playing with fire and water

salmon hot dog

There's a virtually untapped world of specialty malted grains made for the beer brewing industry that can be used to add unique flavor to baked goods. Two stand-outs are: smoked barley (gives Rauchmalz its smoky aroma) and chocolate rye (contributes nutty, caramel notes to dark stouts and Porters). Over the past year, I've tested them in everything from laminated pastries* to cookie doughs** with great effect, but it is the realm of yeasted doughs where they seem most at home. The robust complexity that chocolate rye adds to pumpernickel makes the original pale in comparison.

The virtue of making condiments lies in customization and enhanced flavor. Commercially made Dijon mustards taste flat and boring in comparison to the ones you can make yourself. The process starts with shallots and garlic simmered in Chardonnay. The reduced infusion is strained and blended with brown mustard powder, olive oil, and a few drops of honey. Sometimes, I customize it with various herbs and aromatics, but I always let it sit at room temperature for at least 2 weeks to ripen the flavor before storing in the refrigerator, where it will keep for three months or longer. It's a small effort for a big flavor; too big, it turns out, for my delicately flavored salmon hot dog.

Coincidentally, I was working on an orange horseradish*** puree for a pork dish that needed a nudge in the flavor department. A whole orange and peeled horseradish root had been steamed in a pressure cooker with white wine, then the whole lot pureed. Pressure cooking removes the acridity from the horseradish and softens the bitterness in the orange's pith, producing a puree with a mellower flavor than you would think possible from the raw ingredients. 

For the salmon hot dog, I punched up the puree by blending it with an equal amount of homemade Dijon, and— because I love citrus with salmon— I added microplaned orange zest. Mixing horseradish with mustard made sense because they both belong to the Brassica family, a simple observation that opened a new pathway to a great condiment.   

salmon sausage in leek casing
chocolate rye roll
horseradish orange mustard
kefir fermented daikon
fennel sprouts 

* croissants made with smoked barley flour and smoked butter are revelatory.

** see pepper cookies

*** please, no comments about the horseradish root. I only photographed and cooked the thing, Nature did the rest.

fruit tart

Once, my friend Judy gave me a rudimentary lesson on throwing pottery. I can still remember how the clay felt between my fingers as it turned on the wheel. Supple. Lithe. Obsequious. A gentle pull would make the clay rise like a tower; a push would flatten it into a slab. Up... down... out... in... I delighted in the responsive dance of force and symmetry. 

I went into the pottery studio that day with a project in mind: a shallow bowl with thin walls that tapered gently outward. Tried as I did, my inexperienced hands couldn't make the clay dance that way. Later, it was decided that the best way to build the bowl was from a molded slab. The process involved rolling, cutting and molding. THESE were motions that my hands understood; it was the dance of pastry.

There are two types of molds used for clay slabs: slump and hump. In slump molding, the clay is laid inside the mold, much like pastry dough is fitted inside a pie or tart pan. In hump molding, the clay is draped over the outside of the mold. This was how I formed my bowl because: 1) it was the only type of mold available at the studio, and 2) it allowed the inside of the bowl to remain smooth and free of blemishes while modeling the slab to the mold. The process made me question why we build pastry crusts inside the confinement of pans and overlook the outside. 

Wet clay is made up of fine mineral particles that float in thin layers of water. When clay is rolled, the particles line up in the direction of the force. If a clay slab is rolled in only one direction, the particles line up to form a grain that will cause the object to shrink against the grain when dried and fired.

I've often wondered why recipes for pie crusts insist that the dough should be rolled from the center out, and why they sometimes shrink unevenly when baked. I've wondered, too, about the turns in laminated doughs. I never expected to find the answers in working with clay, but I'm glad I did.

freeform pate brisee bowl ✢ yuzu curd ✢ meringue 
rambutan ✢ lychee ✢ myoga ✢ ume
ground cherry ✢ black sesame 

pea prosciutto peanut

late night cravings for wasabi peas and peanut brittle... sometimes both together.

rereading a childhood fairytale... a terrible giant (who grinds the bones of Englishmen to make his bread!), redemption, and golden eggs.

revisiting a classic trio... fresh peas, cured meat, hard aged cheese.

observing nature in high summer... the race towards the sky.

 

random inspirations are often the inception of a dish.

english pea pudding ✢ pea sprouts ✢ prosciutto 
manchego ✢ wasabi pea powder ✢ peanut brittle 

amazake strawberry kinome

It was on a blustery winter afternoon that I first sampled amazake. It came in the form of a traditional Japanese beverage, served warm with a sprinkle of grated ginger. Learning that it was essentially just fermented rice and water, I was amazed at the depth of flavor and sweetness that koji had coaxed out of the rice. And there was a richness about the way that it felt in my mouth that reminded me of dairy. It was, I was told, the vegan eggnog.

Recently, I had a visitor come to my home to see my newly remodeled kitchen. Because he writes about food, I wanted to cook for him and was eager to showcase some of the products that I had fermented. For dessert, I made an amazake ice cream based on the beverage, using coconut water for added flavor. It was really an experiment, as I was curious about the texture of churned and frozen amazake. The result was not as creamy as I had hoped and the inherent sweetness had muted to a mere whisper— which typically occurs with freezing. We both agreed that it showed promise, but needed work. 

We also agreed that the flavor of strawberries and kinome with the amazake was quite special, so that part of the dish would remain intact.

Days later, I made a new ice cream with pureed amazake, cream, and sugar. It was a vast improvement over the original, but I couldn't help but feel that I had missed an important opportunity.

As someone who cooks customized food for a living, the upsurge of food intolerances is a salient concern. Coeliac disease, lactose intolerance, and food allergies are serious conditions that I have learned to make allowances for. Then there's an ever-increasing number of people who choose to refrain from entire food groups such as dairy or meat, or follow 'lifestyle diets' that exclude white powders and saturated fats. Add to that, the political eaters who prohibit foie gras, veal, unsustainable fish, factory farmed proteins, and unorganic produce; or picky eaters who refuse to eat (for example) anything with garlic or onions, and you can begin to see why chefs are so frustrated— some to the point of choosing to make NO allowances.

I don't have that luxury.

When a guest at a dinner party unexpectedly announces that there is something on the carefully planned menu that they can't or won't eat, I have to accommodate them. No excuses. 

The upside is that when you feed someone with special dietary needs a delicious and satisfying meal that doesn't offend their bodies or minds, they are exceedingly grateful. Altruism aside, a happy client is always a boost to the ego.

Over time, I've learned to make adjustments to fit most diets, but vegan desserts continue to challenge me. In a pinch, I can turn to fresh fruit and sorbet or granita, but that often feels like a copout. So I reexamined amazake's potential to add texture, natural sweetness, and moisture to desserts that otherwise rely on dairy products and refined sugars, and I decided that an ice cream was a good place to start. To the pureed amazake, I added coconut milk for richness, rice syrup for added sweetness, and guar gum to improve the mouthfeel. The addition of sichuan pepper was specific to this dish to enhance the flavor of strawberries and kinome. 

While I'm pleased with how the amazake ice cream turned out, if I were given a choice between the sweet cream version and the vegan one, I would invariably choose the former.

I'm grateful that I have that luxury.

amazake ice cream ✢ puffed forbidden rice
strawberry ✢ sake ✢ kinome 

vegan amazake ice cream

400g coconut milk
260g amazake
20g rice syrup
5g vanilla
4g lightly toasted and ground sichuan peppercorns (optional)
3g guar gum

Place all ingredients in a high speed blender and blend 3 minutes, or until very smooth. Scrape mixture into an ice cream freezer and proceed according to manufacture's directions. 

 

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. 

 

kimchi pork belly

We bought our house in Northwestern Connecticut on the cusp of the new millenium.  At the time, there was a housing shortage that left the pickings slim and prices high. We considered waiting it out, but once we made the decision to move there was no turning back. We listed and sold our first house and moved into the second within 28 days. It all happened so fast. 

Even before moving in we had a five year plan— part and parcel when you buy a house that's considerably older than you. Being intrepid do-it-yourselfers, my husband and I were prepared to do as much of the work as our skill set allowed. The plan was to start with the kitchen which had not been updated since the 50's, but other things took priority. There was a quirky bathroom to expand and modernize. There were drafty windows and a leaky roof to replace. There was a porch to rebuild from the ground up and rooms to turn inside out. There was plumbing to upgrade and electricity to put in where there was none. There was a relic of a furnace to replace— and while we were at it— central air to install. Outside, there were gardens to build and plant, a driveway to blast and resurface, a massive stone wall to dry stack, and an old leaning potting shed (with too much character to take down) that I fought to rescue. It's only when I look back at everything that we've accomplished that I can cut myself some slack for having let ten years pass before getting around to my kitchen.

Early on, when the projects grew out of control and funds were stretched thin, I accepted that the kitchen would have to wait. I consoled myself by painting words of inspiration on my cabinets. Mostly, they were strung-together bits of poetry and proverbs that were meaningful to me. I think I did it as an act of defiance— if I couldn't make a new kitchen, I could at least make it different. I thought I would soon grow tired of the word-filled room, but instead it grew on me, embracing me like a warm, cozy blanket of complacency.

 

I firmly believe in blooming where you are planted. Life doesn't always present us with perfect circumstances and I try to never use that as an excuse for not fulfilling a potential. Shouldn't a good cook be able to produce good food under any conditions?  As a caterer, that's an idea that I've had to uphold every time I walk into an unfamiliar space, whether it's a magnificent state-of-the-art kitchen or a makeshift cook tent in the middle of a field. But gardening has taught me that organisms thrive under ideal conditions— I am no different. Being a visually susceptible kind of organism, I draw inspiration from environments and stimulation from space, color, light, texture, design.

Like gardening and parenthood, my kitchen taught me patience. Every morning, when I reached for the coffee, I would stop and read these words: "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven". I don't think that wiser words have ever been written.

Kitchen season began abruptly after Thanksgiving. Cabinets, ceilings and walls were torn down until all that remained of two small rooms was one large empty shell. This, I thought, is my ideal condition where creativity thrives: a blank canvas and a flexible plan.

The new kitchen is still taking shape. My intention is to make it more streamlined and modern, while honoring the old character of the house. Though it will be another month or two before it's complete, I hope to have a sink by the weekend so that I can cook Christmas dinner for my family (I know they'll forgive my disheveled house). In the meantime, when I can't bear to look at another pizza or carton of Chinese food, I've been utilizing some seldom-used small appliances. My crock pot has become a good friend.

The Autumn joy kimchi has also been a good friend. It transformed leftover take-out rice, re-fried in an electric skillet into something exotic and delicious.
A practically effortless meal came from slow cooking pork belly in chicken stock, kimchi, and sliced kieffer lime, served with sweet potato spaetzle and crispy fried kale. Prepared in my dim, dusty cellar, using a crock pot, electric skillet, and deep-fryer propped up on a washing machine and dryer with a laundry sink nearby, it was the most un-ideal of conditions in which to produce such a luxurious meal.

ICC 2010: the dishes

Once again, Starchefs gathered together some of the most talented chefs from around the world to share ideas and techniques at the 5th Annual International Chefs Congress.

The event kicked off with a panel discussion on this year's theme: Art vs. Craft. Present on the panel were chefs Dan Barber, David Kinch, and Thomas Keller, with Michael Rhulman moderating. The discussion brought up some thoughtful points about intent and perception. While Barber and Kinch were willing to entertain the notion of chef/artist, Keller adamantly stated that he was a craftsman, not an artist. The consensus seemed to be that it was hubris for chefs to label themselves as "artists", though it was OK for the consumer to do so. The lack of a radically opposed point of view, which would have added another dimension to the conversation, became apparent when Barber admitted that the panel was mostly  ''vanilla' on the subject.  

Here are most of the dishes prepared on the main stage over the course of three days:

earthy potatoes and magic ham

After two years, this blog still challenges me to poke and prod and go places I haven't been before. It reminds me that despite what I think I already know, the only thing I really know is that there is always more to know.
  
I'm grateful for that.
I wouldn't want it any other way.
 
I'm also grateful to those of you that take time out of your busy, busy lives to drop me a line. To ask questions. To say hi. To send encouragement. To take me to task.  And sometimes, after I respond, you respond back. And so on. And the next thing I know, I have a new friend.
 
I'm grateful for that, too.
 
Sometimes, my new friends send me things. Special things. The kind of things you can't buy in a store. Or anywhere else for that matter.
Sometimes, they send me inspiration. Or boxes of sunshine. They even send me magic.

And just in case there was any doubt, it was clearly labeled  POP'S MAGIC HAM.

Uwe's pop is a magician. On his farm in Texas he transforms pork loin into something not of this world. Uwe and Chad describe the magic far better than I could. I can tell you, though, that with a smoke whisperer for a father, Uwe has a lot to be grateful for. 
And so do I.

 

If you've ever received food that promises magic, you'll know that the first thing you want to do is eat it. And if it's good, you'll want to eat it all. That's part of the magic. 

And if you, like me, showed heroic restraint and stopped yourself short so someone else can enjoy it too, then you know that magic is meant to be shared.

Some time later, you may find yourself with a few handfuls of tiny fingerling potatoes that are intended to share a plate with the magic ham. And you wait patiently to roast them because your oven is currently full of dirt (after all, it's early spring and you need sterile soil to start your seedlings). And as you wait, your nostrils fill will the smell of roasted earth, and you look at the potatoes and slap yourself upside the head (gently, of course) and think DUH. And you grab a trowel and head for the garden and fill a casserole dish with damp earth. 

Back in the kitchen you bury the potatoes in the earth and it just feels right. You put them in the oven and set a timer. You hope against hope that they turn out tender and fragrant, but they don't. You look with despair at the shriveled hard pucks and realize that they are victims of the hygroscopic properties of silica. You try again with a fresh batch of potatoes, this time soaking the soil thoroughly, and you smile, remembering how you used to make mud pies as a child and you realize that you've come full circle.

They turn out perfect: soft, tender, earthy by design. You give them a quick rinse in hot water, sad that you had to do so because you like the way they looked with bits of soil clinging to them. Then you remember the crispy cream and crumble some over the hot potatoes with a pinch of salt and a grind of pepper. You toss them and watch the bits of toasted milk solids soften and melt, coating the potatoes with butterfat and you are satisfied.

 

You arrange the potatoes on a plate and shower them with ultra thin slices of the magic ham (because it came with clear instructions: SLICE ULTRA THIN). You taste and think that the flavors of earth and smoke need something to bounce off of. Something fresh. Something green. You scan the herbs that you have growing on a windowsill and under lights. Thyme (nah)... mexican oregano (maybe)... nutmeg geranium (could be interesting)... oxalis (probably not)... ram rau (definitely not)... tahoon (bingo!). You taste the tahoon, just to be sure. Green. Herbaceous. Sun-warmed earth. Oily beechnuts. Perfect. You pick a handful of leaves and whirl them in a blender with olive oil and a pinch of ground sumac, working quickly before the potatoes cool. 

 

You eat the earthy potatoes and magic ham and come to a sudden realization. It is this:
In your entire life, you've cooked with fire. Sometimes with water. Sometimes with air. And now you can add earth to the list.

Somehow, that makes you feel complete.

autumn leaves

I sometimes find myself out of synch with the seasons.

Like last week when I had to talk myself out of making spaghetti with jalapeno tomato sauce— a simple, summery sauce of barely cooked ripe tomatoes— because it was November. 

Or, like yesterday, when I booked a holiday cocktail party and my head filled up with visions of sugarplums and other wintry fare.

Today, the rake calls. It's all about the leaves.

Raking leaves is definitely not my ideal of fun. But like all chores, once I find a rhythm, it becomes meditative. Not today though— I'm too preoccupied with cocktail parties... and hors d'oeuvres.

Cocktail parties prevail in the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years.  To my clients, a few hours of drinks and passed hors d'oeuvres means that they can entertain without the stress of formal dinner parties. There are no expansive (or expensive) menus, multiple place settings, or seating arrangements to deal with— just a well-stocked bar, a tasty selection of finger foods, and a capable staff to serve and execute.

I've seen a lot of hors d'oeuvre trends come and go in 20 years of catering. The once popular notion that anything wrapped in pastry or made in miniature was de rigueur is long gone. Modern tastes favor lighter fare with clean, bright flavors. (That said, I welcome the occasional request for pigs-in-a-blanket and sliders) 

Presentation, too, has come a long way. I remember etched silver trays with elaborate floral arrangements complete with trailing ivy that the servers carried around like bouquets. The food became lost in these. Nowadays, I aim for vibrant food, simply arranged on white porcelain platters. When the food lacks visual interest, I don't hesitate to add something to the plate— but only if it makes sense and adheres to the philosophy that nothing belongs on a plate of food that is not edible, functional, or relevant.

 

As I tackle the leaves, I think about canapes and how they're a fitting model for the perfect hors d'oeuvre.

Canapes cover a broad range of foods that we eat with our fingers. They run the gamut from basic cheese and crackers to the old-school French vol-au-vents and barquettes. In between are smörgås (open-faced sandwiches), crostini, and savory tarts. Their common denominator is a dry, crisp base that makes them neat and easy to pick up and eat, and a moist, often creamy, topping. The textural contrast between the two— dry and wet, crisp and creamy— are a basic gustatory pleasure and primed for an update.

 

Cheese & Crackers

goat cheese on carrot-beet-parsnip crisps
 

And as the leaves pile up, I think, again, about crisp.
 

How to reinterpret cheese and crackers?  
Start with the cracker and add flavor.
 

Crackers are basically flour, water, and fat. Certainly, doughs can be flavored with concentrated liquids or with dried flavor in modest amounts, but these introduced flavors are often muted by the large ratio of flour that is required to produce a crisp product. If the ratios are thrown too far off, we lose crisp.

Pure flavor can be extracted from produce with a juicer into liquid flavor and can be further concentrated or distilled, or the solids can be dehydrated and ground into powder. Potentially, these flavor-packed products can replace water and flour. But, of course, it's not that simple. 

Juice is not just flavored water, it contains fine solid particles and compounds. Fruit juices may also contain acids, pectin and reactive enzymes that effect texture. Ground dehydrated solids may resemble flour but do not possess the gluten that will allow it to behave like milled wheat. Luckily, we are not limited to wheat flour— or even starches from grains— to produce crisp.

There are other starches that gel liquids. They are so effective that only small amounts are needed. They don't interfere with base flavors because they are odorless and colorless. The gels, when dehydrated, form flexible films that turn crisp when heated. Technically, these are called glasses.

 

Unlike raking leaves, glasses are fun to play with. 
 

Ultratex is a tapioca-derived modified food starch that thickens liquids much like cornstarch, but does not require heat to activate. Adding 2-3% of Ultratex to a cold, thin liquid will instantly tighten it into a sauce. Thicker gels (5%) are quick to dehydrate and form crisp brittle films that are slightly papery.

Tapioca Maltodextrin is also derived from the cassava root. It is a mildly sweet polysaccharide. TM is best known for its ability to stabilize fats and transform them into powders. It forms slightly stickier films than Ultratex. When the two are combined, (at a rate of 18% TM to a 5% Ultratex gel) they form sturdy glasses that when baked at a high temperature during the final stage of dehydration (while they are still flexible) they make the most stable glasses, even in the presence of humidity.

Methylcellulose (A types) and Hydroxypropylmethylcellulose (E, F, and K types) also form films that dehydrate to glasses. Methocel glasses differ from Ultratex and TM in that when they are finished at a higher temp (100C), they turn from shiny and transparent, to matte and opaque.
 

Texturally, all of these additives produce thin, brittle crisps. 
Visually, the methocel crisp looked most like a cracker, albeit,a fragile one.
It needed more bulk.
Aeration gives the illusion of bulk without actually adding any.
Methocel F types are used to create and stabilize whipped things.
Problem solved.

making a mold of autumn leaves out of silicone plastique

Juice crackers:

 Bring 230g juice and 80g sugar or isomalt (isomalt is less sweet) to a full rolling boil. If the juice is not acidic, up to 10g of lemon juice can be added for flavor and balance. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely. In a small bowl, blend together 6g Methocel F50 and 8g Ultratex 8. Drop the powder blend into the center of the juice mixture. Cover the clump of powder with the blades of an immersion blender and blend until dispersed. Hydrate in the refrigerator for 4-6 hours, or overnight. With a mixer, blend until light, foamy, and opaque. Spread on silicone sheet or molds and dehydrate until film can be peeled off in one piece. Return to silicone and bake at 225F (100C) for 10-15 minutes. Immediately remove and bend or form into desired shape, supporting until it cools and hardens. Crackers can be made ahead and rebaked briefly to crisp.

To be clear, I use the term 'cracker' loosely. These are not crackers in a conventional sense— they lack flakiness. More accurately, they closely mimic the texture of a tuile or gaufrette wafer, but with the pure flavors of carrots, beets, and parsnips, un-muted by starch.

 

I'm dreading the acre of leaves that still need to be gathered and disposed of. 
In joyful procrastination, I've created another pile of leaves in the kitchen.
The irony is not lost on me.
 
As always, nature inspires.

ginger pumpkin black sesame yuzu

I often get questions and comments on plating. It's not a process that I over analyze or can easily define. Composing a plate of food is just one of the many creative processes involved in cooking.

When working with a pre-conceived plating design, the challenge is in finding the right flavors and forms to flesh out the concept. Sometimes this approach works, sometimes it evolves into something else. When the flavors and textures aren't right— even when they fit the concept— the entire dish is scrapped. This happens more often than I care to admit.

Mosty, I'm working with components that I want to bring together in a dish. In this case, I had ginger pumpkin cake, sweetened cream cheese with fresh yuzu juice and zest, black sesame paste emulsified with cocoa butter, and sandy brown butter crumbs. The flavors and textures captured the rich and mysterious tones of autumn; a mood that I wanted to express on the plate.

When it came time to plate, I didn't have a clear vision of the finished dish. When this happens, I look to the forms and colors for guidance, using intuition and experience through a filter of personal aesthetics. I'd like to say that I am always mindful of the creative process, but sometimes I just play around and hope for the best. Either way, regardless of what I tried, this dish was not coming together on the plate. I needed to step back and take a break. 

I woke my dog from one of his power naps and headed out for a walk. My neighbor had just taken down a birch tree in his front yard where I found him splitting logs. We chatted about the majestic birch and the splendid fires he would have. Later, I returned home with my head clear but I still had no direction for the dish. Yet, just minutes later, I was snapping the photo that you see above.

I wish that I could tell you how it came together, why decisions were made in the process, but the truth is that although my hands did the work, there was no logic or reason guiding them. Or so I thought...

When I uploaded the photo, it looked alien yet strangely familiar like something I had dreamt. "Did I really create that?" asked my left brain. The right brain replied, heckling, "Throw that log on the fire, will ya!"  I recognized the voice— it was the sound of my preconscious mind cracking open to reveal the path from a crisp autumn day, a pile of pale wood and dark twigs, the promise of a fire— to a composition on a plate. It was the voice of creativity.

What is creativity and where does it come from?

Anyone who has flirted, courted, or slept with it has surely asked this question. We all want to contribute something to the world that did not exist before and carries our unique imprint. It's why we procreate and generate ideas and art. But creativity doesn't fall from the sky and land in our hands— it is the manifestation of our collected experiences, from the banal to the transcendent, that weave through our conscious and subconscious minds, gestating, waiting for the trajectory of expression in order to find new life outside of ourselves. Is it then an attempt to immortalise that which is mortal?... a longing for eternity?

According to Juan Mari Arzak, "Creativity comes from where it can". It was not an answer to a question, but an off-the-cuff remark that substantiated how an ordinary event inspired the creation of a dish. Chef Arzak's observation resonated with me because it hinted at the wonder and mystery of the elusive force, and, also because it is a simple truth— creativity does, indeed, come from where it can.