playing with fire and water

white truffle

She caught the scent the minute that she walked in the door. Even from within a glass case, it lured her with its siren song.

It never ceased to amaze her. How those small nuggets could emit such a powerful smell. 

Nestled in a small dish of rice, they were the least salient things in the case. Visually, they were no match for the pates, sliced to reveal their flamboyant mosaics. They had none of the panache of the glistening slabs of smoked fish. Even the oozing wheels of cheese had more verve. Yet, they galvanized her attention.  

Her eyes fixed on the marker that rose up from behind the dish. Her breath caught.

That can't be right...surely, someone made an error.

She thought back to the last time that she had purchased them for a client. He hadn't even flinched when presented with the bill. No, there was no mistake.

"May I help you?"

"When did they come in?" she asked with her index finger pressed to the glass. She resolved that if it were three days or more, she would walk away with no regret.

"Tuesday"

Shit. Two days ago.

"They're the last shipment of the season."

Great. It was now or never.

"Could you weigh one for me?"

"Which one?"

"The small one, please."

She watched the numbers come up on the digital display and tried to calculate the weight on her wallet. Without being asked, the clerk punched in the five digits. Reality set in. 

She closed her eyes in an attempt to focus. 

She couldn't...could she? 

There was the economy to consider. And the mortgage, the cars, college tuition (x2), the economy, the apartment on CPW (a student room is HOW MUCH?). Oh...and the economy.

Maybe if she held it...

The clerk passed it to her, loosely wrapped in waxed paper.

Up close, the scent was intoxicating, clouding her judgement.

Maybe...she could. 

She remembered that her birthday had just passed and she had been very good. Just that morning, she had walked past a display of Louis Vuitton bags without even a sideways glance. Later, she found a bottle of Vintage Port that she had lusted for, then reluctantly replaced it on the shelf. That one hurt. And, last night, hadn't she forgone a spendy tasting menu for a soulful bowl of ramen in the East Village?

She sighed and handed it back to the clerk.

Her day went downhill from there. The uptown train was 15 minutes late, sending her scrambling into the apartment to pack her bags and catch a taxi to the Metro-North station in Harlem.

The taxi driver was uncharacteristically slow. She watched the time anxiously and twice reminded him that she was catching a train. He would nod, unfazed, and continue his crawl.

She knew that she was cutting it close when she arrived at the station, rushing past the elevator to climb the stairs with bags in tow. From the landing, she caught sight of the train, waiting with its doors open. 

Yes! she was going to make it. 

As her foot left the top step, the doors closed. From inside the train, a man in a business suit looked up from his newspaper to give her a sympathetic smile. The train pulled away and disappeared down the track.

Dropping her bags, she let out a string of expletives that were reserved for times of extreme frustration. The hard guttural consonants usually had a purging effect. Not this time.

She paced the platform restlessly, considering her options. Waiting there for four hours for the next train was not one of them.

She could return to the apartment, providing that her son was still there to let her in. Or, she could wait for him in the park across the street, reading the massive book that she had brought with her. Barring that, there was the Turkish cafe at the end of his block with free wifi and strong coffee. 

Calmer now, she sat down on the wrought iron bench atop the elevated platform and looked down at the lively street scene below her. 

She carried a special place in her heart for Harlem. As a student, she would often ride the subway to 125th St from her room near Union Square. Even with the train fare, meals and groceries were cheaper than what she could find in her neighborhood. The simple, honest food was what drew her there. The vibrant cultural tapestry kept her coming back. Her roommates, though concerned for her safety, refused to accompany her. She once told them that Harlem was where "the real people were". She had been trying to make a point. They had cut her off, guffawing from their ivory tower.

The sun was starting it's descent into the Hudson, washing the scene with golden light. Her favorite time of day. Things were not as bad as they had seemed a moment ago. She realized that she had been given a gift---a stretch of time to do with as she pleased in a city full of possibilities. How was that a bad thing?

Besides, there was nothing urgent to return home to. Her husband and dog would be sound asleep. Work could wait another day. There was only one thing distracting her, but that, too, could wait for tomorrow.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out a half-pint deli container. The dry rice rattled against the plastic as she brought it up to her face. She peeled back the top, only enough to admit her nose, then inhaled deeply. 

Things were looking up.

  

octopus squid

   "Nowhere in space will we rest our eyes upon the familiar shapes of trees and plants, or any of the animals that share our world. Whatsoever life we meet will be as strange and alien as the nightmare creatures of the ocean abyss....."

Arthur C. Clarke, 1962

Have you ever wondered about the mysteries of the ocean? About the things that lie hidden in it's depths? In an aqueous wormhole, some 1500 fathoms beneath the sea, will we someday find the things we search for...the meaning of life, the philosopher's stone, a new form of delicious, a cure for what ails us, proof of genius, lost socks?

It is said that in our final moments the archetypes that make up our lives will flash before our eyes. If there is truth in that, I am certain that my life-album would include images of a scuba diving excursion on a coral reef. 

Fifty feet below the surface, all of the senses disconnect except for vision. Devoid of touch, sound, smell or taste to gather information, the optic nerves become tuned to a superhuman frequency. It is the ultimate voyeuristic experience. Light, as refracted through the pellucidity of water, is astonishing and produces a chromatic carnival that does not exist on dry land. Familiar shapes undulate and shift into anomalous forms.

In that alien landscape, I did not find keys that unlock the mysteries of the universe, but I did find treasure: The absolute beauty of hostility with purpose. That deliciousness can be experienced without taste or smell. And that iridescence is proof of genius.

Now if I could only find that cashmere sock.

octopus   squid   sea beans   potatoes   romescu   begonia

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)

vegetable tartine

tiles of roasted zucchini, summer squash and sweet bell peppers, mortar of eggplant skin puree

Why do we peel eggplants and discard the skin? 

Some say that the skin is bitter and tough. This can be true with the large, dark globe varieties. But I enjoy the taste of bitter, either as the focus of a dish, or as a contrast to other flavors. And it can indeed be tough, especially when cooked with dry heat. But when slowly stewed with roasted garlic and Aleppo pepper, it makes a flavorful and silky puree. 

Taste and texture aside, a compelling reason to rescue eggplant skin from the 

bin is nutrition. A phytonutrient, nasunin, is found in eggplant skin. Nasunin is a 

potent antioxidant and free radical scavenger that protects the cell membranes 

in the brain.

Eggplant skin = brain food = greater capacity to think about food. I love closing circles.

Thinking about food is not always an intellectual exercise. Sometimes, it is finding the sublime in the banal.

off-balance

All work and no play throws life off balance. The time that I spend on this blog playground gets the pendulum swinging, but sometimes complete disengagement is the only thing that will restore the equilibrium. A respite by the water with friends reminds me how it feels to float instead of paddle.

Leaving home for a spontaneous weekend is easier now that the children are no longer children. As the nest empties, this blog strangely begins to feel like a third child. Though it makes no demands and is content with whatever attention I can give to it, I recognize the need to nurture in order for it to grow and evolve.

When I left for the weekend, this 7-month-old blog had just passed a milestone: the 100,000th page load. It was a bittersweet occasion. As a parent, I celebrated my children's first steps as a natural progression and an indication that all is right with the world. On the other hand, I recognized that those tiny feet were moving away from me and my sanctum and towards an uncertain world.

I returned home yesterday to find that my husband and I were not the only ones in need of play. My oldest child was playing with friends in Montreal, my youngest child was playing on a Big Stage for the weekend, and my blog-child went playing in cyberspace. 25,000 hits in 48 hours, it had grown large, pixelated feet and went running rampant, Stumbling it's way around the world.

Today, things are back to normal.
Everyone has returned home safely.
The weekend is played-out.
Work has resumed.
Balance is restored.

melon soup

The temperature hovers around 90 degrees on a hot and hazy afternoon in July. The oppressive humidity makes her skin feel clammy and her hair frizz. She stands over a grill, laying down pieces of halibut, their skin sizzling on contact with the hot grates. The heat from the flames rise and sting her face and hands, making her exposed flesh feel tight and sunburned.
Less than 30 feet away, a group of children splash in a pool. The adults sit around a table in the shade of a pergola. Their conversation is languid, flagging in the heat. Why aren't they in the pool? If given the choice, that's where she would be.
In the shallow end of the pool, the children play a raucous game of tag. Marco? Polo! She fixates on the way their hair drapes over their heads like sleek curtains. Wet. Cool. Refreshing drops fall on their shoulders and trail down their backs.
In the deep end, a solitary boy lays floating on his back. His body is slack and motionless, his expression tranquil. He bobs in the wake from the game, an occasional wave laps onto his face. Unresponsive, he appears transcended, no longer earthly in his state of weightlessness. Suspended in Zero Gravity, oblivious to heat.
She thinks of excuses to walk by the pool, closer than she ought to, and pretend to fall in. They would come running, concerned that she is hurt, put out at her clumsiness, worried that she may not be able to finish preparing their lunch. They would offer her a dry towel and a change of clothes. She would refuse, unwilling to part with the relief provided by her cool, wet clothing.
A flare-up at the back of the grill diverts her attention to the fish. She lifts a piece to check the skin for crispness. She brushes the tops with fragrant basil oil and seasons them with garlic-infused sea salt. She flips them over, adjusts the heat, and checks her watch.
In the shade of an oak tree, she reaches into a cooler and pulls out chilled soup bowls, laying them out in rows on the staging table. She lifts the lid off a cambro and is assaulted by the scent of nectar rising from the cantaloupe juice that she had extracted earlier. With a ladle, she parts the foamy raft that floats on the top and dips into the bottom for the clear juice. A full ladle is tipped into each bowl, followed by a spoonful of foam. She uncovers another cambro filled with rectangular planks of cantaloupe macerated in reduced Madeira. She wraps each piece with thin strips of Serrano ham, hiding a tender, young sage leaf within the folds.
Glancing at her watch, she works quickly, moving the soup bowls onto a service tray and applies the final touches. She doesn't allow herself to be distracted by the swimming pool, but she is powerless to stop the images of a melon pool that is forming in her mind. She would build the walls out of gelled melon juice and fashion a liner from thin slices of the ham. She would fill the pool with melon juice and foam.Yes, it would work, she decides.
The server appears at her side, mopping his brow with a napkin. She notices that his shirt is drenched in sweat and she can see through to the tattoo on his upper back.
She asks wryly: Did you go for a dip?
No, but I'm tempted.
Yea, me too.
She smiles and hands him the tray.

blueberry pie

It's been awhile since I've watched a movie. Aside from lack of time, finding one that my husband and I both agree on begins to feel like an enterprise. He likes the kind that entertain with fast cars, impending doom, guns and blood. I like the kind that dig in and stick. Our common ground is the ones that make us laugh.

That's what I thought I was getting when he dropped a DVD into my hands with a grin on his face. I was nonplussed that he had handed me a romantic film by Wong Kar-wai, a Chinese director known for visually stylized films. Looking over the cast, a name jumped out at me and it all made sense...if there's one thing that he likes more than cars and guns, it's Nora Jones.

The movie, My Blueberry Nights, was almost forgettable despite the stunning melancholic atmosphere created by Wong through roving shallow lenses and lush chiaroscuro. The minor key mood was a good fit for Nora, but Jude Law never convinced me as a marathon runner wannabe who settles for running a diner where he makes blueberry pies that no one ever eats. It was the pie, and the way that Wong committed it to celluloid that I will remember: tight macro shots of ice cream salaciously melting into mounds of lurid blueberries. It was so deliciously lascivious that I wanted to avert my eyes.

In the end, it was blueberry pie that brought the characters together and endeared Wong to me as a film maker and food pornographer. And it inspired this dish.

 

Blueberry Pie

blueberry cheese

When I put raw blueberries through a juicer, something unexpected happened: the juice began to thicken and clot as it poured out of the spout. As it began to turn brown, I heated it to set the color and noticed that the soft clots had broken down into small, firm curds that reminded me of ricotta. I decided to treated it as cheese and let it drain overnight in a cheesecloth-lined sieve. The next day, I had a firm mass that could be sliced or molded and retain it's shape. After some research, I'm still not clear what caused the blueberry juice to behave this way. I initially attributed it to pectin, but 73 g. of fresh blueberries only contain 0.3 g. of pectin, making them a  low-pectin fruit. However, blueberries do contain a significant amount of fiber, which in combination with the pectin, may have caused the juice to clot and form curds

blueberry sauce

Use the juice reserved from draining the blueberry cheese. Ultratex 8 is a modified food starch derived from tapioca that thickens liquids without applying heat.
150 g. reserved blueberry juice
8 g. agave nectar
2.5 g. ulratex 8
Place all ingredients in a bowl and blend with whisk or immersion blender until starch swells and juice has thickened.

sous vide blueberries

Cooking blueberries at a low temperature leaves them firm and intact, yet taste cooked.
1 pint raw blueberries
60 g. reserved blueberry juice
30 g. unsalted butter
10 g. agave nectar
Place blueberries in a vacuum bag and seal. Cook in a water bath at 63C (150F) for 1 hour. Make a glaze by heating the blueberry juice and agave nectar over low heat. Whisk in butter until melted. Remove bag from water bath and toss berries in glaze. Serve warm or at room temperature.

roasted flour nuggets

Roasting flour is a technique introduced by Pierre Gagnaire and Herve This in their collaboration, Art et Science. Cooking flour in this way brings out the toasty aroma and flavor of wheat but it alters its starch and gluten molecules, causing it to lose much of it's elasticity. While roasted flour may not be suitable for baking bread, it's perfect for baked goods with sandy textures such as sables.
40 g. all purpose flour
8 g. confectioners sugar
.5 g. salt
13 g. tapioca maltodextrin
30 g. unsalted butter, melted
Preheat oven to 325F (160C). Spread flour in an even layer on a baking sheet and roast in oven for about 45 minutes, stirring often until fragrant and golden. Cool completely. Toasted flour can be made ahead and kept in a sealed container.
Preheat oven to 350F (180C) Place the flour, sugar, salt and TM in a bowl and toss to combine. Slowly drizzle in melted butter while tossing with a fork. Remove rounded nuggets as they form and place on a baking sheet. Bake for 10-12 minutes and allow to cool completely before handling.

lemon balm frozen yogurt

Greek yogurt makes a sublime frozen product that rivals the best frozen yogurt boutiques. If it's not available in your area, plain yogurt can be drained overnight in a cheesecloth-lined sieve with similar results. I've found that the best way to infuse ice cream (or any sweetened cream base) with herbs is not in the cream, but by processing them with the sugar. The hygroscopic property of sugar draws out the essential oils in the herbs, making them more available.
30 g. fresh lemon balm leaves
100 g. sugar
50 g. heavy cream
300 g. greek yogurt, well chilled
Place lemon balm and sugar in a food processor and process with 10 pulses or until lemon balm is finely chopped. Working quickly, as lemon balm begins to oxidize and turn brown, empty contents of food processor into a saucepan and add heavy cream. Set over medium heat and cook gently, just until sugar melts.  Remove from heat and pass mixture through a fine-mesh sieve. Chill until cold, then fold in yogurt. Freeze in an ice cream machine according to manufacturers instructions.

 

goat

goat
tomato-turmeric-coconut
bocconcino di pura capra
balsam fir

I grew up eating goat. In my house, it was always prepared the same way: as Chanfana, a stew made from chunks of mature goat, red wine, bacon, garlic, bay and lemon, slowly braised for the better part of a day in a low oven.

In central Portugal, there is an age-old war raging between two villages over the claim to the origins of the dish. Chanfana is so venerated in this region, that the markets are filled with black earthenware cooking vessels, known as cacoilos, that are used exclusively for it's preparation. The religious fervor surrounding the dish culminated in the formation of a 'Chanfana Brotherhood'.

Goat was not a meat that I looked forward to eating. Fortunately, the distinct scent of it wafting through the house heralded its appearance at the table and bought me ample time to come up with an excuse to get out of eating dinner.

I watched Iron Chef: Battle Goat with interest, and came away inspired by the diverse and creative preparations that Bobby Flay and Jose Andres presented in the episode. It was with this renewed interest that I purchased a loin of cabrito, or young goat.

It's funny that as a child, I never imagined that I would willingly cook goat for myself, but the scent of it wafting through my own kitchen transported me back to the days of Chanfana, faster than a time machine, but did not fill me with dread. Instead, it made me grateful to my mother, who lovingly prepared this dish as a reminder of her culinary heredity, and in doing so, provided me with sensory triggers to my own.

narcissus

days this perfect inspire me on so many levels

disclosure

I am a freelance chef.  What that means, at least in how it applies to me, is that I prepare a variety of foods for a variety of clients, at various locations. It keeps things interesting and forces me to be adaptable.

Many of my clients lead lives that allow, and in some cases, require them to travel a great deal. Some call Connecticut their home, others have primary residences in large cities and refer to their Connecticut manse as "the country house". They often call me upon arrival, hungry and jet-lagged, because I understand what they need; fresh, simple food that will restore their weary bodies. I go into their homes to prepare their dinner, and stock the refrigerator with meals for the following days. When they have settled in, they call again, this time it is to request menus for entertaining. This is where I shine, and they know it, and hand over the carte blanche.

One of my clients is a restaurant. I established a solid, working relationship with the owner a few years ago, when he began to hire me as an on-site chef for his catering operation. I understood his clients, they had the same needs as mine. When I first got on board, he had just lost his chef and was single-handedly cooking for the restaurant and filling the catering orders. Most days, when I arrived to pick up my order before going out to  location, I would find him fixing a toilet, or dealing with customers, while my orders waited to be filled. I consistently offered to come in earlier to help, but he was smack-dab in the midst of a chest-thumping, "I-am-superman-and I-can-do-everything" mid-life crisis. I had to respect him for that...he was doing it all. Gradually, he came to his senses. Now, there is a new chef running the kitchen, one that I had worked with and recommended for the position, and on most weekends you can find me working at his side. I arrive in the morning to prepare the foods that I will be serving that evening. The time that I put in at the restaurant pays only a fraction of what I make on location. I do it because it keeps me connected to a larger food scene than the one that I find in private homes. I do it because this relationship with a restaurant, an owner, and a chef...it works for me...and that is something new.

Before freelancing, I worked full time in a restaurant that had an identity crisis; it couldn't decide what it wanted to be. It must have rubbed off on me...I soon found myself in the same crisis. For the first time in my life, I had lost interest in food. I couldn't find my mojo, and the love and passion was MIA. I was bored (shame on me) and was considering a departure from cooking. I am fortunate to have other options; things to fall back on. I call this my "brown period", because at one point, I realized that every plate that I put out had a gratuitous drizzle of balsamic. It is tragic to witness your imagination and creativity disengage, and allow body muscle to take over, in auto-pilot mode, with senseless actions.

It was at this time that I read an article about a chef in Spain that was creating ripples in the food world with his science-driven approach to food. I have to admit, my gut reaction was not good...I aligned it to the evils of genetic modification, and why was he putting chemicals back in our food? But there was something about it that stirred me, and I found myself reading it over and over, each time peeling away the layers of my predisposition, to reveal it's true intent, and what I found was revolutionary. I still remember the day that I sat down in front of my computer, and typed his name, Ferran Adria, into an empty box. A rabbit hole opened up under my feet, into which I fell; am falling still. The only other reference that I have to this life-altering effect was the day that I came face-to-face with Les Demoiselles d'Avignon on a class trip to MOMA. Picasso's  brutal depiction of women rocked me to my core, and held me, transfixed, until my mind bent, and changed forever the way that I define beauty. (What is it about Spain?)

Inspired by a new approach to food, I felt reborn in the kitchen, but I had no outlet. I needed a place to experiment with, document, and share ideas. I needed a playground. That was, and still is the intent of this blog.

When I decided to start blogging, I made a conscious decision to not reveal the names of those that I work for. My reasons form a long and tangled list, but in their complexity, there is simplicity:

Paramount on the list is discretion. In the small, tightly-knit community of high-profile people that I work in , discretion is the unmentioned code that is established with the initial greeting at the door and  sealed, at the end of the evening, with ink on a check. Once lost, it cannot be regained.

Self-preservation is wrapped up in there, too. I have worked long and hard to establish a relationship of trust with my clients and the restaurant. I would not want what happened to Shuna, to happen to me. I read her blog, as do many others, because it is a window into the collective soul of a chef, and an acutely raw account of what it means to be a woman chef working in the exhilarating, sometimes hostile environment of a restaurant. I rejoice in her triumphs, share in her passions, rail at the injustices, and when she slits open a vein and bleeds all over my monitor, I feel it like a stigmata. I know what it is to give all, then be shown the door; it is a path that I don't ever want to walk again.

When I dream about giving birth to live snakes, as I have done lately, I recognize that it is also about fear; the fear of losing control and creating monsters. As a mother, I understand the importance of choosing my battles; knowing what lines to draw, what to give up to the universe.

As for my name, it is Linda. That is my given name, the rest I took from my husband, who prefers to keep it private. Even if I were to disclose it, and you were to Google it, believe me, you would find nothing of interest. There would be no Michelin stars, or illustrious resume, just people who are not me.