playing with fire and water

foie apple grape

foie gras

green apple crisp

"grape"

curry

oxalis

grapes

One of my earliest taste memories is of grapes. Not of the insipid seedless supermarket variety. The grapes that I grew up eating were the European Vitis vinifera, grown in my backyard.

Growing grapes was my fathers passion. As far back as I can remember, he would tend the vines; training, pruning and grafting them year after year, in hopes of producing the perfect grape. The goal, of course, was to produce a great wine. The wines, though perfectly drinkable, were never remarkable.

When he stopped making wine, there was an abundance of grapes for the table. Just a few ripe bunches in a bowl would fill the house with a complex bouquet of aroma compounds made up of alcohols (methyl alcohol, ethyl alcohol), aldehydes (acetaldehyde, isobutyraldehyde), amines (methoxypyrazine), esters (ethyl, butyrate), thiols (mercaptohexyl acetate) and terpenes (linalool, nerol)--to name a few. Their flavor was amazing--a beautiful balance of acids, alkalies, tannins and sugars. 

Nature blessed these fruits with many great attributes, but she did not make them conducive for good eating. Unless you are a bird.

As with most fertile plants that cover our planet, the grapes loftiest endeavor is to go forth and multiply. In order to sustain the species, Nature designed the grape berry as a seed carrier. Only when the seeds are ready, do the fruits ripen-- making them attractive to the birds that will consume them and deposit the seeds.

 

Eating these grapes was a challenge. The skins, thick and tough, were unpalatable. Removing them was not an option, as they contained aromas and astringency necessary for a balanced flavor. The large seeds which contained the bulk of the tannins were completely inedible; Natures cruel joke to us humans.

As a child, I developed a slow, methodical approach to eating these grapes: First, the skins were split open to reveal the seeds, which were pried out with fingertips, and sometimes from impatience, with tweezers. Next, the tenacious skins were peeled, but only halfway, leaving them intact at the blossom end. Holding on to the end, I would insert the grape into my mouth, biting down on the skin to release the flavor and loosen the pulp, then remove and discard the masticated skin. Messy? yes. Attractive? no. It would take me nearly an hour to get through a small bunch.

Other members of my family did not have the patience (or neurosis) to eat them "properly" and would just eat them whole, or not bother at all. And yes, these grapes made an extraordinary jelly, but how many jars can a family consume or give away? 

Not that many, it turned out. And so, the grapes were left for the birds.

A few years ago, my father, tired of cleaning the mess and tending the vines, cut them down and installed an awning over the patio that was once covered with a flourishing grape arbor.

Every year since, come October, I get a craving for those old world grapes.

I miss them.

 

"Those things are better which are perfected by nature than those which are finished by art", said Cicero, a long, long time ago

Nature, with her infinite variations, has always been a primary source of inspiration, as well as aggravation, but I have to concur with William Blake, who said "Great things are done when men and mountains meet"

This is not a mountain...its just a grape. 

My intention here was to recreate the flavor and balance of the grapes, without the obstacles of seeds and skin. With my father's grapes no longer available, I turned to the the Concord (Vitis labrusca). The pulp was separated from the skins and each juiced separately. The pulp was set with agar and gelatin and molded. After a few trials, I found the best ratio was .85% agar to .35% gelatin. When the gelled pulp was unmolded, the grapes were marinated in the juice from the skin. Adria applies this technique in Gelatina Cru by vacuum sealing. I found that I had better control over the penetration and ultimate proportions of skin/pulp by simply allowing it to sit in the marinade for a few hours. 

For the first time, I am able to enjoy the flavor and texture of old world grapes with none of the distractions. This technique also opens up possibilities for other whimsies...grapes made of white wine, marinated in red. Or, other manipulations of flavor contrasts between pulp and peel...sweet orange gel, marinated in bitter orange.

Have I outwitted Mother Nature? Just maybe on this one...but she is still legions ahead.

For a philosophical take on Man vs. Nature in the context of food, read  "Cooking: The Quintessential Art" by Herve This and Pierre Gagnaire, a book that I forgot to include in my previous post. Chadzilla quotes from the book in a recent post, sparking an insightful conversation.

(I can't put up this post without a shout out to my friend, Uwe, who embraces the nicknames Uva and Queso [grape and cheese]. Check out his blog Gratifood. His food will make you drool. His language will make you smile.)

 

black forest

bacon egg pineapple

Y'all must be tired of this croquant thing by now. I've had fun exploring the versatility of crispy ground fat melded with isomalt. And I haven't even delved into pork crackling territory, but with the changing season comes a new palette of flavors and inspiration. It's time to move on...

I thought that I would be moving on after the last post, but as I worked with the hot, pliable croquant, I realized it's structural potential. There was that, and the unfullfillment of the obvious bacon and eggs.

bacon croquant

frozen egg custard

pineapple caramel

hollow sea salt

Years ago, I made miniature ice cream cones for a catered event. En route to the venue, I realized that I had not anticipated a way to pass or present them. A detour to Home depot provided a solution. As the first guests were arriving, I was on a stoop outside of the kitchen drilling holes into a sheet of plexiglass. The lesson learned: always be prepared, and when you're not--improvise.

That's exactly what I did when I found myself holding this cone and facing the same problem. The ice cream was melting and there was no plexiglass in sight. In the time that it took to bake a new cone, I had fashioned a stand out of 12 gauge wire.

I doubt that it would meet Grant Achatz's standards for service ware, but I think that Martha would approve.

sea bean cardamom oyster

Seeing that so many of you are familiar with sea beans, I'll keep the description brief.

The genus Salicornia is a salt-tolerant herb that grows along beaches in the US (where they are known as sea beans), Europe (known as samphire), South Africa and South Asia. Other common names include glasswort and pickleweed.

I was introduced to sea beans while baking at a restaurant, where they made a brief appearance on the savory side. Their succulent salinity (and a dare) challenged me to find a sweet application. Using the flavor of salted caramel as inspiration, I coated them with burnt caramelized sugar. The results were addictive. The sweet crust cracked, giving way to a snappy crunch, followed by a hit of refreshing salinity. 

My introduction to cardamom preceded sea beans by at least a decade and was far more dramatic. Opening a jar and inhaling deeply, I was met by a hot breeze that had traveled across hundreds of miles of ocean and sand. Another whiff confirmed the scent of saltwater drying on hot skin, seaweed and sand baking under an unrelenting sun, ground-up sea shells. Clean, bracing, and unambiguously masculine, I fancied it a cologne created by a deep-sea alchemist for Poseidon himself. I still refer to cardamom as beach-in-a-bottle.

A Virtual Day at the Beach

Contents:

Sea bean: nam pla sugar crust. 
Salt water taffy meets umami-o-the-sea.

Cardamom sable sand: Toasted rice flour, butter, poncillo, cardamom, lime, sea salt. 
A game of beach volleyball; sweet vs. salty.

Pearl: A burst of briny oyster liquor kissed by passion fruit. 
Hot sex on a tropical beach.

Directions:

          Smell. Taste. Chew. Swallow. Savor. Enjoy. Listen to the squalling seagulls and lapping waves.

(seashell and iPod not included)

peach tomato pie

blushing fragrant peaches

lightly poached in their own esters

orbs of sun gold tomatoes

brazenly liberated from their skins

hesitant at first the duo demurely waltz across the tongue

then break out into an intrepid tango

seamlessly balancing sweet with tart 

cinnamon basil ice cream joins the dance 

after a cool entry he busts out his spicy warm moves

a chaperone of flaky pastry

moderates the party of eternal summer

in the first days of autumn

In Watermelon Sugar

Everyone knew about her thing for babies. How living things in miniature form made her stomach dance and her pupils dilate and her voice rise an octave. He, more than anyone, knew how to recognize the symptoms.
The first thing he noticed when she came bounding toward him was the glint in her eyes. Then came the voice.
"Look", she cooed with her hand outstretched, "a baby watermelon".

 

"Cool...how does it taste?"

"I don't know. Let's find out."

 

"Here", she said, offering him the small hemisphere "...you first."

"What about the skin?"

"It's OK...it's edible."

"...and the seeds?"

"Those too."

  

She watched the unraveling through his eyes. The synaptic storm that waged behind them. She put a hand to her mouth to cover her smile as his face contorted. 

"Well?"

"Uhm...it's not watermelon."

"What then...?"
"Not sure...something familiar...not watermelon."

"Does it taste of summer? and sunshine? and fruit ripened on the vine?"
"Yes...all of those things...but not watermelon."

 

 

cold peach hot tomato

harvest

What grows together...goes together?

Are the tomatoes more intense this year because 5 years ago, I built raised beds from recycled lumber and filled them with black gold (black gold indeed...that truckload of compost cost me more than some jewelry)? Or is it because of the soft rock phosphate (so finely ground that the wind threatened to blow it away) that promised to raise the mineral content of the soil and increase the cell density of the crops?

Are the peaches extraordinarily sweet because 3 years ago, I took the time to dig a hole much larger and deeper than I needed to? Or can it be attributed to the carefully blended brew of blood meal (nitrogen), bone meal (phosphorous), wood ash (potassium) and compost tea that I apply each spring?

Or is Mother Nature being extra generous with her blessings this year?

translucent

phlox-lychee sphere

yogurt-filled longan and lychee

dragon fruit

sweet black sesame soil

phlox