playing with fire and water

kefir

I have a friend who claims that regular consumption of kefir will provide her with a long, healthy, disease-free life. I hope she's right.

It seems that most kefir enthusiasts drink it for the health benefits (which are substantial) but almost apologetically claim that the flavor is an acquired one. Sure, if you're not open to the taste of sour milk, kefir can be offputting. But, by making it yourself, you can control the degree of sourness— from mildly tangy to sharp and effervescent.

For the uninitiated, kefir is fermented milk, cultured with kefir grains. The gelatinous grains are a matrix of sugar, protein, fat, and ash that harbor a garden of yeast and bacteria. It is the yeast that sets it apart from other milk cultures that are predominately bacteria.

Making kefir is as simple as adding the grains to milk (about 1 tablespoon of grains per 2 cups of milk) and allowing it to ferment at room temperature for a day or two. When the desired texture and flavor are achieved, the grains are strained from the kefir and recycled to start a new batch. If those directions sound vague, they are intentionally so. Even with careful weighing and control of temperature, the results are not always consistent. I've come to believe that this is because kefir grains are living organisms that operate with dual microbes and that the speed and efficiency with which they culture a new batch of kefir is largely dependent on their active state at the time of introduction. For example, I've found that after straining the grains from a completed batch of kefir and immediately adding them to fresh milk, fermentation (detected by the onset of a sour flavor) begins more rapidly than when a batch is started with grains that have been stored in the refrigerator between batches. 

With so many variables, I no longer bother with weights and temperature, I just set it out on the counter and let it do its thing. Sometimes I catch it when it turns creamy and just begins to acquire a tang. Sometimes I let it ripen until it curdles and precipitates whey, at which point the curds can be drained to form a soft, tangy cheese. My favorite thing is to cover it tightly while it ferments to trap the CO2 released by the yeast until it gets fizzy. Milk champagne is a wonderous thing!

amazake

Making amazake is perhaps the most overt example of saccharification that I've ever witnessed. 

Take some cooked rice, blend it with koji (about 2:1 by volume), embrace them in warmth (100-140F), and in less than half of a day the koji will have efficiently digested the rice's starch, converting it into simple sugars. The result is stunningly sweet and full of character. 

Traditionally, amazake is used as a sweetener or blended with hot water and served as a warm drink, but I'm just starting to investigate its potential in other arenas. 

koji

Do you know koji?
If you don't, you should— it's responsible for all kinds of deliciousness.

Koji is an unsung hero among molds. If you enjoy products like soy sauce, shoyu, mirin, miso, and sake, then you can thank Aspergillus oryzae, the filamentous fungus that transforms beans and grains into umami-laden powerhouses of flavor. It does so by producing enzymes that break down starches, proteins, and fats into simple sugars, amino acids, and fatty acids, preserving them, while making them more digestible and delicious. It is the same process that transforms milk into cheese, wheat into bread, grapes into wine— the elegant and complex miracle of fermentation.

 

peanut butter miso cookies

 

Some time ago, I mentioned adding miso to peanut butter cookies on twitter. I received a number of requests for the recipe/ratios, which I promised to post. 

You wouldn't know that it's miso that makes these cookies special unless you were privy, but you'll notice the difference in the rounded flavor. Sweets that are nuanced with savory and salty are always a winning combination in my book.

 

peanut butter miso cookies

makes 24 7.5cm/3" cookies 

106g unsalted butter, at room temperature
130g peanut butter
40g shiro miso (light miso)
88g dark brown sugar (preferably muscavado)
80g granulated sugar  
8g glucose
53g egg
5g baking soda
10g boiling water
175g all-purpose flour

Place the butter, peanut butter, miso, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and glucose in a mixer bowl. Beat the ingredients with the paddle attachment at medium speed until light and creamy. Add the egg and beat just until incorporated. In a small bowl, dissolve the baking soda in the boiling water and add to the mixer bowl along with the flour. Mix on low speed for 2 minutes until all of the ingredients are well combined.
Preheat oven to 163C/325F, or 157C/315F if using convection. Using a 3.80cm/1.5" scoop, lay out level scoops of dough on a silpat or parchment-lined baking sheet, leaving about 5cm/2" between cookies to allow for spreading. Chill cookies for 20 minutes to firm dough. Scoops of raw dough can also be frozen for future cookie cravings, then packed into ziplocks. Remove cookies from refrigerator and press with the tines of a fork in a cross-hatch pattern, if desired. Bake for 10 minutes for a softer cookie, or 12 for a crisper cookie.

Miso and peanut butter are so similar in appearance and texture that I'm surprised I haven't made the connection before. In addition to improving a classic cookie, the peanut butter-miso connection captured my imagination for another product: peanut miso.

Most people don't realize that peanuts are in fact legumes. Culinarily, we use them like nuts, but botanically they belong to the plant family Leguminosae, or Fabaceae, and are more closely related to peas and beans. This connection begs the question: if miso is made from soybeans, can it also be made from other beans?

I do know that [I] can't make miso from citrus rinds, though I gave it a good try. During the 10 month fermentation, I had hopes of transforming all sorts of products by fermenting with Aspergillus oryzae(koji mold), the fungus used in the production of miso, soy sauce, and sake. In my haste to make a new product, I failed to follow two fundamental tenets: understanding of product and process, and groundwork. Had I started with a time-honored traditional soybean miso, I would've had a map for when it was on course and where it veered off. Had I done my research, I would have understood that pectin-rich citrus pericarps were not an inviting environment for the enzymatic reaction that koji forms with protein.

Still, I'm hopeful and excited about roasted peanut miso.
And spicy black bean miso.
And fermented hummus.
But first— I'll start with the basics.

 

gouda fries

One of the things that I like about the Parmesan pasta is its versatility. Because there's no starch to cook through, it just needs to be heated enough for the methocel to gel and the cheese to fuse. This means that it can be cooked directly in a sauce, braise, or roasted. I assume that it can also be grilled or deep-fried, although I've tried neither. Cut into batonnets and pan-fried in a nonstick skillet, they form a thin, crisp shell around a soft melted center.

Curiously, the recipe only works with Parmesan. Even other hard cheeses, like an aged Pecorino, causes it to lose its definition, turning into puddles of melted cheese. I've found that the problem can be solved with the addition of a relatively small amount of starch. Both cornstarch or potato starch will work and still keep it gluten free, though I prefer the flavor and lightness of rice flour.

gouda fries

75g water

3g methocel SGA150

112g grated aged gouda

40g rice flour

Add methocel to water and disperse with immersion blender. Chill solution for 4 hours to hydrate. 

In a bowl, toss together the gouda and rice flour until well blended. Drizzle 64g of methocel solution over mixture in bowl. Stir mixture until it forms a uniform dough.

Turn dough out onto a sheet of plastic wrap. With fingers, pat into a rough rectangle, about 2cm thick. Cover dough with another sheet of plastic wrap. With a rolling pin, roll out to even 1cm thickness. Remove plastic wrap and cut dough into 1cm x 1cm x 8cm batonnets.

Heat a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Lightly grease the bottom with butter. When the butter sizzles and begins to brown, add the batonnets to the pan, turning until they are evenly brown and crisp on all sides. Serve immediately or hold in a warm oven.

 

gouda fries

peach ketchup

lovage

  

 

parmesan pasta

 

I developed this pasta analog last year for a client who was diagnosed with Celiac disease.
It contains no gluten— only Parmesan, water, and methylcellulose.
The recipe was featured in an article about Molecular Gastronomy written by Peter Barrett for Chronogram Magazine.
You can find the recipe here.  

 

infusions: a revolutionary technique

 

On the days when I work at home, my morning starts with reading emails over a cup of coffee. Today, though, I took some extra time to catch up on blog reading. 

One of my favorites, Cooking Issues, put up a post this morning about infusion that, quite frankly, changed my life. No joke. When your life and your livelihood revolve around food, and your obsessions include plants and aroma, then this post was truly life-altering.

Extracting flavor and aroma from plants has long been a source of frustration for me. Without a rotovap or chamber vacuum, I've had to resort to conventional methods of infusion that can take days, sometimes weeks. That's all changed now, thanks to Dave Arnold and an isi whipper.

Dave's revolutionary infusion method involves packing aromatics and liquid into an isi whipper, charging it with N2O, waiting 60 seconds before opening the canister and straining. The depressurized gas disrupts the cells, releasing aroma into the liquid. The beauty of this technique is that it is simple, quick, and inexpensive. 

After I calmed down, I tried to work. Really, I did. But I was too distracted. I had to take inventory of my chargers and figure out how soon I could get more. And I kept thinking of all the herbs, flowers, and seeds in my garden, pantry and refrigerator. 

Despite a crushing deadline, I took a few hours off to play. My reward is a refrigerator stocked with a dozen or so jars of brilliant infusions. 

It's nearly midnight as I write this, and I have hours of work to make up. It's gonna be a long night, but I had to take a few minutes to share this with you. Maybe it will change your life, too. 

artichoke fresh cheese cherry

A plant is a chemical universe unto itself. 

Even an innocuous blade of grass produces more natural compounds than we can properly appreciate. Some compounds contribute to the plant's growth and development. Some combine to attract pollinators and seed dispersers. And yet others exist to deter predators and pathogens. These complex systems of chemicals all work together to help the plant achieve one thing: survival.

The artichoke doesn't need to rely on its chemical arsenal for protection from predators; nature has bestowed it with cellulosic armor and barbs for that purpose. But even those haven't deterred the indomitable human curiosity and our insatiable appetite once we discovered that beyond its armament, there is something good to eat inside. Our attraction to the artichoke's buried heart is a chemical one; phenolic, to be precise.

Plant chemistry, simplified
All living organisms produce compounds that are essential to life. In plants, these can be divided into two metabolic groups:

Primary metabolites support growth, development and reproduction. Included in this group are carbohydrates, amino acids, polymers, lipids, etc.

Secondary metabolites are organic compounds of low molecular weight (often produced at less than 1% dry weight) that are not vital to growth but allow plants to attract pollinators and defend itself from herbivores and pathogens, but not from humans. Often, these compounds are what attract us to certain plants in the first place— they define its flavor and aroma. Secondary metabolites can be classified into three groups: Alkaloids, Terpenoids, and Phenolics.

Phenolic activity in artichokes
Anyone who has cut into an artichoke has witnessed oxidation; a reaction that takes place when phenolic compounds are combined with enzymes (through cutting or bruising) and exposed to oxygen, turning the exposed surface brown. Applying acid by rubbing with a lemon wedge only slows down the reaction. The only way to prevent it is to cut off its exposure to oxygen by submerging in water or vacuum sealing. Heating to temperatures above 212F/100C destroys the enzyme.

 phenolic oxidation/ reaction to acid— both cups contain artichoke tea; the one on the right changes color after adding a few drops of lemon juice 

Phenolic compounds are a rich source of phytochemicals (nonessential nutrients that are beneficial to health) such as antioxidants, flavonoids, and tannins. Artichokes are a primary source of cynarin, a compound that is believed to promote good health, including liver detoxification. Cynarin's ability to lower cholesterol was first documented In the 1970's, and many promising studies have taken place since.

Artichokes are notoriously difficult to pair with wine, thanks to cynarin and chlorogenic acid. These two phenolic compounds inhibit sweet receptors on our tongues, causing subsequent ingestion of foods or liquids to taste sweet. This taste perversion is similar to the one produced by miraculin, a protein found in miracle fruit, though it is significantly more short-lived and occurs only in a portion of the population, suggesting that it may be a genetic predisposition.

Cynarase, another enzyme found in artichokes, is believed to aid in digestion because of its ability to curdle milk. In parts of Europe and North Africa, coagulating milk for cheese with cardoon (a close relative of artichoke) is a long-standing tradition that is still carried out today.

Over a decade ago, while in Portugal, I learned that a popular cheese, Azeitao, is made from unpasteurized sheep's milk curdled with cardoon. It wasn't until earlier this year that I discovered that cynarase was responsible. As artichokes came into season, I began experimenting with their various parts, cooked in milk, with no success— lots of artichoke-flavored milk, but no curds. It wasn't until further research revealed that it is the mature thistle flower that is used to form milk curds that I tried again with the isolated choke (the undeveloped flower). Finally, I was able to produce enough curds to press into a small fresh cheese. These curds were very small, scarce, and soft, producing an impossibly fragile, but wonderfully herbaceous-flavored cheese. I haven't had much luck growing artichokes in Zone 5, but I'm willing to try again, if only to harvest the flowers. Barring that, there are other alternatives to explore— other flowers in the Cynareae tribe that do grow in my zone.

 

I wanted to build a dish around this very small, fragile, and delicious cheese that would represent all of the interesting things that I've learned about the artichoke. I started by pairing the milky cheese and the tender inner scales and ribbons of vegetal artichoke heart with the flavor of cherries. The ephemeral cherry blossoms hearken the nature of the artichoke-as-flower and whisper softly of benzaldehyde, while a soft gel of Villa Manodori Dark Cherry Balsamico gives the dish alacrity and vibrance. The artichoke tea, made by steeping the outer scales in boiling water, exhibits phenolic oxidation by changing from bright green to yellow when poured over the acidic cheese and gel. The herbaceous tea has a bitter edge that not only disappears, but is made sweet after taking a bite of the taste-altering heart.

 

artichoke
cynarase-curdled raw milk cheese
Villa Manodori Dark Cherry Balsamico
artichoke tea
cherry blossom

turbot broccolini cauliflower

Historically, the Brassica family, whose members are collectively known as cabbages, has seen its ups and downs. At its high point in ancient times, cabbage was prized by the Greeks and Chinese. It hit its low point in the Middle Ages, when medieval superstition suspected leafy greens of causing disease and it was deemed too coarse for the delicate European aristocracy. For centuries following, cabbage and its ilk were regarded as food fit only for peasants and livestock.

Today, the genus Brassica has the distinction of containing more important agricultural and horticultural crops than any other genus. The Brassicaceae family is remarkable in that all parts of their species have been developed for use as food:

    seed- mustard and canola/rape 
    flowers- cauliflower and broccoli 
    leaves- cabbage, kale, collards, brussels sprouts, mizuna, bok choy,
                arugula, and watercress     
    stem- kohlrabi  
    roots- turnips, rutabagas, radish, horseradish, wasabi, and daikon 
 
All of these plants are united and identified by their four-petaled flowers that form the shape of a cross (hence, the old classification of Cruciferae) and by their pungent flavor attributed to glucosinolates.

Glucosinoltes are a type of organic compound that contain both sulfur and nitrogen. Plants use this compound as a powerful defense system. Nutritionally, glucosinates are dichotomic— on the one hand, they can be toxic to humans and animals when consumed in massive doses, but in subtoxic quantities they become beneficial and are even known to produce anti-cancer enzymes. Glucosinolates are directly responsible for the strong, bitter flavor of Brassica that we either love or hate. I have to side with the Greeks on this one.

 

Brassicas, in one form or another, are always present in my vegetable bin. I'm a fan because they lend themselves to many different preparations. I love them all.

There is something fundamentally satisfying about the snappy texture of barely-cooked broccoli and cauliflower that appeals to the grazer in me. When I want something heartier, I slowly braise them in stock until they practically melt. Braising works well with leaves, stems, flowers, and roots, though vivid colors turn murky when cooked this way. Alternately, I toss the blanched, fleshier Brassicas in olive oil, spread them out on sheet pans and roast them in a hot oven. Their frizzled, dark edges are irresistible. 

Brassicas contain varying levels of glucosinolate depending on their species, with brussels sprouts leading the pack and cauliflower trailing at the end. Cooking methods directly affect the levels of pungency. A quick plunge in boiling water leaves the flavor molecules intact, while a long, slow braise leaches the molecules into the liquid, and gradually transforms them to a mellower, but funkier goodness. The dry heat of roasting intensifies flavor and adds a layer of complexity from the caramelized sugars.

Last spring, I tried the deep fried brussels sprouts at Momofuku. The outer leaves were blistered and singed, nearly black with char; their cores soft and pungent. It was a level of flavor— intensely bitter-sweet and nutty— that once experienced, you are changed forever.

 

turbot with a blanket of braised green cauliflower, white beans, preserved buddha's hand citron, 
 and black truffle
blanched broccolini stems, deep fried flowers

 
 

buddha's hand citron salt

 

My first inclination was to dehydrate the preserved Buddha's hand puree but some long forgotten piece of knowledge— an elemental fact, in fact— kept knocking at my logic, insisting that it would not turn out the way I thought.

It was the salt.

Salt does not evaporate. I learned that in third grade science class while standing over a pot of boiling salted water, watching the water vaporize and leave behind a film of salt clinging to the bottom of the pot. 

Common salt is an ionic bond of sodium (Na) and chloride (Cl). When it is dissolved in water, the Na and Cl atoms pull apart and seem to disappear. Take away the water and the atoms reunite because they are electrostatically attracted to each other. 

Remembering this put a spin on my intentions for the puree. Looking at it anew, I estimated that it was roughly 70% solids suspended in 30% water but there was no way to evaluate how much salt the preserved citron had absorbed. Judging from the taste— quite a bit. I had every reason to believe that if I removed the water from the puree I would be left with dehydrated flavor solids clinging to re-formed salt crystals, or an inherently flavored salt.

I would risk scorching the solids if I evaporated the water on a stove top. And I couldn't wait for the slow process of low temperature dehydration to find out. So I turned to the microwave.

After trying to heat a mass of the puree in the microwave, I quickly remembered something else I had forgotten: molten salt conducts electricity. Alarmed by the sparks flying around my 2-month-old microwave, I quickly removed it and thinly spread the puree on silpat and returned it to the microwave. It sputtered a bit, but no sparks. Ten seconds later, the puree had transformed to lacy fragments of crunchy, lemon-infused salt.

After my brain stopped reeling from possible uses, I was left with some questions:

• Could the process be hastened by simply dissolving salt in a puree and dehydrating, or did the six-week-long preserving affect the outcome?
  
• Did the acid in the lemon juice (used in preserving) come into play?
  
• Did the re-formed salt crystals trap the solids or are they clinging to the crystals?
  
• What is the yield point of a salt solution (i.e. how much salt can be added to water before it will cease to dissolve)
  
• How much salt is necessary for the product to qualify as a flavored salt instead of a salty crisp?