playing with fire and water

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 

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.

burrata peaches agastache

To a cook, food is a kaleidoscope of things: art, science, history, identity, religion. Sometimes food is just fuel; sometimes life itself. Every once in a while we encounter a food that is pure magic.

Take burrata, for instance: an impossibly thin skin of mozzarella encapsulating a filling of cream and curds. Surely (I thought), it's the work of an otherworldly being; the conjuring of a generous sorcerer, or a sleight of hand by a milk magician with an enormous heart. 

I said as much (or something like it) to a complete stranger upon tasting a particularly ethereal specimen, to which he replied with a humble "thank you". It took me a moment to understand that he was telling me that he had made the burrata himself, perhaps because his earthliness threw me off. But after listening to him describe the process with reverence and passion, while the whole time his deft hands traced the motions, I knew that I was at least half right.

If a mere mortal can make burrata, can we cooks do anything to make it better? To subject it to temperature or tools would only destroy its texture— and burrata is all about texture, the flavor is only as good as the milk from which it's made. No, the best we can do is to pair it foods that will act like magician's assistants, whose role is to enhance the performance of the magician.

My peaches were a disappointment this year. The ones that didn't rot on the tree weren't even worth picking. After the magic of last years harvest, I want to blame it on the incessant rain but that wouldn't explain why the local peaches weren't so affected. In fact, the ones I picked up at the farmer's market displayed remarkable balance and aroma for such a wet year. They made a wonderful fresh peach and mascarpone tart, flecked with spicy, citrusy Agastache "Desert Sunrise" flowers, but paired with burrata, as they are here, the dish was enchanting. 

shrimp cocktail

Shrimp cocktail made its debut on American menus in the 1920's. The combination of ketchup and seafood existed long before that, but the addition of horseradish and lemon was a unique creation for Prohibition; a mock cocktail to open the palate and a reason to dust off fancy stemware.

Gratefully, the ban on alcohol was lifted 80 years ago. Since then, we are not only free to celebrate with a proper cocktail, but cocktails themselves have become a cause for celebration. With the evolution of bartenders into mixologists, the world of potable flavor seems limitless. 

 

Seafood broth in cocktails is nothing new. Forty five years ago, Mott's introduced a blend of tomato juice and clam broth inspired by the flavors of Manhattan clam chowder and marketed it as Clamato. Mixed with vodka, it remains a popular savory alternative to a Bloody Mary.

When looking at the opening courses of a progressive dinner where the focus is on clean balanced flavors, for which sea creatures are so well suited, it surprises me that there are not more seafood based cocktails. In addition to Clamato cocktails, there is Sangre de Tigre— a fierce potion made from ceviche marinade. Though delicious, it nearly blew out my palate. This shrimp-based libation is more delicate; a sweet-sour-savory blend of flavors, piqued by horseradish.

shrimp cocktail
makes about 4 cocktails 

Most of the fun— and a lot of flavor— come from the garnishes: sucking the shrimp head, then peeling and eating the body (serve with a small bowl for the shells and moist towellette to clean fingers). The hollow stem of lovage also contributes vegetal celery flavor— it's a straw that you'll want to chew.

10 head-on shrimp
150g watermelon juice
60g coconut water
25g freshly grated horseradish
2 strips of lime zest 
pinch of salt 

Arrange the shrimp in a single layer in a sous vide bag and pour in the remaining ingredients. Vaccuum seal the bag and cook at 49C/120F for 25 minutes. Transfer bag to an ice bath and chill for 15 minutes. Open bag and strain broth through a fine mesh sieve. Chill broth and shrimp seperately. 

for each cocktail:
70g chilled shrimp broth
4g lime juice
24g white rum

Place broth, lime juice, and rum in a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice. Shake vigorously and strain into chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with lovage straw and chilled shrimp.

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.

 

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. 

 

tortured pear

Tortured.

We've all felt that way at one time or another. Right?

It's not that I'm feeling particularly tortured myself. Well, maybe just enough to write this post in response to a conversation with someone who accused me (specifically) and modern cooking (in general) of torturing food.

"Why all the manipulation? Why torture food? Why make cooking so complicated? You take a solid, turn it into a liquid, then make it solid again. Why denature something just to make it look natural?

They were valid questions— certainly ones I've heard before— and they were asked out of genuine curiosity. But they were designed to provoke a defense, so she looked a little letdown when I nodded in agreement and told her that she was absolutely right. 

But I wasn't letting her off that easy— I pointed to the sandwich that she was eating during our conversation and told her that it was a very tortured thing indeed. In explanation, I took her along the path that put it in her hand. I think I used words like thrashed, crushed, pulverized, whipped, beaten, fermented, and intense heat. And that was just addressing the bread. I started in on the pastrami, cheese, and mustard, but stopped short because she was looking a little tortured herself.

Regardless of what we put in our mouths, its inception was to rob something of its vital force. All food was once alive. Is it more honorable to pluck food directly from its habitat and eat it raw, letting our teeth grind and pulverize it into something that can be digested, or to use our wit and skill to render it delicious and magnificent? Isn't that a decision we must all make for ourselves?

Cooking is violent. We casually violate food with knives and fire and think nothing of it. Is chopping less of a crime than juicing? Poaching less brutal than sous-vide? In an alternate universe where the plant and animal kingdoms ruled, wouldn't we all be accused of torture?
To cook is to transform. When we claim to cook simply, we deny the complicated processes that we initiate and fail to acknowledge the everyday miracles that take place in our kitchens. A loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a pound of butter are wonderfully complex things.
We coax,manipulate, torture, because it makes food better; more palatable and enjoyable.

If we could just cook and let cook, maybe we could all relax, explore, and enjoy.
And stop feeling so tortured.

rooibos- poached pear
tonka bean brioche
candied bitter orange
smoked bourbon buttermilk

jelly ice cream

"His ideal of dessert is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."  She offered that as an explanation right after she said there would be no birthday cake.

"Maybe ice cream and cookies... something we can stick some candles in."

So I set out to make a special birthday dessert for someone who doesn't like cake, but likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and, apparently, ice cream and cookies. Easy, I thought, I'll make peanut butter cookies and grape ice cream sandwiches. As luck would have it, I had a concord grape puree in my freezer that would serve as the base for the ice cream. And I had a recipe for killer peanut butter cookies that I had refined over the years and recently tweaked to include miso. But you know what they say about the best laid plans...

Unpacking in the client's kitchen, I had a sudden vision of the grape ice cream... still sitting in my freezer at home! I wanted to panic but there was no time. My schedule was tight even before I was asked to move dinner up a half hour. 

As I began preparing dinner, my attention turned to a replacement for the ice cream. With a kitchen full of professional appliances, but no cooks in the house, I knew there was little chance of finding an ice cream maker tucked away in a cupboard. I had plenty of cream, but nothing for a flavor base or sugar. A search through the kitchen produced neither, but I did find three jars of grape jelly. I assessed the situation: no equipment to churn— but I had cream and a sweetened flavor base. A plan was quickly put in place: melt the jelly, blend in the cream, freeze in a shallow tray, whisk often, hope for the best, and pray that I wasn't turning into Sandra Lee. I got the base in the freezer just as the first guests arrived. They were hungry. And impatient. And I had to focus on dinner.

It wasn't until dinner was on the table and I returned to the kitchen that I remembered the neglected ice cream base. I opened the freezer expecting to find a solid block of grape-flavored ice crystals. To my surprise (and relief) it yielded easily to a spoon and out came a scoop of creamy smooth ice cream!

Since then, I've made this ice cream several times with both commercial and homemade jellies. I've tried churning it in an ice cream machine to test the difference. It was slightly creamier, but not dramatically so. I've even kept it uncovered(!) in the freezer for 4 days with no loss of texture or ice crystal build up. I believe this works because jelly is largely invert sugar and pectin, a combination with a high freezing point that stabilizes texture by preventing it from freezing solid and forming ice crystals.

While it may not be the most refined of ice creams, it comes together with only two ingredients and minimal effort. That alone (and that it saved my ass) is worth adding it to my emergency food kit.

stupid-simple jelly ice cream

measure by weight:
7 parts jelly
10 parts heavy cream 

Melt the jelly until it is completely fluid. Add the heavy cream, a little at a time, while whisking. Pass through sieve into a bowl or container. Freeze thoroughly.

autumn glory kimchi

Fiesty. Fragrant. Fiery. I love kimchi in all of its funky fermented forms

Koreans make a hundred different kinds of kimchi and perhaps a hundred more that are undocumented. They range from familiar varieties made with common ingredients like cabbage and radishes to wildly esoteric regional specialties such as Doraji kimchi, made with bellflower roots.   Fruits, vegetables, seaweed, fish, meat— you name it— anything can be (and probably has been) made kimchi. 
In addition to the bulk ingredients (or 'so'), kimchi's flavor is defined by the traditional seasoning of garlic, ginger, scallions, and the burn of hot chili pepper. But it was not always the fiery condiment that we know today. Early versions were simple pickled vegetables— a process that Koreans adopted from the Chinese.
During the Josean Dynasty that began in the late 14th century, Korea was swept by a culinary renaissance that stemmed from an agricultural boom. As cultivated crops became abundant and varied, new vegetables and spices were introduced from other countries. But no other ingredient produced such a profound change in the Korean diet as red hot chili pepper.

Pumpkins and sweet potatoes were among the newly introduced vegetables and it wasn't long before they each found a place among the expanding repertoire of kimchi— pumpkin in Hobak kimchi, and sweet potato in Kogumajulgi kimchi. Here they are united with asian pear and kale in a deliciously seasonal version.

 

autumn glory kimchi

1 liter boiling water
215g kosher salt
300g pumpkin, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 7cm long leaves
150g sweet potato, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 2.5cm x 7cm rectangles
100g asian pear, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 5cm rounds
80g kale leaves, roughly chopped

40g thinly sliced scallions
20g microplaned garlic 
20g microplaned fresh ginger
5g ground dried bird chilies 

Pour the boiling water into a large nonreactive bowl. Stir in the salt until it is dissolved. Cool completely, then add the pumpkin, sweet potato, asian pear, and kale, pressing down until they are completely submerged. Set aside in a cool place for 4 hours. 
Pour the brine out of the bowl and refill with fresh, cold water. Set aside for 5 minutes, then drain thoroughly through a colander. Return vegetables to the bowl. Add remaining ingredients and toss gently until seasoning is evenly distributed.
Pack mixture into a glass jar or ceramic crock. Press firmly until exuded liquid covers the solids. If necessary, insert a weighted plate into the jar or crock to keep the contents submerged. Cover and set aside to ferment for 3-4 days in a cool (10C/50F) spot, then transfer to the refrigerator, where it can be stored for up to 1 month. Kimchi can be consumed after the 3 day fermentation, but the flavor will continue to develop in storage.

green squash

Squash belong to a family of plants known as Cucurbitaceae which also includes pumpkins, gourds, melons, and cucumbers. Unlike their summer counterparts, winter squash are harvested when they are fully mature. The fruit of cold weather varieties start out green and are ready to pick when their leathery skins turn uniformly orange or yellow. However, color is not a reliable indication of ripeness with varieties that remain green, such as acorn, hubbard, and some turbans. Regardless, pumpkins and winter squash will continue to ripen during the curing stage, when the fruits are stored at warm temperatures to develop flavor and thicken the skin. 
Properly cured, pepos are notoriously long keepers. I once displayed an enourmous Hubbard squash, its skin like ceylon porcelain, as a piece of sculpture for nearly a year before it eventually rotted from within. My parents kept an offspring from their compost heap in a corner of their living room for well over two years before it succumbed to the same fate. True story.

Over the decades of cooking in restaurants and catering, I've processed more than my fair share of winter squash, but I can't say that I've ever encountered an unripe one before this particular hubbard, grown in a heritage squash garden. It's unclear whether it was picked immaturely or not properly stored— I'm guessing it was a combination of both. Of course, I had to taste it. 

The inner ripe layer was creamy and sweet, with typical squash-like vegetal flavor (why are there no studies on the aromatic properties of winter squash?). The outer green part was where it got interesting— it was denser in texture and also sweet, but in a fruity, estery way that instantly brought to mind a ripe honeydew. Not surprising, I had to remind myself, considering their close relationship. And then it got fun when I realized that through carefully calculated cuts, I could control the play of fruity and vegetal flavor in the distinct layers. Slant the knife one way and I'd get a bite of melon-on-squash, slanted the other way, and I'd have squash-on-melon.

I chose a decidedly fruity slant for this dish: green squash, asian pear, watermelon-sumac, pine nut milk, pumpkinseed oil, calendula petals, and a final flourish of grated long pepper.