dough for 5 minutes. Lightly oil a large bowl. Scrape dough into bowl and turn upside down, so that top of dough is oiled. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside at room temperate until doubled in volume, about 1 1/2-2 hours.
solids: Punch dough down to deflate and turn out onto floured board. With fingertips, press dough into a rough rectangle, about 1/2" thick. Evenly sprinkle rice over dough, followed by bits of kasu. Starting at wide end of rectangle, roll dough in a tight spiral to form a log, and seal the ends. Cover dough with lightly oiled plastic wrap and let rise at room temperature for 1 1/2 hours, or until nearly doubled in size.
40 minutes before baking, place a baking stone on floor of oven and preheat to 232C/450F. When dough has risen, transfer it to a floured baking peel and place on heated stone in hot oven. Mist the oven 3-4 times with water in a spray bottle during the first 10 minutes of baking. After 15 minutes, turn the oven down to 204C/400F, and continue baking for 15-20 minutes longer until deep golden brown. Remove from oven with a peel and allow to cool on a rack.

 

kasu-cured scallop

Kasu is a by-product of sake. Also known as sake lees, it is the separated and pressed solids that remain at the end of the fermentation process. Consisting of rice, koji, residual yeast, and a small amount of alcohol, kasu can sometimes be found as a soft paste or, more readily, as square compressed sheets. It has a delicate floral yeasty aroma.

Kasu zuke is another type of Japanese pickles where food is embedded in a paste made from kasu, mirin, sugar and salt. Typically, the process is applied to white fish for a brief curing, or to fresh vegetables for longer periods.

These live scallops were so pristine that I wanted to keep them clean and chose to wrap them in kasu sheets instead of a paste. After spiral cutting them into thin, even strips, they were sprinkled with mirin, covered with kinome, then sealed between two sheets of compressed kasu. Looking like large ravioli, they cured in the refrigerator for 24 hours,. They emerged from their kasu cocoon all fragrant and delicious.

kasu-cured scallop ✢ blood orange ponzu ✢ kinome

tekka miso

Tekka miso is a condiment traditionally made from burdock, carrots and lotus roots. The grated roots are slowly cooked in sesame oil, then blended with ground black sesame seeds, ginger, and Hatcho miso— a dark, long-fermented type of miso made entirely from soybeans. The paste is slowly cooked over a low fire until all of the moisture evaporates, resulting in a dry, crumbly mixture. 

Prized in Japan for its flavor and aroma, tekka miso is reminiscent of chocolate and coffee. Not surprising as it, too, is a product of fermentation and roasting, with parallel complexity.

 

tekka miso
makes 200ml (¾ cup)

9g sesame oil
30g grated daikon
30g grated carrot
25g grated beet root
25g finely minced scallion
25g black sesame paste
6g microplaned gingerroot
130g hatcho or red miso

Line the bottom of a skillet with the sesame oil and set over medium heat. Add the daikon, carrot, beet root and scallion and toss to coat with the oil. Cook until vegetables just begin to take on color, then lower the heat to medium low and continue cooking until soft and tender, stirring often. Add the sesame paste and gingerroot, pressing into vegetable mixture until incorporated (it will form a clump). Cook for 2-3 minutes while spreading and turning the mixture, then blend in the miso. Spread the resulting thick paste in the bottom of the pan in an even layer. Turn the heat down to lowest setting and continue cooking for 20-30 minutes. Alternately, the mixture can be spread on a baking sheet and baked in a 65C/150F oven. In either case, turn and spread the mixture every few minutes until it is dry and crumbly. Cool before packing into jars. Store in refrigerator for up to 3 months.

roasted buna shimeji stems (brown beech mushrooms)
asparagus pudding
tekka miso

miso adaptations

 

Spontaneous fermentation is the oldest form of 'cooking'. Long before man understood the chemistry of how microorganisms preserved his food and heightened its flavor while making him healthier, he learned to control and manipulate the process. Each culture developed their unique specialties based on indigenous ingredients. Early travelers borrowed techniques from their neighbors and assimilated them to what was available back home.

In this spirit, I've taken the time-honored process of making miso and adapted it to the bounty of ingredients that are available in the modern world to make these trial batches. The choices were not arbitrary— they needed to fit the protein/starch profile that koji requires to feed upon. In some cases, soybeans were added to the base ingredient to boost the protein content. Many borders were crossed, but no bridges were burned.

No doubt, some will fail, and some will succeed, but that's part of the fun of discovery. Ultimately, flavor will dictate which ones will be pursued.