playing with fire and water

yuzu

 

I've been yearning to get my hands on yuzu— the fresh fruit, that is. 

I've been using the bottled juice, which is easier to source, for some time now but I suspected that it lacked the vitality and edge of fresh juice— kind of like champagne without the bubbles. I knew that the liquid in the bottle wasn't telling the whole story of yuzu.

Even more than the juice, I was curious about the zest. Citrus zest is where the essential oils are found and the yuzu, I'd heard, was full of piney, floral aromas.

Now that I've gotten my hands on fresh yuzu, I can attest that all of the above is true. The bottled juice is, indeed, but a whisper of the fresh. And the zest is a scratch 'n sniff teleportation into a garden of jasmine hidden deep in a coniferous forest.

But now, I'm curious about the leaves since I've learned that they're as fragrant as Kieffer lime.** 

And the flowers! Well, I can only dream about experiencing the yuzu flower. 

It could happen, though, as I've also learned that yuzu is among the most hardy of citrus trees, capable of surviving temperatures as low as -10F. That makes them a borderline candidate for Zone 5. I have a perfect spot picked out where they'll be protected from late and early frosts and kept warm by the radiant heat from a stone wall. 

Who knows— with some luck I may one day have a windfall of yuzu. And— if I should ever find myself with more than I could cook with (impossible?), I would treat myself to the ultimate luxury; a Toji yuzu bath, as they do in Japan.

Wouldn't that be an embarrassment of riches?

 

** It's been brought to my attention that the term 'kaffir' is offensive and derogatory in some parts of the world. Henceforth, I will refer to this type of citrus by its alternate name: Kieffer lime. Won't you do the same?

 

 
 
 

broccolini flowers

 

Something extraordinary happens when deep-frying broccolini flowers:

At first, they sing [some would say hiss].

And then they dance [look out for the high kicks].

For the Grand Finale, they burst open in bloom.

Delightfully entertaining, they are.

[I'm easily amused]

 

deep-fried broccolini flowers

buddha's hand citron salt
  

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. 

scallop fennel bearnaise

What would you do if you were served a broken bearnaise?

Would you think that it was a mistake and send it back to the kitchen? 

Or would you recall that Fernand Point wrote in Ma Gastronomie "It takes years of practice for the result to be perfect" and chalk it up to inexperience?

What if you learned that it was broken intentionally? 

Would you be curious to know why? 

Or outraged that someone would mess with 170 years of tradition?

Can something be fixed if it's not broken? 

Or does it need to be broken to be fixed?

scallop mousseline

fennel: bulb, fronds, green seeds, pollen

smoked bearnaise

caviar

 

turnip brown mascarpone lemon balm

raw turnip

brown mascarpone

smoked salt

scent of lemon balm

People think I'm quirky when I tell them to listen to their food.

I only mean that mindful observation allows an ingredient to reveal itself.

A newborn turnip, freshly plucked from the earth, spoke to me of the goodness of simplicity.

It's a common language these days, spoken by the corn and tomatoes alike. 

I thought that it might want to be something else, but it said otherwise. 

Behold my perfection, it said.

But a raw turnip on a plate does not a dish make. 

Concept should not supersede content.

(isn't that what went wrong with nouvelle cuisine?)

 

I once asked an artist how they knew when a painting was done. 

The reply was, "You'll know it's done when it's finished".

I asked a chef the same thing and got a similar reply.

But isn't that subjective?

One person revels in embellishment and layers. 

Another wants things stripped to their essence.

Is there a wrong or right?

A chef, like an artist, must engage the senses and make an emotional connection.

Art enters the psyche and becomes part of our soul.

Food penetrates the body and becomes part of our cells.

Oh, the responsibility.

Back to the turnip...

It spoke, and I listened.

I listened to the mascarpone as well. It told me to explore a hidden potential. It wanted to be a more complex version of itself.

Lemon balm had no such aspirations. It only wanted to lend its fragrance to exalt the turnip. Such a humble herb.

If I say that I tasted this dish, that would be inaccurate.

I did not taste the lemon balm, yet its enveloping scent was a vital part of the dish.

I experienced the dish and had to ask if there was anything left to add or take away.

That's when I knew it was done.

sakura

People who have the means and leisure to travel at whim often do so in pursuit of a passion. Some follow the sun, others follow food, music, art, or sports. Romantics follow their hearts.

 Me, I would follow flowers.

At the top of my itinerary would be Japan in March. There you would find me, in a cherry blossom-induced delirium, standing like Julie Andrews on top of that mountain-- eyes up, arms outstretched; twirling like a dervish--reveling in a blizzard of cherry-pink petals.

The Japanese are serious about cherry blossoms (sakura) and the ancient custom of flower-viewing (hanami). The cherry-blooming forecasts (sakura zensen) are watched fervently and the occasion is observed with reverence and enthusiasm.

Cherries belong to the plant genus Prunus, and are a member of the large family Rosaceae, which includes other aromatic fruits such as almonds, peaches, plums, apricots, apples, pears, quince, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, loquats, and roses.

The flavor of cherries are defined by benzaldehyde (sour cherry, bitter almond) and coumarin (vanilla, sweet grass, hay).

 

black sesame ganache

cherry yogurt panna cotta

rose-mahleb semifreddo

raspberry meringue

pink peppercorn crisp

sour cherry glass

maraschino almonds

cherry petals

cherry leaf

Download recipe:  Sakura

clam chowder, fish sandwich

You've been driving for hours with many more to go. It's pouring rain. You're tired. And hungry.

You get off the interstate at the next town: Peripety. You like the sound of it.

You drive down Main Street looking for signs of food. Anything will do. You spot a neon OPEN sign. Above it, MOOD DINER glows with promise.

You arrive at the door soaked and famished. The first thing that you notice is the smell of food. Enticing and palpable, it becomes a separate entity.

From behind a crowded counter, a sassy waitress greets you and invites you to find a seat. You walk down the length of a communal table and slide into an open chair. 

The conversation around the table is lively.  A couple next to you are eating bowls of cereal that they say taste like fried chicken and corn on the cob.

A man across the table peers at you from behind horn-rimmed glasses. He tells you that he ordered the rice pudding last night and that it was as light and crisp as a cloud. 

You ask him what he's ordered tonight. "French fries, for starters" he says with a glint in his eyes.

As if on cue, a waitress appears and sets down a bowl of soup in front of him. "Here you go-- just the way you like 'em...lots of ketchup." He slurps a spoonful of clear liquid with clear noodles and nods in approval. "I don't even miss the crunch" he says.

The waitress asks you what you'll have. You ask to see a menu. "No menu" you're told "just order whatever you're in the mood for".

You recall a diner that you used to frequent and the meal that you looked forward to every Friday night. You order a cup of clam chowder and a fish sandwich.

Your order arrives. Your first thought is "Where's my sandwich?". Second thought: "Where's my spoon?". Somewhere in between, you notice that the potatoes appear to be floating.

You feel disoriented. You have no point of reference for food like this. Yet, you're curious.

You lift a sprig of herb and uproot a potato. You pop it in your mouth and are greeted by the scent of oregano. As you chew, you're surprised by the texture and flavor: potato, bacon, butter, clam--it's all there.

You lift another. This one with the aura of rosemary. Then the last. Thyme.

You're left with a cup of creamy broth. You bring the cup to your mouth and a sandwich magically appears on your plate. A perfectly seared scallop flanked by crisp bacon. You smile.

You eat the sandwich and drink the broth, marveling at how delicious they taste. As you empty the cup, the magic is revealed and you chuckle.

You become aware that the man with the glasses is watching you with amusement. He asks about your chowder. "Delicious" you reply. He smiles and nods knowingly.

He goes back to eating what looks like an ice cream sundae. "What's that?" you ask. "Just the best damned meat loaf I've ever had" he says. You both burst out laughing.

fractal

I was 8 years old when I walked into a department store dressing room and watched in amazement as my reflection bounced back and forth recursively between two parallel mirrors. It was my first glimpse of infinity and though I didn't know it then, I was looking at a fractal.  

In 1958, Benoit Mandelbrot, a brilliant young mathematician joined the research staff at IBM. As one of the first mathematicians to have access to high-speed computers, Mandelbrot conceived and developed a radical new geometry that was capable of mathematically describing the real world of Nature. In 1982, he published his ideas in "The Fractal Geometry of Nature" and rocked the world.

Before fractals (which also became known as Chaos Theory), Euclidian geometry was concerned with the abstract perfection that was nearly non- existent in Nature. It could only describe the imaginary world made up of zero (a single point), the first dimension (a single line that contains an infinite number of points), the second dimension (a plane that contains an infinite number of lines), and the third dimension (a solid that contains an infinite number of planes). None of these could describe the amorphous and irregular shape of a cloud, mountain, coastline or tree. Mandelbrot's fractals were capable of describing the real world of the fourth dimension (a hypercube that contains an infinite number of solids and their relationship to each other in a time-space continuum). The fourth dimension is the world in which we live.

The mathematics of fractals are relatively simple, considering that they describe the indiscernibly complex. Fractals are geometric figures that repeat themselves under different levels of magnification. They are self-similar and recursive. An example would be the irregular and jagged shape of a mountain when viewed from a distance. When a section is magnified, the same shape or pattern is repeated with greater complexity. The pattern repeats itself with increasing detail as it goes on to be magnified to a microscopic scale. Fractals reveal the hidden worlds within a world.

Fractals are found everywhere in nature: mountains, trees, ferns, snowflakes, seashells, bolts of lightning, and the clusters of galaxies. The very planet that we live on is one huge fractal. The human body contains many fractals from the network of veins and capillaries to the folds in our brains, the beat of our hearts, and even our DNA, which is 99.98% similar. Mandelbrot's theory of space-time continuum of Man and Nature in which there is constant change based on feedback is an open system in which everything is related to everything else. Some scientists believe that fractals are the very fabric of the universe. It should come as no surprise that this connectivity has spread beyond the world of math and science and into art, music, literature, architecture, economics, meteorology, trend-forecasting, and even consciousness.

But what about food and cooking?

Certainly, food, be it plant or animal, contain fractal patterns. A perfect example is the beautiful and alien-looking Romanesco cauliflower, whose spires swirl repeatedly in various scales over the pale green heads. An example of a fractal--in a prepared food--would be a turducken (a chicken stuffed in a duck, stuffed in a turkey). And isn't a salad just a vegetable recursion?

As for cooking, could the act of whipping, which is a repetitive motion that changes the volume and texture of a substance with a self-similar expansive network of air bubbles, be fractal? If so, then couldn't the same be true of a reduction? And what about the turns required to make puff pastry? Or the gluten matrix produced in bread by carbon dioxide and ethyl alcohol? 

And what about flavor...can flavor be fractal?

Would fractal flavor involve repeating a flavor in varying proportions/scales, such as a sandwich where each bite contains the same flavors and textures in slightly different proportions?  Or a glass of wine that is a liquid composition of complex flavors and with each sip, we can discern, or magnify, a different element of its flavor? Would a dish composed of self-similar aroma compounds be a flavor fractal? Or one composed of the same flavor in varying textures?

My preoccupation with these questions can, in and of itself, be considered fractal as I zoom in for clarity and answers, I only find more detail and questions. Ultimately, I believe it is a search for connectivity... to myself, to others, to the physical world as well as the spiritual, and, of course, to food.

Soy fractal

fresh soybeans: edemame cone

dried soybeans: soy milk foam (using inherent lecithin in soy)

                        tofu sphere (with malt)

                        yuba cylinder (with peanut, miso, and okara)

                        fried yuba

fermented soy:  sweet shoyu sauce

                        douche soil

                        natto

self-similar aromas: soy, peanut, malt (alcohols: sulfurol

                                                                         guaiacol

                                                          aldehydes: valeraldehyde

                                                                           butyraldehyde

                                                          fatty acids: butyric acid

                                                                           isovaleric acid)

mushroom matcha balsam yuzu

There's something about the austerity of conifers that captures the Japanese aesthetic. 

Or maybe that's just me.

The connection might be rooted in my fascination with bonsai and how an artfully sculpted tree can freeze time in a miniature landscape. (And I think that I might have told you about miniatures and me)

Or it could be that they remind me that I once wished that I could travel the world on a ferry. Such was the pleasure of gliding through the Strait of Georgia in the Pacific Northwest on a drizzly day, watching the mist rise up around the Gulf Islands, shrouding the jagged black silhouettes of ancient pines with the Zen atmosphere of a sumi-e landscape.

Or maybe it's that I recently read "Snow Falling on Cedars" and it evoked the poetry of that place.

I contemplated all these thoughts as I sat by the window this morning, drinking tea and watching the snow swirl over the pines in my backyard. They all loomed and murmured, but the salient voice was the matcha that spoke softly but urgently of balsam.

matcha balsam flan

480g soy milk

50g balsam needles

12g matcha

5g agave nectar

pinch salt

4 egg yolks

Heat soy milk until it just comes to a simmer. Add balsam, cover and infuse for 1 hour (or use a chamber vacuum for instant infusion). Whisk in matcha, agave nectar, and salt.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks while drizzling in the infused soy milk. Pour into ramekins. Bake in a loosely covered bain marie in a preheated 325 F. oven for 15-20 minutes or until set.

And, because I know you'll ask...

The raviolo is made from thin slices of Portobello caps that are lightly sauteed and softened in olive oil. The filling is a concentrated mushroom jus seasoned with shoyu and kecap manis, molded in demi spheres and frozen. The frozen filling is encased between two slices of Portobello (using a smaller one for the bottom) and the margins glued together with tapioca maltodextrin, which bonds the oil in the mushroom, forming a sort of gasket around the filling. It can then be tempered at room temperature or gently heated to melt the filling.

matcha balsam flan

mushroom raviolo

maitake

mushroom floss

yuzu cube

black sesame powder

candied white pine

Balsam fir (Abies balsamea) grows widely throughout the northeastern United States and Canada. Other trees that exhibit balsam aroma are Balsam poplar (Populus sect. Tacamahaca), Balsam of Mecca (Commiphora opobalsamum)- native to Southern Arabia, and Peru Balsam (Myroxylon)- native to South America, though only the Abies is a conifer.

Balsam is a derivative of the word balm and refers to the soothing aroma that makes it an effective scent in aromatherapy and a popular filling for sachets. In ancient times, as well as modern, balsam oil is mixed with olive oil as a chrism and used in the administration of sacraments in the Catholic church.

Incidentally, balsamic vinegar does not refer to the plant source or the aroma, but to the use of vinegar as a healing substance, or balm.